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Chapter Two: Biding Your Time

She was scared.

She hated to admit it to herself, but she was. Weirdly fascinated and intrigued – how did he survive? – but also acutely aware that she was virtually trapped in his house thanks to the injuries. Violet shivered and drew the blanket a little closer around her shoulders. Not thinking about what happened was good, but she could feel the memories pressing up against the flimsy barriers; a blood-soaked knife burned into her mind’s eye, and she blinked away tears. She could get through this. Once she got her strength back, and the cuts on her back stopped hurting so much. Then she would leave. She needed to get out of here, because Syndrome was unstable. He had harbored a grudge against her father for years because he had shunned him as a boy; there was no telling what he would do against someone who tried to kill him.

It was uncomfortable to crowd herself into the far corner of the room, but it was the only blind spot in the camera. Apparently Syndrome had installed security cameras into all of his guest bedrooms, and because it was out of her reach, she settled for staying out of the camera’s sight. Violet was still very tired, and in spite of herself, nodded off for a moment with her head against the wall. Her hands, which had been gripping the blanket around her shoulder tightly, loosened and her mind went pleasantly fuzzy.

The sound of heels on hardwood woke her, and Violet arranged herself hastily to make it look as though she hadn’t been sleeping. By the time Mirage opened the door, Violet was curled in the corner with a scowl on her face. The silver-haired beauty raised an eyebrow and glanced up at the camera, noting the girl’s new arrangements.

“That camera is off, you know,” Mirage said firmly, setting down a small tray of items on the bed. She picked up a syringe and inspected it. “Come here.”

“Bite me.” Violet snapped, feeling foolish for staying pointlessly in the corner for over an hour. Warily, she got to her feet.

“It’s a pain medication,” Mirage replied tolerantly. “I promise you.”

“Oh, your promise, I can take that to the bank,” Violet snorted, clutching at the blanket once more.

“Do I need to remind you that I was the one who helped your family?” Mirage said, her green eyes narrowing. “I was the one who engineered your escape, sent your father money to rebuild your house, and kept Mister Pine away from you for all these years? I am not the enemy here, Violet.”

“You threw your lot back in with him!” She spat. “I’m not trusting you!”

“I didn’t ask you to trust me,” Mirage said quietly. “I’m reminding you that I wish you no harm.”

“Why did you go back to him?” Violet demanded.

Mirage hesitated. There was a very long answer attached to that question, and she didn’t want to get into it now. “Violet, the question still remains. Will you accept this pain medication or not? I guarantee you will feel much better.”

She looked at the older woman with suspicion. What had happened to Mirage? Why was she back with Syndrome? Violet cautiously let the blanket drop, and rolled up the sleeve of her kimono. “All right,” She said after a long pause. “But if I feel the least bit weird, I’m throwing you out this window.” The determined expression on Violet’s face left no room for doubt.

The ex-agent inserted the syringe and injected her with the amber liquid. Violet hissed in pain as the medication burned through her veins, but Mirage held her upper arm tightly and refused to let go. Once Mirage had set aside the syringe, Violet rubbed painfully at her arm, wincing. “What was that?” She demanded. Despite her suspicions, she actually was feeling a little better. It was as though someone had dialed down the massive throbbing in her head.

“One of Mister Pine’s inventions,” Mirage answered calmly.

“I thought he just made rockets,” Violet sneered, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes.

“Do not make the same mistake your father did, Violet,” Mirage warned her in a low voice. “There is more complexity to Mister Pine than your family gives him credit for.”

Violet felt embarrassed in spite of herself; it had felt like her mother reprimanding her. “And that’s why you stay with him, I suppose?” She snapped, hiding the flush beneath a sharp tone.

“Drink this,” Mirage answered, handing Violet a glass of orange juice. The younger girl took a sip uncertainly. “By the way, Mister Pine has invited you to dinner,” Mirage added, gathering the things on her tray.

The young superhero choked and felt her throat close up. “What?” She sputtered, spitting the juice back into the cup.

Mirage raised an eyebrow. “Mister Pine has requested your presence at dinner. There are clothes in your closet that may fit you.” She responded coolly.

“I’m not going to dinner!” Violet snarled. The pain had faded almost entirely, and she felt that old familiar pins-and-needles down her arm. Purple static gathered between her fingers. “You can tell that egotistical homicidal maniac that I’ll join him for dinner when hell freezes over!”

She flung a purple forcefield around Mirage and threw the sphere out the door, bowling Mirage down the hallway. Violet dissolved the forcefield and speared Mirage with a triumphant, vicious glare, and slammed the door shut. There was a dull chunk as Violet jammed a chair beneath the door handle.

Mirage blew hair out of her eyes and got to her feet, glowering at the slammed door. Impertinent, judgmental, violent little superhero...She smoothed the front of her jacket, checked to be sure her Glock hadn’t slipped out of its shoulder holster, and went downstairs almost primly. The only betrayal of her anger were her almond-shaped green eyes, which were simmering with frustration.

Buddy was sitting in the control room, sketching something that looked like a glove on a piece of paper. “She turned down the request, didn’t she?” He asked lightly.

“She threw me out of the room,” Mirage retorted.

He sat back and looked up, grinning. “Delightful,” He purred. “She’ll come down when she’s hungry enough.”

“Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming,” Mirage said coldly, gathering her paperwork.

“Oh, come on,” Buddy said, rolling his eyes. “You know I’m sorry she threw you out. I don’t need to say it.”

Mirage paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Sometimes, Mister Pine, the obvious needs to be stated.”

Buddy turned away and made an expression that could be described as a pout.

She lasted until almost two in the morning before moving the chair and creeping downstairs. Unable to wear her supersuit, she settled for turning her head invisible and creeping along in the shadows, trying to avoid creaky spots on the steps. Violet was absolutely starving, and it felt like the pain medication was wearing off. After throwing Mirage out of the room she had been nearly giddy with power, and had spent the rest of the afternoon on her bed, making sure nobody tried to come in. Despite her best intentions, she had napped briefly, and woke up a few hours ago with a roaring stomach.

All she needed to do was sneak downstairs, find the kitchen, and get a bite to eat. That wouldn’t be hard. After all, the house may be big, but that also lessened her chances of being caught.

Thankfully, the house was very large but also very naturally appointed – she followed her gut instinct and found the kitchen in nothing flat. The kitchen had an impressive granite countertop spanning three-fourths of the room, with chrome appliances humming gently in the background. A butcher block table was in the corner, and even though most of the kitchen was in shadows, there was a little digital clock on the stove that illuminated the refrigerator. Violet crept over and opened it, bathing the whole room in soft yellow light.

“Hungry?”

Violet shrieked in alarm, turning fast and striking her bruised forearm against the countertop. Pain bolted up her arm and she whimpered, pressing the sore limb against her ribcage. “Where are you?” She demanded, her voice tinny with strain.

Buddy flicked on the lights, and she saw he was sitting in the corner at the table. There was a mug in front of him, along with a wedge of cheese and a dried vine that used to hold grapes. Those horrible scars were thrown into sharp relief, and Violet felt that wave of nausea and horror wash over her again. “Over here, pumpkin,” He said softly. “Go on, get something to eat. I think there’s some fettuccini in there left over from dinner.”

Violet closed the refrigerator, eyeing him. “I don’t think so,” She said slowly. Options raced through her head. Throw him against the wall? Break a window and try to escape? But she was still so tired. Her stomach rumbled noisily.

“Why not?” Buddy said, sounding pleased. “You certainly seem hungry.”

She didn’t trust that wolfish expression on his face.

“I’m not eating dinner with you,” She said, a little more firmly. The pain subsided in her arm, settling to a more dull ache.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a monster.”

“That’s all relative,” Buddy answered, but his voice had dropped to a lazy rumble which certainly sounded predatory. “And you’re hungry. I won’t hurt you, cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You should’ve died,” Violet found herself saying, and opened the refrigerator. “Why didn’t you?”

It felt weird and surreal to be chatting to Syndrome, especially in the middle of his kitchen. She took out another bunch of grapes and went over to the table, dragging the chair farther away from him. Buddy scratched his chin and looked at her condescendingly. “Zero point gravity, sweetheart,” He tapped his wrist, which surprisingly was unscarred. “The explosion afterwards left me with a few...nasty reminders.” His grin widened and she felt a hot flush prickle down her cheeks. He was looking at her like she was a plate of beef.

“How’d you get this house?” Violet asked, eating a grape. “I thought they froze your funds.”

“Sweetie, first rule of being a supervillain is you don’t get chained down to one identity,” Buddy said. “As a matter of fact, this identity happened to be a personal favorite of mine. They’re easy things to create, once you have the money.”

He watched her, noting the way her white teeth closed around the grapes she was eating. She was still wearing the silk kimono Mirage had dress her in, and the teenager was woefully innocent of the inches of thigh she was baring. She was so deliciously beautiful, innocently sexy, with her hair loose around her shoulders and dressed in black silk.

“Why haven’t you come after my family yet?” Violet asked, furrowing her brow. Syndrome was looking at her strangely again.

“Who’s to say I haven’t?” Buddy replied with a smirk. “Try some cheese with those grapes, they’ll taste better.”

“Have you...?” Violet felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. “Have you gone after my family?”

“Not yet I haven’t,” He said, and leaned back in his chair. “I waited twelve years to go after your family last time, Miss Parr. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

A/N: You know what I hate? Plot bunnies. They attack me between updates. X_X

Description
Chapter Two: Biding Your Time

She was scared.

She hated to admit it to herself, but she was. Weirdly fascinated and intrigued – how did he survive? – but also acutely aware that she was virtually trapped in his house thanks to the injuries. Violet shivered and drew the blanket a little closer around her shoulders. Not thinking about what happened was good, but she could feel the memories pressing up against the flimsy barriers; a blood-soaked knife burned into her mind’s eye, and she blinked away tears. She could get through this. Once she got her strength back, and the cuts on her back stopped hurting so much. Then she would leave. She needed to get out of here, because Syndrome was unstable. He had harbored a grudge against her father for years because he had shunned him as a boy; there was no telling what he would do against someone who tried to kill him.

It was uncomfortable to crowd herself into the far corner of the room, but it was the only blind spot in the camera. Apparently Syndrome had installed security cameras into all of his guest bedrooms, and because it was out of her reach, she settled for staying out of the camera’s sight. Violet was still very tired, and in spite of herself, nodded off for a moment with her head against the wall. Her hands, which had been gripping the blanket around her shoulder tightly, loosened and her mind went pleasantly fuzzy.

The sound of heels on hardwood woke her, and Violet arranged herself hastily to make it look as though she hadn’t been sleeping. By the time Mirage opened the door, Violet was curled in the corner with a scowl on her face. The silver-haired beauty raised an eyebrow and glanced up at the camera, noting the girl’s new arrangements.

“That camera is off, you know,” Mirage said firmly, setting down a small tray of items on the bed. She picked up a syringe and inspected it. “Come here.”

“Bite me.” Violet snapped, feeling foolish for staying pointlessly in the corner for over an hour. Warily, she got to her feet.

“It’s a pain medication,” Mirage replied tolerantly. “I promise you.”

“Oh, your promise, I can take that to the bank,” Violet snorted, clutching at the blanket once more.

“Do I need to remind you that I was the one who helped your family?” Mirage said, her green eyes narrowing. “I was the one who engineered your escape, sent your father money to rebuild your house, and kept Mister Pine away from you for all these years? I am not the enemy here, Violet.”

“You threw your lot back in with him!” She spat. “I’m not trusting you!”

“I didn’t ask you to trust me,” Mirage said quietly. “I’m reminding you that I wish you no harm.”

“Why did you go back to him?” Violet demanded.

Mirage hesitated. There was a very long answer attached to that question, and she didn’t want to get into it now. “Violet, the question still remains. Will you accept this pain medication or not? I guarantee you will feel much better.”

She looked at the older woman with suspicion. What had happened to Mirage? Why was she back with Syndrome? Violet cautiously let the blanket drop, and rolled up the sleeve of her kimono. “All right,” She said after a long pause. “But if I feel the least bit weird, I’m throwing you out this window.” The determined expression on Violet’s face left no room for doubt.

The ex-agent inserted the syringe and injected her with the amber liquid. Violet hissed in pain as the medication burned through her veins, but Mirage held her upper arm tightly and refused to let go. Once Mirage had set aside the syringe, Violet rubbed painfully at her arm, wincing. “What was that?” She demanded. Despite her suspicions, she actually was feeling a little better. It was as though someone had dialed down the massive throbbing in her head.

“One of Mister Pine’s inventions,” Mirage answered calmly.

“I thought he just made rockets,” Violet sneered, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes.

“Do not make the same mistake your father did, Violet,” Mirage warned her in a low voice. “There is more complexity to Mister Pine than your family gives him credit for.”

Violet felt embarrassed in spite of herself; it had felt like her mother reprimanding her. “And that’s why you stay with him, I suppose?” She snapped, hiding the flush beneath a sharp tone.

“Drink this,” Mirage answered, handing Violet a glass of orange juice. The younger girl took a sip uncertainly. “By the way, Mister Pine has invited you to dinner,” Mirage added, gathering the things on her tray.

The young superhero choked and felt her throat close up. “What?” She sputtered, spitting the juice back into the cup.

Mirage raised an eyebrow. “Mister Pine has requested your presence at dinner. There are clothes in your closet that may fit you.” She responded coolly.

“I’m not going to dinner!” Violet snarled. The pain had faded almost entirely, and she felt that old familiar pins-and-needles down her arm. Purple static gathered between her fingers. “You can tell that egotistical homicidal maniac that I’ll join him for dinner when hell freezes over!”

She flung a purple forcefield around Mirage and threw the sphere out the door, bowling Mirage down the hallway. Violet dissolved the forcefield and speared Mirage with a triumphant, vicious glare, and slammed the door shut. There was a dull chunk as Violet jammed a chair beneath the door handle.

Mirage blew hair out of her eyes and got to her feet, glowering at the slammed door. Impertinent, judgmental, violent little superhero...She smoothed the front of her jacket, checked to be sure her Glock hadn’t slipped out of its shoulder holster, and went downstairs almost primly. The only betrayal of her anger were her almond-shaped green eyes, which were simmering with frustration.

Buddy was sitting in the control room, sketching something that looked like a glove on a piece of paper. “She turned down the request, didn’t she?” He asked lightly.

“She threw me out of the room,” Mirage retorted.

He sat back and looked up, grinning. “Delightful,” He purred. “She’ll come down when she’s hungry enough.”

“Your concern for my well-being is overwhelming,” Mirage said coldly, gathering her paperwork.

“Oh, come on,” Buddy said, rolling his eyes. “You know I’m sorry she threw you out. I don’t need to say it.”

Mirage paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Sometimes, Mister Pine, the obvious needs to be stated.”

Buddy turned away and made an expression that could be described as a pout.

She lasted until almost two in the morning before moving the chair and creeping downstairs. Unable to wear her supersuit, she settled for turning her head invisible and creeping along in the shadows, trying to avoid creaky spots on the steps. Violet was absolutely starving, and it felt like the pain medication was wearing off. After throwing Mirage out of the room she had been nearly giddy with power, and had spent the rest of the afternoon on her bed, making sure nobody tried to come in. Despite her best intentions, she had napped briefly, and woke up a few hours ago with a roaring stomach.

All she needed to do was sneak downstairs, find the kitchen, and get a bite to eat. That wouldn’t be hard. After all, the house may be big, but that also lessened her chances of being caught.

Thankfully, the house was very large but also very naturally appointed – she followed her gut instinct and found the kitchen in nothing flat. The kitchen had an impressive granite countertop spanning three-fourths of the room, with chrome appliances humming gently in the background. A butcher block table was in the corner, and even though most of the kitchen was in shadows, there was a little digital clock on the stove that illuminated the refrigerator. Violet crept over and opened it, bathing the whole room in soft yellow light.

“Hungry?”

Violet shrieked in alarm, turning fast and striking her bruised forearm against the countertop. Pain bolted up her arm and she whimpered, pressing the sore limb against her ribcage. “Where are you?” She demanded, her voice tinny with strain.

Buddy flicked on the lights, and she saw he was sitting in the corner at the table. There was a mug in front of him, along with a wedge of cheese and a dried vine that used to hold grapes. Those horrible scars were thrown into sharp relief, and Violet felt that wave of nausea and horror wash over her again. “Over here, pumpkin,” He said softly. “Go on, get something to eat. I think there’s some fettuccini in there left over from dinner.”

Violet closed the refrigerator, eyeing him. “I don’t think so,” She said slowly. Options raced through her head. Throw him against the wall? Break a window and try to escape? But she was still so tired. Her stomach rumbled noisily.

“Why not?” Buddy said, sounding pleased. “You certainly seem hungry.”

She didn’t trust that wolfish expression on his face.

“I’m not eating dinner with you,” She said, a little more firmly. The pain subsided in her arm, settling to a more dull ache.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a monster.”

“That’s all relative,” Buddy answered, but his voice had dropped to a lazy rumble which certainly sounded predatory. “And you’re hungry. I won’t hurt you, cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You should’ve died,” Violet found herself saying, and opened the refrigerator. “Why didn’t you?”

It felt weird and surreal to be chatting to Syndrome, especially in the middle of his kitchen. She took out another bunch of grapes and went over to the table, dragging the chair farther away from him. Buddy scratched his chin and looked at her condescendingly. “Zero point gravity, sweetheart,” He tapped his wrist, which surprisingly was unscarred. “The explosion afterwards left me with a few...nasty reminders.” His grin widened and she felt a hot flush prickle down her cheeks. He was looking at her like she was a plate of beef.

“How’d you get this house?” Violet asked, eating a grape. “I thought they froze your funds.”

“Sweetie, first rule of being a supervillain is you don’t get chained down to one identity,” Buddy said. “As a matter of fact, this identity happened to be a personal favorite of mine. They’re easy things to create, once you have the money.”

He watched her, noting the way her white teeth closed around the grapes she was eating. She was still wearing the silk kimono Mirage had dress her in, and the teenager was woefully innocent of the inches of thigh she was baring. She was so deliciously beautiful, innocently sexy, with her hair loose around her shoulders and dressed in black silk.

“Why haven’t you come after my family yet?” Violet asked, furrowing her brow. Syndrome was looking at her strangely again.

“Who’s to say I haven’t?” Buddy replied with a smirk. “Try some cheese with those grapes, they’ll taste better.”

“Have you...?” Violet felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. “Have you gone after my family?”

“Not yet I haven’t,” He said, and leaned back in his chair. “I waited twelve years to go after your family last time, Miss Parr. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

A/N: You know what I hate? Plot bunnies. They attack me between updates. X_X