Be entirely grateful you're getting this chapter. My internet has bit the dust (well... more accurately, my neighbors turned on the security, so that my wireless adaptor can't take their signal...) and so I am retyping the entire chapter, reading it off a printed page off my now-internetless-computer in an internet cafe downtown.
As I said... be entirely grateful. This cafe mocha doesnt have nearly enough sugar.
Thank you to all reviewers and such. On with the story. I don't have much time...
Also, I apologize beforehand for any spelling mistakes.
For about a half hour after Mirage and Neal returned, Syndrome went around the apartment, trying to clean as much of it as possible, while Neal went to go see if he could find a grocery store. Although the now-third-in-command didn't dare say it aloud, though he had become something of a brother to Syndrome, he highly doubted his boss sent Neal out of the apartment merely because he thought Violet might be hungry later. Syndrome had also sent Mirage to the hotel room with the surveillance monitors, to set up. But, regardless of what Neal thought Syndrome's intentions were and why he wanted to be alone, he went without a complaint.
Syndrome wandered around the apartment, trying to see what hte life of the daughter of Mr. Incredible had become. It was filthy, empty beer bottles everyhwere, but he doubted she was the one emptying them- at least, excluding the ones he had helped her with earlier. In the living room, hidden under a few magazines and one beer can that had been placed atop the stack like a flag on a castle tower, the curious man found a photo album. Despite the album's decrepit, dirty appearance, some of the pictures seemed fairly recent, and he flipped through it; Violet, much, much younger- younger than when he had first encountered her- then much, much older. She would be, what, eighteen now? Nineteen? The last picture seemed more recent than the rest; at what appeared to be a barbecue, Violet was standing with a brown-haired man, his arm around her waist tightly, and he was holding a beer .There were a few more empty cans around where they stood. She looked scared. He looked drunk.
Boyfriend. Syndrome nodded to himself, then sneered at the picture. And possibly her attacker.
Although he couldn't understand it, Syndrome felt kind of guilty, inviting himself into her home and life, looking through her things and setting up cameras in her walls. Midway through that thought, he stopped himself. Guilty? For looking, for trying to protect? When had looking and monitoring ever become guilt-ridden? Why would he feel guilt now, when he hadn't felt a modicum of it after destroying half of Metroville?
Probably with more force than necessary, Syndrome replaced the album roughly and went to put away the dishes. Not, of course, that it would matter, if the people that had killed her family came for her, too. It was more than likely that she would end up at the new island, the new base, before the week was out.
But it might as well have looked nice while she still lived there.
"Sir, where do you want the cameras set up?" Neal asked, arms crossed, scrutinizing the dirty room.
"One in the kitchen, the corner by the sink. Two in the living room... one above the TV, one in the corner by the window. One above the front door, pointing towards the kitchen." Syndrome finished, and Mirage nodded her approval.
The henchmen that had been brought back with Mirage immediately rushed forward with the four cameras and set them up- they were no bigger than a few millimeters in diameter, and were practically impossible to see unless you knew they were there. Which Violet would, of course, but she would have to understand that it was for her own protection. Quicker than one would think possible, the men drilled miniscule holes into the walls, filled them with adhesive, and, after pressing a small button on the back of the cameras, popped them in. Excess glue was wiped away and the men stood back, studying the cameras carefully; a small beep and a flash of light from each, and they scanned the wall they fit into before a glaze mimicking the color spread over the lens. In all, they were completely undetectable, unless you knew what you were detecting.
"They have a heat sensor in them." Syndrome cited, proud. "So, even if Violet disappears, we'll still be able to see her."
"Very good, sir." A henchman said, nodding eagerly.
"Of course it's good!" Syndrome snapped at him, insulted that the guard thought he needed the praise he knew he had already earned.
"Would you all be quiet!" Violet bellowed from her room, half-asleep, her headache apparent even in her voice. "I'm trying to sleep in here!"
A pause followed, then a clunk, as of someone rolling out of bed quickly and hitting the floor; Violet ran into the room, now wearing a tank top and plaid pajama shorts.
"Who are all you people?" Violet clutched her head, eyes slammed shut against the bright lights. "What are you doing with drills? Oh, God, you really are here to kill me..."
"Violet, really, calm down-" Mirage began gently.
"If we were here to kill you, we would've done it while you were unconscious on the floor." Neal smirked, but the expression was wiped off his face at hte sight of Mirage's reproachful glare.
Syndrome remained silent and stoic, staring at the cameras as if they had just told him some grand secret.
A/N I just wanted to let you know, the line breaks seem to be malfunctioning. I had to insert this one at the top and drag it down here -a few of them appeared on the actual website, right above where it says edit/preview and mode: simple mode / html. I only know this because I was just going to pause and let you know that, now the whipped cream has melted into my mocha, there is plenty of sugar in it, and it tastes better. This equals upswing in Sam Mood Percentage. Which may equal more cookies for reviews, faster typing, and less grammatical and spelling errors.
Violet collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and stared around at all the guards stuffed into her small kitchen.
"Here." Mirage handed her something that looked like it may have started out as a wristwatch, smiling sadly.
"What is all this?" Violet sighed tiredly, waving the wristwatch in her hand, then indicating the guards.
"It's a communicator. If you're in trouble, just hit the button and yell for us." Mirage smiled wryly. "Not that we'll hear you yelling. But it'll make you feel better. It's for your protection, as well as the cameras we've installed."
Mirage's smile became reassuring now, but the girl didn't seem to feel all too reassured.
"From what? Protection from what?" She shook her head pitifully, not understanding.
"The people who killed your family." Syndrome said quietly, not looking her in the eye.
Violet's eyes watered again, hearing the words "killed" and "family" in the same context. She promptly dissolved into tears, and Mirage rushed forward, her instincts (though not matneral) kicking in. Despite that Mirage was only trying to comfort her, Violet tore away from her and ran back to her room, slamming the door shut. Mirage sighed, and Syndrome remained silent. Neal sighed along with Mirage.
"It's gonna be a long night."
Violet was finally asleep; still dealing, on a more subconscious level, with the deaths of her parents and brothers, through the nightmares of childish fears.
At the moment, a scary shadow-monster from the closet was chasing her through a dark, haunted forest; she pushed her way through branches and sharp brambles, cutting her face and arms on the thorns. Violet stumbled over roots and rocks, her super abilities forgotten in the heart-pounding fear that consumed her. For comfort, or perhaps protection, she carried her baby blanket, soft blue, pink, and yellow with flower designs on the edges; but she tripped, falling to the ground. The shadow monster ripped the blanket from her, and she started sobbing.
"Give me my bankie back." Violet hicupped, hands coming to her face in a pitiful wail.
The monster stood tall above her, laughing; a flame burst from his hand and fell onto the blanket. Fire crept up the edges before it came to the middle; the monster dropped the blanket, a pile of ashes, and disappeared.
Not the best quality ever, but the best I can muster sitting on an uncomfortable stool drinking too-bitter mocha downtown with no notice that my internet would fail me today.
So, please, review, and perhaps when my internet has come back to me, I will re-repost this chapter with fixed spelling/grammar/plotline/etc.
REVIEWS POR FAVOR!
irishpiratess.