Automaticjoy—If you're expecting a masterpiece you better close down your Internet window fast, because this isn't—and might never be—a masterpiece. Hell, you should probably just 'x' out of all together.

This one just doesn't feel up to par to me, but I'm reading it again, and again, and it seems okay.

It's like, I want to write—I really do—but I just can't string the words together correctly. All my recent work seems like total mish-mash.

Yeah, another Incredi-fic, this time though staring only Mr. Parr and Mirage. And if you're stupid, this is set after the movie. A month or two after to be exact.

Too. Much. Dialogue. Eh.

Robert Parr was not a difficult man to track. Even under the mask of the government, Mirage had no trouble unearthing his new information. She had spent seven years tracking down Supers, and finding Mr. Incredible—again— was easy as pie.

"Hello, Mr. Incredible," she said, smooth as silk.

Something in Bob went completely still; he knew that voice; that accent, "Mirage?"

"Ah, a whole month, and Mr. Incredible hasn't forgotten about me," she teased.

"Of course not," Mr. Incredible tugs on his ear, "You saved me—my family—Mirage, I couldn't just forget about that."

"Don't mention it," she sighed, twirling her silvery hair, "I was just returning the favor."

"Listen, ah, Mirage," Bob stumbled, "I'm very grateful, but I don't think we should be talking."

Though he couldn't see it, Mirage mouth pinched into a frown, "How so?" she said tightly.

"I have a wife, I have kids—"

"And somehow I'm jeopardizing that?" Mirage countered, "Mr. Incredible, I'm not here to be a home wrecker, I'm here to be your aid."

"It just wouldn't work," Bob said, cradling his head in his idle hand, "There's… bad blood between you and the government."

"What are you trying to say?"

"We could lose our cover—from the government. To be affiliated with you," Bob said gently, "That would be suicide. My family would lose everything."

"Oh," Mirage bit out, "So to you I'm just some damn criminal?"

You're crushing me, she thought behind all the heated feelings in the conversation, You're really crushing me.

"No, no, no, Mr. Incredible, I'm a professional." she corrected, "I could help you. I've been Syndrome's aid for seven—"

"Well, you know Mirage?" Bob said, the tone in his voice wielding anger, "Syndrome is dead. You did a goddamn good job helping him."

Mirage shatters then, "Don't say that. Don't say that," she repeats, "Don't you dare say that."

"Mirage," Bob sighs, trying to smooth over all the hurt feelings.

"I couldn't have helped him," she said, her words cutting deeper than any blade—or any jet propeller, "Because you killed him."

Mr. Incredible couldn't manage that. Silence—how ever strangely—rang like a bell.

"You're a murderer, Mr. Incredible."

Click.

"Goodbye, Mirage," Mr. Incredible mutters to the buzz of disconnection.

Mirage—back on Nomanisian—, knowing very well, she played a rather large role in Syndrome's death.

"We're both murderers," she reasons aloud,