Automaticjoy – Syndrome is a gift of a character. He just is. And when you think about it, Mirage— to some degree—is too. So, yeah, I'm writing about them.
I'm trying to be as point blank as possible, here.
I plain on having multiple chapters, and a hella lot of flashbacks, so be prepared. The premise is just little anecdotes between the two of them. So if you don't like a little sappiness or perhaps a little fluff stay away. I'll get to the nitty-gritty of the whole 'Mr. Incredible tries to crush Mirage to death' stuff later, 'kay?
Its schlock, I know. But I think—deep in its core—it's quite spunky.
Spunky schlock, yeah. That rocks.
Disclaimer: Hey there Pixar-lawyer-dudes, please—with a big, old cherry on top—do not sue me. Because everyone knows I don't own Syndrome and Mirage.
Description: [[SyndromeMirage She was Syndrome's little doll. Mirage would murder for him, and at the very least, be his arm-candy for a night.
Mirage was his arm candy on occasion. And though she would nag—and nag and nag, and nag— at him, Mirage understood Syndrome's situation. A man of his wealth and power needed a hot body to drape all over him at banquets and parties; it was some sort of upper-class rule that Mirage had adapted to over her four years of service to Omni. Corp.—Syndrome's pride and joy of a company.
Hey sweetheart, he would always hum, I have a favor to ask you.
And being experienced with all the Syndrome-isms she knew exactly what was coming next. I need you to be my date to an exhibit tonight. Or even sometimes, One of my client's Equinox Bash. Mirage would rest her head in her hands and mutter, Fine, fine, just go away before I change my mind.
But inwardly she would enjoy every second of those endless parties, and would giggle with Syndrome all night. Of course, it was Buddy Pine, or Mr. Pine then, or worst of all, The Honorable Buddy Pine or Master Pine—those Syndrome had made up himself.
His ego always swelled before these big shindigs. Syndrome in his tailor-made suits—that Giorgio had made for him personally— and with his ginger hair pushed into a pony tail, he actually looked quite dashing. And Mirage would lock arms with him, and pout her lips, and—especially—made sure the plunging necklines of her dress exposed enough.
It's a cleavage occasion, babe. So, come on, hike it, make it count, he would laugh at that. His deep claret freckles dancing on his boyish face; which Mirage couldn't help but notice with a demure simper.
"Did you see that woman's dress," she had hissed into Buddy's ear, "It's hideous."
"Actually," Syndrome said, examining the woman in the artic blue dress and milky white diadem, "She looks more like Frozone on an acid trip."
She leaned close into his ear, "It's always the supers with you, isn't it?"
This was her favorite part of these parties; she would cozy up to Syndrome—or Buddy, rather—and just talk. Really talk, like where they could no where else. They could laugh—genuinely laugh—or just get hammered like two jerks relishing in the open bar.
All—of course—after rubbing elbows with that crusty clientele of his. Really, the only reason Syndrome attended these parties was to save some face; Syndrome didn't really give a damn about their feasts, balls, and banquets, but Buddy sure did. So as a client walked by Mirage let her bust hang out of her dress, and her bee-stung lips pucker seductively. And Buddy would charm him with his unflinching poise and wit. The perfect façade.
But as that anonymous buyer walked away, Buddy morphed to Syndrome, and Mirage would snuggle next to him, with a genuine smile.
Mirage was his doll. She would bend for him until she snapped. Or at least be snapped between the sinewy arms of Mr. Incredible.