Chapter XIV
In The Sight of Helios
The tinkling of the bell made the girl behind the counter jump and quickly shove her copy of Vogue out of sight. Fixing the little Dinoco nameplate on her vest that read Clarice, the gas station attendant tossed out a cheery good morning to the customer stepping into the convenience store. But the words died on her lips. Oh great, more bikers. This one looked imposing.
Tall and broad, and decked out in a rather nice black riding suit under his leather jacket, the biker pulled off his sleek helmet and ran a hand through his shock of red hair. "Mornin' babe."
Well, at least this one has something like manners. More men ought to have manners, she thought. It was a rare commodity, especially in a gas stop in the middle of the dusty New Mexican desert town on the highway. Still, she kept her finger near the panic button under the counter, even as she followed the man with her appreciative eyes. It was going to be nice watching him leave.
Another toll of the bell and a slim woman entered, wearing a similar riding outfit. Her helmet was already off, and she was lifting her mane of black hair off the back of her neck, using one hand to fan the damp skin.
"Hey-oh no!" The woman moved to the coolers where her boyfriend (?) was trying to choose a six-pack. "Not happening. You aren't driving drunk. Here. This is better." She reached into the cooler and pulled out a flavored milk. "Protein."
"You're joking, right? What are you, five? Besides, one beer isn't going to send me into a ditch." But his companion didn't look like she was going to be changing her mind. He shoved the bottle back into her hands. "You take it, princess. And if you're a good girl, maybe I'll buy you a little snack too, huh?"
The woman glared, but followed him to the counter, bringing the milk and a bottle of water. Her friend flashed Clarice a smile, before looking over her head at the cigarette display. "I'll take a pack, and whatever the brat wants. We're at pump four, twenty bucks."
"Sure. Brand?"
"Whatever has a black wrapper."
Clarice dug into the case. "Umm...Captain Black or Mordu?"
"Captain'."
When she turned back to ring them out, the woman had thrown a few sticks of jerky as well. The biker glanced at his companion. "What, no cookie?"
"Just pay."
Punching the prices into the register, Clarice asked, "Where ya heading?"
"S-"
"Nevada," Syndrome covered before Violet's natural honesty could spill over. She was used to keeping silent and avoiding questions as a part of her lying-direct responses still gave her a little trouble when she wasn't thinking. "Visiting a friend for the summer."
It was different at every station they hit. In Oklahoma, they were heading to Colorado to see about a new home, but taking in some sights. Texas, they were 'a little turned around' trying to reach Kansas.
Violet peered out the windows. They were the first to arrive at this stop-one of the many. More than Syndrome would have liked as he complained often that this was far slower than simply riding for a full day to California, while they were on the road. He had been able to hook up communication between their helmets, a short wave radio where they could talk. Violet used it mostly to caution him against suspicious drivers that seemed to be making too many of the same lane changes as they were since she had the freedom of sightseeing as she rode on the back. So far it had come to nothing.
Tossing the cash down, not bothering with the change, Syndrome left the store already unwrapping his pack of cigarettes leaving Violet to gather the food and trot behind. They would wait until both the Incredibile and Mac arrived before setting off again. Even though she couldn't talk to them, Violet felt a little easier every time she saw the nondescript black car pull into whatever station was next on their list, and always a little nervous when they would finally fade out of sight on the road.
Once full, Syndrome wheeled his bike to a shady parking spot where they would wait. He tucked his gloves into his jacket's left pocket-a signal that, to the best of their knowledge, they were not followed. All clear.
Kneeling, he began his usual checks even as he pulled out a matchbox to light his cigarette. His careful monitoring of the vehicle seemed to border on obsession, had Violet not been told he built it from the ground up whenever he had been freed from the lab. It had been one of her many attempts at conversation during the ride.
And she had to make attempts. There was nothing to distract her on this route but the open country and the long stretch of black asphalt winding before and behind them. Without conversation she'd be left to think about how awkward it was, clinging to the villain for dear life.
That had been a fight: she had perched on the back of his bike as they rolled out onto the highway, only for him to pull over and snap that she needed to stop 'screwing around'. Violet had insisted she wasn't and the villain had grabbed both her knees and ripped her closer until they hugged his hips-and she had found a word for him that was certainly worse than 'pig'.
"Scream all you like" he had snapped. "If you don't hang on you'll be a smear on the street, and I'm not stopping for super roadkill."
Once they got underway, she had understood what he meant. Without the confines of a car's steel and leather, Violet felt totally exposed and was able to see just how fast they were going. The inertia of their speed pressed directly on her body, and she was forced to find a rhythm with his swaying and turning or else feel like she was going to roll off at any moment. So Violet clung to him, her hands fisting in the front of his leather jacket with a white knuckle grip under her super suit gloves.
It also meant that her body was pressed flush against his. There were layers of course, but his warmth seemed to burn through them all. Violet felt every flinch and movement he made, and under her palms knew every breath he took. It didn't help that he readjusted his seat every time they stopped, pressing back against her unconsciously as if forgetting he had a rider. That, and he had the annoying habit of letting his hands rest on her knees when they waited for a light, tapping a beat to whatever song the bike's radio happened to pick up. It was a benign intimacy that made her more uncomfortable in her megamesh and helmet than the harsh sun above.
It was all Edna's fault! If it weren't for her implanting the idea in her head, Violet would never have noticed him in any other sense but the necessary. He was obnoxious and rude, constantly poking for a rise. So it didn't matter how broad his shoulders were when her head rested against his back, or how slender his waist was under her grasp. Once she hadn't realized how her hands had settled on his upper thighs at an intersection until he repositioned her touch back to his stomach. Her cheeks had glowed for an hour after that, even though he had, mercifully, made no comment.
He's not even my type, she thought as she bit violently into the jerky, pacing around the bike and its master. He was absorbed totally in his work, cigarette bouncing as he mouthed the words to My Girlfriend Is A Witch drumming from the bike's radio. She liked dark-haired thoughtful men, men like Tony. Actually...she'd only really liked Tony, and they had only gotten so far. After they split ways she'd thrown herself completely into her super work-and failing that, into medical school. There just wasn't time.
There wasn't time now either. Not that she wanted anything that required time. Her mouth burned suddenly, remembering their one and only touch that wasn't practice or medical. His hands threading in her hair, holding her captive as his mouth crashed down on hers, not really a kiss, too forceful to even feel anything.
"Hey, um…" What did she call him? Syndrome, yes, but it was too unique a name to just say in the open where anyone could hear. Buddy? No, he didn't seem to like that, only letting Mirage fly with it. Bartholomew? No, that was a mouthful-her cheeks flushed. I hate this, stop, stop! And she wasn't about to pin a nickname on him, that was too familiar. What would she even come up with?
He turned to look at her nonetheless, watching her struggle. "...Are you going to be sick? You look like you're gonna puke."
"No. I, uh, I wanted to ask you something."
He blinked up at her. "Oh! Are you waiting for permission? Because that would be new."
Violet scowled. She could most definitely conquer these new thoughts about him. "I was just wondering about something. Ummm...why did you kiss me?" It seemed totally out of character for him, seeing as he barely kept his temper in check around her and never spoke but to needle.
Utter shock was a new expression on his emotive face, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, stunned into silence. He cleared his throat and admitted, "Okay, definitely not what I expected." When he went back to his checks she coughed pointedly, expecting an answer. "Seriously? That was like a year ago."
"So?"
"I...I don't know, princess." He rubbed his nose, hesitating and seemingly searching for the words, not meeting her eyes. "The place went up in flames, we were running for our lives through the forest, we'd just escaped certain death. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
It stung, which she hadn't expected. Not that she thought he was about to wax poetic, but even a tease about her attractiveness, or just wanting a woman to hold in victory would have felt better. "Oh. Okay."
"Wait, what did I say?"
Violet shrugged, walking to a trash can and tossing the empty milk bottle. "Nothing."
Syndrome straightened, shaking a finger. "No, I know that kind of 'oh'. That's an expensive 'oh'-a diamond bracelet kind of 'oh'. I sense I've made a mistake of some kind."
Violet rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. I wanted an answer and I got it, I just thought you'd have some useless philosophical tie to it like usual."
"I-wait, you caught me off guard. Ask me the question again, no, come back and ask me again!"
She waved him off, throwing out some excuse about stretching her legs before they were tucked up on the bike again. Hearing the rumbling of a motorbike rolling into the station, Violet chanced a glance up and had to control her relieved smile.
MacConnell's ride was a classic Harvey Davidson in pleasing shades of sapphire and chrome with its striking vulture etched on the side, a little bulkier than the sleek black racing bike Violet had been riding for the last eight hours. Her brother was on the back, and as both of their helmets showed their mouths, Violet could see they were deep in conversation over the roar of the engine. Dash had been excited to ride second on the bike, as their mother had been totally against his first car (even as super transportation) being a bike, knowing how dangerous they could be.
If it kept him from the inevitable fight with Syndrome, Violet was glad for it. He had treated the villain with caution and silence for now-but it wouldn't last long. The two riders swung off, and MacConnell slapped some bills into Dash's hand, giving him a short list of things to grab inside the store. He tugged off his gloves, and tucked them in his left back pocket, before taking the provided soap and water and cleaning his windshield.
Dash caught Violet's eye and his step hesitated, his eyes dropping to her companion. She was worried he was about to pound over, but he simply shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried into the store. Violet breathed a little easier and returned to their spot in the shade.
Syndrome stood, holding out his hands to halt her steps. "Look…" But he didn't continue. For once she saw that he was a little lost for the right words. Violet wondered if his brushing it off was merely deflection. But then he huffed and took a drag of his cigarette, nodding to the bike, opting for, "If you keep tucking your legs up that much, your boot is going to get caught on the wheel."
Violet didn't like this feeling in her stomach. It was too similar to disappointment. "What?"
"Keep your feet on the pegs." He pointed to a scuff mark from her sole on the fender right above where Baby's actual name Talaria was etched, before taking out his handkerchief and rubbing it away.
"My legs cramp up that's all. Maybe I should take over driving for a little." Violet glared at him as he roared out in laughter. "I can ride."
"What, a Huffy?"
"No. My mother's bike." Violet swung her leg over the bike and settled into the driver's seat. Despite it being smaller and sleeker than Mac's Harley, it was large for her stature, her feet barely balancing on tiptoe and she settled. Looking down, however, she realized this was nothing like Elastagirl's bike. There was more than just the tank indicator and speedometer, more buttons and switches on the handles as well. "What is all of this?"
"Add ons," Syndrome said, surprising her by not immediately berating her back to the 'bitch' seat which he had renamed 'brat throne' after a well-aimed punch to his kidney at a red light. He'd had a lot of fun with that saying as they traveled. "Here." He started the bike proper, which only hummed lowly. It was a silent beast even as they broke ninety miles an hour, and Violet had to admit, she was impressed. The speedometer lit up, but the black square under it glowed blue, with two white dots appearing on a grid. Violet squinted, considering it for a while before she recognized it.
"A map!" Her mother's bike only had a homing device. She glanced up at where Mac was parked and realized his bike was tracked on the map as well.
"Mhmm." He tapped a button below it and the view pulled out until she could recognize the lines as streets and town borders. "Better than fussing with paper on the side of the road."
"What else can it do?" Violet's eyes were alight with curiosity. Based off Nomanisan, she knew Syndrome's inventions were as wickedly clever as their creator. He was also proud and soaked up her excitement like a sponge, puffing him up to stand straighter and smirk wider.
"It can go fast."
"We've been making good time-how fast can it go? A hundred?"
"Faster."
"Hundred twenty?"
His grin was wide enough now to show his sharp canines. "Faster, princess. Much faster."
Violet's face mirrored his. Most of her family had a way to travel fast. Her mother and father used the force of her stretching and his strength to fling them along, and Dash...well. Violet was usually left on her own, to create a sphere and roll after-but even that needed her sprinting to start it off. She liked the idea of going fast. "Let me try."
"No way." He laughed again at how her face fell. "I'm not letting amature handle my baby."
"I told you I can ride!"
"Look, you can barely touch the ground. It's too much for you to handle."
"I've handled bigger things-shut up," she growled at his snicker. Violet was spared his incoming innuendo, as the Incredibile pulled up to the pump.
She could see her mother and Mirage in the back seat, talking and both holding the map, gesturing. Her father's bulky figure stepped out and immediately began looking for his children. Violet suppressed a groan-the man was the antithesis of subtle, and when it came to his family it was worse.
"We need to lose him on the road," Syndrome snapped, all humor suddenly fading as Mr. Incredible's gaze leveled at his daughter. Violet ducked her head, hair falling in front of her face as if that mattered. Both she and Syndrome were standing in their matching colors. She had changed into her new super suit at their first stop, wanting to avoid her parent's questions about just why Edna had designed her clothes to pair with Syndrome's. "Seriously, doesn't he listen to anything?"
No.
Luckily before Syndrome could truly begin to lace into all the ways her father was risking their operation, the super in question was distracted by another patron at the pump, wandering away from his van to compliment Bob on his 'vintage' ride, kneeling to pass a hand along the front bumper appreciatively. Her father, always extremely proud of the Incredibile in any form, immediately focused on showing off the sleek black Bel Air. As they spoke, Helen slipped out of the car and reached into her husband's jacket, taking out his wallet, the Chicago Bull red and angry as it disappeared in her left pocket.
She headed for the store's door, Dash holding it open as he left, juggling a hand full of junk food and drinks, keeping his eyes on his shoes.
Mac relieved him of his burden, shaking his head. "What in hell took you so long lad, flirtin' with the clerk?"
Dash's "Uhh…" gave him away.
"Did you at least get her number?"
"Well, we're just passing by and-"
Mac pointed at the door.
Dash grinned and ran back-perhaps a little faster than a young human ought to go. At least he didn't blur. MacConnell chuckled to himself, and caught Violet's eyes, flashing a smile. At least some people were having a decent trip getting along.
"Alright, let's go." Syndrome pulled on his helmet, tapping the side. She heard the mechanism come alive with a small beep. Then he swung on behind her, making the suspension bounce under her. Violet wobbled, but Syndrome's long legs stabilized the metal steed, even from behind.
"What about letting an amature drive Baby?" But Violet pulled on her own helmet before he could protest.
He kicked up the stand. "First mistake and you're back on the throne," his voice buzzed inside her helmet as she turned it on. Even though it was the cracked older model, the Ultra helmet Violet wore was a bit of a marvel as well. It had three settings: the regular view, night vision, and thermal-it was how Syndrome had seen Violet even as she turned invisible in the firm. She would have to ask just where he got these resources with the limited amount of freedom hiding allowed him. The house he had sheltered in when she saved his life wasn't exactly a technical wonderland. But those were questions for when she was inevitably banished to the passenger's seat. "C'mon, princess. Your chariot awaits."
Not about to question her stroke of good luck, Violet leaned over and gripped the handlebars. She may not have been a mechanic or enthusiast, but she knew a beautiful machine when she saw one. Besides, it was a relief to think about something exciting. Small though it was. It burned away the chill of fear from being followed, being essentially on the run, and being covert with its spark of joy.
Of course, Syndrome did nothing that was generous. As they began to walk the bike towards the exit, Violet realized his intentions. His arms came around her, hands planting flat against her belly, and as his feet found the footpegs, his legs hugged her hips, practically encasing her small frame in his embrace as she revved the engine. One glance to the side at her father's practically murderous expression cemented her hunch that this was just a silent cut to his former idol: his nemesis stealing away his only daughter.
"You are such a pig."
"Listen, you get to ride and I get to rest comfy. Win-win."
It took her a mile or two to actually get a feel for this model. It was responsive to her every motion, more so than Elastagirl's bike and a few short stops later Violet finally got the hang of the sensitive break. Syndrome was surprisingly helpful, leaning with her rather than trying to back seat drive, watching her blind spots for her, and standing at the lights so she didn't have to handle the entire weight of the stationary vehicle by herself.
"Are we racing snails," Syndrome asked as Violet coasted in the right lane. "I thought you wanted to go fast?"
"I'm just getting my bearings!" But she must have been going at quite a sedate speed as the Incredibile rolled up to the light on their right; Mac and her brother long outpacing them and disappearing up ahead, despite being the last to leave the station. Violet kept her face forward at their shared intersection, especially since Syndrome made sure his hands were quite obviously on her hips, leaning close until her back was against his chest.
"You have to stop fighting it, lean into the weight. And don't lock your arms. It'll give you more control."
Violet nodded, but couldn't imagine how much more she could lean in any direction; she had to bend nearly flat just to reach the throttle and it caused strain in her trapezius. She sat up and rotated her shoulders. The helmet kept her from rolling her neck as far as she liked.
As she reached behind to attempt to rub the hard to reach spots, Syndrome's hands came off her waist and he pressed his knuckles against her spine, dragging down along the aching muscles. Without moving her head, she glanced to the side, glad to see that her mother was driving, and determinedly keeping her eyes forward. But how her father was talking, she knew exactly what the conversation was about. Still, it felt too good to slap the villain's hands away.
"Thanks," she murmured over the roar of motorcycles pulling up on the left, and leaned back, adding to the pressure. Violet made a small happy noise when he pressed just right at her lower back, and couldn't muster up the vitriol to snap at his chuckle.
"I'm just getting out of having to buy an apology."
"I said it's fine."
"Oh, that's even worse. I know how this game is played."
"Why am I not surprised you're used to women being irate with you?"
"Hey sweetheart, when you're done with her, wanna do me?"
Violet and Syndrome's helmets turned as one to the biker on their left. A group of older men shared their light with them, each of their jackets emblazoned with a sinister hog on the back, blood dripping off its tusks.
So far, Syndrome's prediction had been right on the money: they had weaved in and out of various clubs traveling in the same direction. At best they had whistled at either Violet or the bike, admiring their sleek forms, and at worst a few rude gestures at a bad lane change. None yet had decided to actually engage, letting them blend effortlessly.
This group, however, were all turned towards the riders in black. The bearded one snickering at his own joke revved his engine and puckered his lips at Violet's passenger. She felt his fingers dig a little harder into her back.
Another joined in the laughter, leaning back on his blood red trike. "If you're good, will she buy you a big boy bike?"
"Ignore them," Violet said, facing forward again.
"I'm not that fragile," Syndrome snorted, though his voice sounded a little tight. "Besides, they're not riding with a super."
Seeing no reaction from their first victim, they started after Violet. "Sweetie, wanna sit on a real ride?"
A man with green tinted sunglasses patted his thigh. "I got one right here, for ya, babe."
"Come on, sweetheart!"
"Oh, he's not happy. What, is that your old lady or your kid," Beard cheered, and it was more than obvious he was dragging his eyes over Violet behind his glasses either way.
Violet's hands fisted on the handlebars, making the leather creak underhand. "You could always throw a sphere at them and try and break their nose" Syndrome suggested. Violet bit her lip, smirking.
"I didn't break your nose."
"Yeah, not for lack of trying!" Seeing the crossing lane slowing to their own red light, Violet prepared to take off, but Syndrome pointed to one of the silver switches on the dash. "Wanna make them eat their words?"
She grinned "Go fast?"
"Enough to leave even your brother in the dust."
Violet flipped the indicated switch. Immediately beneath her, the bike's hum grew deeper, and she heard gears shift. The vehicle itself moved, the handlebars and windshield lowering and the footrests pulling back until Violet was actually laying flat on the engine cover, Syndrome practically on top of her, chin resting on her shoulder. The comedians surrounding them laughed with mocking 'oohhs' and whistles. Syndrome wrapped his arm around her waist tightly, and instructed, "Hold on tight."
Violet watched the light, her fingers tingling on the throttle. The revving around her wasn't intimidating at all-in fact, she found it funny. They had no idea what they were dealing with. Ever hear of the Metroville Monster? Yeah, that inventor built this, and I'm not impressed by you.
The second the green light flashed, the Hog gang was off.
Violet twisted the throttle-and the world became a blur.
She shrieked, but kept her eyes straight, immediately grateful for the sensitivity of the vehicle. Here was the group, coming hard on the red trike. Lean into it.
Violet blinked. They were on them now. The road came up, almost kissing her leg as she learned, weaving into the scant room between the trike and the lead rider. Now the other side, turning on a dime, cutting off Beard. Another blink and they were gapping them, growing bigger and bigger. The angry roars of their opponent's speeding growing distant even as they tried to catch up.
That was the last the pigs saw of the couple.
Violet laughed, feeling nearly weightless on the heavy machinery. The next light came, didn't have a chance to even think of yellow as they passed it. Gone in an instant. Now she saw the bright blue of Mac's bike, her brother twisting to look. She saw his grin, saw him cheer as he punched the air, making his driver glance back.
MacConnell immediately laid on the throttle, attempting to outpace them before they even caught up. Violet got beside them, and they were neck and neck, bobbing for dominance as the world sped past them a blur of rust, blue, and tar. Her passenger reached out, trying to flick his friend's visor. Mac responded with a rather rude but predictable gesture, but Violet saw he was grinning, laughing into the wind as he leaned over, trying to gain.
Syndrome patted her arm and pointed to the desert off the side of the road. Nodding, Violet leaned, and with a small yelp, they bounded off the street as they raced across the desert floor, parallel to the highway, kicking up red sift like wings sprouting under their wheels.
He pointed to another switch, this time by her thumb. Violet pressed it, and felt, more than heard thrusters. She could only imagine the spurts of flame bursting from the back of the bike to propel them, leaving Dash and Mac quite literally in the dust. She shrieked, half in surprise, half in hysterical excitement as the front wheel lifted slightly with the force of it, her companion's cackling in her ears.
"Ease up there, princess!"
Violet nodded, taking her thumb off the thrusters and loosening her grip on the throttle. The bike wavered a little, and he instructed her to circle until they slowed. Doing donuts in the long stretch of barren land and making a cyclone of dirt, Violet finally was able to slow to a stop.
Syndrome sat up, pulling off his helmet still laughing. He threw back his head and let out a rebel yell. "Now that's fast!"
Violet pulled off her own helmet, a little light-headed at seeing the world stagnant and sharp again. She twisted, practically laying her head on his shoulder to look him in the eye. "Not bad for an amateur!"
Syndrome clapped his hands on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Not half bad! Not half bad at all, princess! Mac trying to race us-ha! I told him not to buy parts from Daytona. And did you see those hogs' faces?!"
Violet grinned. "Nope!"
"Me neither! We massacred them! It was like a movie!"
She patted the bike as if thanking her for the trip. "I think Shadow'll have to have a bike now."
"If I can get supplies, Baby here could be your prototype. I'm going to figure out how to make her disappear just like you."
Violet's eyes lit up at the idea. She could see herself, in the middle of that nasty Hog pack, riding and suddenly appearing, only to leave them behind in a matter of seconds. What would their faces look like then? "That would be ah-mazing! Do you think you can do it?"
"I can do anything, just give me time," he boasted, his grin lopsided. They were close enough now that their panting breath mingled. Violet's smile slipped a little, eyes flickering to his mouth, blushing when he wet his lips. Shaking herself, she returned her gaze determinedly to his eyes-only to find that his gaze had a similar target, he didn't look at all ashamed.
Then he cleared his throat, leaning back and fussing with his helmet's strap. "The factor is doing it without your powers."
"This little old thing?" Violet, wanting to bring back the good humor they had shared only moments ago, suddenly vanished, Ultra's old helmet now hovering in the air as she propped the weight on her shoulder. Syndrome smirked, and started to say, 'show off'-but his gasp swallowed his words. His body had vanished too.
Violet jerked, reappearing in surprise, flushed with more than excitement. "Oh...I-uh-I guess Edna thought it-um-it might be safer if we-I mean they'll be after us in particular and we-we are, uhm…"
Syndrome swallowed, nervously rubbing under his nose. "Yeah-oh, of course. I mean we're together, after all."
"No we aren't!"
He blinked, gesturing to their seats on the bike. "Uh-"
"I mean, yes, but-" she squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm sorry, I mean we're a, um-"
"-A unit," he supplied, suddenly understanding her aversion to his turn of phrase.
"Unit! Right. Me and you. Us."
He nodded, glancing askance. "Right. Us. Uh, maybe I should-I'll take over, from here. I actually think we might have passed our last stop."
"I can still…" As he shifted, trying to slide off, Violet realized it was more than his suit's belt buckle pressing into the small of her back. "-You're right. I'm tired. Thanks."
They both stood, stretching a little and letting their faces breathe before sliding their gear back on. Violet pressed a fist to her forehead. Stupid, stupid. Her immediate reaction was more suspicious than her just agreeing to say they were 'together'. And Syndrome-well. He was a man. That meant absolutely nothing-and it made her feel nothing. The weightlessness of her stomach and flush of her body was a side effect of their recent race, that was all. It was just a victory, like after the lab. A good idea at the time. Nothing, goddamnit.
"Hey, princess." Syndrome placed his helmet on the seat and put his hands on his waist. "Listen, about the…what the hell?"
Violet turned. "What?" But the villain wasn't looking at her anymore, instead squinting at the horizon. She looked as well and saw a small dust cloud growing larger by the second.
Dash skidded to a halt a few yards before them, sending a wave of dust over the already coated pair. Catching his breath for a moment, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Brokedown!"
Syndrome stiffened. "Who-Mac? Did he wreck?"
Dash shook his head, talking to his sister. "Mom and Dad."
"The Incredibile?!" In all of her living memory, Violet couldn't remember that machine ever breaking down, not even when it was first pulled out of retirement and auctioned off, not even after its stint as a submarine.
Swearing, Syndrome pulled his helmet on. A computerized voice snapped, "Well I guess we should be goddamn glad you were early."
"It's probably just stalled," Violet snapped back, whatever warmth she had felt with the monster now totally chilled over by her annoyance. She swung back on the passenger's seat. "Dash, show us where."
"Jesus Christ!"
Syndrome coughed, waving the smoke that billowed up from the inside of the Incredibile out of his face. He propped open the hood and slapped his hands down on the fender, overlooking the machinery inside. "God...damnit."
Between Dash and Bob they were able to push the smoking Incredibile far from the road, deep into the desert until the cars passing on 66 were nothing more than specs speeding away, keeping them out of sight and away from the curiosity of passers-by. MacConnell and Mirage were out, circling the area, just to make sure no one was surveilling them, before going to find food for the group and a place for them to spend the night.
Violet tried to peer over his shoulder. "Is it busted?"
Syndrome glared at her, and she was proud to say she no longer scrambled from the look. "Did you just see Mount Vesuvius here cough up all that smoke and ask me if it's busted?"
"I meant can you fix it?"
"Of course I can fix it-if it's got metal and gears I can fix it. What did you do," the mechanic growled, turning on a dime to his former idol. "Look at this! Just look. My God, who did you let touch this?"
"No one," Bob snapped. His wife held his arm to keep him from advancing. "No one but me touches the Incredibile."
"Well there's your fu-" Syndrome caught Helen's glare as she snapped a blanket she pulled from the tunk on the ground for her family to sit and wait. He sneered, but relented, ending with, "...problem. When's the last time you changed the oil? How about rotat-never mind." He straightened and began to unzip his super suit, pulling his arms out and tying the sleeves around his waist leaving him in his black t-shirt that clung with sweat. The sun was high in the sky, and the temperature was reaching sweltering "Princess, grab me the duffle in the back-the one with the cash. My tools are in there."
Dash got into his face immediately despite being a head shorter still, finally conquering his childhood fear of the man and beginning the confrontation Violet had dreaded. "Hey! Stop talking to my sister that way!"
"Or what," Syndrome taunted, giving him his most insufferable smirk.
"Or you'll be swallowing those big teeth of yours, asshole." Dash rolled up his sleeves. "She's not your servant. And she's the only reason you're alive, so I think you should be a little more grateful."
"Grateful? If it wasn't for you and deadweight behind you we'd already be in Santa Monica!"
"And if it wasn't for Violet you'd be splattered in some forest in Massachusetts!"
Violet launched the duffel at Syndrome. "Stop! For God's sake!"
"I don't know, Vi, maybe you should let them hit it out," Bob said. "Make us all feel a little better."
"I'd love to see him try," Syndrome growled. "But I don't think your wife there will take too kindly to me knocking your baby on his ass."
"Like you'd even get one in," Dash snapped.
"Y'know if you'd ever been in a real fight, you wouldn't be beggin' for another, kid."
"I'll show you fight-"
"Ding, ding, ding!" Violet shoved herself between man and boy, pushing until they both stumbled backwards. "That's it! To your corners, show's over, we're not about to start a prime time fight in the middle of the desert!"
"How can you let him treat you like that," Dash snapped. "Like he owns you! Call you that stupid name and treat you like a lapdog!"
Does this look like gratitude?
No, it looks like a dog collar.
Violet blinked hard, focusing on the dust and warm tones of the desert, banishing the visions of flawless white walls and the smell of sanitizer from her mind. "He doesn't-"
"And you defend him!"
"Because we need him, Dash!" Violet finally snapped, matching her brother's hysterical tone. "He's a prick and that's never changing. But if we don't let him work all of us are going nowhere. We need him, and he needs us" She heard Syndrome take a breath and whirled on him. "Don't help me. Get to work."
And to her surprise, the villain's mouth shut with a click. He merely tossed the duffle on the ground and knelt, digging for his toolbox.
"I swear it's like wrangling toddlers," Violet continued, pacing around the group. "We don't like each other, I'm glad we've all established that fact. But we have to start acting like a...like a unit or else Fell, and the leak, win."
"Your sister's right," Helen said from her kneeling position, smoothing out the corners of the blanket. She spoke to the group at large, but leaned closer to Syndrome when she elaborated, "We could all try a little harder."
The villain's lip curled and he glanced at Violet, whose expression was still thunderous. But the most he did was mumble under his breath. He turned back to the Incredibile, only to be stopped by Bob's imposing figure. He placed a hand on the hood as if protecting the vehicle from the egotistical mechanic.
"I didn't say you could work on my car."
"Dad, are you serious," Violet groaned.
"I am! Who knows what he'll do to it! He might sabotage it further just to getaway! Besides, he doesn't know the mechanisms. It's a delicate machine-"
But Syndrome's nearly hysterical laughter cut him off. "Oh please. I know more about this car than you do Mr. Imbecilic!"
Bob's fists clenched. "I've owned this car for years, there's no way you know it better than me!"
There was an uncomfortable silence, and Violet didn't know if the villain was going to laugh again or finally take a punch out on the old man. Instead, he surprised her by simply remaining silent long enough that even her father shifted uncomfortably. Folding his arms, Syndrome cocked his head.
"When you were first given this car in '48 as a thank you for your good works what was the ignition time?"
Mr. Incredible blinked and Violet wondered if her father even knew what he meant-she sure didn't for all the times she had sat in the garage holding the light as Bob bent over their beat-up powder blue sedan, reminiscing over the golden days before she happily gave the duty up to her brother.
Syndrome raised his brows, knowing damn well an answer wasn't coming. "Four degrees before top dead center with its three-twenty seven cubic inch engine and four-barrel carburetor, because they were testing it before they began putting it-and the Bel Air model-out for public consumption which didn't happen until '50 and '64 respectively. Ever notice how you never got stuck in the mud after Stone Fist totaled the back of the Incredibile in '51?"
"What does that have to do-"
"It's because when Bradley Byrd fixed it for you, he installed positraction."
"Posi-"
"Oh, you don't know that that is? It's a limited-slip differential that gives equal power to both tires. Speaking of which, ever notice how your tire marks became different over time-even and flat whenever you'd speed away by abusing your thrusters from a cold start? It had an independent rear suspension installed sometime after '49, which is why you didn't ride the side of your tires whenever you'd take those quick turns and blow out. It's also the reason why The Incredibile lasted while Dinaguy's car busted down every five months because he insisted on copying your drives and snapped his axel which is also why he switched the gauntlet rockets."
Syndrome rocked back and forth on his feet as if waiting for applause. When it wasn't forthcoming, he said, "I was obsessed with this car since I was eight. I had a model of it in my room that I modified every time it was photographed in the paper. I know this car. So are you going to let me fix it or are we going to stare at each other until we're dead?"
Mr. Incredible took his hand off the hood and rubbed the back of his neck. Violet saw that he wasn't exactly ashamed-in fact, he looked more in pain than anything else. Maybe it was hard to look into the scarred face of this grown man and remember the young boy that had once gazed up at him. He stepped away without another word and went to sit next to his wife. "C'mon, Dash. Sit down."
Helen patted the place next to her, gesturing at Violet. But when she moved, Syndrome said, "I do need someone to hold the light."
Violet hesitated, feeling her family's stares burn into her back. They already thought she was edging on the side of villainy being with him. It was just a little thing, standing next to him, but it felt like taking a side. Only coins have sides. "Anything to get us on the road faster," she told her mother.
"That's what I've been saying," he muttered darkly. "And turn Baby's radio on too." Taking out his handkerchief, he threw it over his shoulder and bent over the car's engine, beginning the checks. Taking a flashlight out of the glove box, Violet stood by his side, shining the bean inside. For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of his tinkering and the staticky sounds of American Girl.
"...You didn't have to be that obnoxious." When Syndrome didn't answer she continued, "You know he fe-"
"Stop." This time the command didn't come from any sort of superior arrogance. When he looked up into her face he was deadly serious. "Don't. It has nothing to do with you, Shadow. It's between me and him and it's better off dead. Just let me work."
Violet's face flushed with indignation, wanting to tell him to stop using her title as an insult when he was angry, to tell him it very much did involve her when he dragged her as a child into his schemes, but she didn't want to start another fight. Maybe it was better to let this issue lie. She would never make Syndrome forgive her father, even if she couldn't understand his hatred. After Fell, how did he have any rage left over? He's been angry for a long time, her father had once said of him. Maybe his rage was as deeply cut into his neural pathways as Fell's tinkering.
That thought dropped ice into the burning pit of indignation that simmered in her stomach. She needed to take her own advice, and try and get along. So she leaned against the hood and watched as he worked in silence. He took out what looked like a metal book, and after pressing a button, a stand shot out the bottom, making a tray for him to place his tools on. Some of the tools he used she recognized. Others were made of the telltale white metal that his gauntlets had been, once upon a time. Well-loved, the color was dirty and dented in some places, but if their glow was any indication, they worked just fine. One looked like a laser, the other a buzzing knife made of light.
Violet wanted to pepper him with questions as he pulled and tinkered and fixed, but whenever she tried to catch his attention, he wouldn't acknowledge her-so she simply kept silent.
She was never more grateful than when she heard the roar of Mac's bike ride off the road towards them. Pulling over, Mirage swung off the back, arms lined with bags which she laid out on the Parr's blankets. "It's not much, gas station food and waters, but it's food," she said after pulling off her helmet.
"Thank you Mirage," Helen said with a smile. It was a little strained-she still wasn't too fond of the white-haired beauty despite them both bearing wedding bands.
"We found a motel a little closer to the border," Mac said, carrying a dinner of beer. He pulled out one of the bottles from the cardboard holder and tossed it, Syndrome catching as he straightened. "Also got some oil, since we are already stopped. Might as well do a change too. How goes it here?"
"This is gonna take hours," Syndrome diagnosed, using the light-knife to flick off the bottle's top. "And I'm not comfortable working on it in a parking lot, so settle in and get my pack from my jacket."
"What's wrong with it," Violet finally ventured.
Syndrome used his fairly clean writs to swipe under his nose and leaned back against the fender. "In the simplest terms, it overheated. But I don't see how, since there should be a mechanism that is supposed to keep it from doing that." He pointed into the car, and Violet peered inside-but it all looked like a pile of metal bugs slapped together with tubes of liquid sewing them all inside. "Looks like it's been knocked out, and like someone went at all of this with a hammer." Syndrome cast Mr. Incredible a withering glance. "It's a delicate machine, it needs maintenance by someone who knows how-"
"But it's fixable." Violet shrugged. "If we have to wait, we wait. It probably got knocked around from the last fight. Who was that?"
"Forger," Helen supplied, speaking about the villain that had tried to plow through half of Metroville in an armored tank. "He did specialize in metal-probably tried to sabotage us while we were searching for him."
Mac handed Syndrome his pack of cigarettes, shaking his head when the ginger offered him a smoke. Mirage however held out a hand and wiggled her fingers. Syndrome shook one out for her as he lit his own. He bent, letting her press the end of his cigarette to the one hanging from her lips, lighting it. It was a gesture so smooth and rehearsed and obviously performed a million times over the years between them that neither gave it much thought. Mac didn't even seem to notice, just put an arm around his wife as she slunk to his side.
Violet, who had knelt to pick through the bags of gas station food suddenly felt less than hungry.
"Where'd my light go," the villain asked, looking down at her.
"You're not going to eat?"
"I'll eat when I'm done."
Mirage smiled at Violet, almost apologetically. "Let her eat, Buddy, I'll hold the light."
Violet shook her head, her hand tightening on the flashlight. She snatched up a few Space Food Sticks- and shrugged. "No. No it's fine, you rest. Thank you, for getting the food."
They settled into something like a comfortable silence, the radio filling in the dead air as they ate. MacConnell asked to work on Baby, stating he didn't like how the thrusters sputtered before they took off, and, distracted, Syndrome let him after giving him a long list of things not to touch. His friend waved him off, muttering, "What do I know? I just built the parting waterfall out of a feckin' mountain, I'm just a little ole mechanic."
Finally, as the sun began to set, Helen ventured conversation: "How exactly are we getting into the festival? We don't have invitations-are you forging some?"
Mirage, who was leaning against her husband's back where they sat on his jacket, shook her head. "I have a cousin who still lives in Japan. She has a rather lofty position in the company that does advertising for Tanaka. She flirted a few invitations out of the man himself."
"Really?" Helen looked impressed. "That's….excellent."
"Scary isn't she," Syndrome snorted, breaking off his quiet rendition of Ring of Fire and speaking for the first time in hours. The admiration was clear in his tone, and he even glanced back at the woman as he flicked the ash from his second cigarette of the night. "She can pull a favor from any corner of the world."
"But who will we be going as," Dash asked. "I don't want any of those creeps knowing our names-and we can't exactly go as supers."
"I have identities set up," Mirage explained. "As far as anyone knows, Bartholomew Pine wrangled an invitation and is bringing a large party with him."
Violet's heart nearly stopped, ending her observation of Syndrome's work as he swayed from side to side at the beat of the music. "You used his real name?!"
Syndrome jumped, clapping a blackened hand to his ear. "Goddamnit, watch when you shriek like that you'll blow out my eardrum! What do you think I'm stupid-"
"Staring to! What are you two thinking?! The NSA will be-"
"The NSA doesn't know B. A. Pine from a hole in the wall." The villain huffed, and took his handkerchief, wiping at the black palm print. "The accounts and identity that were frozen and hunted are purely Syndrome. I separated the two a long time ago. Ever noticed how you never found a connection between the two, Agent Parr?"
It was true-even when she had the nickname 'Buddy' to work off of, she'd never found out anything more about the villain, leading Mirage to be the only connection she could use. For a long time, she had simply assumed his name was 'Robert' in some kind of cosmic joke.
"I used the information I found as the CEO of Syndicate to invest under my real name-leaving me a rather cushy backup plan if anything ever fell through. For all the IRS, banks, and world know, Bartholomew Pine is a traveling investor, who lives in Argentina and writes to his father every other month like a good boy and just happened to swing an invite to the Festival."
He watched Violet lean against the car, rubbing the stress from her eyes. "Listen, it's fine, okay? I know what I'm doing. This part I used to do all the time, it's easy. You'll be amazed at what people are willing to believe." She caught his glance towards her father again, happy that her parents didn't. "No one's gonna gives a damn about who we are. They're going to be focused more on the coke and cocktails."
"Lovely," Helen sighed. "Maybe Dash should-"
Dash turned red and indignant. "Mom. God, I've fought worse."
Syndrome, surprisingly, came to his defense. "Listen, your little boy just tried to chest up to someone made of metal, and blew up about four security hovers on the island when he was, like, four. I think he'll be fine."
Violet's brother blinked. "...Thanks."
"Welcome. I could still kick your ass, so don't try me." When the villain returned to the car, Dash actually put his fingers in his mouth to make a grotesque face at his back. Violet despaired of him ever growing up into something resembling mature. "Light, princess."
Violet returned to her duty, watching as the villain nearly stuck his whole arm inside the machine, pulling at something that made the suspension bounce. As the song on the radio changed-and having restrained herself for some three hours by now-she asked, "You still write to your father?"
"Angels and ministers of mercy defend us," Syndrome grunted as he pulled. "I had wondered if you'd gone mute this whole time!"
Nope. She was still irate. At him, his attitude and the way he had so easily complimented the woman who betrayed him whilst here she was, fielding insults as the person trying to help. Not that….Mirage deserved insults at all. She'd done the right thing! Still, Violet couldn't help feeling a little annoyed, even though she couldn't pinpoint why. She settled back and tried to focus on Baby's speaker bleating Man of Constant Sorrow. "Nevermind."
"Yes. Why, is that so surprising?" At her confirming silence, Syndrome chuckled. "Oh, I get it. Common psychological cycles," he asked, throwing her insults from the cell back at her. "No father in a young man's life, he goes searching for a strong male figure to emulate and will take anyone that comes along no matter what kind of man they are." The last he threw over his shoulder at her father. "Sorry, princess, but you've got my coding backwards. Mom's dead, Dad's still alive. Pretty normal."
"So what happened to you," Dash snorted.
"Nothing happened to me. I happened." Syndrome glanced up at Violet. "No trauma you can point to, no sad backstory-it was all just me. Pop was a good egg. I bought him a ranch in West Virginia when I graduated."
"That's nice of you."
He shrugged as if it wasn't a rather generous and large gesture; as if buying land and giving it away was as common a present as a necktie. "Yeah, well, that's what kids do, right? They get taken care of by their parents, and then they take care of them in return. I mean I don't drag him along with me like a security blanket like some people but now he can ride horses, drink and fix cars to his heart's delight."
"He's a mechanic too? If he's anything like you his business must have tanked."
"Oh yeah, just like me. Handsome, charming, funny-" He ignored Violet's snort, "-taught me all he knew. The rocket shoes I built-the first ones as a kid-were made from scraps from his garage." Syndrome grunted and something deep inside the car clicked into place with a satisfying thunk. He straightened and stepped around her to slide in the driver's seat. "When your father sent me home from the monorail incident, he didn't know whether to be proud or pissed. So after a trip across his knee, he helped me modify the boots to be more stable. Or he tried to. I'd already outpaced him by that point. But he had the good sense to nurture that spark of creativity."
"I'm sure he was so pleased to have his son around bombs," Bob grunted.
Both Violet and Syndrome started-forgetting for a moment that they were no longer locked in a doorless room, watching the clock tick by and keeping sane with her questions and his planning. They somehow forgot in this group of people, they weren't alone.
"So he doesn't know about...Metroville?"
Syndrome sighed, sliding the keys into the ignition. "I'm sure he knows, princess, he gets national papers. But does he know his bouncing baby brat was the villain of that story? No. I set up a system to send him a postcard from some far-flung place once about every few months, reassuring him I'm alright and way too busy to visit."
Violet nodded and was struck by a rather sad thought: "That's why your 'friends' found you first. Why no one was looking for you, Bartholomew. Just Syndrome."
The villain stilled as if caught in his own Zero Point Energy. Their eyes caught through the windshield, and Violet was struck by how confused he was. He had made the distinction so clear on paper, even constantly berating her for attributing classic villainous traits to him without thought; had the separation between the two never occurred to him before? Or maybe it was he himself, who thought himself as a 'bad guy' by default, despite his protests. It was his lot in life-just like Violet was a hero. It was what she did.
"...Yeah I guess."
"Still you should write to him. Or vi-"
"Nope-nu-huh. Conversation over. I don't pay you to be my psychiatrist and talk about shoulds involving my parents."
"You don't pay me at all. And there isn't enough money in the world."
He mimicked her in that almost perfect impression of her slightly nasal alto and started the car. It took a second before the engine roared to life. Slapping both hands on the wheel he bounded out of the car and kissed his fingers like a chef. "Listen to that! Now you hear that engine and tell me that ain't better than a woman!"
"Dear God, mate it's been too long since you've had a woman," Mac snorted.
Syndrome tossed his blackened handkerchief at his friend with a smirk. "Why are you volunteering?"
"Would you stop flirting with my old man," Mirage huffed, even as her husband can a mock coy look behind her back.
"I'm going to change the oil and then we'll get her out of this hellhole." As he passed Violet, he bent and bit off part of the Food Stick she had unwrapped while they talked. "Thanks, princess," he said through the mouthful as he packed away his tools. Pressing another button the stand's leg collapsed and four wheels sprung from the bottom of the metal slab. Placing it on the ground, Syndrome lay on it and slid under the car. "Light!"
Violet knelt and rolled the flashlight under the car for him to catch. She was tired, still hungry, and would rather sit. Collapsing beside her mother, she leaned happily into the older woman's embrace. Dash had pulled out a pack of cards and was playing Gin with their father. Violet watched the game for a while, considered asking to be dealt in.
"Holy HELL!"
"What?!" Mac spun, getting immediately to his feet. "Pine?!"
"Mother of GOD." Syndrome slid from under the car, holding something between his thumb and forefinger, like a rat, far away from his body. Violet narrowed her eyes in the dying light.
"What is that?!"
"A homing beacon," Syndrome shouted, bounding to his feet. "Goddamnit! God motherf-"
"Turn it off," Mac snapped, reaching for it himself.
"No! Don't! It'll alert them," Violet cried.
Syndrome looked like he was about to crush it in his fist. Instead, he rounded on Bob. "Who put this here?!"
"How would I know? I didn't even know it was there!"
"Who did you tell?!"
"What? No one!"
"You told someone you were leaving! I know it."
"No! Only Suratt, but we had to, we can't just leave. We're agents!"
Violet took the homing beacon from Syndrome, acting like it was a bomb rather than a radio signal. "Stop, just calm down."
"Calm d-"
"Is screaming going to solve anything?!"
Syndrome ball his fists, but instead of continuing, he paced away from her, walking out a good few yards, kicking the innocent stones that just happened to be in his warpath. Violet rolled her eyes and turned back to her father.
"Dad-"
"I didn't tell anyone Violet," he said in his best 'you're grounded' tone.
She held up her hands, and used the same voice she did on combative patients. "I know. I know, Dad. But did you mention to anyone the direction we were going?"
"No!" A beat. "All I said when asked at the party is that we were taking a road trip, maybe out west. I kept it as vague as possible, but if I didn't say anything Robbie would have gotten worried. You know how he can be!"
Syndrome, who had paced back to the group, stamped his foot and gestured emphatically at the man, looking at Violet as if his point had been proven. Bob got his feet, shouting, "And if I had said nothing he would have gotten suspicious! He would have gone back to the office and told everyone he was concerned that we were acting strange! That's the kind of man he is!"
"Great apprentice you have there! He's probably the goddamn leak!"
"Robbie isn't the leak!"
Violet looked towards the other mechanic. "MacConnell, please!" One shrill whistle later, Violet had silence and two men holding their ears. "Thank you."
"M'pleasure, lass."
Violet looked down at the homing device. So they were being followed-but the trackers didn't have to be on their tail. "Alright. We're going to think calmly about this because if we panic, we'll get sloppy. My father is right-he had to tell people something otherwise there would have been questions. But this is advanced, and I don't know that Robbie knows how to install a signal like this."
"We should leave them here and go on our own," Syndrome concluded. "Let whoever trace them to hell and back, and you and I will be in the clear."
Violet narrowed her eyes.
"...It was worth a shot," the villain mutter. "Fine, princess. What do you suggest to get us out of this goddamn mess?"
"We use this to our advantage. We lure them in. They don't know that we know, and that gives us the upper hand. They obviously sabotaged the Incredibile sometime after we told Suratt, they were waiting for it to break down. So we wait for them, and catch them."
"And maybe we could get them to give up the leak," Mirage concluded, nodding. "That's an excellent idea, Violet."
"Maybe they even know where Fell is," Dash added. "If we get them to spill all the beans, we could cut him off before he even gets to that stupid party."
Violet, who had not broken Syndrome's gaze, waited for him to see the logic of it. He was a stubborn jackass-but as he protested, he wasn't stupid. "More information is always better."
Syndrome looked like he was biting his tongue, but nodded. He untied his suit, sliding it back on before grabbing his helmet. "Fine. We wait, again. I'm in the mood to knock a couple of skulls together."