Chapter Text
Metroville had a hum to it. Not the kind of hum that soothed you, like the low buzz of cicadas on a summer night, but the kind that gnawed at the edges of your patience. A constant vibration of horns, sirens, and chattering voices, stitched together by the rumble of trains and the occasional crack of something breaking—glass, brick, or bone—depending on how the day went.
To most people, this noise was the lifeblood of the city. Excitement, energy, proof that they were living somewhere important. To Simon J. Paladino, it was simply noise. A distraction from thoughts better spent elsewhere.
He adjusted his glasses as he stood on the steps outside the firm, the day’s arguments still turning in his head like marbles rattling in a jar. Being a lawyer was not glamorous work, not in the way leaping off rooftops in a cape was. There were no cheering crowds when you exposed a lie in court, no newspapers plastering your face above headlines. But there was a kind of satisfaction in it—a quiet, grounded one. In words and reason, he could protect people just as well as any shield or superpower could. Justice, after all, didn’t always wear a mask.
Still… Simon couldn’t deny the tug in his chest whenever he glanced at the televisions displayed in store windows, watching the heroes chase down villains in streaks of color and power. He couldn’t deny the itch in his fingers when he found himself scribbling in his notebooks late at night, cataloging each Super he saw—what powers they had, how they moved, the patterns of their abilities. A hobby, nothing more. A little archive built by a man too cautious to ever put himself in their world.
Of course, if any of those Supers ever found out about that, he would die of embarrassment long before any villain managed to kill him. It was absurd, imagining they would notice him at all—a bespectacled lawyer in gray suits who melted into the background of every crowd. Invisible, in his own way.
He slid into his car parked at the curb, loosening his tie as though shaking off the city’s clamor. The outskirts of Metroville called to him more than its pulsing heart did. A neighborhood where porches leaned under the weight of flowerpots, where the air smelled faintly of cut grass instead of gasoline, where children’s laughter was not drowned out by police sirens. It was not glamorous, but it was his. Peaceful.
The traffic inched along, slow as honey, headlights smearing across the glass of his windshield. He let his mind drift, thinking of nothing and everything, until a muffled boom rolled down the street like a wave. A tremor of glass shivered in the shop windows. Screams followed, scattering in the distance.
Simon turned his head, almost lazily, eyes narrowing toward the faint trail of smoke curling above the skyline. Another robbery? A mad scientist? Someone with too much dynamite and not enough common sense? In Metroville, one could set their watch to such interruptions. His gaze lingered a moment longer, then he returned it to the wheel.
No use rubbernecking. That was someone else’s problem.
A rush of color swept above him, drawing his eyes again despite himself. Figures darted through the air—one streaming fire like a comet’s tail, another vaulting between rooftops with impossible grace, and a third streaking like a bullet with nothing but raw speed. Supers. Always arriving on cue, dramatic as the sunrise. Simon’s lips parted in a sigh, one part admiration, one part resignation, as he turned onto the quieter road leading away from downtown.
There were times—more than he cared to admit—when he wondered what it might be like. To feel the rush of action against you as you saved innocents from danger. To land a punch that knocked the weapon clean out of a criminal's hand. To hear your name spoken with awe rather than the curt tone of “Mr. Paladino, your client is waiting.” He did have the means, after all. A secret he had carried since adolescence, tucked away in the quiet corners of his life: the ability to shoot coherent beams of searing light from his eyes.
Lasers. That was his grand inheritance from whatever fate had laced him differently.
It was not… impressive, not to him. Too ordinary, too crude, too showy. What was he supposed to do, walk into a fight and flash his eyes to stop villains from blowing up buildings? Call himself a hero for blinding muggers in alleys? The very thought made his stomach twist. Powers like his demanded a certain kind of bravado, a willingness to be watched, to be feared. He had neither. He had books and briefs and measured words. He had a belief that sometimes restraint was the greatest form of strength.
And yet…
As the city grew smaller in his rearview mirror, Simon found himself picturing—just for a moment—the life he might have had if he were not so determined to cling to normalcy. A life of costumes and late-night fights, of cheers and headlines. A life where his name wasn’t one in a ledger of cases but carved into the living memory of the people.
The sigh slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Peace and quiet had its merits. But sometimes, he wondered what it would cost to let it go.
The farther he drove, the more the weight of the city seemed to peel off his shoulders. The buildings loosened their grip on the horizon, thinning into smaller shops, scattered diners, and stretches of green. The roads widened, the horns dulled, and the evening sun finally had room to spill itself across the earth instead of being trapped between towers of steel. Simon always thought of it as Metroville breathing out, exhaling the noise and frenzy until all that was left was the calm.
By the time his house came into view, he felt like he’d stepped into another life altogether. Nothing extravagant—just a modest, well-kept place with pale siding, navy trim, and the kind of front lawn that neighbors sometimes complimented him on for being so neatly edged. The sun caught on the windows, setting them aglow like lanterns. To him, it looked inviting. To anyone else, perhaps a little too ordinary.
He eased the car into the driveway, cutting the engine, and let himself sit for a moment in the stillness. The silence after traffic always felt like cotton pressed against his ears—soft, muffled, almost luxurious.
Once inside the house, the air carried a faint scent of coffee grounds and paper, though neither was fresh. The living room was the first to greet him: shelves stacked with case law volumes, biographies, and the occasional novel wedged in like an afterthought. A leather chair angled toward a lamp stood as the obvious centerpiece—clearly well-used, the cushions molded to the shape of one man who had read there often enough to wear grooves into the material. The coffee table was bare save for a few neat stacks of legal briefs and yellow notepads with tidy handwriting across them. No clutter. No knick-knacks.
It was a lawyer’s house, no doubt about it. Clean, precise, but not cold. There were signs of a life lived in quiet repetition: framed degrees on the wall, an umbrella stand that had seen more use than the empty coatrack, a row of carefully polished shoes lined by the door. Comfort, not company, had been the guiding hand in how it all came together.
Simon carried his briefcase into the kitchen and set it on the counter with the kind of familiarity that comes from countless identical motions. The kitchen itself was spotless. Countertops gleamed, the sink was bone dry, every dish tucked away where it belonged. He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, twisting the cap and taking a long drink before leaning against the counter.
This was his life. Simple. Uninterrupted. No one waiting for him at the door, no voices calling out from the next room. The silence pressed in thickly, but it was a silence he had chosen. A silence he had grown into like an old suit. Some might call it lonely, but Simon didn’t think so. He liked it this way.
Still… there were times when even he admitted that too much quiet left too much room for thought.
His eyes drifted toward the living room shelves, to the closed notebooks tucked between weightier volumes of law. His other work. The catalog of Supers. Half a hobby, half an obsession he never cared to define. He told himself it was curiosity, no more, no less. He told himself everyone needed something to keep the brain nimble outside of their day job. But sometimes, when the house was as still as a tomb and he sat in that leather chair with only the ticking of the clock for company, he wondered if there wasn’t something missing.
And then he would think of his eyes, of the searing light he could conjure with a mere intense look and remind himself that missing things had a way of staying gone for a reason.
Simon capped the water bottle again and set it carefully beside the briefcase, his motions neat and deliberate. Order had always been his anchor. Clean counters, sorted files, a routine unmarred by chaos. A man could build a life on that. A man could be safe in it.
And yet—safe wasn’t always the same as whole.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out, pushing the thought away before it could take root. This was his choice. His comfort. His peace. He had carved it with his own hands, and he would keep it.
Even if, sometimes, the silence seemed to press just a little too closely against him.
The hours slipped by in their usual pattern. After setting his briefcase aside, Simon settled into the leather chair in the living room, a yellow notepad balanced on his knee and a pen tapping faintly against his thumb. He liked to revisit the day’s cases after court—read back his arguments, replay the words he had chosen. Not because he doubted himself, but because he believed there was always a cleaner turn of phrase, a sharper question, a stronger delivery. His job, in its own way, was language. Precision was power.
The house was silent but for the clock’s tick and the faint rasp of paper under his fingers as he turned a page. Outside, the world dimmed into late evening. Streetlights hummed alive in the distance, casting a gentle glow that filtered through his curtains.
When the clock hands reached nine, Simon set the notepad down neatly on the table, aligning it square with the stack of other papers beside it. His habits had always been deliberate like that—small rituals of order that kept the edges of his mind straightened.
The shower was quick, steam curling against the tiled walls while he let the day wash off him in quiet solitude. By the time he padded into his bedroom, towel-dried and dressed for sleep, the salt lamp on his nightstand glowed a muted amber. The light spilled across his bed, soft and warm, giving the otherwise plain room a gentler air.
The space was simple, like the rest of his house—books on one shelf, a small chest of drawers, the bed with its neatly tucked covers. The only thing that stood out was the mirror in the far corner, cloaked under a thin sheet pinned at the top. A curtain over something unwanted.
Simon’s jaw tightened faintly at the sight.
The mirror was not broken, not cracked—it simply was dangerous. He had learned early on that his power was as careless as it was sharp. A hard stare, a slip in focus, and the beam could ignite a wall or carve through metal. Worse still, reflected light in glass or polished steel could ricochet like some cruel cartoon, darting every which way, scorching anything in its path. A ridiculous danger, yes, but no less real for it.
It was easier to cover it. Easier to avoid the temptation of his own reflection. In the mornings, he allowed himself a brief glance as he dressed for work—quick, clinical, avoiding eye contact with the man looking back. Sometimes he squinted, letting the world blur so that even if his eyes slipped, the risk would be nothing. A man shouldn’t be afraid of his own face, but Simon had accepted that fear was better than recklessness.
He drew back the covers, sliding into bed with the same carefulness he gave every other part of his day. The sheets were cool, the lamp’s glow steady, and the silence, as always, complete.
As his body grew heavy with sleep, his thoughts turned against him in the way they often did at night. He pictured the Supers—those capes streaking through the sky earlier that afternoon, bold and fearless, admired for what they could do. He wondered, briefly, how he would measure up among them if he chose to step forward instead of hiding behind law books and courtrooms.
But the thought soured before it could take shape. He knew himself too well. He would not be graceful. He would not be adored. His power was too clumsy, too destructive. He could not imagine saving lives without risking burning through them at the same time.
No, he thought, pulling the covers higher as his eyelids dragged. If he were a hero, he would not be a good one. And maybe it was selfish, but he hoped the world never needed him to try.
The next morning began with its usual test of patience.
Simon stood before the mirror, comb in hand, coaxing his unruly hair into something resembling order. It was a task he never enjoyed, but one he endured—like filing taxes or waiting in line at the post office. His hair was stubborn in its own right, as though mocking the restraint he forced into every other part of his life. Each pass of the comb smoothed it only briefly before a lock sprung free again.
His reflection stared back at him, and for a heartbeat too long, his pale blue eyes caught his own gaze. He looked away sharply, the comb pausing mid-stroke. It was ridiculous how quickly the thought came—how easily the mind linked the danger with something as ordinary as one’s own eyes. Even without the curse of heat searing behind them, the sunlight streaming in through the window was enough to carry the image further in his head. What if light bounced, refracted, bent in just the wrong way? What if a glance became a weapon by sheer accident? He imagined it dryly, without humor: a lawyer felled by his own reflection. A headline both tragic and absurd.
He shook the thought away and focused instead on his appearance. He wasn’t working today, nor the next, but he was dressed for town all the same. Slacks and a button-up shirt without the tie, sleeves neatly rolled. Ordinary clothes for an ordinary errand. No one needed to know that the errand was less necessity and more ritual. Coffee was the one indulgence he could not live without. Well, coffee and the morning paper. One kept his mind awake; the other kept it sharp.
With his hair subdued, at least for now, Simon dropped the comb onto the dresser, tugged his cuffs straight, and left the mirror behind with relief.
The drive back into Metroville was like every other—tires humming on the pavement, the skyline drawing closer in increments, traffic swelling the nearer he pressed into the city’s core. Yet today felt different. The sun was merciless, pouring down as though it had chosen Metroville specifically to visit, pressing itself into every corner of glass and steel. Storefront windows glittered, windshields blazed, even the pavement seemed to shimmer with heat.
Simon adjusted his glasses with a faint sigh. He couldn’t help but think back to his earlier reflection—eyes that held light too dangerous to look at, and now the sun itself seemed determined to make his fear into a horrifying possibility.
Simon pulled into the lot with the same calculation he used for nearly everything—direct, efficient, no wasted effort. He eased the car into a spot near the café entrance, satisfied at not having to trek across the asphalt like some weary pilgrim. Convenience mattered, especially in the morning, when patience was best spent on coffee rather than parking.
The moment he stepped inside, the smell wrapped around him. Coffee—strong and dark—threaded with butter, eggs, and sweet syrup. It was the sort of welcome that made him feel at once more awake and more at ease. A little ridiculous, he admitted, that one could find happiness in something as ordinary as breakfast. But then, wasn’t life made of such small comforts?
He approached the counter with his usual order: a single black coffee, no sugar, no cream, and a breakfast muffin. He said the same order he always did. The young woman behind the counter already knew him—perhaps too well. A nod, a scribbled ticket, and moments later, Simon had his tray in hand after paying.
He claimed his corner as though it were reserved for him, a table tucked out of the main light where the shadows were cool and the view expansive. He liked seeing the whole room at once, cataloguing strangers without being catalogued in return.
And there it was, waiting on the table before he even set down his tray: the folded newspaper, crisp and clean, headline in bold black.
Simon paused, eyeing it, and then let out the faintest huff of amusement. “How horrible,” he murmured under his breath. To be known so well that they anticipated his routine. That his reputation here was not the lawyer’s title or his face, but the simple certainty that Simon Paladino always wanted a paper. He sat, picked up his coffee, and took a slow sip. The bitter burn crawled down his throat, his cheeks prickling faintly with warmth. Not just from the heat. Familiarity embarrassed him, though he’d never admit it aloud.
The pages crackled softly as he unfolded the paper, the morning sliding into rhythm: read, sip, bite of muffin, repeat.
It was almost perfect. Almost.
But then came the murmurs. A ripple through the café, subtle at first, then spreading like wind through grass. Hushed whispers, sharp intakes of breath, stifled laughter and gasps of something like awe. Simon ignored it at first. A dog must’ve trotted through. Someone probably brought in a kitten. Maybe a couple people saw a celebrity passing by the window. Metroville had plenty of characters to excite an early crowd.
Still, the noise persisted, not fading as quickly as it should have. It clung.
Simon’s brow furrowed as he lifted his eyes, just for a second, scanning toward the source. Then he looked back down at his paper, ready to dismiss it. Only—he froze. His hand stilled on the page, eyes widening before darting back up for confirmation.
There. Across the café, sat three of Metroville’s most recognizable figures.
Mr. Incredible, broad-shouldered and impossibly solid even when relaxed, laughter rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. Frozone, smooth and cool as his name promised, gesturing as he spoke, and his light suit glistening in the sunlight like ice and snow. And Gamma Jack, voice carrying easily even when he wasn’t trying to, smile relaxed, and energy screaming “I’m always right.” The women definitely favored him out of the three.
All of them. Together.
Simon’s breath caught—not in fear, exactly, but in something caught between disbelief and awe. He ducked his head almost immediately, newspaper snapping up like a shield. But his pulse betrayed him, thudding hard enough he swore it might shake the coffee cup.
The corner of his mouth tugged faintly downward. Of all the mornings, of all the breakfast places in Metroville, they had to walk into this one. Into his quiet corner of ritual and anonymity.
Simon had long ago accepted that his life was meant to be lived quietly. Predictable. Known only to him. A rhythm of courtrooms and case files, mornings with coffee and evenings with silence. If the rest of the world wanted to light itself on fire with capes and villains, he would let it burn from a distance.
But the NSA, in their infinite, meddling persistence, had decided otherwise for him.
For months now, his mailbox had betrayed him. Ordinary envelopes with no return address, the kind of official blandness that screamed classified to anyone paranoid enough to notice. Inside: neatly typed notes, nothing dramatic, but threaded with words that made his chest seize—phrases like potential asset and national interest. And worse, the occasional figure on the street who carried themselves just a little too confidently, their faces suspiciously similar to ones he had seen in newspaper clippings of Supers. They would smile politely, talk of opportunities, insist he come with them for a short trip to the head office of Supers. Simon, somehow, always managed to slip away; from ducking into alleys, cutting through crowds, and vanishing into the city’s cracks.
He hadn’t told anyone. Who would believe him? And even if someone did, what good would it do? The NSA had resources beyond his imagining, and for some unfathomable reason, they had chosen to direct them at him.
And now, here he was, sitting in the dim corner, heart pounding, newspaper raised like a flimsy shield, while three of Metroville’s most celebrated Supers occupied the opposite side of the building.
Coincidence? Surely. It had to be. Supers had breakfast too, didn’t they? Even legends needed coffee. But as the minutes dragged, as laughter from that table carried, as he became increasingly aware of their presence like heat against his skin, Simon couldn’t shake the thought: They’re here for me. They know. They’re waiting for me to move.
His grip tightened on the newspaper. If he just… kept still. Kept calm. Pretended he was nothing more than a boring, utterly unremarkable civilian. They’d finish their meal, stand, and walk out into their shining, dangerous world, never giving him a second thought.
That was the plan. The illusion. The only thing keeping his pulse from rattling out of his chest.
Until a voice shattered it.
“Hey, you over there. Are you Simon Paladino by any chance?”
The words cut through the places chatter like a blade. Warm. Friendly. Direct. But to Simon, they might as well have been a gunshot.
His mind screamed the word run. Every instinct fired at once—get up, push past the counter, vanish into the street. Disappear before they could corner him, before the NSA’s puppets could grab him by the arm and drag him into that world he had sworn to avoid.
Instead, he turned. Slowly, like a man lifting his head to meet the swing of an axe.
Mr. Incredible was looking straight at him, his eyes bright and searching. Beside him, Frozone leaned back with casual ease, though his gaze—even behind the visor over his eyes—was sharp and focused on him. Gamma Jack, meanwhile, grinned widely, looking him over with eyes that didn’t match his grin, but there was no mistaking the attention there either.
All three of them. Looking directly at him.
Simon lowered the newspaper just enough for his own pale eyes to show over the edge. His throat tightened.
He had been found. Again.
Simon wanted to lie. Every cell in his body urged him to fabricate something bland, something forgettable—anything that would let him slip back into the anonymity he had curated like a second skin. But the lawyer in him knew better. Lies crumbled under pressure, and pressure was exactly what stared at him from across everywhere.
So he did the only thing left to do: he dropped the newspaper slowly, offering what he thought was a polite smile, but what his face decided to betray as a thin grimace. It felt stretched, unnatural, like a mask that didn’t quite fit.
Mr. Incredible didn’t seem to notice—or chose not to. His broad face broke into a genuine smile as he lifted a hand in greeting, calling Simon over with the kind of easy warmth that could melt most men into compliance.
Simon’s grimace-smile strained further. He could feel not only the Supers’ eyes, but half the buildings as well. Whispers, side glances, the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a stone. He hesitated for a moment, then rolled up his newspaper, grabbed his coffee—forgetting entirely about the muffin he had lost his appetite for—and made his reluctant way toward them.
Each step closer wound him tighter, until he reached their table and felt the walls close in.
“Simon Paladino,” Mr. Incredible began, his voice carrying with the same commanding resonance that had once brought down beaten villains. “We’ve been looking for you for a while. Everseer told us they had a vision—said we’d find you here.”
Simon’s grimace reshaped itself into something almost pleasant, though it never reached his soul. “Apologies for making you run around,” he said evenly, tone dipped in civility. “I’ve… been busy of the latest.”
Not a lie. Not the truth either. A lawyer’s middle ground—the safe gray where all uncomfortable truths went to die.
Frozone leaned back, folding his arms as he gave Simon a look that carried no illusions. “Busy, huh? Funny thing about you, Paladino—plenty of people have been looking for you. Yet somehow, you always find a way to give ’em the slip.”
The words hit harder than Simon wanted to admit. He forced another small smile, gripping his coffee a little tighter as though the steam could shield him. “Occupational hazard,” he said quietly, almost flippantly.
That was when Gamma Jack leaned in.
The grin on his face was polished, all teeth, but his eyes were knives. He studied Simon like a puzzle piece that had finally been set on the table after months of searching. “You know,” he said smoothly, “most people would kill for the offer you’ve been running from. Being a Super is as good as it gets. Purpose. Recognition. Power. To run from that…” His voice lowered, sweet as honey and sharp as broken glass. “…is a bit cowardly, don’t cha’ think?”
Simon’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup more.
Gamma Jack tilted his head, gaze narrowing with the quiet satisfaction of a man drawing blood without ever moving his hands. “So tell us, Paladino. Are you running because you’re a coward… or is there another reason?”
The question cut deeper than Simon expected. His breath caught; his shoulders stiffened. He actually recoiled, a visible flinch that betrayed him before he could rebuild his mask.
No one has ever read me like that, Simon thought, panic twisting with grudging awe. Not in court. Not in negotiations. Not anywhere.
Before Simon could even shape a defense, a loud smack cracked the air.
Mr. Incredible’s broad hand had landed squarely on the back of Gamma Jack’s head, forcing the man to jolt forward slightly.
“Jack!” Mr. Incredible’s voice was thick with disapproval, the kind that could make even grown men look sheepish. His scowl lingered as he shook his head. “That was rude. Insulting, even. You don’t talk to people like that.”
Gamma Jack muttered something under his breath, rubbing the back of his head, but Mr. Incredible ignored it. He turned back toward Simon, expression softening. “Sorry about that. He doesn’t always know when to shut it.”
Frozone chuckled under his breath, clearly entertained by Gamma Jack’s well-earned reprimand. Simon, however, merely cleared his throat, straightening his posture as if to shake the moment off his shoulders. “It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice calm, though his chest still buzzed faintly.
Mr. Incredible leaned forward, folding his large hands on the table, his eyes steady and—Simon hated to admit it—genuinely kind. “Then let me ask you this straight, Simon. Why? Why are you so persistent about saying no to us? To the NSA? You’ve been ducking us for months. If you don’t want the job, okay—but you clearly have the ability. So why not use it?”
Simon sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t rehearsed this answer before—in his head, in quiet moments when the NSA’s letters stared up at him like accusations. But saying it aloud was different. Saying it aloud meant it became real.
“I just don’t think being a Super would be the best choice for me,” he said finally, his tone careful but not without weight. “And… I probably wouldn’t be the best one anyway.”
Gamma Jack smirked, his earlier sting resurfacing in sharper humor. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”
Mr. Incredible’s hand twitched, the back rising in warning like a parent about to scold a child. Gamma Jack immediately leaned away, tongue clicking as though mocking the unspoken threat. “Relax. I wasn’t serious.”
But the glint in Gamma Jack’s eyes said otherwise.
Simon’s gaze flickered between them, his expression unreadable. On the inside, though, he found himself quietly cataloging the dynamic at the table—Mr. Incredible, the ever-patient center, Frozone, the sardonic observer, and Gamma Jack, the dagger meant to cut where it hurt most.
And then there was himself, a lawyer with laser eyes, sitting at a table where he had no business being, wondering how long he could keep holding up the mask before someone else—maybe someone worse than Gamma Jack—tore it down completely.
Frozone was the one to slice through Simon’s careful words, his tone calm but sharp enough to cut. “So let me ask you this, man—do you know you wouldn’t be a good Super? Or are you just guessing?”
The question landed harder than Simon expected. He opened his mouth, ready to deflect, but no words came. Nothing. His mind, normally quick with rhetoric and defense, had been stripped bare. Speechless. I’ve never been speechless in court. Not once. And here I am, staring at my coffee like it has the answers.
Frozone didn’t let the silence stretch long. He leaned in, a brow raised, voice steadier than Simon wanted it to be. “Have you ever even used your power to its full potential?”
Simon’s throat felt dry. “…No,” he admitted, the word tasting foreign on his tongue.
Mr. Incredible tilted his head, his heavy brow furrowing. “Then how can you be so sure you wouldn’t be any good?”
That stung. Simon’s lawyer instincts scrambled, rushing to build the scaffolding of an argument. “Because certainty doesn’t always require action,” he said carefully, with that same practiced cadence he used in front of judges. “One can look at the evidence, weigh the risks, and reach a conclusion without having to—”
“Ughh, spare me,” Gamma Jack cut in, his smirk turning into an annoyed scowl. “You’re hiding behind words, simpleton. You should at least try the life before you throw the good one away.”
Simon’s jaw tightened, his grip tightening around the cup in his hands. The insult echoed louder than he wanted it to. He had been called worse, of course—in court, in life—but this one burrowed under his skin because it came with such casual ease. As if Jack didn’t even need to try to peel him open.
Mr. Incredible scowled again, glaring at Jack with the kind of fatherly warning that promised another smack if he pushed further. But after a moment, he sighed, turning his gaze back to Simon. His voice was gentler, but the words themselves weren’t a shield. They cut too, just less harshly.
“…He’s got a point, though,” Mr. Incredible admitted reluctantly. “You won’t really know what you’re capable of until you give it a shot. Otherwise, you’re just selling yourself short.”
Simon swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. For once, the lawyer in him couldn’t find the winning argument. For once, the truth felt like a trap no matter which way he turned.
The silence stretched long enough to suffocate. Simon stared at the half-drained cup in his hands, the swirl of dark liquid no more clear than his own thoughts.
They’re right. They must be.
His chest rose with a heavy sigh, a sound that pulled all three Supers’ gazes onto him like spotlights. Their attention pressed against him, heavy and suffocating, and he had to resist the urge to shrink into his chair.
You only live once, he reminded himself, recalling the phrase he had overheard in some casual conversation long ago. At the time, he had thought it a shallow sentiment. Now it seemed painfully reasonable.
He looked up, eyes flicking past Gamma Jack’s slouched figure and out the window, as though the open sky could offer him courage. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. “Alright,” he said quietly, then firmer on the second breath. “Alright. I will… give it a try.”
It was like he had flipped a switch.
Mr. Incredible and Frozone lit up instantly, their smiles wide and genuine. “That’s the spirit!” Mr. Incredible said at a careful voice, mindful of the people who tried to snoop in on their conversation, his voice warm with encouragement. “You’re making the right choice, Simon. This is the start of something good.”
“Trust me,” Frozone added with an easy grin. “You won’t regret it. Directions everything. And you’ve got it.”
Simon managed a thin smile back at them, though it felt foreign on his face. I’ll regret it. I know I will. But maybe regret is better than never knowing.
Gamma Jack, however, was the anomaly. He blinked once, slowly, then fixed Simon with a look Simon could not quite name. It wasn’t approval, nor was it mockery. It lingered somewhere in between, unsettling in its ambiguity.
Before Simon could decipher it, Frozone was already pushing his chair back. “I’ll contact the NSA. Let ’em know we’ve got him.”
The scrape of chairs followed, all three Supers rising to their feet in one synchronized motion. Simon blinked, startled. “Wait—where are we going?”
Mr. Incredible, still radiating joy, turned toward him as if the answer were obvious. “To Edna.”
“I’m sorry…who?” Simon asked cautiously.
Gamma Jack snorted, already heading for the door. His narrowed gaze slid over Simon like a blade. “She makes our suits, lawyer. You’ll need one if ya want to be with us.” His voice was dry, edged with something dangerously close to amusement. Without waiting for a reply, he strode out the building, his cape sweeping behind him and catching the sun like gold.
Simon scrambled, fumbling to his feet as the other two trailed after Jack with far less hostility. In his rush, he tossed the last of his coffee into the bin and followed, pulse quickening as he realized there was no undoing this step now.
The door chimed closed behind him, the warmth of the building fading in an instant. Outside, the world suddenly felt less like his and more like theirs.
By the time Simon caught up, his breath shallow from weaving through pedestrians, Gamma Jack was already airborne. Green sparks arced around him like lightning trapped in glass, his body haloed in an ominous green glow that Simon could only assume was his radiation power. It was unsettling, though Gamma Jack himself seemed utterly at ease, cutting across the sky like he was born to it.
Simon caught only fragments of conversation as he hurried closer—the wind stealing the rest—but Mr. Incredible’s voice carried clearly enough when he craned his neck skyward. “Jack, keep the crowd busy!”
From above came a laugh, full of cocky bravado. “Don’t you worry about me, credy. I’ll have no problem distracting fans—Or the ladies.”
Simon caught the roll of Mr. Incredible’s eyes, a gesture so practiced it had to be routine when dealing with Gamma Jack.
Before Simon could ask why Gamma Jack needed to be distracting anyone, he felt a sudden weight on his arm. Mr. Incredible’s massive hand clamped around his sleeve, and in the next second Simon found himself practically hoisted off his feet and deposited into the backseat of a gleaming car—sleek, streamlined, tinted within an inch of its life.
Simon blinked several times in rapid succession, his glasses slipping down his nose from the force of the maneuver. With a dazed push, he adjusted them back into place. “Why,” he asked, voice tight and clipped, “are we in such a hurry?”
From the driver’s seat, Mr. Incredible glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his tone steady but firm. “Because we can’t have people noticing you being taken by us. It’d raise too many questions. Especially if a brand-new Super suddenly shows up right after we were seen with some random ‘civilian’ today. It’s basically so people don’t know your identity—which comes first before anything.”
Simon sat back, his lips pressed into a thin line. Wonderful. I’ve officially been kidnapped by celebrities, and I’m supposed to smile about it.
Mr. Incredible continued, “That’s why Jack’s out there making a spectacle of himself. Drawing every eye he can.”
Simon turned his head toward the tinted window, narrowing his eyes just enough to avoid letting any stray beam loose. Through the muted glass, he caught sight of Frozone skimming across the street, his trail of ice unfurling like a glassy road behind him, civilians gasping and cheering as he disappeared around a corner.
The car door slammed shut with finality. Mr. Incredible’s voice came again, low but with an unmistakable note of excitement. “Hold on tight. We’ve got a race on our hands to Edna’s.”
Simon blinked once. Twice. Race?
Then horror clawed its way up his throat as the engine roared to life. The vehicle surged forward, pinning him back against the seat, his heart lurching into his mouth.
This is it. This is how I die—not by my eyes, not by some courtroom rival—but in the back of a Super’s car going ninety miles an hour through a city street.