I am indeed posting two chapters in one night, only because my alert didn't get sent to email on the first chapter, because I had to replace it instead of posting a new chapter. So, you get two chapters, you lucky dog. I do not know if there's anything new in this chapter, but reread the first one before reading this and review that, then come back and review this'n, plznthnx. As I mentioned in the first chapter, sugar cookies will be provided for your pelting enjoyment.

-Irish

Five Years Later

The expensive black car sailed out of her father's grip and towards the sleek jet.

Syndrome hung out the window, gaping down at the family on the ground as Jack-Jack and her mother sailed downwards to them.

The suddenly frantic villain tried to escape with his remaining boot, but to no avail; the car struck its target and he was knocked backwards.

Eyes wide, Violet watched in horror as his cape caught in the turbine and he was pulled back into it.

The jet exploded, and as the rubble hailed down on the force field she covered her family with, she swore she could hear him calling, hear him sobbing, I only wanted your respect, I only wanted your approval, I only wanted you to like me.

Pushing last night's dream out of her mind, Violet emptied the blocky contents of the cellophane package into the pot and stirred in the fake, MSG-and-salt-loaded chicken flavoring. Mmm. Ramen. It was about the best she would get these days. Sighing, she brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes, hoping he wouldn't notice. He hated it when her hair got in her face.

"I like your hair blonde, Vi."

Tony smiled at her from his post on the couch, but the ostensibly friendly gesture didn't extend all the way to his eyes; they remained cold and distant, as well as glazed over from a night of heavy drinking and a bit of pot.

Violet smiled back tightly, and muttered a quiet, sardonic thanks.

"What was that?" He snapped, standing up quickly, coming to stand close behind her.

"I said thank you!" She squeaked, heart racing. He wouldn't, not just for-

"Oh." He sneered. "There's no need to get cocky with me. No need."

"No." Violet agreed quietly, trembling slightly, terrified of Tony's unprovoked rage. "There's no need."

Personally, she hated her hair this color; in fact, she had loathed the very thought of being blonde when he first suggested it to her. But the fight that had built from something as simple as hair color had convinced her to. He had insisted, yelling when she didn't want to rub the gooey, drippy, smelly mix into her hair, rinse and dry. She had really had no choice.

Violet poured the ramen in a bowl for herself; it was, at this point, the most she could afford. She lived in a run-down apartment in a small, dingy city that cost $500 a month, and even those payments were hard to meet sometimes, as Tony regularly used her money for his own habits. While she had no car, Tony owned an old pick-up truck that was about to fall apart, and her phone was from the nineties and looked like it might have belonged to a joke shop in its early years. The entire apartment was dirty and dilapidated, not worthy of being called home. Violet and Tony were 19 years old, and she was working her way through community college, studying Art. Tony didn't approve, and regularly told her so.

Of course, he didn't live with her, even passive Violet couldn't allow it to come to that; but he might as well have. His things were strewn all over the place, with no regard to Violet at all. He expected her to clean up after him. The bruises from the last time she forgot to clean up still hadn't faded, and she glanced at one on her forearm with fearful anger, walking over to the small folding table that stood as a mockery of a kitchen table. Not even meaning to, she set down the bowl a little more forcefully than she had thought she would, and a large amount of broth sloshed over the side and onto the table. She swore.

"Jesus, can't you do anything right?" Tony yelled, face hardening into something Violet would have thought unrecognizable from the Tony she knew in high school.

"Would you just let me clean it up?!" She snapped back, forgetting herself, as she stomped to the sink to grab a sponge.

"Don't talk back to me, you fucking-" Whatever else he had been going to say was lost as he slapped her across the face repeatedly, hitting her back and shoulders.

Violet had overstepped her boundaries, she knew, as she sank to the ground, arms over her head, trying to protect herself; but it wasn't fair. She couldn't imagine how it had come to this, how this is fair, what she had done to deserve this treatment from the only guy she had ever been with. The super couldn't say she loved him, she knew that, and couldn't understand why she couldn't leave, and couldn't think of an answer for this, couldn't understand, by the time she had fallen unconscious.

"W-what?" Elena said faintly, eyes wide as her boss grimly told her the news. "What?"

"I know." He sighed, tapping his thumb on his desk and chewing his lip.

"I- I don't know what to say." She shook her head. "What are you going to do?"

"I… I suppose… go help." He turned in his chair to face her.

"Help?" Elena laughed sardonically. "Don't you think it's a little ironic to help at this point?"

"Let's find the younger kids." He ignored this and sighed again, resigning himself to more work than he had wanted. "Then the girl."

"Neal!" Elena called in a heavy voice, sighing. "Where's my gun?"

"You put it on the third shelf on the left!" He called back.

Spinning around, the woman extracted the handgun from its spot on the shelf.

"Thanks." She yelled back out to Neal, fitting the gun into a holster on her hip.

While Elena had, of course, originally been his girlfriend, helping him to run the base, that relationship was over. They had made that clear enough. There were no hard feelings anymore, and Elena had quickly become queen of the base once more; now, she was considering dating Neal.

"Okay, now, we go in, look around, get out." Neal chanted, coming into the armory room. "That's all. No hanging around, no interference, no leaving any cards behi-"

"Neal?" Elena raised an eyebrow. "You do remember I'm higher ranked than you, don't you?"

"Of course, oh Queen…" He mumbled, grinning slightly.

"Right." Elena smirked. "We go in, report anything unusual, leave. That's all."

"Yes, Ms. Benson."

"God, Neal, I told you to stop calling me that years ago! In fact, I think it's high time I put my old name back on the shelf. I was Elena Benson for too many years." She smiled wickedly. "Elena Benson has been dead since she was 15."

Neal grinned wickedly, because he knew exactly what had happened when she was 15 for her to put her name to rest, and held up his walkie talkie.

"Sir, Mirage is ready to leave."

"What is this place?" He muttered in disgust, looking around the dirty staircase they were climbing.

"Residence- Parr, Violet," Mirage read off a piece of paper. "This is the place."

"Don't they ever clean here?"

Mirage ignored this, and the three reached the apartment. She picked the lock and glided inside confidently, but she was holding a gun. This time, she wouldn't be unprepared. Not with what had happened last time.

The three were about to split up when Mirage spotted the kitchen. Gasping out, she ran to Violet, who was lying unconscious on the floor, a small pool of blood surrounding her limp form.

"There goes stealthy and uncaring." Neal raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't she have black hair?" Their boss kneeled next to her, frowning.

"Who did this? Was it the…" Mirage asked, then trailed off, ignoring her friend's question, one hand hovering over Violet's bruised arm. "No, no, it wouldn't be; this isn't like what they did."

"She at least knows how to protect herself." Their boss muttered, noticing that the bruises and scrapes were only on her arms and shoulders; none had managed to reach her face.

"How do you know she wasn't trying to…?" Mirage began saying, but trailed off.

"She wasn't trying to kill herself?" Neal finished for her. Mirage nodded weakly.

"Look, if she was committing suicide, there wouldn't be these scrapes on her shoulders and back, too. There aren't knife cuts, anyway."

He stood, pacing the room.

"Mirage, why don't you go get the surveillance equipment. Neal, go find the nearest hotel. Call in back-up. We need to get this place cleaned up."

"And you, sir?"

"I'll stay here." He decided. "And clean up a bit."

Neal raised an eyebrow, but quickly lowered it, because he knew better than to think Syndrome would take mockery lightly.

"Yes, sir."

He had done his best, but he wasn't quite sure that was anyone's best. Usually, he had his minions do this kind of work. Or didn't do it at all.

Where did she keep the bandages? The hydrogen peroxide? The first aid kit? Nevertheless, he did manage to find something passable, and wet the face cloth to clear away the blood on her arms and scalp. Frowning, he put hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball; she jumped as it touched her cuts and bruises, but remained unconscious. Finally, he took as many bandages as there were in the box and covered the larger of the scrapes. When he was throwing away the empty box, he noticed several other empty boxes scattered through the garbage. He shook his head in disgust and turned back to the kitchen, frowning at how the sleeves of her shirt were ripped, as if somebody had grabbed her and she had tried to get away- what was going on in her life?- and just how many patches there were on her jeans. Her college friends probably thought it was done artistically.

He sighed, carrying her to the couch, and tossed a blanket over her, as she was shivering slightly. Finally, he deemed his job done and returned to the kitchen to find something to eat.

After all, he had saved her life, though he was the last person anyone would expect to. He at least deserved a meal in return.

Though I hardly deserve it, you know what to do.