Book III
The Invasion of Tartarus
Chapter XVII
The Lisa Situation
"What's the issue?"
Syndrome stopped the bike at a light, adjusting in his seat. Violet had a death grip around his body, her hands latched together over his stomach. "I haven't thrown you from the bike yet, you know-even when I'm the most tempted."
"Sorry." Her grip immediately slackened. "I'm tired. I didn't sleep much and I don't wanna fall off."
It was the truest excuse she had given today. Violet had barely slept at all in her rickety roll-out bed. For the first few hours of the night, she had simply stared at the ceiling, telling her mind to stop thinking about their moment by the pool. You've been devoid of any nice feeling for a long time, her clinical half murmured. It's awful not to have anything nice, you can't even appreciate a bike ride without something terrible happening. You're simply nesting, gathering all the little nice things to protect yourself, keep you from going insane.
Another part, more human, womanly, and emotional, argued Maybe he's right. Maybe you haven't been kissed enough if you're thinking this much about it. Can't lack of physical affection drive a person insane too?
She had slapped her pillow over her face and pressed, considering smothering herself for a brief second. Exhaustion had won over frustration and she had drifted off into sleep. But by that point, her mind had clearly made itself up and resolved on one point:
For all their situation was dire, and all the reasons it was stupid, foolhardy, and purely physical, Violet wanted Syndrome.
She had dreamed of the Operating Room again, except the emergency lights had been the only illumination and her arms had been bound. She had tucked herself into a padded corner, staring at the dark double doors, knowing something was horribly, disastrously wrong. Something lurked just beyond that border, and while it wasn't in the room with her, Violet had the sensation-no she knew it could still reach her. Shadows creeping under the door, darker than the gloom around them, but so subtle she could barely mark out their path: Violet knew that despite her pressing and kicking, they were crawling closer and closer…
Syndrome had appeared at her side, undoing her bonds just as he always did.
"You're safe now," he had lied
"No, something is wrong I know it," she had protested, squinting to try and make out the oily fingers of shadow in the darkness, but every time she thought she found them, they blended into the darkness once more.
"You stopped it. You're a hero, you saved us." He had taken her abused wrists and lifted them, one by one to his lips, placing kisses that burned so sweetly it almost hurt.
"No, I didn't! I can feel it. It's still there, we have to...we have to…" But her dream self was not cognizant enough to hold two ideas at the same time. She could not worry about the threat she knew for certain was beyond those darkened doors and feel Syndrome's lips travel up her arms at the same time. And dream Violet did not waver long, opting to simply watch his head bow over her ivory skin, red hair the color of blood in the darkness, traveling closer until his lips were on her jaw. Her eyes had slid shut and then she only had one set of fingers on her mind.
The rest had been rather nebulous and vague-but dreams weren't concerned about the mechanics of buttons or shirts or danger. All that had remained was the feeling of fever-hot flesh on her snowy plane, fingers tangled in her hair, and a mouth pressed against hers-this time with something like gentility. Even when she woke, so flustered she could barely stand it, she could almost remember the feeling of his shoulders under her palms, the muscles working beneath the skin. And how hard had her villain worked-with near delirious results. Dream Violet had much more than a satisfied mind.
It's not real she had told herself as they prepared to leave the motel, avoiding everyone's eyes as if a look would give away her nightly imagined escapades. Dreams like that are normal, they're a result of anxiety, the brain's way to relieve stress-and boy howdy, that man should have a script pad with that kind of cure.
But it didn't make facing him any easier, especially when he looked totally refreshed and more annoying than usual. Of course, he would have gotten a full night's sleep-it was nothing for him. A pip in his collar, a point of pride-he'd only kissed her to prove a point and boost his ego. That was all his hang-up about their first lip lock in the forest had been about.
Violet had to remember that, even as he came over and took her bags from her hands to load into the Incredibile for her, or asked if she wanted to drive again (a horrible idea considering that she had just hours before envisioned just how many ways he could hold her), or when he produced a paper cup filled with coffee he had fetched for her along with his own. Though it became easier when he flippantly told her he still didn't know how she took it, so she would just have to deal with how he liked it.
Syndrome's ease around her had nothing to do with any type of affection. Respect, perhaps. Violet was the person he had turned to every step of the journey after he begrudgingly let her come along. It was odd to think that his teases, mocks, and outright lecherous comments were a sign of esteem of her character. But it all stopped there; like a typical man he had a one-track mind; atypical for the species, his was not on sex but vengeance. So when he would lean back against her on the bike, check to see if she was okay, or drum his hands against her thighs while Frankie Valli crooned about adoring eyes on the radio, it was only Violet who felt anything.
So, any time he had asked her just what was wrong with her today, she had come up with an excuse (I'm just hungry, I'm not looking forward to another couple of hours of riding brat, it's hot) to deflect. Violet couldn't' decide what was worse, the alarming sting that accompanied the musings about how the desire was one-sided, or the fact that her fluster about having her knees around his hips was no longer just about riding the bike.
Syndrome's hands closed over her wrists and kept her fingers over his stomach. "No, it's fine. Hold on then, I don't want to waste time doubling back to scoop you off the road." He didn't let go.
She sighed but had decided a half-hour into their ride that if she was the only one to notice, then she ought to take advantage of it. The fact remained that she had to cling to him for safety, and there was no use bemoaning it. So, for the time being, she'd try to enjoy it. It beat mulling over Echo's betrayal for the millionth time or fretting over the hive of scum and villainy they were growing closer to with every mile. She could feel guilty later, when she was back in her bed in Metroville, Fell and Vincent Elliot behind bars. Violet would put it on her mental to-do list and worry about it tomorrow.
Violet leaned against his back and was tempted to close her eyes. But then she really would fall asleep, her covered head against the broad expanse of his shoulders. It wasn't surprising if she really thought about it. Her brain had more than enough to work with: Syndrome had carried her in his arms since their very first meeting in the lab. And while her mind had been swinging between clinical and horrified, she knew exactly how the skin of his chest felt under her fingers. And his waist really was slender enough to straddle with ease if her current position was any indication.
I'm going straight to hell, I'm enjoying this too much. But realizing there's a problem is the first step. Hi, I'm Violet Parr and I'm a Villain-aholic.
His thumb swiped over her gloved knuckles before his fingers returned to the handlebars. Again, it was a touch that burned so sweet it hurt, but this time the ache was higher on her body-right in her chest.
The last leg of their journey was uneventful and shorter than the rest. Long stretches of desert were dotted more and more by buildings; small clusters of towns and blemishes of housing that transformed into a breakout of city. Here in the heart of Santa Monica, their pace was severely hampered by local traffic, more annoying on a bike than in a car. As they navigated between the crowded streets, Violet could instinctually tell they were getting closer to the water. That and there were significantly more scantily clad people milling out, riding their bikes or skates towards the shore. The tech of the helmet allowed Violet's black tinted visor to see without discoloration and she tried to appreciate the lush green of the palm trees and pastel colors of the buildings reflecting the bright sun before they coasted south towards the industrial side of town.
She saw the valley of the shipyard before they were engulfed in the canyons of long metal boxes stacked up to the sky, blocking out the sunshine with each tower. The radio was drowned out by the screeches and heavy crashes of machinery as the workmen moved and placed and organized the stockpile, the vibrations beating in her chest as they rolled to a stop before the main office building.
Mac and Dash were already here, the latter sitting on the Harley, and the former giving an impromptu lesson on the parts of a motorcycle.
"Who are we speaking to again," Violet asked, sliding off the bike and stretching her legs.
"Quinn Kidd. He used to do a lot of drop shipping for Syndicate and other odd jobs I needed handling."
Violet pulled off her helmet with a relieved sigh. "And he's not technically one of those forbidden connections because…?"
"He's a cunt," Mac called, barely breaking rhythm with his teaching.
Syndrome sighed and slid off his helmet, ruffling his hair from where it had slicked back. The sun caught the strands of platinum, or maybe it was early grey… "We didn't part on the best of terms. And when Syndicate was liquidated, he lost a big client. And I'm also sure he saw Metroville on the news and recognized the same high-tech Syndrome."
"And this is a safe option?"
"But he likes business and hates bullshit. He loves laying low and just making money, which is what he thought I was doing, once upon a time. Don't worry, I'll charm him, and he doesn't want anything connecting us so he won't squeal. Besides he's clean as a whistle."
Violet nodded and bent over to shake out her hair. Through the black curtain, she glanced up and whispered, "Why doesn't Mac like him?"
"Mac didn't like anyone who flirted too much with Nat. He thought it was disrespectful, but I think maybe he thought if I didn't have her he deserved next spot which...isn't very complimentary now that I think about it." Syndrome tapped the side of his nose. "Remind me to use that in the next argument he and I have."
"Yeah sure, I'll put it right in my notes."
Finally, the Incredibile brought up the rear. Mirage carefully stepped out of the back, dressed in a silk blouse and pencil skirt, a kerchief tied smartly under her collar. Her cropped hair was feathered slightly and her red sunglasses matched her patent leather pumps. Violet glanced down at her dusty supersuit and jacket, fruitlessly trying to pat away some of the grime.
"When the hell did you change," Syndrome groused, looking down at his own dusty legs.
"Last stop. Really, Buddy, you of all people should understand the importance of aesthetics." She took his helmet and checked her lipstick in the visor, and Violet got the feeling she had finally returned to her element. "Let's go. You too Violet."
The super put her hair up into a high ponytail in an attempt to look a little less disheveled. As they headed for the doors, Syndrome stopped and turned to the left behind. "Alright, while we are in there don't touch anything. Don't talk to anyone either, no chatting not even saying 'hi'. And don't use names." This was directed mostly at the Parr parents who listened but looked less than enthused about taking orders. "And no pissing in anyone's gas tank!" That was for Mac, who accepted the command with a curled lip.
Quinn Kidd looked like God had pinched his chin and forehead together when making him, and left that as his only defining trait. Everything else about the man was unremarkable from his brown locks to his slender frame clad in slightly wrinkled flannel, t-shirt, and jeans, accessorized with a scowl when considering the motley crew that stood before his desk. His office was bland and grey, cluttered in a sort of chaotic organization that made Violet's fingers itch to straighten. A large map of the world with multicolored lines drawn across it hung on the back wall.
Silence reigned for the moment as Syndrome and Violet took sips of the coffee they had been offered by the bored-looking office girl between snaps of her gum. Mirage had been offered the only chair in the room, having just finished giving him a small rundown of their needs. Violet closed her lips around her sip, trying very hard to guard her expression and not spit the liquid out.
"Mmm…" Syndrome looked to be having the same problem but mustered a smile. "Mmm! This is good, Quinn. One of your imports? I don't think I've had anything like this, it's really interesting. I hope you didn't go through any trouble, we would have been fine with just some water. But this-"
"Knock it off Syndrome," Quinn said quietly, one hand holding his mug, the other spinning his office keys slowly. Spin, catch. Spin, catch. Spin-
"Excuse me?"
"I don't need to hear about how good my fucking coffee is or that it's imported, okay? I'm the one that fucking ordered it. When the girls use the petty cash they buy the dime brand shit at Crawford's. I import my goods because I wanna fucking taste something when I drink it. But you know what I'm thinking about right now? I'll tell you it's not the Sri Lankin blend in my mug. It's the fucking supervillain in my goddamn office."
Syndrome set his mug down on the desk with a clink. "Listen, Quinn, it's not like that-"
"No-no-no-no-no, don't tell me how it is. Listen. When you and your fucking team came pulling in here, did you notice a new advert on the gate that said Super Villain Shipping?"
"What are you talking-"
"Did you notice an advert on my gate that said Super Villain Shipping?"
Syndrome rubbed under his nose, and put his hands on his hips, focusing on the map behind the man rather than the actual speaker. "No. We didn't."
"And do you wanna know why you didn't see that," Quinn Dick-and-Janed.
"Oh, Quinn, do tell me why."
"Because it ain't there because shipping super villains ain't my fucking business, that's why."
Violet pursed her lips and was glad when Syndrome replied with, "I'm not a super or a villain, Quinn," rather than her.
"I don't think you fucking get it, man. Don't you realize that everyone has seen the goddamn papers? They're not gonna recognize you on sight but the second someone says the name Syndrome they're gonna know who you are? My fiancee's father, the chief of the L A fucking P D, uses your little fucking bullshit stunt in Metroville as an example in disaster training for officers? And don't give me any shit about waivers, jackass. There are goddamn bodies on Nomanisan and I had ships going there almost every month!"
Quinn pocketed his keys and ran a hand through his hair. When he scraped his bangs off his forehead, Violet saw his hairline was receding slightly. "If Lisa comes down here and finds a fucking supervillain in my office or in one of my ships I'm gonna get fucking left at the alter. No explanations, no big romantic apologies to get her back, she's gonna fucking leave me and I don't wanna get fucking left at the alter."
For once, Syndrome kept his mouth shut and simply let the silence hang which was probably the most he had done to help their operation this far, including Ultra's hits. Violet took another sip to hide her snort of laughter-and immediately wished she hadn't. God, she'd absolutely take the bean powder from Crawford's over this. "He seems charmed," she muttered.
His only reply was a rather impressive sneer.
Quinn shifted his attention to Mirage. "Last time I helped y'all out I was shipping crates full of girls to New York and dodging the goddamn Coast Guard. We aren't getting that fucking lucky again. Quinn drained his cup and sighed. "...fuck, Raj, I wanna help you but I don't wanna lose my chance at a family doin it."
"She's not going to find out," Syndrome continued, holding up a finger to pause Violet's outraged look. Shipping crates filled with women?! "Listen to me Kidd, don't worry about her-"
"Don't fucking Kidd me, Syndrome! There isn't anything you are gonna say that's going to make me forget that I love Lisa, is there?"
Violet, who noticed the geometric outline of a circular argument right away, placed her own mug next to Syndrome's and said in a stage whisper, "This is useless, we'd have better luck with a tugboat. I thought you said you didn't want to waste time."
"Who even is this broad," Quinn snapped, finally acknowledging the willowy woman.
And to the shock of both super and villain, Mirage said, "Shadow. You know, one of The Incredibles? How would Lisa feel about you helping a super?"
The man's face changed, but shock quickly flipped to skepticism. "The same Incredibles you tried to murder, Syndrome? Bullshit. Besides, her outfit is purple. Try again Mirage-good bluff but you'll have to come up with something beli-holy fucking shit."
Quinn jumped, dropping his mug with a shatter when Violet disappeared from view, and then flattening himself against the map on the wall when the pieces of his broken cup seemed to be gathering themselves together and hopped onto his desk. Violet reappeared and turned to Kidd. "Do you have a napkin?"
He fumbled in his pockets and produced a tissue for her to wipe the droplets of awful coffee from her fingers. "Jesus, you're really are the fucking Shadow. You put away Su Nami!"
Violet's swiping paused only for a millisecond and, purely out of habit, she glanced around at Syndrome. He was already looking at her, something that might have been concern flickering over his face. But he addressed his friend when he spoke next, "Now do you believe us? We're not looking for fanfare. In fact, we need to keep this covert. No one can know we're here, not your workers, not your fiancee. We aren't trying to fuck your shit up."
"'Not fuck my shit up'? You're fucking my shit up right now, and you're gonna fuck it up big time if Lisa finds out" Quinn sniped one last time, except this time it lacked the vitriol.
Mirage, finally seeing a cease-fire between the CEOs, adjusted her seat and crossed her legs primly. "We just need a ride to Japan, that's all. No names, no records, completely off the books."
"None of my ships have travel compartments-Su Nami wrecked the ones that did and I haven't had the time to commission new ones."
"That's fine, we aren't looking for a luxury cruise. Just beds and a way across the ocean."
Quinn weighed the option of continuing the argument or relenting and finally getting them out of his office. His eyes flickered between Mirage and Violet-and then between Violet's legs and Mirage's, before saying, "Lemmie make a phone call."
That's why Mac hates him.
Picking his way between the cluster of filing cabinets he had stuffed into the office, Kidd moved towards the wall phone. As he dialed and began speaking to his worker on the other end, Syndrome positioned himself between Violet and Quinn, but it was to Mirage he hissed, "What are you thinking, telling him who they are? Did you forget the NSA is still technically hunting them?"
"He needed a push and I rolled the dice," she replied calmly. "It's why we brought them, they're our ace in the sleeve."
"And what if he tells someone and they're waiting for us at the port?"
"That's real panic, Buddy. He doesn't want his woman finding out. This is more a Lisa problem then a Quinn one. We all avoid her, we all get what we want."
"You better be right."
Mirage regarded her former lover coolly. "Have I been wrong before?"
Syndrome held her gaze for a moment, and Violet finally saw the cracks in their partnership, the place that had been ripped apart by his violence and hastily stitched by her grace. It was a wound that would heal, but jagged and scared; always there and marring the skin.
"Well look at that." Quinn had the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. "You're fucking lucky again. I have a boat going to Japan in three days. I can push it up to tomorrow morning-Nestor!" He spoke into the phone again. "Yeah, Nestor, listen, that Yokohama shipment? It's getting moved up. I know it's last minute, but something's come up. I need you to carry a few stowaways. Two bikes, and a car, and…?"
"Three women, four men," Mirage supplied.
"Seven people. You'll be fine with a skeleton crew, right? Yeah just give them one of the bunk rooms-and throw a divider in there, there are women. Oh yeah, don't worry-" Quinn leveled a glare at Syndrome, "They'll pull their weight. Okay...thanks. Yeah, thanks." He slammed the phone into its cradle hard enough to ring the bell inside the plastic. "Ship leaves tomorrow at five AM. Either you're there and get on or you're shit out of luck, got it?"
"We'll be there," Mirage assured, standing up and holding out her hand. Quinn shook it, and then after much hesitation, held his out to Syndrome.
When the villain took it, he said, "You were never here and I never spoke to you. And when you get there, don't blow up anything. Lay low until you're out of the city and where ever the fuck you need to go. Just...do me that favor, okay?"
"That's all we needed," Syndrome assured, still trying for a 'charming' smile. "Man, I wasn't asking for a kidney. We just needed a ride and we're out of your hair." He took Violet's arm and led her to the door before Quinn could offer her his hand too. "Also, piece of advice, don't brew your coffee with a fish in the percolator, it tastes like shit."
"Fuck you!"
Outside, MacConnell was waiting for them by the door. Seeing Syndrome's sour expression made him grin. "So, how is our Quinn?"
"A cunt," his friend replied.
"Want me to piss in his gas tank?"
Syndrome seriously considered it for a moment. "When you come back. Come on, we have the rest of today to get what we need before setting off." But before he could pull his helmet back on, Violet grabbed his arm.
"Shipping crates full of girls?!"
"What?" Helen, who had been sitting in the passenger seat of the Incredibile with the door open sprang to her feet. "What shipping crates?"
"Your timing is awful, princess." The red-headed vigilante rubbed his face. "Sometimes when projects want big donors, they'll invite a bunch of CEOs on a business party trip to try and butter them up with booze and babes. I went to one to outbid Buy-N-Large on a weapons deal and used one of Quinn's ships. But when we got there the 'babes' were literally that. Barely even old enough to drive let alone butter anyone. So, we smuggled them all into freight crates and brought them back to the U.S., so you can unclench, Mrs. Parr." He sneered at Elastagirl, leaning over Baby towards her. "Unless you wanna chastise me over that."
Violet frowned. "And we're accepting help from a man who didn't like that?"
"It wasn't that he didn't like," Mirage said, folding her arms and looking expectantly at her husband.
"Well." MacConnell rubbed the back of his neck. "We...might've set the island on fire before we left-But I dinnae leave a trace, so I don't know what Quinn's got up his arse!"
Violet glanced at Syndrome, who just grinned and mouthed, "Boom."
"Oh...well, then." She couldn't even muster up the perfunctory inner protest that those people deserved to be judged by the law. It seemed rather cut and dry.
"Glad to see that loyalty loophole is still wide open there, princess. Come on, back on the throne."
The bunk space they were allotted aboard ship was spartan and militaristic in its shades of gunmetal grey and silver, lit by stale fluorescent lighting. At one end of the room, a curtain hung limply from a thin cord, sectioning off three beds from the rest of the small hall with little more than an idea of privacy. It was clean, but not pristine. There were marks on the walls, the floor was scuffed and felt like it was made of tin. The salt air coated everything in a thin layer of texture, and the door that faced the curtain at the opposite end of the room was large and imposing and took some might to open.
Yet, despite all of these differences, Violet sat on her bunk at the end of their first day aboard ship, fingers gripping the mattress, and stared into her duffle bag, trying very hard to stay in the moment. The room was the same shape, and it was sectioned off at one end and she was on the other side of the divider.
Today had started early, their team gathered on the dock to roll the vehicles aboard and meet Captain Nestor. They bid America goodbye and were given a list of duties to help soften the blow of the crewmen they had supplanted. The men were given mostly above deck work that needed brute strength, and Violet would be aiding the onboard medic in setting up shop for the trip.
Violet had spent most of the day there, exercising her clinical practice in pharmacy as she logged and checked bottles in the little med bay before dragging herself to their bunk for shower and sleep. Mirage and Helen seemed to get off scot-free, but were currently behind Violet, discussing the ways they could aid to gain the goodwill of their captain and the trust of the crew. If the people they traveled with liked them, they would be more willing to keep their journey a secret.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Violet tried to focus on their words, focus on her mother's smooth slightly accented tone. Her southern flavored lilt bore nothing of the laboratory except in the memories Violet had used to stay sane. Just breathe. It's not the same. The door is there even if you can't see it right now-
That damn invisible door that Fell had dragged Syndrome through, that she had been carried and marched and pulled through herself. That no amount of scratching in her nightmares could make appear. That door had meant uncertainty and danger, and not seeing it meant she didn't know where the next pain was coming from-just that it was always coming. It's what made her search for doors no matter where she was.
She pressed her palms into her eyes. Stop it, Parr! Just breathe, you're safe, you're safe, you're safe. There's air to breathe, you just have to suck it in. But the walls closed in on her, pressing closer as Mirage and Helen's voices grew distant. There was no room to move, there was no sunlight, no fresh air and she needed air! Her skin prickled, begged for nature, for something heaven-sent rather than man-made. She needed, she needed she needed-
"Princess!"
A snap of fingers brought her back to reality.
Violet's head jerked up. Syndrome stood, backlight weakly by one of the hanging lightbulbs, holding the curtain aside. "You good?" When she didn't answer quickly enough for him, he turned to her mother. "How long has she been like this?"
"She just got here," Helen defended, coming to Violet's side. Her hand went to Violet's shoulder, who moved subtly to avoid the contact. She couldn't bear being touched right now. "Honey?"
"I'm fine," Violet finally pushed out.
Syndrome frowned but didn't comment further. "Ladies get the shower first."
Anything to get out of this room. Violet dug into her duffel and grabbed a change of clothes and her towel. She ducked under Syndrome's arm and hurried out, hearing him speak to her mother (or Mirage) but didn't notice the words.
As this particular ship was not built to ferry passengers with its cargo, thus it had perfunctory necessities with little comfort. The showers were just a section of the locker room with a changing area dividing the two. The crew's compartments were here, each door decorated with its own unique lock. Violet dumped her clothes on one of the bench seats and surveyed the showers. They were open and wide with small metal dividers to give each spout the bare minimum of privacy, and Violet was able to breathe a little easier. She wasn't about to be closed up in a stall. Choosing a corner shower, she stripped down and tossed her clothes over the divider before turning on the hot water.
She didn't intend to wash her hair, but the scalding spray felt too good not to dunk her whole head under. Rubbing the warm water into her face, she felt the panic settle back, lower to a simmer before quieting. She planted her palms on the wall, watching as the spray ran down her nose in rivulets, dripping to the tile floor. She focused on the silver drain, the dented metal catching the floodlights of the shower in winking sparks until she no longer felt tight and jittery. I haven't had it that bad before she thought. How am I going to sleep there?
"Vi?"
Violet turned her head slightly and saw her mother peer over the divider discreetly, hair wet from her own showerhead. When had she come in?
"I'm fine Mom. That room is just...it's just small."
"Can I help?"
Violet wished she could. Violet wished she could run into her mother's arms and have it all be okay. She wanted Helen to say it was alright, and believe that it truly was. As if sentiment could burn away trauma, like a laser lifting ink from the skin. Violet shook her head, straightening, and began scrubbing the salt from her flesh. "No. I just don't like tiny spaces anymore. But I'll be okay."
She looked down, and Violet had never seen her mother look so sad. But in true Helen Parr fashion, she shook her head and rallied almost immediately. "You need a good night's sleep. My poor girl, you've been pushing yourself too hard. You rest now, you hear? Don't let that medic run you too hard."
It wasn't world-altering advice, and her mother prescribing the one thing she feared losing in that curtained area didn't help. But Helen's confidence in her own home-brewed solution gave Violet a type of safety to return to-the surety and trust that one's parents are always right, and if obeyed, everything would be okay. The notion's familiarity was enough to comfort her, even if her intelligence knew it was a false premise. Like when Helen said it would be alright after their house blew up and they'd find another, or when Violet broke her first bone and Helen said she'd run again, or when Tony left her and her mother assured her she'd find the one meant for her.
Too warm hands, and the scent of spice and the woods, lips on her palm and words encouraging her demanding she get up and move, survive…
That correlation certainly shook her free of the last vestiges of anxiety. The memories both real and imagined twisted her chest with another sort of tension.
A third shower started, and Violet glanced around. A few stalls down, Mirage already had her hair lathered up and was rubbing a wash into her face. Violet frowned and touched her own cheeks. She hadn't thought to bring anything for beauty along-a little foolishly considering the place they hoped to infiltrate. Did Mirage have a whole skincare kit in her bag next to the antidote bombs? The woman caught Violet's eye. "Want some?"
"Uh-sure." Mirage tossed her the bottle, and of course, it had golden French lettering across the top and smelled like coconuts. The little bit of indulgence did wonders on Violet's mood. At least by the time she shut off the water, Violet felt a little more human. When all three of them were in the changing rooms, swapping towels for clothes, Violet found out that yes Mirage had brought a little box of cosmetics and skincare that she happily shared with her companions.
"He let you bring this along," Helen asked, chuckling as she sampled the scent of a creamy moisturizer. "I would think your friend would find it useless."
"Contraband," Mirage smirked. "I slid it in the bag while he and Violet were arguing about how to ride Baby."
Helen shook her head, rubbing a dab of cream onto the back of her hand. "I know he was putting on a show of power when we were on the island but was he always like that to you? A little tyrant?"
Mirage nodded, but amended, "In the best ways and some of the worst. He's a good leader but..."
"Arrogant? Dangerous, rude, egomaniacal, murderous?"
"...Difficult to play with," Mirage allowed. "He doesn't like sharing the sandbox-he preferred to buy it out and do it himself."
"It's a wonder Violet got him to agree to this joint mission at all." Helen smiled at her daughter as if browbeating a rather annoying but incapacitated patient was an accomplishment. Though, considering the patient, Violet supposed so. She did, however, have the advantage: having had her hands shoving aside his organs mere hours before the arrangement might have swayed his opinion somewhat.
"Yes, well, your daughter seems to have a way with him." Mirage was looking directly at Violet now, and the super didn't much care for it. It was as if Mirage knew something about her, and wanted to prove it.
"I just don't give in to his crap," Violet explained.
The former villainess hummed in agreement. "You're unaffected by his charms, that's true."
Helen laughed outright. "Does he have charms?"
Mirage never looked away from Violet. "It's hard to tell, under all that bravado, but yes. He's steadfast and loyal. Very loyal, it's a fault and a virtue. He holds the line, even when he shouldn't, be it cause or person. In fact, if he was just a little spineless, a little less faithful we might have avoided all this. But he was loyal to an idea."
"Yeah, murder," Helen muttered softly.
"Satisfaction," Violet murmured and felt her mother's gaze burn into the side of her face. A satisfied mind, he was loyal to that concept no matter what happened, how many died, or how destroyed he himself became. He had been knocked out cold, and still refused to give up, instead waking up only to run to their home to carry off Jack-Jack.
He was still loyal to his friends, even after one betrayed him and the other usurped him.
Mirage nodded, never breaking her eye contact. "Yes. Give him a goal, and he'll tear down the world to reach it-to prove himself." Finally, she glanced away. "He's also very clever, which isn't as nice as you think when you can't keep up, I have to admit."
"I'm sure you could," Violet said, unsure why she wanted to comfort her. She was happily married, what did Mirage need with sympathy over a disastrously bad breakup?
"Oh no. I never had a mind for Machiavelli and Paine." Mirage waved a hand, dismissing the idea. "I'm not sore about it. Put a business merger in front of me, thousands of pages long, and I'll be able to find the loopholes, but a few seconds of philosophy and I want to just die. It's just so boring, sitting and thinking and going on and on in circles. I like tangible things, progressive things."
"Syndrome? A philosopher," Helen snorted, glancing between the younger women, a little wary about their sudden ease.
"God yes," Violet groaned. "Do you know I was trying to recover from electric shocks and he tried to debate me over the morality of killing in battle? Keep in mind, I'm about to puke from a throbbing headache."
Mirage grinned, shaking her head. "I can see it. You haven't lived until you've heard him go on about Social Contract Theory while wearing nothing but a bedsheet. And all I wanted was a nice Valentine's Day-we ended up missing our reservation and had to forage for grilled cheese in the kitchen."
Helen gave Violet an odd look as her daughter dissolved into laughter. "Well, I hope we never get to witness that." But the younger super had tears in her eyes from giggles-because she could very much picture it. It sat very well in the place where Syndrome and his annoying musings lived in her brain. And it was an image she wouldn't mind lingering on for a while.
To that Mirage only smiled, and sized Violet up with another knowing look. "I think you'll witness things more incredible than that before this is over."
They were interrupted then by a pounding at the door. "C'mon guys! Other people wanna sleep too," came Dash's voice. Gathering their things, they quickly filed out, apologizing to the line of men that were lingering outside, both theirs and not.
Violet followed her mother back down the hall towards their bunk, dragging her feet a little to avoid the inevitable. Mirage's soft call stalled her, and Violet happily lingered outside the door to their room.
"Violet? I'd like to speak with you a minute."
Mirage was about a head shorter than Violet. Quite a turn around as the last time she and the woman were this close, she had been telling Syndrome it was a mystery how Mr. Incredible got loose as they strung up his family in the containment chamber. Mirage in her stiletto heels had towered over the teenager, who hadn't hit her growth spurt yet. Remembering it now, Violet felt as if that was a part of another life, another Violet whose shape was slowly chipping off the sculpture of a woman she was molding with each passing day. "I wanted to ask about our mutual friend."
"What about him?"
The silver-haired femme fatal hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I'm afraid I'm seeing history repeat itself. He burned himself up trying to get satisfaction with your father. And Fell is worse-so much worse. He was angry at Mr. Incredible. There isn't a word for what he feels for Fell. I worry that he'll die trying to reach this goal. Again."
Violet swallowed and could see the jet exploding in her memory. But now she knew exactly what it did to him, she could no longer see it without her stomach lurching. If that was the end result of his vengeance against her father-what new disaster would Fell bring? "If you're asking me to sway him against killing Fell I've tried and failed." And mostly because her protests lacked conviction. Perhaps when the moment came, she would not murder, but she wanted the slimy little bastard in chains so heavy, he'd never be able to walk again-reduced to the pathetic crawling thing Violet had been made into in his lab.
"No, that's not what I mean. I mean...I don't want his loyalty to this mission to go the same way. I need you to prevent that, to alter his path away from the grave. Please."
"I can't control him."
"Maybe not completely. But you've protected him-you care for him."
Violet immediately flushed, and even swayed a little. The words knocked the wind out of her, in the same way Edna's assertions had sent her scrambling. It was two people now-still technically in coincidence territory. She must reek of physical desperation-that's how Syndrome knew she was touch starved. That was all. "I-I don't care-I mean I do he's my partner-I mean we're partners in this. I don't want anyone to die! I'll make sure we all come th-"
"I'm not worried about everyone else. They've got some sense about them. But Buddy has always been careless about himself. Don't you think there were easier ways to be a hero, especially with his technical prowess? But no-he had to be on the front line, it was his hands that had to do all the work.
"Yet you've changed all of that. You saved his life-twice. You kept him from going off solo to Japan, you stopped him from killing Martin and having a bloody trail drag behind us to California. You," and her short breathy laugh had no humor in it, "you even stopped him from trying to go toe to toe with your father. Buddy listens to you."
Heat rose in her cheeks. "That's not true. He finds me really annoying, trust me. You saw how I had to argue just to get those things! You should hear us-"
"I have." Mirage lifted her chin. "I've watched him watch you from the moment you stepped into my house. He's a stubborn jackass, but he listens to you. You outpace his hatred. I never could, almost dying didn't. Just you, Violet." Before the super could protest further, Mirage's smile turned almost predatory-it was the same smirk she'd given Buddy before entering Kidd's office. "Trust me, I don't make gambles I don't plan on winning-and I bet that if you put your mind to it, you could turn him completely on his head."
With that benedictory prediction, Mirage slipped past her into the dorm. Violet was left staring at the opposite wall of the small hallway, trying to parse her words. He doesn't listen to me-I don't have any power over him. She's wrong, I just amuse him. I'm just familiar to him. He doesn't feel anything beyond that. It's just me and it's just...
All she felt was attraction-born of eight years of celibacy, created by flirtatious conversation and time spent together, willing or not. It was nothing more and would pass in time; Syndrome would move on. His revenge would be satisfied, their arrangement complete, and they would return to their places in the world and try to make them fit around their new shapes. It was how it must be.
But even as she thought it, her chest tightened, and her heart hammered against her ribs as if trying to break free; the emotion begging for life when she was trying so desperately to suffocate it before its first breath.
Some doctor you are.
That dilemma made entering the small little sleep room a little easier. When she was too preoccupied to notice her surroundings, Violet didn't remember. She barely even heard the rest of their team file in, freshly washed and talkative. Well, Mac and Dash were talking, her father adding commentary here and there.
"Are you sure that's good, Pine? Looks a little raw." That was Mac's voice. Violet glanced at the curtain and saw their shadows moving across the sheet like a puppet show as everyone readied for bed.
The shake of a plastic bottle Violet knew too well. "It's fine, it doesn't hurt."
"She really sliced you up good, there, mate. That's a long scar." Were they talking about his surgery scar? Immediately Violet paused in braiding her damp hair, and shifted into the clearheadedness of a healthcare worker, pushing emotional turmoil aside.
"Let me see." She pulled back the curtain, making Syndrome jump and fall back on a bed, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes flickered over her in her pink pajama set, lingering at the lacy edging of the shorts.
"Hey!"
"I'm a doctor, stop being a baby. Let me see-and what are you taking?"
"I'm changing here, a little privacy!"
"Let me see your scar! Is it infected?"
Mac, who was pulling on his sleep shirt (a well-loved Eagles t-shirt), snorted. "You have a girl begging to see you naked, I doubt you'll be getting this demand again."
"Hey, she's showing proper concern as a doctor, that's all," Her father snapped.
Syndrome rolled his eyes, popping two tablets into his mouth and dry swallowing. She snatched the bottle from him and frowned. Oxycontin-a stronger milligram than what he had in the lab. As she opened the stock bottle to see just how much he'd already taken, Syndrome informed Violet, "Either way, that kinda show cost about half a grand." He held out his hand as if expecting compensation, wiggling the fingers. Violet slapped his palm.
"Don't make me push you down and sit on you."
"She means it too," Dash chimed in. "I still have the scar from when she pushed me off the jungle gym."
"Oh promises, promises," Syndrome sing-songed while Mac burst out laughing, stifling his amusement only when his wife tossed out a very stern Liam from behind the curtain. Violet, fed up with their fairly junior high attitudes, tossed the bottle back at Syndrome. When he fumbled to catch it, Violet pushed his arms away to inspect the scar.
It was slightly off-center-she had avoided cutting down the line that already bisected his chest between real and synthetic skin, afraid of it healing wrong or not at all. She pressed her fingers alongside her incision, looking for pitting and watching the skin turn pale from the pressure only to flush back to its natural colors. He still smelled like Douglas Furs and spice, clean from the shower.
Syndrome titled his head back, staring hard at the ceiling. Then he rubbed under his nose and pulled a face. "Are you wearing perfume?"
"No?"
"You smell like coconut."
"It's soap."
"Oh. God, I hate that smell."
Violet tried not to feel irrationally glad that he didn't like Mirage's scent on her skin. Stop, stop, stop. "You lived on a tropical island! Whatever. Is the skin hot to the touch?"
He dropped his head, a grin crawling over his features. A wink and an answer: "I'm always hot to the touch."
Mac had to bite his fist to keep from guffawing. Bob was not amused. "She's trying to help you, you could try acting like an adult for once."
"It's true!" Syndrome gestured to Violet. "She knows it. I run about ninety-nine or a hundred all the time. Or worse; by-product of being half metal, I think."
Mac simply could not help himself. "All metal if she keeps that up."
Now Syndrome was the one biting his cheek, trying not to laugh. He shook with it though, and his friend only cracked up at the sight. Violet sighed, giving up trying to keep him still for an examination. The scar didn't look infected, simply still red and raised. She threw the t-shirt he'd laid on his bunk in his face.
"She's a professional," Bob was saying now. "She's trying to treat you, show some respect!"
"How about some in return," Syndrome said, still chuckling as he tugged his shirt over his head. "That curtain goes both ways-if I ripped it back like that you'd've all had my head!"
Violet rolled her eyes and slipped behind said offending cloth again. "Why look at lumber yards when you have your magazines, remember?"
There were a few moments of blessed silence as Violet pulled back her sheets, preparing to finally climb into bed. Then the curtain was ripped back, Mirage and Helen both shouting in surprise. Syndrome held the divider, one hand clapped over his eyes just in case.
"That's what you were mad about!"
Violet fell onto her bed, confused. "I-Wh-About what? Close the curtain and go to bed, stop fooling around."
"You weren't mad about the-the other thing-you were mad about all those skinny comments!" He tried moving his way over to her blindly, succeeding in only knocking his shin against the metal bed frame. "You're stil-ah! Shit-fuck-me! You're still sore because I called you skinny, and you were just using the other thing as an excuse."
Violet bit her lip, knowing it would be mean to laugh at his struggle. After all, he was trying his best not to look. "I'm not mad about that, and I'm not mad about the comments. You're paranoid, which is diagnosable, by the way. You've seen me mad, you should know the difference by now."
"It's kind of hard to differentiate when you're always yelling at me."
Violet folded her hands over her knees. "Well, if I'm always mad enough to yell at you, whose fault is that? Oh-we're dressed, move your hand for God's sake."
He shook a finger in what he thought was her direction. "Yeah, no way. I'm not stupid, your father would beat me to a pulp if I did that. And I'm not paranoid, I'm right. I knew you weren't that concerned over a stupid kiss."
Violet's eyes widened, then squeezed shut in trepidation, biting her mouth to keep from swearing. The room was so quiet, all she could hear was the ship's engine and Syndrome's breathing.
"Oh." Syndrome opened an eye and peeked between his fingers at Violet. "Maybe I am a little stupid."
"A little."
Dash was barely a blur, he moved so fast. What he lacked in strength against the metal man he made up for in speed and surprise. He knocked Syndrome through the curtain, sending him flying all the way down the little aisle between beds until he slammed into the door of the dorm. The villain landed with a grunt and long groan. "Okay...okay, I might have deserved that."
Violet ducked under the still fluttering curtain, going to help Syndrome up, but Dash was already over him, a fist pulled back and ready. "You kissed my sister?! What did you do, pin her down and get on her?!"
"I-what the hell? No! I didn't! I don't assault women you little prick!"
"Oh, well I'll just punch you once then!"
Violet went for his arm, but it was who Bob pulled his son back by the collar. Shock compounding surprise when he even held a hand out to Syndrome. The villain eyed it suspiciously and slowly made his own way to his feet, flinching when Mr. Incredible brushed off his shoulders.
Then Violet's father grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him off the ground with ease, pinning him to the wall.
"Dad," Violet groaned.
"No, Violet. I'm not going to hit him. I just want to ask a question."
"Can I answer on the ground," Syndrome grumbled, sounding slightly choked.
"Did you really kiss her," Mac whispered, rather oblivious to the predicament that his friend was in.
Syndrome spared him an incredulous glare. "Not. Helping, Mac."
"Dad, let him go."
"Violet-" and she knew that tone. It was the I know you're lying so we're going to walk through the steps of how much trouble you're in voice. It was the tone that usually preluded three weeks of groundings. "-I just want him to answer one question. Now, we've only been together a short while, and I know Violet hasn't been alone with you for long. So that leaves only two options. Did you kiss her when we were at the house after your surgery? Or," and now he tightened his hold, making Syndrome gag a little, "when she was in captivity?"
It seemed the supervillain was fresh out of pride, indignation, and snappy comebacks. Or perhaps he realized this was a situation pure bravado couldn't get him out of. "I...forget?"
"That's strike one."
"You don't want him to get to strike three, asshole," Dash sneered.
"Listen old man, I didn't-it wasn't-it was sometime in between. Princess!" Syndrome was trying to pry at Bob's fingers, and gestured between him and his old idol, looking to her for help.
"You didn't see her in between, that's strike two."
Violet watched the scene and wondered briefly if it was better to just let her father smack him around a bit. He did deserve it a little, and it would get it out of their systems. But her father was holding him just a tad too tightly, and Syndrome's face was getting red. Sighing, she put a hand on Bob's arm.
"Dad," she tried in her sweetest voice. "Listen. Remember, I told you he blew up the lab? He got me out and I saved him from the collar? You know what it's like after a fight. You lose your head a little in the excitement. We hugged and just...knocked noggins. By accident" Violet laid her cheek against her father's shoulder but looked to Syndrome. A practically evil smirk crawled over her face. "It wasn't a real kiss."
Syndrome forgot his impending black eye and glared at her. "I hate you," he gasped.
Bob considered for a moment, then put his finger in Syndrome's face. "You will treat my daughter with respect, you hear? She's a good girl, a professional, and twice the person you are. She saved your life-three times over, now. Do you understand me?"
Syndrome nodded quickly. Violet wondered if he had been in this position before; an angry father and kissed daughter and impending physical pain.
"I want to hear it."
"Yes, Mr. Parr," he spat out quickly, at least managing to look snide even if he avoided the tone of it. "But I'm starting to see black."
Bob tightened his hold a little more before he dropped the villain unceremoniously to the floor. Mac hurried to help his coughing friend up, still trying to get information about the ill-fated kiss out of him in hushed whispers. Giving him one last seething glare, Bob put an arm around Violet and led her back to bed, kissing the top of her head, before telling his wife goodnight.
Mirage caught Violet's eye, and from her look, the super knew this previously kissed daughter thought her bet well won.
Violet slid into her own bed, watching the figures of Mac and Syndrome move carefully across the room, one dumping the other on the bed next to hers. As the lights dimmed, Violet found the small room a little more tolerable with her old bunkmate back at her side despite all that was left unsaid and unreal between them.
She fell asleep watching his shadowed outline even as the lights were shut off.
In the middle of the night, Violet woke slightly to the sound of a metal bed frame creaking. Peering around in the blackness, she saw the lumps that were Helen and Mirage sleeping peacefully. Another creak and she realized it was coming from her neighbor.
Reaching out, she pulled the curtain back a little. Syndrome was only shades of black and vague shapes to her sight, but she could make out that he was curled tightly under his blanket, his pillow pressed against his head as he rested on the bare mattress. Sensing her gaze, his eyes peered out from under the pillow, the only thing she could make out on his face in the night. Even in the darkness, the bright blue soaked up whatever scant light there was to spare.
"Are you okay," she whispered.
He didn't answer her for a moment, and she couldn't see his mouth move when he finally hissed back, "The engine sounds like a jet turbine."
In the lab, she had been too sedated, constantly wavering in and out of consciousness to consider when her captor slept. Consequently, she had never really seen him sleeping. He was either working or just climbing on the autopsy table. He hadn't even been allowed a bed. Violet bit her lip.
Just as she had with Dash, she had never really considered if Syndrome had nightmares from his many horrors. She could not compare traumas, but his list of hurts was significantly longer than hers. It stood to reason that he had his own memories to battle. "I understand," she said. "...This room is too small."
She saw him nod. "...Are you okay? Before…"
"No, I wasn't. I am now. Wait." She let go of the cloth and slipped out of bed. Hissing as the cold metal shocked her toes, she knelt and reached under her bed, pulling out her duffle. She didn't have her records (thanks to the explosion) or headphones to drown out the noise and give her mind a short reprieve, so while they had waited to board the ship, she'd run into the local pharmacy and bought earplugs. It would also help in case everyone's arguing and bickering became too much.
She slid to the men's side of the room, and perched on the edge of his bed. "Here. This might help."
Syndrome sat up, taking the package from her. "Don't you need them?"
"No. I'm alright." You're here, her heart whispered, and it was so deep into the night her mind could not wake fast enough to gag its words. I'll be okay, because you're here and we're safe. If we're together, we're safe.
It was a theory well proven. Only when they had been separated in the lab had danger befallen them. And when Ultra had been her biggest threat, his presence there had rendered any danger moot. Syndrome had become, in the oddest ways, a symbol of safety to her. A place she felt comfortable, almost easy, their steady stream of squabbles, jokes, and teasing distracting her from the horror on all sides.
Violet looked down at her hands, her hair falling in her face. She had acknowledged her attraction, like an addiction, but instead of beginning the processes of dismantling it, the feeling had simply grown into something much worse. Her physical attraction had been a gateway to the harder stuff, as addicting and as forbidden as the drugs in Syndrome's bag. Or maybe falling for him had already dissolved into her bloodstream, and only now did she recognize the symptoms far too late for a cure.
And it was a deep and hollow feeling, being alone in that 'worse', no matter what Mirage said. Even if she was stupid enough to begin to love him, he saw her as a nuisance; at best the only tolerable spawn of his nemesis that was fun to tease, at worst a detriment to his plans. Violet amused him, perhaps excited him a little with a challenge, but nothing more. In this tragedy, she was the only one with a vital organ on the line.
Violet swallowed down the onset of sadness, trying to be resigned. It was a bitter pill, but it was one she had taken before. She was 'princess', Shadow when he was mad. And when this was all done, she would still just be Mr. Incredible's daughter. How could she overcome that legacy? She was the daughter of a man he hated, and she saw how hard hatred made him. There was no soft place on him for her love to land.
Violet felt the impact of it in her chest, even without the leap. "Get some sleep, Syndrome."
She felt him wince. "You shouldn't say that around here. Besides, it's a dead man's name."
A man who died in a jet turbine, but whose anger still seemed to live on. "Right. So what should we use?"
A small flicker of white when he flashed her a lopsided grin. "You know my name. What, do you need a formal invitation?"
"It'd be nice. You don't like people using it." Just his lover. Former lover. "And I'm not calling you…" She couldn't even think of the title that his necromancer had slapped on him. The taste of the letters on her tongue would make her vomit.
He huffed and set down the earplug bag. After some searching, he found her hand and shook it gently. "Bartholomew Aloysius Pine...the fourth. But you can call me Buddy."
"...Aloysius?"
"It's a family name."
Violet, even through her pain, had to smile at the ridiculous introduction. "Violet Isolde Parr. But you can call me Princess."
The bed shook with his silent laughter. "Okay, princess."
Violet smiled back and wondered if he could see her eyes in the dark too, and how they watched him from under her lashes. "Goodnight, Buddy."
She stood to return to her bed, but his fingers hadn't let go. Violet hesitated, not really wanting to pull away. She didn't want to stop touching his too-warm skin. She hadn't wanted to get up from his bed. But she had to, despite how tired she was of had tos and musts. She had to push through this rejection, feel it, so she could get over it. Violet had to leave him and his rare touches that were so sweet they burned.
Burned like his lips finding her palm, seared like his cheek against her fingers when his mouth trailed up to taste her pulse point, scorched like his heat when he held her there, stilling her leaving, clinging to their stolen moment of tenderness. She was holding fire and could have sworn it would leave a branding mark.
Violet's fingertips moved under his hold, ghosting over his lips. And when those lips mouthed her name-her real name, Violet's knees wavered. She turned back towards him, nearing those bright dry-ice eyes in the gloom, and he pulled her by her wrist, leading her down-
Someone across the room snored loudly and turned over in bed. The only witnesses froze, waiting to see if they were to be caught. The shock was enough to revive sense.
Buddy let her go with reluctance, whispering, "Goodnight princess."
Back in her bed, Violet curled up tightly in her scant covers, swaying to the motion of the boat. And in her chest, right in the epicenter of her pain, something grew, tore and pushed and created agony to make room for itself: a small blossom of hope reached up towards the heat of those burning touches bright in her memory, surviving every attempt to rip it out by the roots.
And Violet understood how someone might die from the sensation.