Chapter XVI

Satisfied Mind

"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

"I-I think I saw her! That missing girl, Dana Dunham!"

"Okay, ma'am? Ma'am calm down, where are you?"

"I-you have to come now. I saw her, he was putting her in a van! She was fighting and he shoved her inside!"

"Ma'am! Please, where is your location?"

"I'm-I'm by the Allsup's, just off 66 in Santa Rosa. Please you have to hurry!"

"Okay. I'm sending officers right now. Did you see the plates on the van?"

"I-plates? No-I don't remember. I don't think it had any. That's bad right? It-it was this metallic green VW Bus. Oh God I should have done something, he threw her in the back-I thought she looked familiar. Please you have to-..."

"Ma'am?"

"..."

"Ma'am, can you hear me? Ma'am!"

"..."

Sergeant Pembry had been on the force long enough to know that nothing good happened between the hours of three and five AM. He also knew that the minute the word 'van' was introduced it was going to be a long day, and probably filled with images he'd need three weeks of leave to erase from his memory. So when the call came in at four fifteen in the morning about a missing seventeen-year-old girl sighted being thrown in the back of a van, he knew he wouldn't return to his warm bed or warm wife for some time.

By the time he was dressed and in his car, the police radio was alive with reports. He had just pulled onto the highway when the dispatch declared that the VW Bus they were searching for had been found. Turning on lights and sirens, he bypassed the usual morning traffic, speeding to the location.

The unlicensed metallic mint green van stood out with its white trimming in the middle of the New Mexican palette of reds and browns, like a beacon to the officers parked far off on the side of the highway, enticing them closer with the promise of answers and horror. Patrol cars lined the highway right before it, officers standing by, having taped the area, but none venturing in.

Snatching up his aviators from the dashboard, Pembry sighed and slid out of the car, already readying his weapon. He nodded to a younger officer, fresh to his new rank. "Commander Wen?"

"We were waiting for you, Sarg. Didn't want to go in without your command, just in case."

"Is the detective here yet?"

Commander Wen nodded to the man who was leaning against a patrol car, hands on the hood and head bowed. "That's Detective Boyle. He was on the Dunham case. He ain't hopeful."

"That makes two of us. Any signs of life?"

"...No sir."

"Alright. Let's get this shit show over with." Giving the signal, Pembry and the officers around him advanced on the van, weapons drawn. Peering inside the window, he saw a man slumped over the wheel, asleep. After three knocks on the glass did nothing to rouse him, Pembry used his issued firearm to shatter it, reaching inside and unlocking the door. The man slid out of the driver's seat and onto the ground. That at least woke him.

"Wh...wha…?" Peering up into the brilliant sunlight Martin blinked and looked around at the officers surrounding him, weapons aimed directly at his still bloodied face. "Oh f-"

"Looks like you've been in quite a fight," Pembry snapped. "Care to explain why your car ain't got plates, son?"

"Listen-officer, there's been a mistake." Martin started to push himself up, only to be grabbed by two officers and dragged to his feet. "I didn't-"

"Any other passengers in this van," Pembry barked over his protests. Then he smelled it: Something rotting from the back of the van, wafting out through the open door. Putting his forearm to his nose, Pembrey signaled for the boys to open the back doors and figure out just what reeked so bad.

"No! Listen I was attacked and-"

"Sarg!"

Pembry turned at Commander Wen's call. The man looked white as a sheet as he held open the back doors of the van. "...You...you gotta see this."

"What the shit is this?" Coming around to Wen's side, Pembry gagged. "Oh, dear God."

The inside of the van was damn near painted in blood, dark and thick, coagulating in the heat. Dana might have put up a good fight-good enough to break the driver's nose-but she apparently lost in the end. For God's sake, there was even a handprint on the back of the driver's seat.

Tossed carelessly in one of the many puddles was a rifle and a bag of zip ties. Pembrey wretched again at the overpowering scent of iron and stepped away. He looked toward Detective Boyle, who was hovering back by the herd of squad cars. Pembry gave no answer, but his face must have said everything as Boyle sunk to the ground, despair etched into his posture.

Martin was struggling now, unable to see what had been done, but by the smell, he had a good guess. "Listen to me! I didn't do anything!"

"I don't want to hear another goddamn word," Pembrey said, tone deathly quiet. "Arrest him Wen, and throw him in the tank. We'll leave him a good few days to think about just what we're gonna do to him."

Pembrey watched Martin be slammed up against the van, handcuffed, and read his rights over his shouts and promises of innocence. Without a body, it would be hard to get him to the electric chair. Life rotting in prison might just have to do. Pembrey glanced at the van and winced. He couldn't look again, but he could let the other crooks at the county jail know that their new roommate got his broken nose by killing a little girl. Most of the regulars were deadbeat dads-but they were still dads.

Sighing, Sergeant Pembry resigned himself to a long day of interviewing, paperwork, and searching for that poor, poor girl. It would be many hours before he was able to go home and hug his own daughter tight.

Stepping out of the shower, Violet wrapped a towel around her hair and torso and winced. Peeling one hand away, she observed the wound on her palm, fleshy and pink on the wrinkled wet skin. Shallow enough not to need stitches but deep enough to squeeze a lot of blood out; enough to make one single handprint. It would heal faster due to her body's makeup, but for the next few days, it was going to sting like hell.

Bending, she tossed her super suit into the motel's tub and set about rinsing it free of dust and flecks of blood. With every patch of red she scrubbed out, her stomach turned violently. Watching Syndrome field dress three foxes had been gruesome, if necessary. She hadn't wanted to ask just how he knew what he was doing, but his insult of 'city girl' from the lab started to make a little more sense, despite his own sleek and lavish lifestyle before.

The crime scene they set up would give the local authorities enough to run around for days without really finding anything. Violet knew that the study of DNA was in its infancy, barely making it to the very top of the FBI labs or the medical journals she subscribed to. It was more of an exciting premise than anything in actual function. They certainly wouldn't have any of the like at the state level, especially not in a little highway town, not when there were serial killers and drug lords to catch. All the officers would see was too much blood for anyone to survive in a car that held a beaten man and his weapons of capture; they'd come to the immediate if mistaken conclusion.

Maybe, in a few months, they might realize the blood was not human except for the single smear on the seat leather-and they would get nothing from Martin who had nothing to tell. But it would keep him out of the fed's hands for as long as they needed. The force here wouldn't take kindly to a random federal agent trying to steal away the only suspect they had in the case of a pretty, young local girl. They'd fight tooth and nail to keep him, clog up the works with everything they had. And they would also keep Martin alive, despite the other inmates, to question him and get a location for the body. Echo would either have to tip his hand to explain his desire to get one lonely suspect transferred from prison or break-in himself, risking capture. And in solitary it would be more than difficult to actually kill Martin; he would be watched, carefully.

It was a good solution, and despite Syndrome's constant complaining, Violet had deigned to commend him on the idea. It satisfied Violet's conscience and would keep Echo busy for a very, very long time, solving almost every problem in one swoop, despite it all being a lie. Secrecy was the name of the game, and Echo now had a potential time bomb in his captured agent.

Tossing her suit over the curtain rod to dry, Violet dug in her bag, pushing aside the van's plates they had taken to pull out her sweats. Dressing, she took down her hair and considered the hairdryer with something like dread. It was probably weak and would take hours to dry her whole mane. In the end, Violet simply wrung out her hair and braided it.

I found the leak, she thought. I saved a man's life. I upheld my morals-I wasn't swayed by pressure or convenience. So why do I feel so awful?

The betrayal was not softened by the suspicion. She always knew Echo could have been the leak-but the reality of it was so much heavier. It made an intangible idea real-it had happened. She had been sold and he had been able to smile at her afterwards, knowing what he put her through. It was an evil more vile than Fell-at least the doctor was honest about his tortures. He did not hide in the shadows, keep his blanked heart a secret, dress it up with smiles and compliments and a facade of love.

I'm not that. Putting her hands on the sink, Violet leaned closer, staring at her purple rises in the glass. Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, the bags under her eyes had cleared (with a plan in place she had been able to rest a little easier this past month), though she was noticing there were frown lines now appearing around her lips more often than smiles. She looked and hard under the harsh, barely illuminating buzzing light; until her face became not so much her identity but contours and colors of a woman, clinical and detached. I may hide my hatred, I may deal with the devil, I may have a heart just as stony and black. But I am not Echo. I couldn't harm like that-I couldn't see the good in it.

Not even to him. Despite all he had done, if she saw Vincent at her mercy, shrieking and begging, afraid and writhing, she could not torture him as she had been tortured. It wasn't in her makeup-there was no slot for cruelty placed between invisibility and ambidextrous in her DNA. In her passion, when she was so angry she felt like destroying anything around her, even clawing at her own skin just to release the rage, she may wish that imprinted on her biological map.

But it was incompatible with who she was. And no creation of Violet, whatever version survived this kiln of victory, would have space for that monstrosity.

Remember that, Violet affirmed, tapping the dirty glass with a finger before stepping out of the bathroom. The Parr's motel room was the larger of the two, but still rather cramped. A door connected them to their companions, and it was kept tightly locked. Still Violet could hear Syndrome and Mac's laughter even through the thin wall. At least some people are able to relax.

The motel had one rickety rollaway bed that was already made. Dash had claimed the couch, smoothing out the extra sheets when she emerged, while her parents had the bed. The couple in question were already sitting together, talking quietly. Her father sat under the blankets, Helen across from him, her feet in his lap where he was rubbing them.

Violet heard footsteps on the walkway outside their room and peered through the window curtain, seeing Syndrome descend the stairs, helmet and drink in hand, heading for the patio near the pool. He was wearing a black t-shirt and even in the weak motel lighting, Violet saw the scar seams on his arms.

"They were going to torture him, Helen."

"But he didn't-Violet stopped him. We can't think about it now. We've discussed this already." Helen scooted away, climbing under the covers. "I know how you feel about him. I do too. But we have to pick our battles."

"It's only going to get worse from here. And when this is all over? Are we just going to let him go? Get away without paying for his crimes?"

Violet, who was watching the corner where Syndrome had turned out of sight, spoke without thinking. "How much more would you have him pay?"

Bob turned, not hearing her whisper properly. "What, honey?"

Violet considered shrugging, letting it go. But she was tired of the back and forth-and so sick of repeating the same thing again and again-we need each other, we're on our own, we have to stop fighting. She could understand her father's hatred-God, on that score she and the man were nearly identical. It was almost hilariously textbook, eldest daughter and father sharing the same personality traits. But her hatred of Fell was a heavy thing, it left her tired from the weight. She couldn't wait to discharge it; her father seemed to love nothing more. "I said, Dad, how much more would you have done to him?" She let the curtain go and turned to her father. "You saw the tape. What more would be enough to pay for his crimes?"

Her father went white, and she could practically see the memory play across his face. Still, he shook it off, and Violet almost admired the speed at which he returned to himself. "Vi, sweetie, he tried to kill you kids. He tried to take Jack-Jack. That's all I'm saying-"

"So how much more would you have happen to him," Violet repeated calmly. "Would you kill him?"

"He already did," Dash said as he settled back against his pillows. When their parents glared in his direction, he threw up his hands. "Well, you did! I'm just saying! Vi's the one getting all holier than thou!"

"I'm not holier, I just want an answer." Violet hadn't taken her eyes off her father. She wondered if he ever had a dilemma of consciousness-not bravery as he had when fighting the Omnidroid and tried to keep his family safe. Did he ever look into a mirror until he saw the truth of his heart written in his eyes? Or did he have no need for looking glasses, nothing sending the Incredible compass spinning? Violet almost envied that. "Would you kill him? He's right outside. I'm sure you could do it. He can still choke like a man, he's not as strong as you."

"That's enough young lady," Helen snapped. "That's your father you're speaking to."

"I know who it is, Mom." Violet walked to the door, and opened it, waiting in the doorway.

Bob didn't move a muscle, eyes flickering from the door to his little girl and back. "No, Violet. No, I couldn't." A beat, and then he amended, "I wouldn't."

And for the first time in the long hours between finding the homing device and now, Violet finally felt relief. Her father may not be subtle, he may not be calm. But he was a good man in the end-clumsy, but good. For all the betrayals she'd suffered, Violet knew her trust was well placed in him. "Thank you, Daddy." With that soft gratitude she slipped out into the cool night.

Violet didn't want to stay in the crowded bedroom, especially not after that conversation, as cleansing as it had been. She wanted to be out in the open air, something she was drawn to more often than not after the lab. But she also didn't want to be alone with her thoughts anymore.

She found Syndrome bent over one of the patio tables, and heard the hum of his tools. Ultra's new helmet sat in pieces before him as he worked, singing softly under his breath. "Once I was wading in fortune and fame. Everything that I dreamed for, to get a start in life's game. But suddenly it happened, I lost every dime-but I'm richer by far with a satisfied mind…"

He must have heard her footsteps because he suddenly cut off his tune, reaching into his back pocket and taking out a few dollars, holding it over his shoulder without looking. "Hey, could you grab me a water from the machine?" His drink can was already finished and crushed by his feet.

Violet blinked, but took the cash, getting herself a Coke with the change. She slid into the seat beside him, holding out the water bottle.

"Thanks, sweetheart-oh. Princess. Thanks."

Violet shook her head, using the edge of the table to pop off her tin top. "So Mirage is 'sweetheart' and I'm 'princess'? Does Mac have a nickname too?"

"Yeah, but it's not for polite company," Syndrome replied, taking a swig of water before going back to his parts. They sat in familiar silence, him working and she simply watching, enjoying the sound of the pool water lapping as the filter hummed-it reminded her of the pool at home, and for a few minutes she could pretend to be there and enjoying a comfortable summer evening.

It seemed even without the white walls, this was a habit they would not soon be breaking. Violet found it horrifically comfortable. She watched his face, neither screwed up in concentration nor, for once, vividly expressing any emotion. He was placid and calm, focused entirely on his work. She wondered if her eyes looked the same almost peaceful way when she was in surgery.

"So...are you?"

"Am I what?" He shut off his laser, glancing up.

"Richer by far, with a satisfied mind?"

He gave her a lopsided smirk. "Do I seem satisfied to you? No, not yet. But I think I will be. I mean, that's what we're all after, isn't it? A satisfied mind?"

Violet tilted her head back, glancing at the stars. "I suppose?"

"I mean why else would you be here?"

She sighed. "Because I have to be."

"No, you don't. You would have come across the leak eventually."

"And just let Fell go?" Violet dropped her face to stare at him incredulously.

"Why not? It's dangerous, it's life-threatening, and once you sussed out the leak you could just have the NSA try to go after him."

"Because that would waste time! He could go on and hurt so many other people!"

"Who you don't know."

"You know I can't let that happen!"

"Why? Because it would keep you up at night?" He leaned his cheek against his fist. "Because you wouldn't be able to rest knowing he was out in the world, hurting?"

"Yes!"

"So you're here to satisfy your mind. That's why you keep fighting, isn't it? That's why you went to medical school, I bet too-you have a higher chance of actually doing permanent good. You like fixing stuff, it's in your programming-remember, coding?" He winked at his own metaphor and Violet mimed gagging. "Hero work is shit-everyone around the world suffers all the time, and you're just one person. How can you handle that? Besides, even when you do get your guy, they either escape jail or they get off on a technicality. I would have if I survived."

She was forced to agree-medical school and healing had been the one thing to bring her peace. Small manageable choices versus the great dilemmas that being a superhero placed on her still-very-human shoulders. With every criminal she had put away, it started the cycle of revenge, either from the criminal themselves or their loved ones. Evidence of that sat before her-Syndrome, Mr. Incredible's nemesis.

Violet rubbed her ear, trying to shake the sound of Su Nami's son's screams from memory (it was becoming quite a haunted house in there, with all the ghosts she collected). That was the cycle, the hands of an unstoppable clock turning, striking twelve again and again. The dawn of heroic acts, and the noon-time repercussions of the villains they created. But as a doctor, she could ease suffering for longer, for better, and without harming in the pursuit of healing. It was an odd thing to consider, that the rat race of long grueling days trapped within a hospital were more freeing and less circular than actually defending the world.

Still, the tail end of his monologue caught her-"No you wouldn't have."

"Oh-ho. So sure? I told you, everyone on the island signed a waiver. Legal and protective."

"Fine, you might skate on that. But what about the Omnidroid?"

"What about it? No one knew it was mine or belonged to Syndicate. I launched it into the atmosphere and made sure the rocket would disintegrate in the ocean-metals were my specialty. There was no way to track where it came from."

"Okay-you were doing heroic acts while it was illegal!"

"I'm not a super." Syndrome was full-on grinning now. "I wasn't technically illegal-did you ever actually read the law that passed? Because Nat sure did. I was just a citizen with technology, doing a public good."

Violet would never like the feeling of being caught by his logic. She did, however, like how the pool's lights winked in his blue eyes when he smiled. "You're such an asshole."

"Cheers to that." He lifted his water bottle in salute and took a long swig. As he tilted his head back, his golden pendant caught the light.

"Can I ask what that is?"

"Hmm?" He looked where she was pointing. "Oh, this?" Syndrome seemed to consider it for a moment before simply taking the necklace off and holding it out to her.

"It seemed pretty important to you." Violet leaned back and used the pool light to peer at the round coin-like pendant. The metal was still warm against her chilled fingers. A bearded man holding what looked like a large wooden 'x'. "...Is this your father?"

Syndrome snorted into his next drink of water. "No, it's St. Andrew."

"Oh...you're Catholic?" Violet didn't have a history of religion-the closest she got was Kari's extremely Presbyterian grandmother who lived with the family. Violet could only remember a few Christmases they had attended a church-and that was mostly because someone in the neighborhood had invited them to the festivities. Nevermore than once or twice-they would almost always have to move by then.

"I suppose-I was baptized. My mother was. Hardcore too: candles, rosaries, prayers, you name it. Gave me that when I was going to be an older brother. He's the saint of siblings and I was going to be a protector like saint Andy there"

Violet blinked. "You have siblings too?"

But Syndrome shook his head, returning to his work. "No. It wasn't a pregnancy, we found out. It was a tumor."

Her heart chilled. She hadn't stopped to consider that he had known his mother before she died. She had assumed... "Oh, I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "People die, and I was really young. Just eleven."

"Still, it's your mother."

"I know-hey listen. My mother was a saint, don't get me wrong. But I was luckier than most. I got to say goodbye, I got to stay with her until the end. After that, we moved to Metroville and I had more on my plate than being sad." He lifted a shoulder. "There was nothing more to be done," he cut his eyes towards her, "And there wasn't a super doctor alive at the time to help her. It happens. I'm...satisfied with how we parted."

She smiled sadly and held the necklace back out to him. He didn't take it but merely bent his head, letting her slide it back on. "A satisfied mind."

Syndrome nodded. "Now you're getting it. And I haven't had one in...in a really long time." His eyes slid past her, looking out over the desert, focused within rather than on the horizon. "I'm not totally delusional you know." Violet would have snorted if it wasn't for his tone-contemplative rather than boastful. "I know what I had. I really was quite wealthy. I don't know if my file had any bank statements but you don't know just how many zeros you can fit onto a check until you've seen some of my payouts.

"I could influence whole nations; traveled anywhere and lived fat and happy with impunity. I know I can make a machine do just about anything if I put my mind to it-and with all of that I had a woman who would have married me. But I wasn't satisfied."

He focused on her again. "I wasn't satisfied with everything. What people strive for all their lives I had within a few years, and it wasn't enough because it wasn't my goal. I chased an intangible impossible, stupid dream."

Because her father had come and cut him off at the knees long before a jet turbine had the chance. And Syndrome had worked the rest of his young life to prove just one man wrong. He'd created on the foundation of a hurting heart, and it shuttered beneath the weight. There was a warning in his fable, and Violet intended to heed it, dissatisfied as she was with mere surviving. "And getting Fell-do you think it'll satisfy your mind?"

"I hope so." His lips turned up, and Violet remembered how often he had used the word hope since he met her, despite his prediction that the emotion might just kill him in the end.

"Well I hope you get it," she finished quietly, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Syndrome toasted her with the last of his water. This time his smirk grew into his familiar cocky grin. "The both of us," he said with confidence. He sat back and lifted the thin metal plate up, inspecting his work on the little computer components soldered to it. Syndrome must have been pleased, for he began piecing the parts back together and reconstructing the side of the helmet he had dismantled. He sat back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankle. "I still wanted to say something to you. About that kiss-"

Violet lolled her head back, eyes lifting. "O-o-oh my God, I said it was nothing!"

"If it was nothing, why did you ask? But that's what I wanted to say-it was nothing. It wasn't a kiss."

"Um…" Violet tapped her chin as if thinking very hard. "You put your mouth on my mouth for an extended period of time. I haven't glanced at my anatomy books in a while, but clinically, we call that action a kiss."

"Technically it was a kiss. Technically. But it wasn't a real kiss. If you'd been kissed enough, you'd understand."

Her cheeks flushed brilliant red quite without her permission. Of course, the only reason he wanted to bring it up was about ego. "I have been kissed plenty."

"Your diagnosis says otherwise, doc. If you'd been kissed enough, and by someone who knew how, you'd've realized that, what we did before in the forest? Not the real deal."

Violet gaped at him and knew she resembled a fish more than an eloquent educated doctor. "He knew h-I'm not discussing this with you!"

Now Syndrome's grin was practically evil. He sat up, putting his hands on his chair's arms, and leaned closer. "You're right. Words don't really match up with clinical practice, do they?"

"Don't you-!" She clapped both her hands over his mouth before he even thought about bending any closer. She felt his grin against her palm and couldn't help but laugh at the tickling sensation. "Man, I have wanted to do this for forever! Don't you ever just shut up?"

Syndrome's hands closed over her wrists, struggling with her until he pried her fingers from his lips. "Listen, I'm not talking about some peck at prom, princess. If I kissed you, it'd blow your little boyfriend out of the water."

"Oh? Would I swoon too? Knees weak, stomach a flutter?" She snorted. "Those are all the symptoms of the flu, you know. Maybe all your women were just sick and trying to let you down easy?"

"You tell me." But instead of leaning forward, he turned his face into her right palm, and kissed it, eyes never leaving her face.

Violet's smile flickered before it finally died. His mouth was that same fever-hot which was his norm, and his burning grip on her wrists made the pleasantly cool night seem frigid around her, making her shiver-even tremble a little. She hated that he could probably feel it. And when he pressed another kiss to the inside of her wrist, eyes lowering almost reverently, he must have noticed how her heart beat rapidly against his lips. It's the flu, her mind spat, and Violet let out a weak chuckle. She felt his smirk against her flesh again, his teasing done, but as he leaned back the fingers of her still shackled wrist followed.

Her touch was gentle as if she might harm him with the slightest press. Her thumb touched the gruesome scar that discolored his eye, brushing against his cheek, as if to wipe away the faint freckles there-the last vestiges of his boyish looks. She followed the raised line to his upper lip, fascinated by the way the skin went from jaggedly rough to impossibly smooth and soft. She felt his silent mutter of princess.

Feverish fingers slid down her arm, flaying the skin from wrist to shoulder with its heat. He mirrored her touch, fingers ghosting along the softer line of her cheek. His thumb carefully traced her cupid's bow, his others fingers curling under her chin, lifting it as his eyes flickered down-

A door slammed.

Both villain and hero snatched themselves back, retracting into their seats. Descending the stairs, room bucket in hand, MacConnell was glancing between them, brows raised. "Alright out here?"

"Fine," Syndrome snapped, starting to gather his things. "Did you need something?"

"No, no. Just getting some ice. Beer is piss warm. Listen, Ms. Parr-" He came to Violet's side. "About before-I dinnae want there to be any bad blood between us. I was only doin' what I thought necessary."

"Huh?" Violet still couldn't quite bring herself back to the cold, nighttime reality her body currently resided in. Her mind was still caught in a breathless moment between anticipation and touch. "Wha...oh! Before. N-no. I understand, I mean I don't like that but, we're fine." She flashed a smile and shot from her seat, hurrying towards the stairs. "I'm...um-Goodnight!"

"Goodnight, lass."

"Goodnight-oh, princess?"

Violet paused on her way up, turning so sharply she almost lost her footing on the metal step. "Yeah…?"

"That was really quick thinking-your shield. Stopping the poison like that. Good work."

She tugged at her braid, smiling. "That sounded like a compliment."

"It was-hey, I've been known to give them out once in a while."

"...Thank you." The man held her stare but was also the first to break it. Then she was up the flight, slipping back into her rented room.

"Guess what I just saw!"

Mirage glanced up from her files where she had been memorizing the guest list of the festival, and smiled as her husband, laughing to himself, practically danced around Buddy's roll away to the desk to put down the full ice bucket. "Must have been good, you seem pretty pleased."

"I am! I thought somethin' was going on-and I was right."

"I can hardly wait to hear." She closed her folder and tossed it into the open duffel next to the bed. Mac sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning sideways over her legs and propping himself on an elbow. Mirage immediately set about combing her fingers through his constantly unruly hair, playing with his bangs.

"I have to hurry before he comes back from inspecting Baby because he'll be a right ass about it-but the little super girl? Oh, does she have it for our Bartholomew!"

Mirage's smile immediately evaporated. "What?"

"Oh, come now, love. You have to have noticed the way she looks at him! You ought to know-ladies love a bad boy, and she's got it for one o' the worst! I swear, she looked like she was going to melt and he was payin' her a compliment." He snickered to himself, pleased with his paltry little gossip before realizing his wife wasn't joining in on the festivities. "Nat? What's wrong with that, you look like you don't enjoy this? It's been a while, my lover, you can't be jealous can you?"

"Jealous? Why-oh!" She reached forward again and held MacConnell's face. "Don't be ridiculous, my heart. I'm not jealous at all. I'm...concerned."

"Concerned? Over a little crush? It might make her parents a little flustered, but it's just a little flirtin'."

Shaking her head, Mirage explained, "I'm concerned because it's just a little flirting now. But it's only going to cause problems when they both realize the other feels the same. What will happen then? Nothing good. Either they'll give in, and we'll have mutinous Incredibles on our hands, or it'll just cause strife between them when we need both Violet and Buddy focused on the mission."

"Both-wait. Pine?" MacConnell laughed. "No way." When his wife stayed silent he continued to protest: "No! There's nothing swaying him from killing Fell."

Now Mirage looked rather concerned about the intelligence level of the man she had vowed to at least respect. "Liam-haven't you seen how he is around her?"

"A prick-he's that way to everyone."

"He would be if he noticed anyone else when Violet is within ten feet of him."

Mac sat up, shaking his head. "No, I can't believe that because if Pine really did want the girl, he'd have her legs over his shoulders by now!"

His wife's eyes narrowed. "Oh, would he?"

"I-you know what I meant." MacConnell shifted a little uncomfortably. "You know how he can be when he's trying to wheedle. We saw how he'd negotiate deals when he had to. Remember, back at Pomegranate? A bit of flirtin' with the misses went a long way to securing a lot of those clients."

"Well, he can't exactly sneak off with her under her father's nose-they've already almost come to blows three times."

MacConnell tried to protest again but seemed to think back on their three days together. Buddy did seem rather tethered to the girl, but he had assumed he was keeping an eye on her, as she had a habit of throwing all their plans out of the window and causing them to scramble. They had set up Ultra's greatest hit, the lab itself, to free Buddy from Fell's grasp. When Violet was kidnapped, the plan had been delayed, changed, and then outright forgotten when Buddy decided it was better to just blow the damn place to the heavens. And again, the plan to infiltrate the Festival had been an Ultra plan-knock out the computers and assassinate the doctor. But now with Miss Parr once again in the vicinity, it was shaping up to be more of a heist than a murder.

He winced, realization souring his good humor. "And we're about to be locked on a ship for nearly a month." Husband and wife shared a concerned glance. "What are we going to do?"

Mirage bit her lower lip. What could they do? Confront the issue? They'd both deny it. It was like sitting in the kitchen, trying to have a normal breakfast, all the while knowing there was a bomb beneath the floorboards. Besides, who were they, happily married as much as they could be in the current circumstances, to dictate matters of the heart to the doctor and Buddy?

And it was deeper than physical attraction. Even with her distaste for the image, Natalya knew Liam was partially right: that if Buddy felt less, he might have attempted more. Who was she to deny him that type of connection? Despite their fallout, her betrayal and his mania, she wanted him to be happy. She cared for him-still loved him in a way that could not fade. And the girl? Violet was quiet, thoughtful, but strong-willed. Immovable, and unshaken even under Buddy's intimidation and manipulations, even when she was a little flustered at his blatant lechery. She was not swayed by him in the least.

It's exactly what he needs, she had to admit. If things were different, Natalya would have blessed the union with an open heart. But now…

We can't choose when love finds us, she concluded, finding Liam's hand and squeezing it. It chose me when I was with another. And we did not end up too badly. Still, she wasn't a super, and MacConnell wasn't bold enough to make himself out to be the most successful and hunted billionaire under the age of forty. In comparison, they were a boring soon-to-be old married couple for all their heists and vigilantism. "I suppose we have to let them figure it out on their own. They've done well enough with everything else, leading us all here."

"They have been little dictators, haven't they?" MacConnell chuckled for all the small joke was worth. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against his wife's. "They've led us this far. I suppose we can only see where they'll go from here."