A/N: Pardon my first, rather abortive, attempt at an Incredibles fic. I saw the movie, and I obsessed. Although, as an aside, the more mature amongst those who enjoyed the film might try tracking down a comic called "Watchmen;" it operates on somewhat the same premise, but it's rather more violent. Anyway, on with the fic.

Every man is innocent, if only occasionally, in sleep; even, perhaps, this one.

He is peaceful tonight in his sleep, though not always so; his flaming hair wreathes the pillow, and his face is smooth and unlined.

This man...but he has barely attained manhood; his childhood pains have only recently been left behind, while old hatreds burn and rage in his hardened heart, making his spirit seethe with the darkness he has embraced.

But not now. No, not now, not as he sleeps; even with the blood on his hands, even with the atrocities he has committed, even he is able to find peace in the helplessness of sleep.

Sometimes it is so. And sometimes, sleep is a terror; sometimes, he dreams himself back with his parents, who did not love him, who did not understand him, who, like most other people, borderline hated him for having the audacity to be intelligent.

There are other dreams, too; some, dreams of triumph, of finding the man he is hunting. Dreams of shattering this man into a thousand pieces, the way his own innocent and fragile dreams have been shattered. Dreams of a dark and terrible revenge, of...

There are times in his sleeps that a smile that is almost a snarl pulls his lips back from his teeth; times that he is the triumphant predator. And there are times when he weeps brokenly, sobbing into silken sheets, while his lover, too heavy a sleeper to be disturbed by him, dwells in dreams of her own. When he needs her most...but he does not know of these small betrayals.

But there are times of innocence for him; those times when he dreams of nothing, and nothing may disturb him.

There are times when he betakes himself to bed, his red hair a shock, almost like blood, against the white sheets, and does not disturb the peaceful dark with his harsh laughter, or his terrified cries.

And perhaps, if this man were aware of it, even his cold heart might dare feel the touch of despair. For is it not worthy of despair, the fact that his only innocence is to be found in nothingness? In the solace of the Void?