Spiral
Chapter
V: Lost
By EclipseKlutz
PG-13, T
Argh… still dunno: Drama? Angst? Horror? Death to us all?
Disclaimer: Uh-huh. I own my foot. I think… I hope… possibly. Anyways, don't own The Incredibles; if I did this wouldn't be fanfiction, would it?
A/N: Also, I've recently been holding debates with several anonymous people over the current relationship between Syndrome and Violet. I was informed quite blatantly that I'm portraying Syndrome as all bark and no bite, and that the way they relate to each other is a bit less hostile than it is in other fics. So, before anyone else confronts me on this—it's intentional. Maybe someday I'll explain it here, if you really want to know than e-mail or IM me or whatever… By the way, due to recent transformations in the story, this is likely to end up as a Syndrome/Violet ficcy. All right, now go read the story.
"…I don't want to be the one
The battles always choose
'Cause inside I realize
That I'm the one confused…"
Linkin
Park: Breaking the Habit
Something toppled over in the kitchen, the sound of its crash accompanied by frantic screams and sobs. The noises echoed in his head—bouncing around and taunting him, telling him that he needed to do something… that he was weak for simply standing there with his hand on the doorknob.
He wanted to help. Wanted to run out there and… and what? Why should he bother? This was Violet Parr he wanted so badly to assist—the daughter of the man that had destroyed his life. She could easily defend herself… right?
A groan seeped through his lips as his conscience snapped at him, reminding him of the state in which he'd first found her. If she could protect herself, the bruises that defined the colors of her skin might not exist. She was as lost as he was—trapped in the woods with no trail. Did she choose to be there?
Did he?
Another scream and broken cry escaped from the kitchen, this time followed by a sadistic laughter that broke through his conflict. She needed him, and he needed to do this. If he didn't…
He stopped that specific train of thoughts as he twisted the knob and slipped into the small kitchen, only to be instantly confronted by the mess of splintered furniture and droplets of blood. The man—Tony?—had his back to him, one hand clutching the leg of one of the trashed chairs, the other entwined in Violet's hair, holding her painfully in place.
There was no need to assess the situation, and Syndrome snatched up a conveniently placed knife from the counter as he approached the two cautiously. As Tony raised his makeshift club once more, Syndrome pressed the cold blade against Tony's right carotid and placed a hand on his target's opposite shoulder.
"Let her go," Syndrome hissed, adding just enough weight to the knife for it to break the flesh, yet not quite dig into the artery.
Tony hesitated, shocked, and, upon finding himself unable to turn and face his attacker, stated, "What business is this of yours? How'd you get in here?"
"Undisclosed," Syndrome responded, his voice remaining dangerously quiet. "Now, let her go—I'm not telling you again."
As his victim again paused, Syndrome shifted enough so that the blade of the knife was resting on Tony's throat. At this, Tony let out a small grunt of defeat, and untangled his hand from Violet's hair. She stumbled backwards into the wall before finally collapsing to the ground, holding her head.
"Good," Syndrome muttered, spinning Tony around so that he now faced the door. "Now leave."
He pulled the knife away from the man's throat, and prodded his back harshly as he pushed him towards the entrance. Tony obliged reluctantly, turning to face Syndrome as he shut the door behind him; the look of silent recognition engraved on his face was all but unnerving.
Syndrome sighed as the door slammed back into its frame, and knelt down beside the girl that through some stroke of insanity he'd defended. Curled up in the corner, she looked more fragile than he ever imagined. Fresh tearstains coated her cheeks, along with small patches of slowly drying blood; her hands were pressed flat on the floor, as though trying to support her although she knew the effort was in vain—she was clinging to consciousness by little more than a thread.
Gingerly, he slipped an arm around her back and the other beneath her knees, and slowly lifted her from the ground. She rested her head against his chest, her breathing shallow and uneven as she murmured softly, "Th-thank you…"
He looked down at her small frame in surprise yet offered a slight nod as he gently set her down on the couch and draped the same blanket from the night before over her.
"How do you feel?" he inquired benignly.
She offered a small groan in response, "Like I was hit by a train…"
"Heh. Someone ought to castrate that guy," he stated bitterly, yet made it a point to quickly change the topic after his comment. "I'm gonna get you an ice pack… do you need anything else?"
"Uh-uh," she mumbled. "Ice pack sounds nice… more Advil, too?"
"Sure," he shrugged, picking the remote control off the ground and handing it to her. She stared at the object blankly for a moment before she seemed to register just what it was and tapped the power button gently. He exited the room slowly, the voice of a reporter covering the breaking news for the fiftieth time that night drifting around in his wake.
The first thing he grabbed at wasn't a towel or a bottle of pills so much as an outdated cube dubbed a 'phone'. It took a moment or so of dry determination and concentration to finally dial the numbers he wanted and receive a signal, yet the result worked to his advantage when a very familiar voice answered.
"Mirage?" he inquired hopefully, fiddling with the cord.
There was a pause on the other end, before the tinny voice responded with little belief, "Buddy?"
"Yeah…" Silence greeted his announcement, and he frowned as he began to press the matter, "What? Aren't you happy to hear from me?"
"Y-yes, of… of course I am… Where have you been? It's been four years Buddy—oh, God, I thought you were dead—I'm so sorry I didn't… where are you?"
"I can answer your other questions later, Mirage. Right now I'm in a bit of a… um, predicament… Turn on your television."
"Um…" A pause followed before the slightly muffled sounds of telecasters reached the phone, followed by Mirage's stunned voice. "Oh."
"Yeah. Can you pick me up?"
"Now?"
"It'd be… appreciated."
"I—I… I've got a family, now, Buddy. I can't just leave this early in the morning…"
A twinge of sadness swept through him at something she'd said, yet he quickly stifled the emotion as he responded timidly, "What if I told you I saved some one… and that some one who doesn't like me knows where I am… and that I'm in a Hell of a lot of shit if you don't come?"
"It depends… who'd you save?"
"Violet Parr."
Silence, then, "Where are you?"
A/N: Sorry for kind of terrible writing. My muse jumped off a cliff and died… nothing is working for me right now…
Rogue4: Thanks! And of course he'll save the day—he has to. I won't let him not come to the rescue… I've never had Twinkies…
Angoliel: Oh. Sorry. Have no brainpower at the moment. "Undecided about this story?" Please elaborate.
J752572: If it helps, that's probably the worst cliff-hanger you're going to get. I don't like them either… and I don't know how to make them without pissing myself off… lol—hope the wait wasn't too long.
Gremblin: Yup. Syndrome has mental issues he needs to work out… Or rather those things that stand on your shoulder and tell you what to do—he needs to get rid of them.
PitBullLady: Um… yeah. I don't like Tony; no idea why, but I don't like him… I was tempted to see what would happen if he stayed in the bathroom—have that version somewhere. It's a very scary story… I even feel bad for Tony…
Ryou-slash-Bakura's Wench: lol. Well, like how it turned out or do I have to fix stuff? Tony got off easy… this time…
REVIEW. Please? I'll give you a cookie…?