Chapter XI

Surgery For The Devil

The house the MacConnell's led the Parrs to was so deep into the farmland, the radio was nothing but static. Driving off the paved road they followed the black Challenger until it parked before a large, but simple country home. It was almost sweet, with its butter yellow color and white trimmings. Through the windows, Violet saw lace curtains and a few potted plants on the sill. What was not so cozy was the large keypad instead of a handle on the front door. The outside lived up to the owner's vocation: just a mirage.

Still, inside was so nicely furnished and clean, Violet took extra time to wipe her boots off on the mat that read Come and Rest You A While. She was greeted with the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock, seated in a living room beside a nice upright piano, the floral printed couch and loveseat perched over a homespun rug. The sweet image was broken only by Ultra's belt and Beretta on the coffee table. There was a hall with a china cabinet and a few pictures of what Violet assumed was family. It ended the entryway to what looked like an old-fashioned professor's office with an abandoned mechanical project on the desk. From somewhere upstairs a record player was cooing She's Not There.

The kitchen, however, was far from cozy. They had already lined the entirety of the room in plastic, the table as well, leaves already in place to make it man-sized. She saw some of the equipment they managed to steal, a vital signs monitor, three IVs, a tray, and an assortment of tools already wrapped in blue and clear plastic. Beyond that on the counter looked to be half a pharmacy stacked and crowded near the covered sink.

She lingered on the edge of this hellish OR, feeling worse about this choice by the minute. Here it was again, the ugliness of the world intruding on hearth and home. Even under her nerves and uncertainty, Violet was a little glad her life was not alone in being invaded by evil and the cold necessity in the aftermath. But before she could ask if they managed to knick any scrubs, she heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Where the hell did you two g-..."

Violet spun on her heel and faced Syndrome. He was half-dressed in slacks, shoes, and an undershirt. A freshly stitched wound on his right shoulder from where he had attempted to reset was raw and poorly stitched on his shoulder. "Princess…?" But she barely had time to enjoy the look of total and pure shock on his expressive face or the slight tilt up in his lips, for his icy eyes lifted from her to those who stood behind her.

"Now just hold the phone," MacConnell started.

But Syndrome did not waste a second. He swung himself over the banister, tucking too smoothly into a roll. Violet flung up a shield from wall to wall, blocking his path to her family, but she didn't need to. He instead started for the living room.

On his feet again, Syndrome snatched up a thin black metal cylinder from his belt on the table and smacked it against his thigh. With a snap, the cylinder elongated until he held a fighting baton as tall as he was. Violet recognized the greyish black metal-it was the same that his omnidroid had been made out of. Syndrome slid into a ready stance. Violet matched him behind her purple haze.

MacConnell, for his part, leaned his rifle against the wall and then himself against the upright piano. "Well, this is working out."

"I thought I was low on your hit list," Syndrome sneered.

"I thought you worked alone," Violet snapped.

Mirage once again put herself in the middle of the fighting. "Now we've reestablished that everyone here is at least a little bit of a liar, why don't we put down the weapons?"

"I'd rather d-d-d-d-" Syndrome's head cocked to the side and his body twitched violently, as if someone had taken the strings of a puppet and began jerking them in several different directions-hard. Violet dropped her shields, watching in horror. He was totally incapacitated for the length of the episode but didn't lose a bit of his ranting once it finished. "D-die! I'd rather lay screaming on the ground than beg help from an Incredible. What were you thinking, Nat? They're going to run off to the goddamn NSA and tip that leak and we're done for! You've killed us!"

Violet moved closer, but Syndrome brandished his baton. That was enough for her father. Bob moved in front of his daughter, pushing her back. "Hey-my daughter is trying to save you, you ungrateful brat!"

"Oh, that really hurt," Syndrome sneered. "Almost as much as the car you flung at me. You can't touch anything that'll feel now, Mr. Incredible. So take your precious family home. You don't belong here. You have your baby girl back, and be grateful that you do. I could have let her die in that hospital, and it looks like I should have."

"It wouldn't be the first time you tried to murder a child. And she saved you. If anyone's earned dying here it's you, you monster. We're trying to help!"

"Dad," Violet protested.

"I'm a monster? I'm the monster?" Syndrome nearly shrieked with laughter. "What help have you given? Telling me to go home? Downing me in an inferno? Look at what your help wrought. Everything I am now is a monument to how useless your help is. Supers and their assistance-can't even take care of their own! So goddamn blind, first Deavor, now the infiltrated NSA. Will the world never heal from superhero help?!"

"Stop-"

Bob gritted his teeth and turned, placing his hand on Violet's arm. "Let's go, Vi. Let him die, it's obviously what he wants. We can get whatever information off his body."

"Let me-Dad, stop-"

"Grave robbing, very heroic!"

Violet wretched her arm from her father's hold, not an easy feat, and screamed, "Shut up!" She was only a little surprised when she was obeyed. The room went utterly still, all eyes on her. She turned back to Syndrome and stalked up to him. "Do you want to kill Fell?"

"I dunno, princess. Would that be rig-"

"Do you want to kill Fell," she shouted, backing him up against the piano with each word, Syndrome scrambling back, surprised by her vitriol. Liam moved swiftly out of the way, his friend landing on the keys with an ungraceful chord. The villain glared at his allies, shifting uncomfortably on the high register.

"Yes."

"Well, you have to be alive for that." Next, she swung on her father, who almost flinched. "And I'm a doctor. This is my patient. No matter what you or I think of him he's sick and I help the sick. It was my oath. No more discussion."

Apparently, everyone took that to heart, as none dared utter a syllable. Taking that as assent, Violet combed her fingers through her hair. "I need scrubs, gloves, and a hair tie. And an assistant." She looked at Mirage, but she shook her head.

"She nearly fainted when he did his little surgical parlor trick," MacConell explained, nodding to Syndrome.

Violet looked to her people. With the recent display, she didn't really trust her father not to let his suspicion get the best of him. "Mom? You don't have to look, just hand me things."

"I can handle it," Helen agreed.

"Let's get to work."

Mirage led Violet to her bedroom to change into scrubs and gown. The young doctor braided her hair and then twisted it high on her head, borrowing a few of the woman's pearl-topped bobby pins to hold it.

The vanity where she found the pins, several pictures were stuck into the mirror's frame, mostly of her and her husband. One was a family photo, a young Mirage sitting on the lap of a beautiful tall blonde, and behind the women, a Japanese man in full dress blues. The parents she had buried, with Syndrome at her side. It only took a few minutes of looking to find a young villain.

An old, worn photo strip that had obviously come from an amusement park booth was in a place of honor at the crest of the round mirror. A snap of them grinning, another of the most ridiculous faces they could pull, the next their laughter, and at last a photo of him kissing a young Natalya's cheek. The young Syndrome's hair had already darkened to red at that point, his eyes still cheery and hopeful. When he grinned he had unnaturally sharp canines, something he still retained today.

Violet touched a third photo, one that looked to be in an office building. Syndrome had his arms around a clean-shaven Liam, and Mirage-having outgrown her childhood silliness-had an arm stretched out the take the photo with the camera. It wasn't a very good shot, a little blurry and tilted without competent framing. But there was such an energy of companionship that it made Violet swallow. She could tell this one was well-loved by the crinkled edges faded from the oil of fingers holding it so many times.

Do you think Bomb Voyage doesn't have friends? Family?

Parents, relations, friends. Memories and loyalties. It was all the same, the same need for support as Violet had relied on these past months-had relied on while she lay on the slab. Had Syndrome thought of these two when Fell had tortured him so cruelly? Mirage had said he crawled to her, bloody and broken; not away, not to escape, but backwards to her.

People change was the explanation Syndrome had given for not harming his former lover for abandoning him for his friend. Well, a broken body and enough pain could certainly change anyone's outlook on either side of that question, but Violet could see clearer. A caring that went deeper than foiled plans and broken hearts explained it better.

Despite the metal in him, Syndrome was not a machine or caricature. He was a human, with the same wants and needs-for love, for shelter, and retaining the capacity for loyalty.

Here was proof enough to the concept she had just begun to grasp in the lab.

Mirage was his family, and it wasn't so incomprehensible to Violet as it had been in the cell. After all, she had come with her own support base, revealed in her father's firm hold and steady confident air, her mother's concerned protectiveness, and Dash's enthusiastic encouragement. It had begun to heal her. The more she thought about it, where else could Syndrome have gone? How much isolation could someone take before madness took hold? No, standing here Violet felt the logic of his actions in her bones.

But they were still in so many ways enemies, with their own bases, afraid and cautious of one another. If they were going to succeed, they needed to join forces. Perhaps not like a family. Violet snorted at her own thought. That was insanity. But one single unit.

And the first step of alliance was aiding one another. You can do this Violet. You've done unthinkable things with your shields, and that took weeks. You've been studying for years. This, too, is your superpower-one you've earned.

Descending the stairs, she saw that Liam had scrubbed up as well, already masked and cleaning his tools with alcohol at the kitchen table. "Maybe I'll tinker about, give you a personality," he muttered to Syndrome, who was peeling off his undershirt.

"Would you know one if you found it?"

"Your girl seems to like mine enough."

"Is that what you meant? In that case, my personality is adequately proportioned."

Mirage, who was taking Syndrome's clothes, lifted her eyes to the ceiling as they shared a laugh. "If you two want I can find a ruler small enough to compare you both after the surgery." Again in unison, the men leaned back putting on a fine show of offense at her words-but their eyes dancing with amusement giving them away.

Violet felt a little awkward, like she was in high school again, trying to walk up to a group of giggling friends and insert herself. But they weren't kids, and she was no longer an outcast. This was her operation...kitchen. She needed to act like it.

"Right. Are you ready," she asked her patient.

"No."

"Too bad. That necklace-" She gestured to the thin gold chain around Syndrome's neck that sported a small round pendant "-off too. I don't want it falling in."

Mirage swallowed hard at her words and held a hand out for the necklace. "I kept it safe for eight years, I can keep it safe for a few more hours" she promised, sliding it over her own head.

Helen came in, already scrubbed and washed as well, handing Violet a mask. "What can I do?"

"Rub these down with alcohol while I wash." Violet nodded to the tray while she moved to the sink. She'd already picked out her tools; the scalpels, retractor, and various other things she would need. Taking the bar of soap, she scrubbed her hands and lower arms vigorously until the skin turned pink under the searing hot water. Drying with a paper towel, she told Syndrome to lay down.

Her patient was starting to look a little green now that it was upon them but laid down anyway. He jumped when Helen tucked a hand beneath his head, and lifted, stuffing a flat needlepoint pillow from the loveseat under for comfort. "What are you doing?"

"Helping," Helen replied coolly. "Do you want to lay on the hard table for hours?"

"No…"

The older super sighed. "What now?"

"Nothing. You're just acting bizarrely nice for someone I tried to down in a jet."

Helen raised a brow. "Ditto."

Syndrome's burp of laughter surprised Violet. "You're funny." He glanced at his surgeon. "She's funny. So what happened to you?"

She merely glared in response, making sure to snap her glove as she pulled them on. First things first. She took his hand and swabbed the back with an alcohol pad. "I'm putting you on a morphine drip. That should help. The local anesthesia should as well, but I can't guarantee you'll be unconscious for most of it."

"I've been conscious through worse." He still hadn't lost his green coloring. The last time he was on a table he'd survived with no drugs. Violet's academic brian longed to know how. Her heart quaked at the thought. Here he was again, in an operation room that wasn't an operation room, about to be pulled apart and replaced with extremely dubious consent. How he managed to talk at all, let alone snark was almost impressive. For herself, she had taken to freezing when the memories grabbed hold of her-a zero-point energy without end.

"It's not going to be like that," she swore.

"Says the daughter of the man who wanted to leave me for dead."

Violet sighed. "Listen. Remember, in the cell? We don't have a lot of reasons to trust each other. But I want the same thing you do. Fell. So we're going to have to come to some truce." She was still holding in hand, still so unnaturally warm. The cuts from her shields had long since healed, though his flesh was so crossed and colored with old scars, it was hard to tell if they left a mark. "You're my only hope to find the leak. And I think you being here proves you need a little more manpower than just a metal skeleton."

Syndrome didn't respond, no agreement but he at least put up no more protest. As she prepped the IV needle he asked, "Can I have a wooden spoon?"

"Huh? For what?"

"When...Fell….before…" Syndrome wet his lips, but looked unable to give a label to the horror Fell had put him through. He wouldn't look at her either, as if the torture inflicted upon him was his shame.

Violet's hands tightened a little around his fingers, one hand holding his thumb, the other still rubbing the alcohol swab in what she hoped were soothing circles. "What about last time?"

"I...I cracked a few teeth, grinding them. It hurt like hell. Just in case the morphine doesn't dull it, I don't want to do that again."

Violet had to focus on not vomiting from the thought of feeling every rip and cut Fell inflicted. Instead, she nodded to her mother. Helen stretched an arm under all the plastic covering the kitchen walls, sliding thin fingers into one of the drawers and retrieving a wooden spatula. "It's not going to be like that." Putting on her best 'doctor' voice, she explained. "You'll be doped up, and I'll be using pain killers. I'm going to cut here, from here to here." She traced on his bare chest where she planned to slice. "And open. I'll use this here to hold everything back. From there, I'm just monitoring. Liam will do most of the work."

"I'll be as gentle as a lamb, mate," his friend assured.

Syndrome tried for one of his easy smirks. "Okay, yeah, that I don't believe at all."

"Oh, you should. I'll torture you in other ways, like letting you know I'm havin' our fair lass for the rest of my life."

"You're right. That does hurt worse, knowing all my teaching is going to waste."

"Teach who, what," came loudly from the living room where Bob and Mirage were waiting, and both men looked mortally afraid for their lives.

Well, at least Syndrome wasn't nervous about the surgery now. "Maybe you should let me die," he whispered to Violet.

"That's not funny."

"See? You should take more after your mother."

And neither was Violet, at this point. Syndrome had a way of making her forget all the life-threatening events swirling around her, and focus simply on hating him. She resumed her well-trained persona. "Alright, I'm putting the needle in. If you want you can count with me. 'One-two-three-ow-Doctor-Parr-That-Really-Hurts'. Ready? One…"

"One, two, thr-son of a bitch that fucking stings."

"Close enough." She finished her prep while the morphine took effect, hooking him up to the vitals monitor, and triple-checking her tools. The monitor was registering a heartbeat. Violet tilted her head, watching it for a moment with furrowed brows. It was an odd line, slower than the norm. How, when she heard nothing? She glanced at her patient and saw his eyes go unfocused as he stared up at the ceiling.

"Ever done this before," he inquired conversationally, speech slurred. Almost ready.

"No, but I've observed and aided. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing." Sort of.

"I thought you had to cut open cats in medical school?"

"We do. It's a bit more complicated, but same idea. I'm going to apply the local anesthesia. Just a little prick…"

"You aren't allowed to insult your patients," he said with a grin.

Violet smirked behind her mask, glancing up at MacConnell. The mechanic gave her a thumbs up. "I'll try better. Now, silly as this sounds," she echoed his words from the lab, "try to relax."

"Trying. You're positive you know what you're doing?"

"Umm-hm."

"Good." Syndrome returned his gaze to the ceiling. Then, softly, "Am I gonna die here?"

Violet froze, scalpel in hand. She was reminded again of their first and only honest conversation in the dark, in striking contrast to the blinding brightness of the kitchen. Mirage and McConnell seemed to have unplugged every lamp they owned and shoved it into the room. She tasted whiskey on her tongue when she swallowed and leaned over him to look him in the eye, her head blocking the light. Syndrome considered the sanctification it gave her before returning her stare. Her palm rested softly on his forehead over his scar. "You're not going to die. I'm not going to let you."

"...kay."

She told her mother to put the wood between his teeth and then nodded at Liam. "Alright. Making the first incision…"

Violet slipped away from this plastic-covered nightmare, she fell away from suspicion and suspected allies, from leaks and madness, torture and trauma. She distilled herself down to facts and actions, observing and responding. Her years of training came back to her, and Violet was no longer a superhero, a vigilante, a detective, or even a daughter. She was simply a doctor, a medicine peddler working her craft. The calmness that settled over her was welcome, it was what she had loved about medicine, the focus and fact. The solutions and protocol. It gave her balance, foundation, and comfort even when the blood-stained her gloved fingers, the flesh separated and the were vitals exposed.

She was steady and calm, softly explaining to the room at large so none of her actions were a surprise. She was glad for her mother's ability, able to assist without the need to stand right next to her and crowd her work. Violet's eyes flickered constantly from the open area and the monitor, watching the numbers dip and spike, but not yet into dangerous territory.

She did see Syndrome's face twist here and there, heard the wood protest as he bit. But he gave it no voice-didn't need to. At least in that, she was succeeding. Small victories where she could.

Violet managed to find her way through the muscle and organs. MacConnell had been correct. On this side, the shoulder and clavicle were mostly bone, original and reconstructed. She could see where bone melted into metal and fused together. It made her want to explore the spine-she knew his hips must be metal, remembering how hard they pressed into her stomach in the OR training room. But the ribs…

"Oh my God," she whispered.

The ribs were metal, but they didn't incase the heart. No the…'heart' was fused between the third and fourth rib, not protected and hidden beneath; placed on top. But it wasn't a heart at all, didn't even resemble it. It looked more like a metal square spider, with various-sized legs serving as veins, arteries, aorta, and vena cava.

She looked up at the vital monitor. There was that oddly slow 'heartbeat'. Back into the chest cavity, the monitor, his chest. How in the hell did Fell get this mechanical contraption to simulate a heart so effortlessly that it read on the monitor, but made no sound?

Through glass windows she saw the little metal doors working inside the contraption, letting blood flow to and fro. As she stared, the doors hesitated, even stopped in places. With his body open, Violet could hear the mechanical ticking of the machine malfunctioning, and Syndrome's whole body jerked, Helen stretching to hold him down, wrapping around his legs and the table, as to not disturb the operation.

How had Fell done this? It was insanity, it was genius, it was something Violet could never have come up with in dreams or terrors.

"Oh my God," she breathed again, simply watching the mechanical part work.

"Lass." MacConnell's voice shook her. "My turn now."

Violet nodded and made sure the retractor was set. They switched places and Violet swapped out her gloves to replace the morphine drip with a fresh bag and to monitor, her head still spinning. MacConnell followed her example, explaining as he worked-but it had little effect. He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, and Violet wouldn't understand in any real sense if he did. She merely watched him, making sure he didn't knick anything important.

"I have to stop the heart," he said to her at last. "How long do I have?"

"Less than twenty minutes," she informed him. "If his breathing goes, less than six."

"It'll be cutting it close. A circuit is blown, I can see it. Watch the clock. Give me warning at ten and fifteen."

"Alright." She looked up at the wall clock, waiting for the second hand to reach twelve. "Set."

The vital monitor whined in protest, the heartline going flat. It was a delicate balance between the clock and the monitor, watching his oxygen and breathing. And behind her MacConnell tinkered on, taking something out and tossing it on the tray with a bloody splatter before sliding his hands in again. "Ten minutes."

He swore. "Breathing?"

"Stable."

"We'll be pushing it."

He twisted and pushed, Syndrome's body swaying slightly with the motion. Violet could hear the metal on metal clinking wetly. "Fifteen."

"You stubborn ass, Buddy, you and-your-goddamn…"

"Sixteen."

"I know! I'm going as fast as I can!"

Violet's stomach lurched. "Seventeen-"

The IV monitor blared, the heartline erratic, up and down at dangerous levels, a never-ending chaotic line. The oxygenation dipped, ninety-seven to ninety-five to ninety. Violet was at a loss, there was nothing she could do. They didn't have paddles, and it wouldn't work in any case-it would only exacerbate. With no oxygen mask, all she could do was watch, wait and hope-

The line dipped and rose...and again. And again. A stable heartbeat...or whatever it was. The longer she stared the higher the oxygenation numbers rose, slow but sure.

MacConnell's breath left him in a rush, his hands planted on the table as he leaned heavily on the plastic-covered wood. Violet herself swayed on her feet, relief making her lightheaded. She looked at Syndrome's face. He was blinking slowly, half unconscious from the morphine, unaware of his surroundings. She changed her gloves again and lifted a lid. The pupil dilated. It was good enough for now.

She and the mechanic swapped places again and Violet set about closing up, her hands trembling slightly. I've been complimented on my stitches she remembered telling the villain. The focus to prove that statement right gave her the steadiness that success had robbed. And it had been a success.

This is the second time you've done the impossible. You've lived through Fell, and now you've saved his victim. There's only one impossible task left.

Violet didn't realize how long they had taken. It had been a little past noon when they began. The sun had set and was peeking over the horizon again by the time Violet was pulling the stitches closed. The multiple lamps in the room had blinded her to the sky outside.

When she finally stripped herself of the gown, mask, and gloves, and walked into the living room, she was swaying on her feet. Mirage and her father were awake too, but she saw that it was a losing battle. They came alive when they saw her, however. Violet forced a smile and nodded. "He's alive. And he'll stay that way. I just need a sheet to get under him so we can carry him to a bed and decrease his morphine and start saline drip…"

Before she finished she felt the blood rush from her head. She leaned against the piano, holding her forehead.

"I'll get it," Mirage said, jumping up and going to her side. "Sit. I'll take care of it, sit."

"No, no. My scrubs are dirty. It's just my blood sugar-"

Bob was at her other side, hands on her arms. "Come on honey. Here, sit on the bench." He led her to the piano bench and Violet thought, once she sat, she might never get up. "You did great Vi." He squeezed her shoulder. "You were amazing, sweetheart."

Violet leaned into his touch, barely able to keep herself up. "I just did my job, Dad."

"You're a regular hero, kid. No one else could have done that...would have done it."

Her brows bunched, but she was too tired to think of the implications of that admission. She just nodded, her eyes closed. She leaned her elbows on her knees, and just let her head hang, hearing commotions just beyond her in the other room. She'd just close her eyes for a little longer…

...

...just another moment…

...

...She'd get up soon…

...

...Violet was just so tired…