A/N (4/4/05): All right, spelling errors fixed, etcetera, etcetera. I apologize for lack of vivid detail in this version, but to be morbid and the like at my aunt's house isn't a brilliant idea… still trying to figure out whether or not to take this down, at the moment it's leaning more towards the 'not'. Someone comment on this dispute, please—it's highly appreciated to argue with someone other than myself.
PG-13, T... Whatever it's supposed to be now
Drama/Angst/Possible Romance/Honestly not sure yet
Disclaimer: If I owned The Incredibles I might be more happy about not having my computer with me 'cause I'd have a laptop... also, I might not be as broke as I am right now, so don't bother to sue—all you'll get is a couple of Starburst wrappers and my little brother's sketch book. I get no profit from writing what I write. (See previous note about how broke I happen to be.)
"…Lie to me, convince me that I'll be sick forever
And all of this will make sense when I get better…"
Evanescence: Breathe No More
September 6, 2006
His first conscious thought was hazy in itself, allowing no structural sense his mind could reasonably translate. Simply a notion; a command for something—anything—to move, to erase the freezing numbness splintered through every molecule of his being. His fingers wouldn't curl nor budge—pure led despite his desperate tries to flex them; his legs were dead weights, anchoring him to whatever it was he lay on; his eyes refused to flutter, and for a fleeting moment he worried they'd been wired shut.
'Is… is this Hell?' He wondered. Again he tried to move something—twist his neck, feel some movement, some presence of muscle or bone or flesh. It had to be there—he couldn't exist without it… could he?
He discarded the notion, deciding it better to focus on the sounds slipping through. Cloaked and tinny noises, but they were something… something hinting at life. Or a form of it anyway. He measured it, made feeble attempts to decipher the words blended in there, distinguish different patterns, noises, or voices from one another.
'No. Not Hell…' he decided at last. It sounded slightly less chaotic then any Hell he'd ever envisioned, and the smell he was beginning to endure was much more pleasant. Mangos and Windex, perhaps? Wretched combination, but certainly not sulfur or rot or… It seemed best to stop his train of thought there.
Why did sulfur ring a bell? Faint, but distinct all the same—some chapter in his life that wanted so badly to emerge. He tried to focus on it, to pick and pry at it, yet received nothing yet a large gap—empty space. It took him a moment to realize that aside from this, he had no other memories he could find… nothing.
What had happened to him?
More sounds and disgruntled noises echoed in his ears, partly pleading him to listen and partly telling him it was better to be ignorant to what they had to say. He didn't have some split-personality disorder, did he? That would make for an interesting life… After a moment of contemplating said disorder, he returned his attentions to the noises in the room.
Clanking materials, metal maybe?—voices donning demanding tones—frantic voices—surprised voices—awed voices—too many assorted people speaking and talking and chatting away his already fragile concentration... What were they saying? Why couldn't he understand them? Why did he care? It was pointless, completely and utterly pointless to pay half a mind to whoever or whatever stood outside the veil of this limbo he'd been forsaken in.
He wanted to be with them, wanted to be out. This was Hell, or some form of it—an in between place in which he was completely alone and completely mute. He needed to speak, to feel something in his body work. He was beginning to wonder if he had been a very much worthless mediator in the life he'd forgotten. Nah. That sounded too farfetched. He wasn't special. That was for The Supers to be...
The Supers. The mention of the title had triggered something deep down, some form of hatred that threatened to consume him, if it had not already. Something plastered itself in the barren wasteland where his memory should have lain, and he quickly snatched at it and dragged it to the front of his mind. It was a still-shot, but what he felt when he studied it was both horrifying and relieving.
Four figures fighting side-by-side dressed up in identical form-fitting red suits. Two off to the side, smaller than their company, more innocent, both protecting the other while trying to save themselves. The other two were much older, probably somewhere in their forties, and obviously betrothed. He knew instinctively that it was a family standing before him on a mud-encrusted plateau, one he loathed for a reason he couldn't yet understand. He tried again to claw at the picture, dissect it and make it make sense, there was no reason not to; after all, he had all the time in the world.
The one at the far end was shorter than the rest; blonde as well. Stocky, still had most, if not all, of his baby fat in tact, yet apparently fast. There was a blur behind the youngster, indicating that it had dodged... something. Beside him, yet slightly back, stood a rather lanky girl, scrawny and withdrawn, with a figure that hadn't quite filled out enough yet. Otherwise, long obsidian hair and dark eyes... she had potential to be a beautiful young woman. Someday. He noted that she'd set up a barrier between herself and their attacker, it appeared sturdy enough; she had some talent in her as well.
The woman reminded him of those rubber dolls that twist and turned and stretched until they made you dizzy. Brown hair cropped near her chin, small waist and wide hips... definitely a mother. Her expression read off something resembling determination... she was loyal enough to the others he was staring at. She was of no interest to him.
Beside her was the target of his hatred: a bulk of a man holding an impossibly large boulder in the palm of his hand while the other was tearing something from the skies above his head. His legs were slightly bent at the knees, as though hinting at some strain set upon him from these actions, but otherwise there was no sign of weakness. Blonde hair and an expression that told all who looked he was dead-set on getting out with his family alive. Why did he hate this man? What had happened?
A flash of fire and an explosion drifted across his mind, but other than that... darkness. He'd survived something big and now he was sick, with all these complaints and syndromes and... Syndrome. That was him. Amidst all the confusion his brain could register, he knew that the only fact he was aware of at the moment was his pseudo, his alias. Syndrome; because he was a disease to the world.
And, at the moment, to himself.
A/N: Um... if I beg on my hands and knees will you review? If I tell you I'll review your stories in return will you review? Yeah, I'll review your stories if you review mine. Promise... well, assuming I'm familiar with the catagory they're written for.But I need feedback, don't just review to review, 'k? Should I continue? Should I rewrite the prologue? Do I have to feed you all cookies for reading this? Does it make any sense to you? Shall I shut up now?
Okay, I actually have mass amounts of ideas for this one, so start reviewing. And I apologize for any spelling errors in the last parts, I couldn't write on the word document anymore... I'm not using my computer so this is a minor issue. I'll fix it when I get home... Alright, done stalling you, REVIEW! (Have I dropped enough hints yet?)