Chapter Three—The Smiths Meet the Smithsonians

Ding dong.

"Don't get the door!" Bob whispered, sweating profusely.

"I agree with Dad!" Dash declared, and stopped racing up the wall.

"Gah, Dada, bada!" Jack-Jack screamed happily from his highchair.

"Bob, Dash, Jack-Jack," warned Helen, cocking her eyebrow. "We've dug our grave now, and we can't be rude."

"Our grave? Mom, that's horrific!" Violet threw up her hands and made herself invisible as her mother made her way to the front door.

"Bob, get over here!" demanded Helen shrilly. "This is your funeral."

"Mom!" Violet shrieked, throwing her hands up in the air once more.

"Kids! Don't be rude!"

"Whose side are you on, Helen?" Bob challenged.

"Oh, Bob, let's not act immature. Open the door."

Ding dong.

"Coming!" Bob panted, and stood rooted to the spot.

Helen sent him a piercing glare.

"Fine." Defeated, he crossed the room and s-l-o-w-l-y looked through the peephole. A blue eye greeted him. "Oh lord," he muttered. Shaking slightly, he pulled the door open.

Standing in front of the shocked Parrs was not Buddy Pine—no, Buddy Pine was as dead as disco and elevator shoes, though he sometimes did special appearances on weekends. He may not have been wearing his mask, but he was Syndrome in the flesh. Clad in an all black suit and blinding white tie, with his hair in all of its huge glory, he raised his hand and gave a slight wave.

"Hello, there," he chortled.

"Hi," Helen offered.

"Umph," grunted Bob.

Violet and Dash stared, terrified.

"Dah!" Jack-Jack squealed happily, pointing at the familiar ex-babysitter.

"You," the red-haired man voiced pleasantly, and pointed back. "You. Just keep being a baby and we'll be fine," he muttered. Directing his gaze back to Bob and Helen, he smiled. "Thanks so much for the invite. If this'd happened when I was in love with you, Mr. Incredible, I'd totally be glomping you for all you're worth right now! But I've moved past being a stalker, so let's engage in a good, friendly handshake."

Bob's face became less pale. "All right, sure," he said sullenly, and stuck out his hand good-naturedly.

Syndrome chuckled. "Are you kidding? Are you freakin' kidding? You're Mr. Incredible!" he shouted. "You're Mr. Incredible and I'm in your house!" He suddenly ran at Bob and attached himself to his waist.

"Uh... Mom?" questioned Violet.

Helen was too awed to answer.

"Oh God," complained another voice from the doorway. "One second inside, and you're all ready scaring the poor man."

The family's attention went directly to the woman who watched the scene so coolly.

"Sorry I'm late coming in," Mirage continued," but we brought dessert and he refused to wait for me as I retrieved it from the back of the limo. Hello."

Bob perked up reasonably despite the short man who was still hugging him with a strange fury. "Mirage—nice to see you again!"

"And you. And Elastigirl, how have you been?" Mirage tugged Syndrome away from Incredible with her free hand and he did a sort of twirl, landing beside her.

Helen watched the younger woman skeptically, her eyes wandering down to her skirt, which was at least two inches above her knees. She noticed her husband doing the same, and gave him a very evil look. "Wow. I thought you were going solo, Mirage," she said darkly. "I thought—"

"Elastigirl, after our conversation, I felt empowered, but I had to visit Syndrome in the burn unit. And when I saw him, I couldn't resist… Even if he did almost let me get crushed." She and Syndrome smiled at each other affectionately.

Bob shuffled his feet.

"Sorry about that," he muttered.

"It wasn't your fault!" Mirage affirmed, not at all vexed. "Syndrome nearly killed me. But you know what, he needed me, and I wanted to be there for him."

Syndrome fingered her hair and finally rested his arm around her shoulder in a lose manner. "She forgave me, I forgave her—"

Helen looked sour. "You forgave her? You little p-"

"Oh, boy, do you smell burning meatloaf?" Bob yelled, and pushed his wife in the direction of the kitchen. He knew Helen's limits, and she could be a raving femi-Nazi. Helen shot him a dirty look, but the two of them went into the kitchen to collect themselves.

Violet surveyed Mirage and subconsciously fingered her own thigh.

Mirage noticed the girl's stare and smiled prettily. "Oh, hello. Sorry, were we ever introduced?"

Violet shook her head shyly.

"Well, I'm Mirage." She walked forward and took Violet's hand in both of hers. "I wish I could take back everything that happened."

"Yeah, well, join the club," Syndrome proclaimed lightly, wandering about the Parr home with a curious, fangirl-ish expression.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Violet Parr," the teenager smiled.

"And I'm Dash! You have a limo?" The short, grinning child appeared like a flash.

Mirage laughed. "Yes."

Between this information, and Mirage's very tiny skirt, Dash was feeling better and better about this dinner party.

Violet suddenly noticed the 'dessert' that Syndrome and Mirage had brought. "What is that?"

"Oh, it's actually quite delicious. It's a sweet red bean paste, really popular in Japan. It's great on vanilla ice cream!" she exclaimed.

"We're health foodies. Well, she is, and it's one of the things we, being Mirage, agreed on," Syndrome explained, wiping dust off of a family portrait. "And no, we didn't bring any ice cream with us." He looked tragic.

"Stop," Mirage said playfully. "You're so pathetic."

But, staring at the contents of the bowl, both Violet and Dash hardly thought Syndrome was pathetic.

AN: Sweet bean paste actually is really good. :shrug: