Wounds of Atonement

Chapter One: Distracted with the Past

Summary: Slash. Bob Parr, aka Mr. Incredible, is just beginning to learn how to forget, and Buddy Pine, aka the somewhat reformed Syndrome, is just starting to look back. Rated M for future adult situations, adult language, and non consensual sex.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story ideas and eventual OCs.

Metroville, Mr. Incredible’s latest and hopefully permanent home. It was a city of tall beautiful buildings and indistinguishable suburbs with hidden twisting streets and filthy scumbags like any other populated place in the world. Since the giant evil ‘Omnidrode’ incident in the heart of downtown more and more Supers had been popping up and saving the day. In response, of course, more ridiculous and generic villains/self proclaimed arch nemeses decided to rear their masked heads up as well.

He gently shut his new tinted blue car, the same model and likeness of his earlier vehicle that had accidentally suffered his strength. Bob glanced at his worried reflection in the glaring glass window. He looked like Bob. Like Mr. Incredible undercover. Like Bob. The new Bob? He wasn’t a young super heartthrob with women literally throwing themselves out buildings for him. He was a married forty-something year old husband and father of three. He was Bob, Mr. Incredible, all grown up. He didn’t need the memories and daydreams to distract him from his life.

Ha. ‘Distracted’. That was Helen talking. Depression, self-pity, misery, mortification summed up his time-consuming emotions.

Bob pressed the cross walk button as cars whizzed by. Horns honked. People said hello. Trees chirped with baby birds. The sky was a particularly droll blue. Everything seemed enhanced for a moment, intense, and then faded out.

“Sign this, Mr. Incredible? I’m your biggest fan! My name? You’re asking for my name?! Golly, I’m Buddy, sir! Buddy Pine!” Light blue eyes sparkled. That grin, creasing the defined chin Bob tried not to stare at. So much energy, so much admiration… Worshipped, worshipped like a God was what Buddy was giving to Mr. Incredible.

The superhero shook his head, a sulk overcoming his customary plain and tired look. Cars continued to pass on the freshly paved street, honking a tune with little rhythm. No one was in trouble, it seemed, but Bob was still tense. Less than a week ago he had been trying to hide his excitement and joy of being in the spotlight once more, of being Mr. Incredible again. He felt like his old self but with a twist. It was as if he was the old Bob but with so much more wisdom, responsibility.

But then this…’appointment’ crawled from the depths of some bottomless pit. Bob crossed with the crowd while painted white lines held drivers back. He drifted in and out of the various voices, smells, sights, and sounds. He didn’t seem to be able feel his clothes or teeth, like he was dreaming. Bob didn’t recall having many dreams as of late, only nightmares. Nightmares of losing his family, of losing the world, and the utter guilt he felt for what he had done to Buddy – Syndrome.

"Oh, no. Elastigirl? You married Elastigirl? Ho, ho, ho... Oh - and got biz-zay! It's a whole family of supers! Looks like I hit the jackpot! Oh, this is just too good!" Buddy had said as he held the suspended family high in the air. Bob’s eyes darted from each member before landing on the supervillain. This was his entire fault.

Someone brushed passed his shoulder. Twice. But Bob kept walking, lost in thoughts and his insecure fears. He wasn’t as strong as everyone thought him to be. He always found himself regretting his actions, fearing the worst, and feeling guilt. Guilt for things he hadn’t even done yet and guilt for the pain he had caused in the past.

“I never look back, darling! It distracts from the now,” said Edna as she swaggered beside Bob.

“I can’t help but look back, both at the good and the bad,” Bob mumbled to himself.

Bob was still Bob though. Bob was Mr. Incredible, and Mr. Incredible was Bob. Robert Parr had always had superpowers. He’d always been the best, always gotten the girls, and Bob always received the attention, always. Now with the endless superheroes springing into action, including his family, Bob’s current actions were racing to catch up with his famous memories.

He was still Bob though. He needed to remind himself of that. He was human, a superhero in disguise, but just a man all the same.

Well, Bob was also older now, wiser as well. He realized his mistakes and knew he needed to be schooled in ‘teamwork’ and all that jazz. Violet called it a case of the ‘Hubris Complex’, whatever that meant, but Bob knew it had to be bad.

He gritted his teeth with little satisfaction. The white limp piece of crumpled paper held the right address, found easily, located in an open and unsuspicious spot, but the knots continued to grow and tighten. His stomach groaned, threatening Bob with yet another ulcer. Bob wasn’t sure how he had wandered to the right place to begin with. Buddy was really in there, wasn’t he?

The old Buddy…

“Deep breathes, deep breathes,” he whispered and inhaled several times. NSA had contacted him via phone, something rare and strange all the same, and set up a meeting. Bob had agreed to it mainly because Rick had been the one to ring him two days ago. The classically cheesy yet comfortable atmosphere of the selected dinner had disappeared in the brief and rather abrupt lunch. Rick, in his usual fashion, had broken the news of a scheduled meeting with a captured Syndrome. No, no, the reformed Buddy Pine, as Rick worded it. Bob had been in such a state of shock that he’d sat alone at the sterile counter with the bill, a half eaten burger, and an open mouth for a good ten minutes.

“Fly home, Buddy.”

“I work alone.”

“I’m not associated with him!”

Had he really said all that? To a kid? Ironically, Bob rarely disciplined his own children. How could he possibly have been so cruel? To his number one fan?

Bob adjusted his gray suit and straightened the slightly creased tie. He took a deep breath, one shaky hand fixing his hair while the other squeezed and released the business card. The wind was picking up and life carried on around him. The surrounding sounds once again returned to his ringing ears.

His pair of deep oceanic blue eyes studied the building before him. It was that of an extravagant appearance; at least five times larger than the new Parr house, made of some sort of a sleek shiny stone foundation, and a marble fountain. Various shrubbery and trees scattered about in a noticeable pattern, yet Bob’s eyes stayed glued on the wide half-circle doors. ‘Important people’, as Dash dubbed them, worked here. Bob began to wonder what the NSA was using as cover when a woman pushed by him. “S-Sorry, ma’am,” he said. She didn’t look back, but Bob didn’t mind watching her sleek figure and freshly pressed short black skirt disappear into the large complex.

“Show time,” said Bob as he exhaled once more. He headed to the apparent revolving doors in a cold sweat.

“Thank you for coming,” Rick said as the two men traveled down one of the many, many white hallways. Various rooms, all identical with faces dressed in black, lied on either side. There were no doors in the apparent ‘Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry’, just sliding walls and underground escalators. The superhero was glad he had Rick as a guide.

Bob kept tripping and stuttering, loosing focus and occasionally his grip on whatever he was supposed to be holding onto for support. Everything was just happening too fast. First he was mad, then guilty, then scared.

Rick paused, his long worn out face looking through Bob, like he always did. “It’s a part of his therapy, Bob. This is all supposed to be one of the first steps of the process.”

“Really?” Bob’s head turned in amazement. He was actually helping Buddy? Buddy. Was he even allowed to call Syn-Buddy, Buddy?

“He still insists on being called Syndrome,” Rick said and slid yet another strange card through some sort of scanner. Bolted safe-like doors opened for them and closed in a bone-crunching instant. Bob kept zoning in and out, unaware of his and Rick’s conversation dying out to nothing.

As the final elevator doors slid open Rick eyed Bob. “Straight ahead, Bob.” Steel gray metal lied on either side of the narrow but long corridor. Florescent lights shined off the heads of two heavy equipped guards in dark green, who stared at Bob from afar. “He’s behind the door they’re guarding, I take it?” Of course the ‘door’ was just an outline of yet another sliding slab of metal.

“Bingo. Be careful. Remember what they always say…”

“You always, always say "Be true to yourself," but you never say which part of yourself to be true to! Well, I finally figured out who I am: I am your ward. IncrediBoy!”

“ And now, you have officially carried it too far, Buddy,“ Mr. Incredible said harshly.

“ This is because I don't have powers, isn't it?”

His tone had defeated but determined. But Syndrome had been something else, something more sinister, angry…and hurt.

“Damn it, Buddy.”

“Bob?” asked Rick from the circular elevator, unaccustomed to the superhero’s choice of vocabulary. Bob blinked, snapping back into reality. “I’ll be in my office. If anything happens, the guards – and the security cameras – should inform me immediately. You may leave whenever you want, or when the psychologist says you can.” The NSA said something else about being especially careful not to let his guard down, and disappeared behind the matching steel gray doors.

“Psychologist?” Mr. Incredible swallowed hard and listened to his footsteps echo with the churning elevator mechanics. Slightly flickering beams cast a strobe-like shadow of Bob to his right. The guards were waiting, watching him with stone expressions. His steps turned to strides. Why was the hallway so damned long?

Bob’s eyes narrowed as the door slid opened, a blanket of light flooding out. The guards didn’t move, Bob kept walking with his left hand shielding his face.

“Well hello, if it isn’t my hero…” leaked an all too familiar voice.

Can I have some feedback? Pweese? :-3

I really like this story. I want to continue it, but just want to know if, uh, anyone’s reading it…and enjoying the writing as well.