Through a Glass [Incredibles]
This is the largest piece I have written in the 201created universe. I hope you all like it.
Title: Through a Glass
Fandom: Incredibles (201created universe)
Words: 1600
Rating: FRT
Summary: "Syndrome had left behind an intelligent, competent staff, dedicated and capable of great feats, but he had built it to turn his dream into a reality, and without him, there was nothing left to accomplish. It was into this quiet desperation that he walked."
Despite all his planning, it had all come apart at the end, and he had been killed. Unexpected, to say the least. And despite everything, I had managed to survive. It lay in my hands, a parting gift from Mr. Incredible: my future. I could do anything I wanted with it. Nomanisan, the facility itself, the staff -- all ready to follow my lead. Perhaps if I had been another kind of person, another kind of woman, I would have sworn some sort of violent revenge for the bloody and embarrassing death of my beloved. But he hadn't been my beloved, just my boss. I'd had something of a crush on him, and he'd most certainly been drawn to me, but we hadn't had enough time together to work into anything more. He'd really been too much of a boy in man's clothing to try and build a life with -- even if there was any room for me alongside his obsession.
I had never really been the epic-planning type, though, so not much happened for a few months. It gave us a chance to lick our wounds, to make repairs to the facility, to fix the gaping security holes Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl had waltzed through. Nothing like experience to kick your theories to pieces. I enjoyed those months, the peace and quiet and the ability to steal away and think if I needed to. But as spring slipped into summer on the mainland, and nothing happened, we all began to get restless.
Syndrome's Chief of Security came to me on a Wednesday afternoon in early July. He made a professional report on the island's security, exactly like a hundred similar ones I'd heard him make to Syndrome. And then he asked me what we were securing against. "I don't know," I admitted to him. "At first, I was afraid that Mr. Incredible might come back, or the NSA might show up and try and take us all into custody. I thought that at least the US Congress would make some sort of decision on whether Supers were allowed to come out of hiding again. But none of that happened. Nothing has happened. And nothing continues to happen. And, frankly, Brendan, I have no earthly clue what to do, at this point."
Syndrome had left behind an intelligent, competent staff, dedicated and capable of great feats, but he had built it to turn his dream into a reality, and without him, there was nothing left to accomplish. Without his guidance, we had nothing to do.
It was into this quiet desperation that he walked.
"Mirage?" His voice, from the other room.
"I'm in the shower," I called, in case it was Brendan and not my imagination.
It was neither. The bathroom door opened, and I caught a glimpse of black-and-white suit topped by red hair through the frosted glass. "Are you almost done?" he asked.
I peered at him, trying to make my eyes focus as well as they were able to. He didn't sound quite right; there was something missing in the quality of his voice. Perhaps death does strange things to one's intonation, I thought. "Five more minutes," I answered. "I'm rinsing my hair."
"I'll wait," he said.
"I'll hurry."
He didn't leave.
"In the other room, if you please," I said, trying not to snap. He was dead, after all, and my mother had always taught me not to speak ill of the dead. I imagined speaking ill to the dead would be equally rude.
"Oh. Sorry." He backed out, and I hurried through my shower as much as physically possible, settling for wrapping myself in my bathrobe and pulling on the glasses I'd never worn in front of him rather than taking the time to put in my contact lenses.
He was sitting at my desk in my living room, paging through folders on it.
And with the benefit of my glasses, I could tell that it wasn't Syndrome, after all, just a strange redheaded man wearing his super suit. Not even his exact super suit, either -- his left sleeve was white, and there was something not-quite-right with his gauntlets. "Who are you?" I demanded. "How did you get in here?" Brendan and I had worked so hard to close every security hole we could find, and this total stranger had waltzed right into my bathroom without setting off so much as a warning light.
"I'm Syndrome," he said, looking up at me.
His voice was low and controlled, but otherwise sounded exactly like the true bearer of that name. Blue eyes; freckles; wavy red hair in a low ponytail rather than his "zero point hairstyle;" the physical resemblance was eerie. But there was something, like his intonation earlier, that was off. He seemed, if nothing else, considerably older than my boyish former employer. That, and the not-to-be-ignored fact that, "Syndrome's dead. He was killed in a suit malfunction four months ago."
"Suit malfunction?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "How embarrassing."
"He had an unfortunate encounter with a jet turbine," I said. "So who are you?"
"I'm Syndrome," he repeated, "although not the one you knew."
It was enough to interest me.
****
This new Syndrome - version 2.0, if you will -- gave us our drive back, fiercer and purer than before. There were no pretend heroics from him; his mission was to eliminate supers entirely. "After all, if they've been legislated away," a fact that pleased him immensely, "then it's pretty obvious that they're not needed any more."
I was worried about losing staff, because murder was never our business. But everyone was so caught up in having a purpose again that no one was inclined to quibble about what the purpose was. The boss's absence had been felt on every level of the command structure. Brendan confided in me later that some of them had been waiting for me to seek revenge; it was expected somehow. I daresay they thought I had conjured his replacement in a secret lab deep in the bowels of the lair.
He spent some time redesigning and upgrading our equipment, and then we were back in business. I was surprised at how easy it was, but the government had done us a favor with their inaction. Every super I talked to was excited by the possibility of action, and wanted the opportunity to dissect the Omnidroid's attack on Metroville's financial district.
Our new story was that our organization had tracked down the culprit responsible, and they ate it up. Everyone wanted to be the super responsible for stopping Syndrome. "For finishing the job Mr. Incredible left undone," as Firaxis put it. And it wasn't just old supers wanting to put their suits back on; new supers were popping up in the legislative gray areas. Several corporations headquartered in Metroville had hired supers to act as security guards, a trend spreading across the country. There was nothing in the law about corporate sponsorship of supers; only freelancing hero work had been outlawed. Suddenly, supers were advertising their services in the paper, which made my job much easier.
In the meantime, there were things going on that had nothing to do with supers.
I must admit that I'd had something of a crush on Syndrome version 1, but I was somewhat put off by his -- immaturity. Version 2 had no such problem, but he was so utterly self-possessed that I found him quite intimidating.
Syndrome was certainly older than my former boss. If pressed, I'd say he was at least thirty-five, probably closer to forty-five. A seasoned pro. He watched me with a quiet intensity I'd never before experienced. Perhaps this was how older men expressed interest, or perhaps he was just worried about my position in the project; I didn't know.
But he was interested in e. He knew me - "better than I know myself" sounds so clichéd, but it was true. He would give things to me, saying, "You'll like this." And I would.
He knew things about me without having to be told - mundane things like my birthday and my favorite color; subtler things like how I ate cheeseburgers and what my favorite sushi was; and things I'd never told anyone. My recurring nightmares. My battle with anorexia and cocaine. My abusive ex-boyfriend. Things that scared me.
I think I agreed to go to dinner with him because he scared me. Because he could. And I'd always been drawn to power. His was just a different kind.
We talked all night.
It was so comfortable talking to him. It really felt like I'd known him for years; the intimidation dissipated after an hour or two.
What it turned out to be was that he had known me for years, in various incarnations. He didn't tell me how many universes he'd been through in his quest to eliminate supers, but I got the impression that there were quite a few.
He also told me that he'd killed me on multiple occasions. I was a super, or the other versions of me were. My own genetic makeup was still unknown.
There was something more he wasn't telling me there, something that haunted the corners of his mouth and the still places in his eyes. I would wait and see. Eventually he would tell me, in one way or another.
I got some of the story a few nights later, when I let him take me to bed. His hands and his mouth told me more clearly than any anecdote how much he had loved me.
Title: Through a Glass
Fandom: Incredibles (201created universe)
Words: 1600
Rating: FRT
Summary: "Syndrome had left behind an intelligent, competent staff, dedicated and capable of great feats, but he had built it to turn his dream into a reality, and without him, there was nothing left to accomplish. It was into this quiet desperation that he walked."
Despite all his planning, it had all come apart at the end, and he had been killed. Unexpected, to say the least. And despite everything, I had managed to survive. It lay in my hands, a parting gift from Mr. Incredible: my future. I could do anything I wanted with it. Nomanisan, the facility itself, the staff -- all ready to follow my lead. Perhaps if I had been another kind of person, another kind of woman, I would have sworn some sort of violent revenge for the bloody and embarrassing death of my beloved. But he hadn't been my beloved, just my boss. I'd had something of a crush on him, and he'd most certainly been drawn to me, but we hadn't had enough time together to work into anything more. He'd really been too much of a boy in man's clothing to try and build a life with -- even if there was any room for me alongside his obsession.
I had never really been the epic-planning type, though, so not much happened for a few months. It gave us a chance to lick our wounds, to make repairs to the facility, to fix the gaping security holes Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl had waltzed through. Nothing like experience to kick your theories to pieces. I enjoyed those months, the peace and quiet and the ability to steal away and think if I needed to. But as spring slipped into summer on the mainland, and nothing happened, we all began to get restless.
Syndrome's Chief of Security came to me on a Wednesday afternoon in early July. He made a professional report on the island's security, exactly like a hundred similar ones I'd heard him make to Syndrome. And then he asked me what we were securing against. "I don't know," I admitted to him. "At first, I was afraid that Mr. Incredible might come back, or the NSA might show up and try and take us all into custody. I thought that at least the US Congress would make some sort of decision on whether Supers were allowed to come out of hiding again. But none of that happened. Nothing has happened. And nothing continues to happen. And, frankly, Brendan, I have no earthly clue what to do, at this point."
Syndrome had left behind an intelligent, competent staff, dedicated and capable of great feats, but he had built it to turn his dream into a reality, and without him, there was nothing left to accomplish. Without his guidance, we had nothing to do.
It was into this quiet desperation that he walked.
"Mirage?" His voice, from the other room.
"I'm in the shower," I called, in case it was Brendan and not my imagination.
It was neither. The bathroom door opened, and I caught a glimpse of black-and-white suit topped by red hair through the frosted glass. "Are you almost done?" he asked.
I peered at him, trying to make my eyes focus as well as they were able to. He didn't sound quite right; there was something missing in the quality of his voice. Perhaps death does strange things to one's intonation, I thought. "Five more minutes," I answered. "I'm rinsing my hair."
"I'll wait," he said.
"I'll hurry."
He didn't leave.
"In the other room, if you please," I said, trying not to snap. He was dead, after all, and my mother had always taught me not to speak ill of the dead. I imagined speaking ill to the dead would be equally rude.
"Oh. Sorry." He backed out, and I hurried through my shower as much as physically possible, settling for wrapping myself in my bathrobe and pulling on the glasses I'd never worn in front of him rather than taking the time to put in my contact lenses.
He was sitting at my desk in my living room, paging through folders on it.
And with the benefit of my glasses, I could tell that it wasn't Syndrome, after all, just a strange redheaded man wearing his super suit. Not even his exact super suit, either -- his left sleeve was white, and there was something not-quite-right with his gauntlets. "Who are you?" I demanded. "How did you get in here?" Brendan and I had worked so hard to close every security hole we could find, and this total stranger had waltzed right into my bathroom without setting off so much as a warning light.
"I'm Syndrome," he said, looking up at me.
His voice was low and controlled, but otherwise sounded exactly like the true bearer of that name. Blue eyes; freckles; wavy red hair in a low ponytail rather than his "zero point hairstyle;" the physical resemblance was eerie. But there was something, like his intonation earlier, that was off. He seemed, if nothing else, considerably older than my boyish former employer. That, and the not-to-be-ignored fact that, "Syndrome's dead. He was killed in a suit malfunction four months ago."
"Suit malfunction?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "How embarrassing."
"He had an unfortunate encounter with a jet turbine," I said. "So who are you?"
"I'm Syndrome," he repeated, "although not the one you knew."
It was enough to interest me.
****
This new Syndrome - version 2.0, if you will -- gave us our drive back, fiercer and purer than before. There were no pretend heroics from him; his mission was to eliminate supers entirely. "After all, if they've been legislated away," a fact that pleased him immensely, "then it's pretty obvious that they're not needed any more."
I was worried about losing staff, because murder was never our business. But everyone was so caught up in having a purpose again that no one was inclined to quibble about what the purpose was. The boss's absence had been felt on every level of the command structure. Brendan confided in me later that some of them had been waiting for me to seek revenge; it was expected somehow. I daresay they thought I had conjured his replacement in a secret lab deep in the bowels of the lair.
He spent some time redesigning and upgrading our equipment, and then we were back in business. I was surprised at how easy it was, but the government had done us a favor with their inaction. Every super I talked to was excited by the possibility of action, and wanted the opportunity to dissect the Omnidroid's attack on Metroville's financial district.
Our new story was that our organization had tracked down the culprit responsible, and they ate it up. Everyone wanted to be the super responsible for stopping Syndrome. "For finishing the job Mr. Incredible left undone," as Firaxis put it. And it wasn't just old supers wanting to put their suits back on; new supers were popping up in the legislative gray areas. Several corporations headquartered in Metroville had hired supers to act as security guards, a trend spreading across the country. There was nothing in the law about corporate sponsorship of supers; only freelancing hero work had been outlawed. Suddenly, supers were advertising their services in the paper, which made my job much easier.
In the meantime, there were things going on that had nothing to do with supers.
I must admit that I'd had something of a crush on Syndrome version 1, but I was somewhat put off by his -- immaturity. Version 2 had no such problem, but he was so utterly self-possessed that I found him quite intimidating.
Syndrome was certainly older than my former boss. If pressed, I'd say he was at least thirty-five, probably closer to forty-five. A seasoned pro. He watched me with a quiet intensity I'd never before experienced. Perhaps this was how older men expressed interest, or perhaps he was just worried about my position in the project; I didn't know.
But he was interested in e. He knew me - "better than I know myself" sounds so clichéd, but it was true. He would give things to me, saying, "You'll like this." And I would.
He knew things about me without having to be told - mundane things like my birthday and my favorite color; subtler things like how I ate cheeseburgers and what my favorite sushi was; and things I'd never told anyone. My recurring nightmares. My battle with anorexia and cocaine. My abusive ex-boyfriend. Things that scared me.
I think I agreed to go to dinner with him because he scared me. Because he could. And I'd always been drawn to power. His was just a different kind.
We talked all night.
It was so comfortable talking to him. It really felt like I'd known him for years; the intimidation dissipated after an hour or two.
What it turned out to be was that he had known me for years, in various incarnations. He didn't tell me how many universes he'd been through in his quest to eliminate supers, but I got the impression that there were quite a few.
He also told me that he'd killed me on multiple occasions. I was a super, or the other versions of me were. My own genetic makeup was still unknown.
There was something more he wasn't telling me there, something that haunted the corners of his mouth and the still places in his eyes. I would wait and see. Eventually he would tell me, in one way or another.
I got some of the story a few nights later, when I let him take me to bed. His hands and his mouth told me more clearly than any anecdote how much he had loved me.