Flying High
Chapter 8 – Pick Your Battles
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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You hold the answers deep within your own mind.
Consciously, you've forgotten it.
That's the way the human mind works.
Whenever something is too unpleasant, too shameful for us
to entertain, we reject it.
We erase it from our memories.
But the imprint is always there.
Evanescence, "Understanding"
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There were two unspoken rules that the NSA's main regional offices followed regarding company social gatherings, implemented during the war years when rationing and war bonds were a fact of life, and most of their resources were dedicated to the fighting overseas. Besides, the numbers of those in the NSA who hadn't gotten posted out there were too few to warrant a full-sized shindig in the nation's capital anyway.
Seeing as how most villains logically went for the nation's largest cities, the NSA found itself with field offices up and down both coasts with the biggest concentrations in the northeast and southwest. It fell on these offices to throw the Christmas parties and summer picnics independent of each other. And when the armistice was declared and the war ended, NSA higher-ups thought the smaller, more informal gatherings were better suited in the wake of the rebuilding effort (and that they preferred the potential damages that could ensue at such gatherings not be inflicted on buildings of federal/historic/diplomatic importance), so they stayed as they were, with minor changes.
As such it came to pass that barring war, national emergencies, major villain-induced catastrophes, or acts of God, the following would be observed--
One: Nobody hosts both summer picnic and Christmas party in the same calendar year.
Two: Whoever hosted the summer picnic did not do so again the following year, and likewise with the Christmas party.
Enter Agent Marietta Cresswell, a ten-year veteran of the NSA's Megalopolis offices; she had the misfortune of passing outside Regional Director Andrews' door right when he decided it was time to delegate a particularly unwanted task. Once delegated, she vowed that once she found out whoever had come up with those rules, she would have no qualms about either volunteering them the next time Edna Mode needed a human guinea pig, or stuffing them on a deserted Arctic ice floe clad only in their underwear. Whichever was ultimately more painful.
But first, the arrangements for the annual Christmas party needed to be done, and nobody could deny that once her mind was set on something it was impossible to deflect her from reaching her goals. Setting a date that didn't conflict with the majority of people's schedules had been only half the battle, but in the end Agent Cresswell was pretty darn proud of how everything had turned out. The band was booked, the party venue decked out, the drinks procured. Word was spreading that Municiberg would be hard-pressed to top this year's setup.
"Nothing should go wrong," Marietta had told Whitby the rookie, looking so fierce he'd only nodded silently, smiled, and bolted once the coast was clear.
It might have been for the better had Whitby pointed out the Fates, the irony gods, and Murphy's Law as all three had consecutively crossed his mind. But doing so, while positive in other ways, did not bode well for Whitby's continued state of good health. And considering Agent Cresswell's reputation and longevity in the service, well, God help anyone who might disagree.
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The venue was none other than the Hellebore Ballroom, located atop the Megalopolis Ritz-Carlton, a five-star facility with great views of the city skyline and very much in demand by high society. (That Cresswell had beaten out the rich and snobbish during the busy pre-Christmas season was deemed a darn miracle.) Tables were set around three sides of the expansive dance floor. Against the north wall was a dais and several chairs that seated the members of the USAF's Band of New England, who were based out of Bedford AFB six miles out. No one was quite sure how she'd managed to book them, let alone get them security clearance, but this wasn't the night to question the details. The representative from Municiberg tasked with the particulars for next year's party was overheard cursing Cresswell's accomplishment, and Agent Whitby made sure Cresswell caught wind of it.
By 7:30 pm dinner was finished and nearly everyone was either over by the balcony doors admiring the view or clustered around one of the dessert tables. Of the Phantasmics who attended (Everseer was almost always guaranteed to politely decline), Psycwave was in her element, coyly chatting to Mr. Incredible; both of them were oblivious to Elastigirl's barely hidden irritation. Plasmabolt had been roped into a conversation with Agent Pollard and Mrs. Pollard, the latter smiling and glowing with that faint aura only expecting mothers seemed to possess. A handful of couples took the opportunity to take to the dance floor, and practically every other second someone raised a hand to flag down one of the servers with the drink trays. Harried though they were, the servers were the Hellebore's best trained people and retained their perceptiveness on whom not to serve – for example, the red-faced fellow by the name of Hypershock had long since gone past his limits, placing him on the cut-off list; that pretty young agent's wife in the far corner, who was on closer inspection rather pregnant and wouldn't want or need alcohol; and at least two of the four masked attendees by Table No. 9 were more likely than underage, so keep an eye out when anyone from there placed an order.
The servers' instincts regarding Table No. 9 were spot-on; three males and one female were occupying its chairs and Macroburst was amongst them.
Macroburst was an anomaly in the NSA's superhero ranks. Aside from currently being one of their youngest supers, he was also one of their veterans, having been in the capes and tights game for four years – impressive, especially after one considered the turnover rate. Newer supers were almost always older than he, invariably surprised that a 'shrimp' had lasted as long as he had.
Two chairs over was Splashdown, one of the supers who hadn't really gotten the fact that Macroburst had plenty of field experience despite his age. Being placed on assignment with the Phantasmics changed that, and Macroburst figured that anyone who could send the villainess Ceto swimming for her life by siccing a pack of oceanic whitetip sharks on her was all right. There was a mutual respect between the two supers, which was more than could be said for others.
On Splashdown's right sat a fairly new addition to the NSA ranks – Tradewind, a dark-haired fellow with intelligent eyes who'd at first been understandably nervous to be in the presence of such known heroes like Gamma Jack and Dynaguy. As the night wore on he started to relax and was now explaining to the others at the table his powers, which had been designated as 'elemental' by the administrative staff.
"I'd have preferred a different label for it myself," he said, "since they aren't elements in the modern scientific sense. I suppose if one looks at it from a more classical viewpoint it would be easier to understand, but it's still caused some confusion."
This prompted a frown from the only female super at the table. When Splashdown had arrived that evening he'd turned heads, more from the woman who had accompanied him than anything else. Stormicide, as she was introduced, was tall and statuesque and insisted, as did Splashdown, that they were only attending the party 'as friends'. Macroburst couldn't resist pointing out the track records of previous super couples who'd been under that banner: Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl were more likely about to head to the altar any day now, whilst Frozone and Blazestone were continuously in an on-again, off-again spitfire of a relationship. At the implication, Tradewind had sniggered, Stormicide reddened and waved him off, and Splashdown amicably told Macroburst to sit down and clam up if he knew what was good for him.
"What exactly can you do?" Splashdown asked.
Tradewind grimaced. "It's limited, but I can control fire, water, earth and wind currents to a degree—"
"None of those things are elements!" Stormicide burst out. Sitting between Macroburst and Splashdown, she gestured with both hands as she went on. "Fire is energy, water is a compound, and air and earth are both mixtures! If you want something to be truly elemental, it has to deal with hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, need I go on? No offense," she added to Tradewind, "it's not your fault the categorizing system needs an update."
"And none taken. Got to hand it to you, someone paid attention in science class," Tradewind noted. "With your powers it'd help to be well-versed in chemistry."
"I major in chemistry," she said proudly. At Splashdown's pointed expression, she bristled. "What? There's literally scores of women's post-secondary educational institutions in this region – do you honestly think they could track me down like that?"
"Not without wasting man hours and resources best allocated elsewhere. Speaking of work, nice job you did on the Riverview school fire," Macroburst said, smiling. Best be neutral, he'd heard the jokes around HQ. If there was one thing he tried not to do, it was put his foot in his mouth – that was best left with the Simon Paladinos and Nathan Blakeneys (even though the latter could usually charm his way out of almost any sticky situation, and Mackenzie often wondered if that sort of thing ran in his family).
Splashdown chucked. "Yeah, proves you're of a higher calibre than the average airhead."
"Oh?" Stormicide's gaze turned flinty. "Better an airhead than a sea monkey."
This elicited several reactions – Macroburst choked on his ginger beer, Tradewind stared at Stormicide with nothing short of admiration, while the recipient of her epithet looked for all the world like a gaping fish, completely at a loss for words (human or otherwise).
But perhaps the reaction with the greatest consequences came from a tipsy, just passing Agent Whitby. Champagne glass in hand, he froze on hearing Stormicide, and howled with laughter. "'Sea monkey'? That's great! Brilliant! I gotta tell the guys – hey, hey Morty, you gotta hear this—" and he ran off to spread word of Splashdown's newly minted nickname.
Said hero seemed to have snapped out of his horror and regained his ability of speech. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?" he exclaimed.
Stormicide shrugged and even managed to look nonchalant. "Even if anyone remembers it'll die down in a month or so." When the expression on her date's face did not change, she blinked. "What, isn't that right?"
Macroburst cleared his throat. "Actually, it's more likely that will end up being used in reference to him by NSA personnel, and for all intents and purposes will serve as his unofficial name from hereon out."
"Like call signs?" Tradewind asked in genuine interest, wilting slightly at the glare Splashdown sent him.
Stormicide looked at Splashdown. "Well, it could've been worse... Sea Monkey."
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Plasmabolt made it a personal policy not to get involved in the private matters of the other supers, which she stuck rigidly to as it meant she had an easier time of putting it all behind her and shutting the door when she returned to civilian life. Sometimes her self-restraint was tested, especially when she spotted Elastigirl's angry expression a mile away, even more so when she saw the cause of it.
Everybody knew Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl were together. As Rick Dicker put in, 'a body could be deaf, dumb, and blind, and still know about them'. However, Plasmabolt was well aware that Psycwave and Elastigirl had never really gotten along, what with the Elastigirl's staunch openly feminist stance and Psycwave's similar yet conservative views on the subject. Though the two women were fair equals in intelligence, their backgrounds, upbringings, beliefs, and lifestyles meant they would clash, which they did often. It got worse after Mr. Incredible entered the picture and it became known he and Elastigirl were serious. Rose Cameron, who had never been anything less than an incorrigible flirt to begin with, decided to up the ante.
When one woman strikes at the heart of another she seldom misses; Psycwave had confided to Plasmabolt that her actions were a means of irritating her rival, and nothing more, but Elastigirl wasn't bound to see it that way.
"... I've always been partial to 'Kathryn' myself, but what do you think?" a woman's voice asked. "Plasmabolt? Would you look at that, Dan, she's a million miles away!"
"Oh, I'm sorry Dee. Could you repeat that, please?" Plasmabolt reluctantly turned back to the conversation at hand.
"Well, we've already gotten the nursery done up, and bought the crib, the clothes, the highchair, and a pram, so really, all that's left to do is decide on names." said Daniel Pollard's wife, whom most everyone called Didi. The former Diane Mallory had been a top NSA translator before her marriage and allowed to retain her security clearance as a consultant, making her one of the few agents' wives who were permitted to know exactly what their husbands did at work.
"Doesn't help we have no idea whether it's going to be a boy or a girl," Dan Pollard explained with a smile. "One day she's sure it's a girl and the next it's 'I don't know if he's going to like his baby food'."
"It might be both, if you end up having twins," Plasmabolt suggested.
"Let's hope not!" Dan exclaimed. "Though it'd certainly make our parents happy, more grandchildren to spoil rotten."
"Ha! Our mothers aren't the ones with the bump! And I've heard all the horror stories about birthing pains," Didi groused. "Once will be quite enough, thank you."
Plasmabolt raised an eyebrow. "But what if he – or she – needs a sibling?"
"Hmmm. I suppose we could always have another one in a couple of years..." said Dan thoughtfully.
Didi looked horrified. "Aren't you getting a little too ahead of yourself, sweetie? We haven't even gotten this one out yet!"
"Better listen to your wife, Dan, she knows better than you do," Harry Grier said jovially, approaching their group.
"Thank you, Harry," said Didi as she bestowed a beatific smile on her husband.
Diane's spouse glared at his colleague. "Yeah, thanks a bunch, Grier, you traitor."
Harry raised his hands. "Now, now, no need for name-calling. And while we're talking about names, I think 'Henry' would be an excellent choice for a boy."
Dan Pollard smirked. "Harry, old buddy old pal, that's a good suggestion. And I hereby exercise my right as dad by saying... not a chance."
"Dang it," Harry grumbled.
"Nice try, though," Plasmabolt consoled him.
The band wrapped up the song, a jazzy tune with a strong rhythm and fast tempo, and segued into another tune with a much more moderate pace. The Pollards excused themselves, Dan saying he owed Didi a dance, leaving Plasmabolt, Harry and an awkward silence behind them.
It didn't last long. "Don't suppose you heard about Splashdown yet?" Harry asked Plasmabolt.
"I haven't. Something the matter?" came her reply. She'd gone back to monitoring Elastigirl and Psycwave in the brief interim – no change, which was a relief.
"Nothing life-threatening. He called Stormicide something uncomplimentary, not sure exactly what, and according to Whitby the rookie she returned the favor. Seems everyone's going to be using 'Sea Monkey' around him from now on."
That got Plasmabolt's full and undivided attention. "I thought we weren't using those anymore. The codenames are more than enough to go by, why throw on additional – and might I say potentially humiliating – nicknames on top of them?"
A slow grin stole over Harry's face. "Oh no. You're still not sore over the whole 'Lady Lightbug' thing Agent Dessler started, are you?"
"I maintain the opinion that Steven Dessler was a tactless idiot. And I'm just thankful people stopped using it after a month or so." Which had possibly been the longest month of her NSA career, not that she would mention it now.
Harry contemplated his drink. "Yeah, didn't work out. People didn't really like it."
Plasmabolt perked up at that. "Because it was unsuitable and inappropriate?"
"Er, no. Actually, there were too many syllables. Anything longer than three usually dies out after a couple of weeks, but Dessler was persistent."
"Glad to hear it." Not really. "Although I do have a request. If you ever dig it out of the rejected pile, give it to some other super. Or better yet, let some egocentric villainess have it, because as far as I'm concerned she'll be more than welcome."
"I'll keep that in mind..." he trailed off. "Look, I have to confess. It wasn't all Steve's fault – God rest his soul. I, uh, kind of kept it going too, and egged him on. Thought it was cool – which it obviously wasn't, and it wasn't fair to you because you didn't like it, and I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry. For being a goof."
He was rambling. More so than usual, that is. "Where exactly are you going with this, Harry?"
He shrugged. "Don't know, though I was kind of hoping you'd let me make it up to you. Maybe over lunch."
Plasmabolt stared at him. "Agent Grier, did you ask me out on a date?"
Harry winced. "Yes, yes I suppose I did."
"It's against NSA policy."
"I know."
"I don't mix up super work and my civilian life."
"I know that too."
She paused a moment, staring into her wine glass. "You're a nice guy Harry, I'm sure of it. But for all you know I'm already married."
Grier very visibly flinched. "Hadn't thought of that. Look, I – God, this is awkward – I thought, maybe I stood a chance. But you're right. Our working relationship takes priority and shouldn't be jeopardised. I'm sorry – again."
He looked over at Sylvia to see how she was taking his words. Mildly irked to find her attention elsewhere, his irritation eased when he followed her gaze to Elastigirl's familiar red mane disappearing down the corridor to the restrooms. "Um, something going on that I should be concerned about, or should I mind my own business since it'll go over my head?"
"The latter, I should think." Plasmabolt said, amused. "Could you hold onto this for me?"
"Well, sure." Harry took her wine glass. "But it looks like Psycwave's got whatever it is in hand."
Plasmabolt froze. "Psycwave?"
"Er, yeah, she just went in after Elastigirl."
"Right," said Plasmabolt, looking distracted. "Sorry Harry, I need to go."
She took a few steps away, then turned back. "By the way, I'm not married."
Harry grinned and raised his glass to her. "Figured you weren't."
He was still grinning when the Pollards returned from the dance floor nary a minute later.
"Strike out?" asked Dan.
"Not so badly, wasn't as terrible as I thought it – No wait, actually, it was. And for the record, I am never taking advice from either of you ever again."
He'd half-expected it, but it was still galling when both Dan and Didi burst out laughing at his expense.
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The common perception of most people is to associate redheads with volatile tempers. Helen Truax prided herself on her self-control and self-restraint, both of which had served her well in the field and earned her rare commendations from the upper echelons of the NSA.
Of course, her composure was tested – mostly when villains were trying to blow up or take over the world, employing all tactics from death ray lasers to burrowing to the Earth's core in order to trigger the simultaneous eruption of every active volcano on the planet. There was even one scheme to melt the polar ice caps and submerge practically all the world's major cities in the deluge.
And then there were her fellow supers. She was on amiable terms with nearly all, casual acquaintances for the most part. Having dealt with her share of global threats and crises meant encountering the Phantasmics frequently, and Elastigirl had long ago set her opinions of them. Plasmabolt was good-natured and no-nonsense; Macroburst laid-back and unusually mature. She had nothing but respect for Everseer, but Elastigirl couldn't say the same about the Englishman's second-in-command.
Elastigirl loathed Psycwave, and she was pretty damned sure the feeling was mutual. The blonde telepath was practically the embodiment of everything Helen couldn't stand: superficial, self-serving, promiscuous, purposely stupid to attract men, catty, the list went on. Deep down, Helen knew some of her ill will could perhaps be attributed to jealousy; Psycwave was by no means ugly, and Helen knew she was very intelligent – she had heard that the other woman had fast-tracked her way to a Ph.D in something (Helen, who was enrolled in a community college program, had some very derogatory thoughts on just how Psycwave had managed to obtain the degree upon hearing that).
'God knows what or who she did to get it, that shallow hussy,' Helen thought, turning off the sink taps. She angrily continued in that vein by mentally calling Psycwave every last insult she knew, and invented a few by the time she stepped out of the restroom proper into the powder room.
"You know, Elastigirl, if you really want to go all out with your negative assessment of my character, don't do it when I'm right here."
For a moment all Helen could do was gape. Psycwave, sitting in one of the powder room chairs, gave a sardonic smile and waved. "Telepathy, remember?" she asked, tapping her temple with a gloved hand. "Or maybe not. You were too busy defaming me."
Elastigirl felt ill. "You heard me?"
"Sweetheart, with the way you were carrying on, I wouldn't be surprised if folks over at the ISC heard you." Psycwave sneered. "That's the British counterpart to the NSA, and they're based in London, by the way."
"I know what and where the ISC is!" Elastigirl hissed.
"Oh, very good, she knows her geography!" Psycwave exclaimed. "So tell me this, Elastigirl, how is it, that for all your exceptional talents, advanced vocabulary, and proudly-remembered exploits, you still react to another woman talking to your future husband with ridiculous insults and blatantly unfounded jealousy?"
"Stop reading my mind."
"I don't have to. Basic psychology – your body language is giving everything away."
Helen tensed.
"Let me get one fact clear here, Elastigirl. If there's one thing I'm not, and never will be, it's a homewrecker. Adultery is messy enough, and I make damned sure I don't get involved in that. I respect the sanctity of marriage, so unless there's a wedding band on his finger and I've scanned his mind to make sure, he's fair game." Psycwave smirked. "Now tell me something. Do you love him?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then let go of your damned insecurities and tell him that. Men are thick, they don't get subtlety, so don't bother to try." She tilted her chin down and smirked some more. "Also, I find it completely droll that you're regarding me as the sole thing that might ruin your relationship with him; it could never happen because of your rigidity, or your countenance, or your hyper-reactive jealousy, it's me. Whatever could happen down the road, it'll never be your fault, it'll always be me. You'll be saying to yourself,'Oh, that Psycwave, chatting with my darling husband; that's what ruined our marriage!' What a masterful deflection of responsibility!"
Through this, Elastigirl said not a word. Her eyes were wide and her expression set, her palms whitening as she dug her nails into them to maintain her composure. How dare she? How dare she?
"Oh, and Elastigirl?" The voice was honey-sweet, but Psycwave's countenance was diamond-hard. "If you ever insult me like that again, I promise you that electroshock therapy will be a piece of cake compared to what I'm capable of doing."
And on that note, she left.
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Plasmabolt stood six inches away from the ladies' room door, debating whether or not it would be prudent to enter. All she could hear were muffled voices, but they didn't sound hostile. Then again, Psycwave was a trained and certified psychologist, so she wouldn't need to shout and rave to get her point across. And even if Elastigirl did lose her cool (and Sylvia wouldn't fault her if she did) wouldn't Psycwave be able to subdue her with nary a thought before it came to blows?
But what if Psycwave didn't or couldn't in time? The fracas would undoubtedly not be confined to the powder room. Agent Cresswell had worked so hard to make this a night to remember; and now it was bound to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.
"Plasma, what's the holdup?"
Speak of the devil. Plasmabolt grimaced and turned to face Marietta, who'd traded in her usual tweed outfit for a handsome taffeta gown.
"It's started," was all she said, and Cresswell's face went pale before she pressed a gloved hand to her forehead and groaned. Plasmabolt nodded silently, and indicated the door.
"And it was going so well... Should I get the medical teams on standby?" Marietta asked.
Plasmabolt thought it over. Then she shook her head. "Let's wait it out, see if they're standing by the end." Sylvia had worked with both supers, knew their capabilities, and knew she didn't want to become a casualty by stepping into the crossfire.
Meanwhile Cresswell stared at the super. "Plasmabolt, you're in a better position than anyone to know that this – this feud or whatever it is – has been building up for well over a year!" Her face was flushed and Plasmabolt was betting that it wasn't from the wine rippling around the glass in Cresswell's shaking grip. "I'm more concerned about the structural integrity of this building and its occupants, and that's assuming either survives the night once they've had it out!"
It was at that moment the ladies room door swung towards them (both women in the hall jumped back to avoid getting hit) and Psycwave stepped out. As always, she was perfectly immaculate from her hair to her evening dress to her makeup to the smile on her lips that was anything but innocent.
"Taking it outside, Rose?" Plasmabolt asked snidely.
Containing her smugness, Psycwave blinked and a small frown creased her brows. "Of course not. It's over."
"What. Did. You. Do." Plasmabolt bit out, as Agent Cresswell sighed in relief.
Psycwave gave a bland shrug. "We had a few words, I gave some advice. That's all. First round goes to me, although I must admit, it was rather one-sided."
The wine glass slipped from Agent Cresswell's hand as her grip slacked. "'First round'?" she echoed.
Catching the glass with her telekinesis, Psycwave made it float to her. "Of course. I won the battle, but the war's not over yet." Surveying the full wineglass, Psycwave raised her eyebrows in a silent question to Agent Cresswell, who looked utterly out of sorts. Getting no verbal answer, Psycwave shrugged, plucked the glass out of the air, and drained it in one. Empty glass swinging from her hand, she headed back down to the party, the triumphant victor.
Plasmabolt broke the silence left in Psycwave's wake. "We're all doomed, aren't we?"
Still mute, Cresswell only nodded in reply.
To be continued...
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A/N: All right, so it's been longer than six months. My sincerest apologies; real life unfortunately has a way of impeding story progress. All I can say is thank God for summer holidays. Many thanks go out to Laura (the lovely Spindle Berry), who stuck with me and helped the chapter along; to Impressed, who reviewed the second chapter with the hope of seeing a cameo from either Bob or Helen; and to Inspector Brown, who has reviewed every last chapter since day one and graciously gave me his permission to use the rant from his author's bio (reproduced here as part of Stormicide's dialogue).