Flying High
Chapter 6 –Virtute Fido
By: CountessMorgana
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The daughter of Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl was not the first high-school student to be a super, and she certainly wasn't the first teenager to have a crush on a boy. Before Violet Parr and Tony Rydinger, before the ban on supers, before the Glory Days ended, there was Stratogale and Macroburst. And their story isn't quite as typical as one would expect.
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Boys and girls of every age
Wouldn't you like to see something strange?
Come with us and you will see
This, our town of Halloween
This is Halloween, everybody make a scene
Trick or treat 'till the neighbours die of fright
It's our town, everybody scream
In this town of Halloween
Danny Elfman, "This Is Halloween"
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"So how much did this 'Avarice' manage to get away with again?"
"Let me put it this way. It wasn't a Brinks, thank God, but enough that the Treasurer still isn't happy. All things considered, who can blame her?" Chief Robson told Agent Grier over the phone. "Are you sure you haven't got any records on Avarice? The way she went about the robbery seemed too professional. Those bills in the truck were going to be decommissioned. If she decides to go on a shopping spree, they're virtually untraceable. And it was bloodless – all of the guards were either stunned or knocked out."
Henry Grier of the NSA ('Harry' to his friends, 'Hal' to his relatives) sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "None, nada, zip. She must be a rookie."
"Won't stay rookie for long, not with superpowers," Robson said darkly. "How's Gazerbeam? He didn't look too good when my men and I got there."
Grier made a noncommittal noise. "He's fine. There're the usual injuries one can expect when one gets hit by a few slabs of industrial bunker, but the docs want to keep him under observation for the night. What about the guards on your end?"
"Like I said, stunned or knocked out. Mild concussion on the guy we found in the cab of the truck."
"I thought you mentioned the other two getting hit by a blunt object," Grier wondered.
"Yeah, the ground." There was a brief pause. "Guess this kind of ruins Halloween for you, huh?"
"Never off duty," Grier said tiredly. "Anything else on the radar?"
"Yeah; you remember that escaped patient from the mental ward at Megalopolis General Hospital? We got a call from a lady in Arcadia."
"Upscale Arcadia." Grier reiterated.
"Exactly. Well, she said he was crossing her back garden heading for Riverview. And it's Halloween, and there are kids and teenagers and parents by the dozen out."
"So, theoretically, a super won't attract attention," Grier said. "I'll see if anyone's nearby."
"Thanks. Happy Halloween."
"You too," said Agent Grier, hanging up.
Great. He'd promised the Phantasmics the weekend off. Agent Pollard had been threatened with grievous bodily harm by Splashdown, who was writing his university midterms and, unless the world was ending, had made it quite clear he was NOT to be disturbed. Thunderhead was out of town, and everyone knew Gazerbeam was downstairs in the medical bay with several bruised ribs and a few broken limbs that the healers on staff were working all-out to mend ASAP. There just weren't any supers active in the Megalopolis area...
"Wait a minute," Grier murmured as inspiration struck. He picked up the phone, dialled a number, and waited for the irritated male voice on the other end to pause for breath. Needless to say, the recipient was far more agreeable once Grier explained the situation. Setting down the phone again, Grier smiled at the irony: It seemed to be a night for rookies.
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Enid Gwynns was completely unaware of the drama that took place at both the Riverview Heights stadium and at the Bank of United States' Bayside depot. Her parents had gone to a Halloween party that Mr. Gwynns' firm was holding at the Megalopolis Convention Center, leaving Enid to hand out candy to the local children. Figuring she might as well get into the spirit of things, Enid had raided the attic and emerged with several items of clothing that had belonged to one of her grandmothers. Although Enid felt she must look ridiculous, the costume worked – early in the evening more than one younger witch or ghoul had run screaming from the Gwynns porch, crying about the 'ghostie', and had needed to be comforted by a chuckling mom or dad. Now that the older kids were making the rounds, Enid's costume was either taken into stride or derided.
"Next year I'll stay away from the moth-eaten ones," Enid mused while picking gingerly at a frayed and tattered hem.
The doorbell rang again. Enid grabbed the cream silk hat with its heavy veil, plonked it on her head, seized her bowl of candy and hurried to the door, fully expecting to greet another batch of costumed children.
Instead she was confronted with a tall, disoriented-looking man in rumpled clothing.
"Is Johnny home?" he asked in a childlike voice.
"N-no," Enid stammered, unnerved.
"Will he be coming home soon?" There was an odd look in his eyes, and Enid suddenly knew that the man was by no means sane.
Enid quickly scrambled for a lie, and took a deep breath. "He's gone with his daddy fishing," she told the man in a kind, unwavering voice. "I'm sorry he didn't tell you before he left. They'll be back tomorrow, though."
The man smiled. "I hope he catches a big one! Thank you very much, ma'am." He turned around and padded down the drive, humming nursery rhymes.
Closing the door, Enid leaned against the wall, the bowl of candy forgotten. Her heart was racing. Halloween. Kids were out in full force, not all with parents, and not all with the presence of mind to act with caution around a madman. Bolting the front doors and the windows, she dimmed the lights in the house and snuck out the back way, using her powers to move through the trees and the foliage as camouflage from the ground below.
It might've been easier if she'd thought to change first – Enid found out the hard way that bustle gowns and tree branches didn't really mix. Oh well, it was too late to back out now.
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Giving up alcohol entirely for the rest of his livelong days was a prospect that Patrick 'Paddy' O'Malley, scion of the Guinness shareholder family and freshmen at Riverview Heights Preparatory School, was finding extremely attractive at the moment. To discover why, one only needs to look at the last hour of his teenage life.
Half-past eight, and the stands at Riverview Heights' football stadium were beginning to empty. The Homecoming Court was announced and honored, with the predictable popular results. Last year's Homecoming Queen was unable to return and crown her successor, citing something about curfew at her finishing school in Switzerland. Her replacement was Rose Cameron, a local psychiatrist (or was that 'psychologist'? Paddy could never remember the difference). A blonde bombshell, Cameron was herself not only a former R.H.P. Homecoming Queen but also Miss Megalopolis 1946 and first runner-up at Miss America 1947. The joke was going around that more guys had been staring at Dr. Cameron than the new Homecoming Queen.
Now, one particular group of prep school freshmen was wandering down Hamilton Drive. Summed up, they were sick of the Homecoming game, couldn't go to the dance, and probably wouldn't even want to go if Branksome had a miraculous change of heart and reversed her judgement.
"Jeez, Pads, you said you'd be starting after halftime!" Adrian Harper, nephew of Megalopolis' mayor, grumbled at his friend.
"No, I said 'after halftime when my parents leave the house'," Paddy corrected him. "We've got one down, now we just have to wait for the other. This wasn't in my plan, but I can't help it. I mean, we can't just rush them out the door now, can we? Me dad would kill me and this whole thing would be dead before it started!"
"But—" Adrian started, doubtlessly to whine again.
"Aw, put a sock in it, Harper," said another boy. He hefted up a bag, and opening it, the rest of them saw it was full of white objects and a glass bottle. Withdrawing the bottle and unceremoniously shoving the bag into Adrian's hands ("Toilet paper! Do I look like a dang charwoman to you?"), the boy unstopped his prize. Paddy sniffed cautiously. Whiskey, and not cheap stuff either.
"What gives, Kev?" Paddy asked with a grin. "Raid the old man's liquor cabinet or something?"
"He won't miss it," Kevin Earhart smirked. "Come on guys, first round of drinks are on me. The rest are on Pads."
With Kev being the generous type, everyone had had a hearty swig or two, or even three. By the time Hamilton Drive ended at Lafayette Road, none of them were either walking or thinking straight, and several trees had suspicious white streamers caught in their branches.
And then they came across the man. Nothing unusual about him, really, except his clothes were rumpled and he looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days. He was also humming 'Mary Had A Little Lamb', leading the boys to write him off as a partygoer from the Collins' house on Birchmount Street who had had too much to drink.
Of course, the fact that they too had gone overboard in the drinks department completely slipped their minds. When they were about five yards apart, one of the boys swiped at his lips, laughed drunkenly, and yelled out, "Coo! Lookit tha' alkie!" This prompted another of the group to point at the humming fellow and blurt out, "Had a bit? Ha ha ha!"
"Oy, y'hear that? Must be a baby, with that song!"
"Ha ha ha! Only a baby would be tha' pissed!"
Knowing that he was being targeted (although he was not sure why), the crazy man made an enraged sound, followed by a bellow of "Meanies!" and barrelled into the gaggle of offending boys, swinging his fists wildly.
"Lookit, he can't even hit right! Ha ha ha ha!"
"Aw, is the widdle baby gonna cry?"
"My granny can hit better than that! S'not gonna help, you know!"
It might have ended at that, but the boys also really didn't know when to shut up, stop laughing, or get out of the way.
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"Run away! Run away!"
Chanting the words like a mantra, a certain Irish teenager stumbled and scrambled down Lafayette Road out of the residential area, his friends trailing him, the madman chasing them every step of the way. Of his companions, Patrick O'Malley was perhaps the most sober. At any rate, he was the one leading the rest and the only one who really remembered what happened once his hangover wore off three days later.
If his friends had no head for drink, then Paddy O'Malley had no head for directions. He simply ran, led the group of panicking freshmen past the dry cleaners and the malt shop, took a right, and continued for another ten yards before running into a 20-foot high chain link fence. Here Eric Pritchard made a valiant attempt to scale the obstacle, but due to his intoxicated state, he barely made it halfway before he crashed back to Earth.
This left the boys trapped in an alley with the fence at their back and the very angry, very dangerous madman who they had provoked closing in. Somebody threw the now-empty whiskey bottle at the approaching assailant. Poor aim meant the bottle smashed on the ground a few feet short of the target. In addition to being crazy and furious, the lunatic was now armed with a large shard of glass.
Paddy O'Malley prayed for a way out of this mess. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, have mercy on us. Save us, Lord. I promise I'll study harder. I won't tease my sisters! I'll start staying awake in church on Sundays!"
But it was only when he mentally promised to give up drinking that the super arrived.
At any other time, Paddy would have been annoyed to no end about God and Fate and what-have-you. As it was, he was too busy cheering with the rest to care much about becoming a teetotaller.
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His name was Tradewind, newest of the registered supers in the Megalopolis area. Henry Grier had called him up personally, and though he'd already dealt with the occasional bit of local crime, this was the first time Tradewind had ever been assigned a mission by the NSA. Even without the directions Grier had supplied him with, Tradewind would have had few problems finding his target – all he had to do was follow the sounds of yelling in an otherwise quiet commercial area.
The first thing he saw was the hospital escapee, but not as the super had expected.
"Meanies!" the man shouted repeatedly, waving a shard of glass. "Stupid, loud meanies! I don't like you!"
Tradewind made his way towards the infantile man, taking note of the fact that the alley sloped down and ended at a chain-link fence. Behind the fence was the state forest, but huddled before the barrier were six chalk-faced individuals. One of them saw the super and yelled, "Oh, thank you God!" Startled, the lunatic turned but did not relinquish his hold on the broken bottle.
"Stay where you are," Tradewind ordered, his words meant for both the madman and the prep school teens. The cheering boys by the fence weren't about to disobey; absolutely none of them had any intention of going near the loony until it was perfectly safe to do so.
The madman tightened his grip on his makeshift weapon and cried, "They were being mean to me! Called me names! All I wanted was to play with Johnny, but the nice lady said he'd gone fishing! Why can't you all go away?" he screamed, approaching the super.
Knowing that using his powers would only agitate the loony further, Tradewind held firm with the diplomacy. "Put down the bottle."
"What's he doing?" Adrian whispered. Paddy only stared in shocked fascination.
The madman took another step and lifted the glass shard, razor-sharp edge gleaming. Tradewind's face hardened.
"You're in big trouble there! Do you hear me? I'm very, very cross with you! Now, put that bottle DOWN!"
The lunatic stopped, upraised hand with the glass shaking slightly. One moment passed, then two, and on the third the hand fell back down, the glass sliding from nerveless fingers to the pavestones, the man himself lowering his head and shuffling away.
A couple of the boys at the fence gave high-pitched laughs of pure relief, and Tradewind grinned broadly. "Didn't think it would work on him, but I'm sure glad it did!" he called to the teens.
The madman, unfortunately, overheard Tradewind's remark. Snarling, he turned and sprinted back at a startling speed. Tradewind ran to intercept the man, thinking he was going for the teenagers. Instead the loony darted round him, towards a large dumpster sitting in the alley. Normally the dumpster was used to store trash and refuse from the malt shop. The madman had other ideas, running full-tilt and shoving the dumpster as hard as he could. Tradewind yelled and tackle the man, sending them both to the ground, but the wheels of the dumpster had already been set in motion. There was no doubt as to the outcome – gravity and the incline of the alley would do the rest.
Paddy and his friends screamed. Several fainted in anticipation of a quick and painless death. Tradewind, pinning the thrashing madman down, could only watch as the dumpster picked up speed and closed the distance. He wouldn't make it in time.
Someone else could.
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Keeping to the trees, Enid had followed the boys as best as she could, losing them around the Lafayette Road and High Street intersection. Finally finding them again in the alley by Millingdale's Ice Cream and Malt Shop, she was brought up short upon seeing a young man in mask and costume defusing the situation. Obviously a new super, as Enid had never seen him before. His voice, though, was triggering faint recollections of school – was he a classmate?
Friend or just another local rich kid, it didn't matter. He'd gotten there first, and had the situation well in hand. Not wanting to step in on his territory, Enid had stayed in the forest. She'd been watching, waiting to see if she'd be needed.
And now was her chance.
Enid dove down, placed herself between the speeding dumpster and screaming teenagers, held out her hands and braced for impact.
There was a loud THUD, and her feet slid backwards a few inches into the concrete, but there was no further movement, she wasn't a pancake, and the lone classmate conscious wasn't screaming in terror.
Rather, Paddy O'Malley and the super were both staring at her, Paddy with something akin to awe and the super with utter consternation.
"Do you mind?" he asked, annoyed. Darn it all, but this was his save! Grier had placed the call, and ol' Henry hadn't said anything about backup!
"Would you rather they get flattened?" Enid snapped from behind the metal container.
"Well, no—"
"Then stop him from getting away!"
Tradewind quickly reached out and grabbed the crawling madman by the back of his shirt. Enid turned to the boys, only one of who were still standing.
"Good sweet Mike, it's Magdalene May!" Paddy screamed, his alcohol consumption and adrenaline rush combining and causing him to panic. "I'm too young to die!"
'Magdalene May?' Enid thought, staring at Paddy and then down at herself. With her grandmother's wedding whites soiled and torn beyond all repair, her dishevelled coiffure, a couple of bloody cuts and an askew hat, Enid grimaced at the picture she must make. Said to appear only before youths destined to meet an early grave, no wonder Paddy thought her to be the legendary ghost of Magdalene Cemetery – Enid matched the reports of the spectre's appearance to a tee.
By then, Paddy had sunk to the ground and curled up in a quavering, huddling ball that whimpered when Enid meant to move closer. Giving the O'Malley up for a lost cause, Enid turned to the new super.
"You got him?" she asked, approaching him.
Tradewind, holding the madman in a full nelson, glanced at her with a wary expression. "I suppose," he said dubiously, trying to peer at Enid's face through the netting of her hat. Enid ducked her head, and he frowned. "Um, you're not really a ghost like that Paddy kid there said, are you?"
"It's Patrick," came a dismal mumble, the boy quickly returning into his cowering shell afterwards.
"Whatever, Paddy," Tradewind answered.
Enid smiled slightly. "Well, ghosts don't bleed," she replied, showing the scrape on her arm which still had little beads of scarlet welling up. "I'm human, not to worry."
"Good!" Tradewind said in obvious relief.
Enid raised an eyebrow. "Not afraid of the dead, are you?"
The super looked slightly abashed. "Ah, how should I put it... the living I can handle, but I don't do ghosts and zombies and poltergeists. They can all stay on their side of the mortal plane, and if they do decide to drop by, call an exorcist. Please. And nice costume, by the way, great undead look."
Enid couldn't help but laugh. "Wasn't meant to be like that, but thanks anyway! You have a name?"
"Tradewind," he responded, about to say more, but lost his train of thought when sirens began to arrive. "Took them long enough! You gonna stick around, get this guy into custody?"
"I don't think so, no. You can take all the credit, I need to get going anyway."
"Sorry, what was that?" he said, turning around. There was the dumpster and half a dozen drunk kids, but no sign of the apparition in white. As the ambulance and patrol cars pulled into the lot, Tradewind shrugged and prepared to hand the loony over.
"Have it your way, then," he murmured. "Looks like I'll see you around campus, 'Magdalene May'."
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Henry Grier was not fond of phone duty, but the NSA paid him good money for his services and Grier wasn't about to cheat his employers no matter how much of a jerk the top brass – namely Regional Director Andrews – was. (Besides, in drawing straws between himself, Daniel Pollard and Robin Spencer, it was Harry who'd gotten the short stick. Last time he'd ever pick first, statistics be damned.)
That didn't mean his mood was any better when that familiar annoying ring sounded, and it downright curdled on seeing who was calling. Nearly two months of surveillance and every week came notice on the Gwynns girl's 'powers'. This was what inadequate funding got anyone – a short-staffed agency and reliance on a rookie who couldn't tell the difference between a genuine sighting and a bird migration even if it hit him between the eyes. Had the original information on Miss Gwynns come from anyone else, Grier would have dropped the lead ages ago.
Good thing Plasmabolt, despite all her perceived faults, was reliable. There was just something about her... but Harry would never admit his attraction to another living soul. NSA operatives were to act as informants and couriers to the supers; relationships ran from tyrannical bosses at worst to good friends at best, and nothing further. Somewhere in the handbook was a rule: 'though interpersonal relationships are permitted, those of an intimate nature between supers and agents are strictly prohibited'. Being a super was a risky business, and everyone was supposed to know that. If he lost Sylvia...
But she wasn't even his, now was she?
The ringing of his phone was persistent, and Harry finally grabbed the receiver. "If this isn't an insanely beautiful woman, I'm hanging up."
"Sir," came the excited voice of Max Whitby the rookie, "the beacons are lit! For real this time! I saw her, sir, I saw her, and so did Tradewind – and he wants to know what the heck is going on, by the way."
Grier sat up, fully alert. "Tell him that could be one of his future colleagues. Are the girl's parents still out?"
"Yes sir. The party at the Convention Center downtown is set to last until midnight."
"Fantastic. Debrief Tradewind, I'm going to have a talk with Miss Gwynns."
"Understood, and good luck sir." Max said.
"Thanks, Max," said Harry, disconnecting the call and placing another one to Dan Pollard for backup. Pollard was more than happy to assist, anything to get out of the house – Mrs. Pollard was pregnant and the long-anticipated infamous mood swings had kicked in with a vengeance.
Harry didn't really think he'd need the backup to deal with Miss Gwynns. But then, they'd thought that way with Helen soon-to-be-Parr. The future Elastigirl had mistaken the NSA agent sent to her for a burglar or peeping Tom, and before the agent could explain, she had memorably thrown the man out the window of her Metroville flat. (Her apartment was on the twenty-second floor.)
Sure, the guy had a window cleaner's platform two stories down break his fall, but that was beside the point. Harry Grier was not about to take any chances.
To be continued...
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A/N: Since quite a few people were asking, I figured I might as well put this in:
During the opening part of this chapter, Chief Robson mentions "Brinks". This is a reference to the real-life heist known as the Great Brink's Robbery, where in 1950 a nine-member gang robbed the Brink's Building in Boston, Massachusetts, and managed to walk out with over $2.7 million. (For anyone interested, in today's terms the Brinks loot would be worth the equivalent of just over $21 million, and most of it was never recovered despite eight members of the gang being arrested - the last was already dead by that time.) The story takes place in 1952; it's fairly likely that Robson and Grier would remember the Brinks theft, as at the time it occured it was the largest robbery ever in the history of the United States and newspapers billed it as the 'crime of the century'.
In other news, I'm apparently supposed to put this in at least once, and haven't so far, and don't want to risk the wrath of the admins—
Disclaimer: I'm practically broke at the moment, so I don't think that such financial conditions would indicate that I would own something as successful as The Incredibles, or Disney/Pixar, or Brad Bird's brain. If I did, I can guarantee that I would have tons of money in savings and stuff, and that I'd be paying a whole lot in taxes.