WARNINGS: Yes, a story based on The Incredibles. And yes, it is rated R. That's probably because it hints (more than hints) at a slashy relationship. A sort of could've-been, woulda-been relationship. And there is some cursing, I believe. So that's why it's rated R. The characters and story belong to Pixar, whom I greatly respect so I'm certainly not going to go and try to steal their characters. I would if I could, eh? Spoilers.

From the point of view of Syndrome. Syndrome reflects on his obsession with a certain Mr. Incredible.

Quid Pro Quo

You never got it, did you? Why I idolized you beyond all others, worshipped you, wanted to be you? I knew everything about you, and yet I still didn't understand how you couldn't understand. Did it make you naïve, or stupid? Probably naïve, because you supers don't realize what kind of life the rest of us out there are living. Our normal, average, everyday lives represent to you – what? Just a "secret identity," just a body to take time off in when you weren't going out being so goddamned good and just and fair to the slobs who didn't deserve a peak at your noble visage.

That's probably why the other supers held no interest to me. Their deeds were just as grandiose and just as good, but I knew from hearing about them that their true human body was only an identity, only something to eat and drink and sleep in. They only saw themselves as heroes that had the weakness of being mortal, a part that they shoved off as soon as possible. But you were different; I could look at you and just think that you were the same you, whether or not you were behind a mask, because that mask was permanent regardless of whether it was physically there. I mean – you were you all the time, truly Mr. Incredible, and that meant good and loyal and strong and brave and everything I always wanted to be.

It would've been so much simpler if I had been a woman. People don't question that kind of devotion to a man when the gender checks out with the local authorities, right? And I could just say, hey, I'm in love with you. You stupid blond jerk, I'm in love with you!

The day I figured out that it was inevitable that both of us could not live on the face of this Earth was the day I discovered you, a civilian once again stuck in your little home, little job, with your little children and your little wife. You'd gained fifty-odd pounds, you'd lost your handsomeness, but most importantly of all, to the world you were no longer incredible. And yet…

And yet. Even then you were not broken. Even then the man behind the mask and the mask itself were one being that would listen to a police scanner and speed off to anonymously save potential victims that had perhaps been the very ones to vote that you no longer existed in the eyes of the government. God, how could anyone do that? Loved you still, loved you still. But you had a wife now; cute thing with luscious hair and wide hips and soft thighs and that was the end. Time to kill you, if I couldn't have you.

Now you'll have to comment on my own pseduo-infidelity, won't you? Don't lecture me about Mirage. I needed someone I could trust, someone who lusted after power and had the stomach for revenge and if every few nights she wanted to get pounded into, so what of it? I didn't love her, she was 'babe;' go be a darling and fetch this, fetch that, type this, type that. Nothing of that. But Mirage revealed to me (far too casually to be casual) that she had mentioned your wife at one point in some small-talk conversation and oh, how your eyes had lit up talking about her. True love. You had to die.

Don't stare at me like that. I'm sorry, but I had to get rid of them. Once your children and your wife were out of the picture, and once I had saved the world as Syndrome, we could work things out, right? Don't give me the tears to try and wrench my heart into pieces (because you did that already), and don't pretend with that anger like you would kill innocent little Mirage, because I know you won't, even if she doesn't.

We'll work it out. You'll see why I idolized you, we'll work it all out in the end – because if I can accept that you are always Mr. Incredible whether or not you wear the mask, if I can accept you marrying that damned Elastigirl and having those despicable children, if I can accept you treating me like shit all those many years ago… then you can accept me taking you and murdering them.

Because love's a bitch, Bob, and sometimes nobody wins.