Sorry for the very long, almost one year, delay! I graduated from my university, then I went to Africa for 12 months to do charity work. I had no computer or internet to write with, and I lost the original ending. But I didn't want to leave this unfinished, so here we go!


Bob dived out of the way just in time.

The bullet soared past him, embedding itself in the glass wall behind him. In those split seconds, Syndrome had managed to delve into another drawer and pull out a single arm gauntlet. It was smaller than the ones he had worn on Nomanisan, but it was equipped with Zero Point Energy.

Just what he needed.

He fired at Bob, who dodged and charged, knocking aside computers and equipment. They fell to the floor, screens smashing under his feet. Syndrome didn't care. He chuckled.

"You know, I can see now why she calls herself Elastigirl," he said, goading. "So tight. Impressive, after three kids."

Bob roared. Syndrome aimed and fired, but was too late. Bob knocked him over, throwing him to the ground. Syndrome's head hit the floor hard, his jaw snapping together. He groaned, eyes closed. Bob took no notice. His fists pummelled into Syndrome's chest. There was a satisfying crack, followed by another. Syndrome coughed, winded, and let out a yell. Two broken ribs.

"To think you could have gotten away with it," Bob grunted. He had his hands around Syndrome's neck, tightening his grip with each word. "All those people you killed, and you could have gotten away with it. But you messed up, Syndrome. Badly. I almost killed you once before. I can do it again."

Under him, Syndrome had his hands on Bob's arm, and he was pulling. It made no difference, and he soon began to turn a faint shade of purple. Bob's eyes were narrowed in hatred. But after a minute more, when it looked like Syndrome was about to pass out, his mind flashed to when he held Mirage n a similar way, and he relieved his grip. Bob wasn't a murderer.

Syndrome sucked in air, coughing heavily. Bob stood up. He looked down on Syndrome with a look of disgust, upper lip curling at the sight.

Despite his assault, Syndrome still acted without fear. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Because I've got good lawyers, and even if you do do something, that tape's got to come out. Imagine everyone, the whole country, seeing me and your wife."

In the time it took him to gloat and bait Bob further, he had moved from the floor. The gauntlet rested on his wrist, forgotten about by Bob. It was a mistake he soon realized, but not quickly enough. Syndrome followed Bob's eyes to it, and smirked when he caught him in the flash. Bob was paralyzed.

"I win, Bob. No matter what happens, I've won. You know why?" As he was talking, he moved past the broken equipment, wheezing slightly from his injuries, to the left. On the floor was a gun. Not a simple one; it looked complicated. Much more deadly than the ones used on Nomanisan. "Because every time you sleep with your wife, every time you go near her, I'll be there. Heh, I was there. Think about that."

Syndrome picked up the gun, his eyes never leaving Bob, and held it up. "This is a new one. I've been working on it the whole time of my house arrest." He dropped Bob from the Zero Point Energy, but as quickly as Bob became free, he was trapped again. This time, by the gun. "It has Zero Point Energy," Syndrome explained with a shrug. "But it can also do this."

He pressed a button on the side. Instantly, an electronic current surged through Bob's body. He longed to scream, but couldn't. Syndrome grinned evilly, letting the current flow for a minute. "Remind you of anything?" he asked once it was over.

Bob couldn't reply, but he knew the answer. He'd felt that charge before, in the holding cell of Nomanisan. It was starting to look like he'd made the wrong move coming here. As long as he was in Zero Point Energy, he was helpless. He needed to get rid of Syndrome's weapons. Then he'd have the upper hand again.

Syndrome, his mind clouded by schizophrenia, dropped Bob. He caught him in the flash again, lifted him up, and let him drop to the floor once more. Syndrome moved closer, stood over him then slammed his foot into Bob's face. He smiled as Bob cried out. He'd hit his left eye and nose. Bob's cry turn to a grunt. Just as Syndrome was about to kick again, this time harder, Bob grabbed hold of his foot and lifted him up. He stood up slowly, never releasing Syndrome. He stayed like that, Syndrome dangling from Bob's grip, before Bob swung Syndrome into one of the desks. Everything was dropped on to the floor. Syndrome's back hit the corner, and he skidded across before dropping off the other end.

Bob moved quickly around. Syndrome was on the floor, stomach up, his face clenched in pain. He was struggling to breathe. An angry purple band was already forming around his neck. Bob picked him up by his ponytail, and held his face close to his own.

"You haven't won," he said lowly. "Because we're stronger than you. We can overcome you. We did it once before, and we can do it again. You're nothing but a child. You have a few fancy toys, but they still won't get you in with the big kids. So you have a tantrum. Pathetic."

Syndrome spat in Bob's eye. Bob turned his face away.

"Nice speech. Now you're the one monologuing." Syndrome let out a chesty laugh. "What about the kids, huh? Heh. What are they gonna think? They'll get older, and then they'll learn. Mommy screwed the bad guy."

"You failed as a fake hero, and you failed as a villain. Don't lie to yourself. You're nothing. We'll get over it. We'll get over you," Bob said. His words stung. It was a deliberate move – using Syndrome's 'you'll get over it' back at himself. Bob felt a sense of pride creep over him as his mind thought fast. Syndrome growled and aimed again with his gauntlet, but it was too late.

Bob chucked Syndrome back on the floor, and dropped down on him. One knee slammed into his gut. The other one pinned his legs down. Before he could do anything, Bob took hold of the arm with the gauntlet on it, and ripped it off. There was another crack, quieter than Syndrome's ribs, as Syndrome's wrist bent back too far. He yelled out. A broken wrist.

"When the NSA get here, and they will," Bob said, sounding calmer now that he as in control again. "They'll find you, broken and bloody, and they'll find everything you've been doing. Not only that, they'll know what you did to Elastigirl. I doubt this time round you'll get a trial, Syndrome. Especially since you've stopped taking your pills."

"They can do what they want," Syndrome panted. His broken wrist was still in Bob's pincer-like grip. The other was pushing against Bob's chest. "But I've got money, and money is power. I'll be out in no time. You watch. I survived a jet engine and an explosion, which you caused. You can't do anything to me. I'm untouchable."

Bob dragged Syndrome across the floor by his broken wrist, saying nothing. The whole time, Syndrome panted and grunted with pain. Those punches Bob had managed to get in had weakened him a lot. Syndrome was dragged out of the basement, leaving behind a mess of scattered and broken equipment, and up the stairs.

With each stair he was dragged up, a sharp pain traveled up his spine and settled in his ribs. It felt like his wrist was about to detach from the rest of his body. But he couldn't pull back, because that only made it worse.

Bob remained silent. He dragged Syndrome through the manor, towards the front door. When Syndrome looked up and saw what he was doing, he grabbed hold of Bob with his good hand.

"NO," he yelled out. "DON'T YOU DARE!"

"Try and stop me," Bob replied. "I told you the NSA would get here. I never told them how."

Bob looked over his shoulder at Syndrome. The tag on his ankle. The look on Syndrome's face. Fury, pain and desperation.

"I've got CCTV everywhere. They can see what you did," Syndrome half-yelled. He twisted his body, trying pointlessly to get free.

"And they'll hear what you did," Bob relied.

He yanked Syndrome's wrist painfully hard, walking out of the front door and across the large driveway. The closer they got to the front gate, the more Syndrome struggled. If he went across that gate, his ankle tag would start beeping. The police would be notified. The NSA too. But it wasn't just that.

The ankle tag was the work of the NSA. And they didn't just do beeping alarms. Theirs were set to stun. In Syndrome's current state, the voltage – no matter how small it was – would be unbearable.

They were a few feet away. Syndrome was panicking, sweating. If he could do anything now, it would be no use. There was no time left. Bob chuckled as he released his grip. Syndrome led there on the floor. Without any weapons, and with a broken wrist and ribs, he couldn't stop Bob.

Bob bent down and lifted Syndrome up from the floor, like he weighed nothing at all. It was extremely uncomfortable. Syndrome was being held up by his shirt and ankles. Bob took a few more steps then, without any effort at all, tossed Syndrome over the gate and onto the road outside.

He landed on his broken wrist. He cried out. He looked at his ankle tag, terrified. A small red light on the outside of it flashed three times, then changed to blue. Then it came.

It was dull at first, the electric current, but then it became stronger. Like being hit with a Taser. It was strongest around his ankle. Syndrome was screaming, lying on his back, unable to do anything. Bob watched from the other side of the gate. It was cruel, he knew, but he had to do it. Syndrome had tried to destroy his family twice now. He couldn't be allowed to get away with it.

Syndrome's voice grew hoarse after a few minutes, but he didn't stop. Bob knew how fast the NSA and the police, could respond, so there wouldn't be many more minutes until they arrived. Especially considering it was Syndrome.

He was right, too. The flashing blue and red lights on the horizon grew closer and closer. Syndrome could see them out of the corner of his vision.

He managed to take a break from screaming to mutter out, "I'll get you for this."

Bob heard it, but didn't reply. When he could hear the vehicles approaching, he broke the lock holding the gates together, and stepped out. He stood a few feet from Syndrome. As quickly as the electric current started, it stopped. Syndrome fell silent.

Must only work for ten minutes, Bob thought. Enough time for authorities to arrive. At his feet, Syndrome lay, panting. His hair was frayed from the current, bruises covered his neck, he struggled to breathe, and he was cradling his wrist.

But it still didn't seem enough.

Just as the first vehicle turned onto the road, Syndrome turned and rolled onto his side. Feeling a sudden violent urge overwhelm him at the thought of Syndrome with Helen once again, Bob booted Syndrome in the face. He was rolled over onto his back again. He started to cough, and his nose began bleeding. It was broken.

Syndrome was still coughing when the police and NSA agents surrounded him and Bob.

"I didn't break arrest," he managed to groan. "He assaulted me."

Bob straightened up to face the officers. "Buddy Pine broke the conditions of his house arrest. He stopped taking his medication, built harmful weapons, and attacked another Super. Elastigirl. It was a sexual attack."

"No," Syndrome groaned weakly. "She consented."

"I have CCTV evidence which Buddy Pine himself sent to me. Elastigirl didn't consent. Pine raped her," Bob said.

One of the NSA agents knelt down and took out a pair of handcuffs. He cuffed Syndrome's wrists, ignoring his groans of pain. Bob talked to a few of the NSA agents while the police officers heaved Syndrome up from the floor and pushed him into the nearest vehicle. The door slammed loudly.

"Pine's lawyers will be all over this," the first NSA agent said. His ID identified him as Higgins. "The media will go crazy, too."

"Pine fired at me. What I did, I did in self-defence," Bob said.

The second one, Lewis, smiled. "You don't have to convince us. We've dealt with his type before. But we have to be careful."

Higgins nodded. "At the very least, we've got him on assault. You say you've got CCTV evidence? We'll need it quick, before his lawyers have time to think of an excuse."

"Did he really rape her?" Lewis asked.

Bob thought about it, frowning. Both Higgins and Lewis shifted. "Yes," Bob replied. "He did. He blackmailed her. Elastigirl never said yes. That's rape in my eyes."

Lewis nodded. "We've got him, then. And this time he's not going to get out of it."

"If he wants to keep his reputation intact, and not let this slip out to the media, he'll co-operate," Higgins said.

Bob looked unsure. He looked back at Syndrome, whose head was leaning against the window. His face was all bloody and his eyes were closed.

"For his sake," he said, looking back at Lewis and Higgins. "I really hope so."


One month later

Syndrome co-operated. He denied raping Elastigirl, and maintained his view that she consented, but he agreed to a deal.

Two years prison, and mandatory medication and therapy.

The NSA covered up most of the details, but the ones which made it to the media including skipping medication, and manufacturing harmful weapons. Bob didn't pay much attention to any of it. He'd had enough of Syndrome for good. Although it was definitely worse for Helen.

Bob was there for her.

He was the strong rock she needed. He would never know what it was like to go through, but he never shouted at her, or used it against her. He was sorry he had done those things before, and felt awful at the thought of it. Although neither of them said anything, Helen had forgiven Bob for jumping to conclusions. Neither of them wanted to dwell on what happened. They wanted to move on, as a family. Knowing Syndrome was now behind bars helped.

Helen sighed. She was washing plates after dinner, and Bob was sat at the table reading the newspaper.

"I've been thinking," Bob said. Helen made a small noise of acknowledgement. "Maybe we should have a vacation. A family one. To Florida, maybe."

Helen turned around. She was frowning slightly. "Florida?"

Bob looked up. "Yeah. We never had time to take a break after everything that's happened. I think it'd do us good."

"Why Florida?" Helen asked incredulously.

Bob shrugged, smiling a little. "Magno-Tron said it's nice time of year."

Helen left the dishes and moved over to Bob. "Did he?" She caught a glimpse of the article Bob was reading. He put it down before she could fully make sense of it, but she managed to catch the bold words 'Magno-Tron', 'Florida', and 'showdown.'

She smiled at her husband, and wrapped her arms around him. Bob was stunned at the sudden display of affection. He had no time to think about it, because Helen placed a light kiss on his cheek.

"I love you, Mr Incredible," she said softly.

"I love you, too, Elastigirl," he replied.

And suddenly, it was like nothing had ever happened. It was just them, Violet, Dash and Jack Jack. All together.

No more secrets.