Mirage gently retracted her carefully polished fingernails from the launch controls and breathed a sigh of immodest relief. In 5 days she'd be putting in her two weeks' notice and retiring to the carefully guarded Panamanian compound she had been building for the past seven years. In less than a week, she would finally shed her misplaced allegiances and start afresh, albeit with a hefty sum of cash to facilitate her transition to unobtrusive civilian life.
She glanced at the transcript that had been delivered to her an hour or so ago by security. The woman who had arrived ostensibly at the behest of Bob was heretofore unknown to them. She had travelled alone, in a government issued aircraft, with three separate passports that Mirage now fingered curiously before replacing them back in the manila envelope that they had arrived in.
"Foreign intelligence," she muttered to herself. "Nevertheless, they're far from incorruptible."
As with most foreign agents who stumbled across their premises, the woman had been heavily sedated and placed under lock and key in a guarded section of the compound. She would probably be revived sometime well after the launch for further questioning and then, perhaps, her real identity would be uncovered.
If the rumours were true and she represented a rogue government element, all the better. Syndrome particularly liked dealing with those who resented their countries of origin. Inciting division would be particularly interesting given that this mysterious woman had some connection, be it personal or political, to Mr. Incredible.
Mirage swiftly exited the control center, stopping only to briefly speak with a guard on duty and exchange the manila pamphlet for a small vial before re-emerging in Mr. Incredible's cell.
"So, who is she, really?" Mirage quested, smirking subtly. "A wife, an old girlfriend come to call in a favour?"
Bob locked his gaze with hers, "She's nothing to me. She used me to gain access to my remaining agency connections, nothing more. I'd be happy to see her behind bars."
"Regardless, she's been subdued and is being heavily guarded. I'd strongly advise you not to engage in any heroics for the remainder of your stay here, at which point—"
"You'll dispose of me?" Bob interjected.
"Unlikely, given the tantalizing offer you just presented. My partner is an evil man, yes, but do not accuse him of lacking pragmatism. He's young, impetuous, and what you interpret as a personal vendetta is merely an extension of a larger strategy to corner the global defense manufacturing industry. Mr. Incredible, the world is so burdened by its own misdeeds that it creates artificial conflicts to sate its own incorrigible moral narcissism. Have you ever read the poem "The Walrus and the Carpenter", in which two educated individuals, comical in their appearance, for one of course is but a sea-dwelling mammal, connivingly convince a handful of unsuspecting children to follow them away from the safety of their elders, only to massacre them one by one? What Syndrome is doing here is but a microcosm of what happens every day on the world stage, in which the truly morally upstanding are deceived again and again by those who claim to have their best interests at heart."
Mirage proceeded to open the vial and delicately insert a long hypodermic needle from which she carefully extracted one and half mils of fluid.
"Besides, I'm growing rather fond of you, all things considered."
She approached Bob and rolled up his sleeve in preparation for the sedative, which itself was an admixture of fentanyl and a pharmaceutical agent only recently synthesized onsite which had already proved itself as particularly useful when restraining recalcitrant supers.
Mirage hesitated momentarily. "Do you know why I came to despise your kind? Apart from serving the hegemonic interests of your elite handlers?"
Bob's stony gaze met hers, "What else could you expect from us? We had to survive too, despite living in an industrialized nightmare. I often thought about escaping into the depths of some primitive tribe, allowing them to accept me as one of their own—their own just, humanistic guardian against the evils of the mechanical age."
Mirage paused, "Your megalomaniacal tendencies were always so expertly hidden Mr. Incredible—what changed? No, perhaps you'd have been better off cavorting with your band of misfits in some antediluvian jungle, instead of selling your soul to further an ill-begotten dream of American exceptionalism."
Rather than appear angry, Bob, who had long since renounced any attempts at unnecessary struggle, appeared conciliatory, perhaps even contemplative as she steadily neared.
"Now go to sleep Mr. Incredible. Rest assured that I will be taking personal responsibility for your care and comfort during the extent of your stay here."