General Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Rick Dicker, Bob Parr/Mr. Incredible, and Helen Truax/Elastigirl; I do not lay claim to owning them and have nothing but respect for Brad Bird and the many admirable people at Pixar and Disney. This disclaimer applies to any and all chapters and parts of this fic, which is being written for fun – not profit.

Thanks: An enormous thank-you goes to Keraha for offering to beta-read this and the succeeding chapters in the story. She's an absolute sweetheart. (smiles) Any remaining mistakes, typos, and other aggravations are my fault. Sorry!

Feedback: Any and all forms of feedback are encouraged and welcomed. I'd be very grateful for anything you have to offer – constructive criticism, compliments, comments on the weather and/or baseball. I'm not picky. (g)

Notes: I will do my best to post chapters in a timely manner. Feel free to be annoyed if I don't. Most importantly, though, I hope you enjoy reading!

Setting: This story is set before Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl are aware of the other's secret identity.

Dixie L'amour: Prologue

"I'm sorry for coming on such short notice," Dicker said. His voice sounded droll and vaguely unrepentant through the apartment's entranceway and he closed the door firmly as he stepped inside. "But it's of the utmost importance." Checking his briefcase, he started down the hall. He glanced at the relative blankness of the walls while walking; but for a single uneven painting they were bare. Dicker paused to straighten it.

"Nah, it's fine," he heard Bob say. The larger man leaned out from a door further along the hall and waved him in. "Come on, it's easier to talk in here." Giving a dry look to the alley-facing window ending the hall, he obliged and followed Bob into the room.

The row of windows lining the wall lit the room; tall stacks of unopened boxes cast thin shadows over the blond man rummaging through one of the few opened boxes. Toeing aside scattered paper crumpled for packaging, Dicker adjusted his grip on the briefcase and eyed the distinct lack of chairs in the room.

"Pull up a box," Bob greeted, lifting a packaged set of weights from the box before him and picking off the paper clinging to it. He grinned. "I'd offer you a chair, but I'm still moving in."

"A box is fine," Dicker said, and seated himself on a small one marked BOOKS. There was a moment of give and then the sound of china breaking. Unfazed, he drew his briefcase up to rest neatly on his knees. "The government," he added, as calm as ever, "will pay for any losses sustained during my visit."

Bob shrugged. "Who needs plates anyway?" He dropped the weights easily with a heavy thud and stood, brushing at his knees. "Want some takeout?" He lifted a white cartoon from atop a stack of boxes and shook it invitingly. "I've got Chinese."

"No, I'm fine, thanks," Dicker answered, folding his hands precisely over the briefcase. He was a small, bowed man with a long dry face, never more exaggerated than when he was waiting; he did so patiently as Bob stole a quick bite of fried rice before setting the carton down and running his forefinger and thumb over his mouth. "Done?"

"Sure," Bob agreed. He turned and lifted a box from a stack, dropping it and settling himself on it as comfortably as he could. "Not here for the foreign cuisine, I take it?"

"On the ball as always, Bob," Dicker said.

"Glad to hear it," Bob said, digging a spoon into the rice. "What's this all about?"

"We've got a man out in the field," Dicker began without preamble and Bob leaned back to listen. "He's been undercover about a month, working as a businessman on an extended vacation from the wife – you know the type – in the major string of casinos in Dixie L'amour. We've got reason to suspect the owners are engaging in money laundering, drug trade, murder among other things. Nasty business. We're just short of having enough to shut them down and make the streets a little safer for the disorganized criminals."

Bob swallowed and waved the spoon he was using in vague loops. "And you want Mr. Incredible to take them out."

"Not quite," Dicker responded. "Our agent's position has been compromised. Each day we leave him in place is another day when the risks climb higher. These guys aren't ready to go out quietly." Dicker studied the faint shadows sprawled rigid across the floor in the bright wash of sunlight and then looked up at Bob again. "We began receiving messages about a week ago from our agent suggesting he might be under surveillance. Our options are running out fast."

"Let me guess," Bob said, wiping a bit of rice from the corner of his mouth. He shifted his weight and the box crumpled around the edges. "You need me to do a rescue run."

"I wish it was so simple," Dicker continued. "We need to get him out while maintaining our presence." Dicker turned the briefcase over on his lap, flipping the latches quickly and opening it out toward Bob. "We've taken the liberty of developing a new temporary identity, bank account, anything you might need if you take the job."

Bob closed the carton, crushing it in his palm and tossing the crumpled box in the general direction of the trash. Hands freed, he took the offered briefcase and began sifting through the papers, scanning the top sheets. "So then you want me to go undercover, get him out, and take his place."

Dicker's face split in a sudden grin. "Not," he said, "quite."