Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Simon was not entirely sure how he was still alive. The thought came with all the seriousness of a man who had just watched his life flash past him—several times—while being slingshotted around corners at speeds no mortal sedan should legally or mechanically survive.

Mr. Incredible, for his part, drove like a man possessed, yet with the confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times before and had the audacity to think it counted as “just another day.” Frozone, Simon figured, must have been his racing partner in crime, because no sane human being should accept this kind of vehicular whiplash as fun.

Simon could almost believe he had already perished in the backseat—because surely no one could endure this and live. That would be the dramatic take, at least. The truth was, the man behind the wheel had an infuriatingly satisfying way of slipping through impossibly tight turns and weaving through traffic with precision that made Simon’s logical mind short-circuit.

And the strangest part? No sirens. No helicopters. Not even the faint suggestion of flashing lights giving chase. That was when Simon came to his own horrifying conclusion: the police must have gotten used to this.

What felt like an eternity later, Simon’s dizzy, glass-blurred vision landed on two looming gates. Mansion? Fortress? He wasn’t sure. The kind of house that looked like it ate lesser houses for breakfast.

Mr. Incredible rolled down his window, speaking into a small intercom screen embedded in the stone wall beside the gate. A male voice responded—calm, almost bored—and a moment later the gates swung inward, slow and imposing, like the opening act of some exclusive show Simon had not asked to attend.

He turned his head just in time to catch Frozone sliding in smoothly behind them, his icy trail glittering like glass across the driveway.

Simon pushed his glasses higher on his nose and muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “Right. Sure. Because this is all completely normal.”

Mr. Incredible must have overheard Simon’s muttered comment because a low chuckle rumbled from the driver’s seat.

“You’ll get used to it,” he reassured, as if reckless near-death sprints through traffic were something a person could just build a tolerance for. “The longer you’re a Super, the weirder stuff gets tossed at you. You stop worrying about the danger after a while.”

Simon gave a weak chuckle in return, more out of politeness than agreement. He was not about to argue with a man whose strength could snap him in-half like a breadstick, but in the back of his head a thought crept in: Was this what being a Super meant? Getting so used to chaos that it rewired your brain? Would he wake up one day as one of those lunatics who dove headfirst into collapsing buildings without blinking?

The car drove up the long, richly paved driveway with a speed that hardly dropped from their freeway stunt earlier. Frozone skimmed along the ice beside them with ease, but Simon noticed the faint grin tugging at Mr. Incredible’s mouth. He was certain the man was smug about winning this round.

Or… maybe not.

Because as soon as the car slid neatly into the wide parking lot, Simon spotted him. Gamma Jack. Standing at the entrance like he had been waiting for hours, arms crossed, boredom etched into his face.

Simon blinked in disbelief as they exited the car, his knees still rubber from the car ride. How…?

“Wow,” Gamma Jack drawled as the three of them approached. “If I were an innocent woman about to be mugged, and you three were supposed to save me? Yeah—I’d already be robbed, dead, and buried.”

Before Simon could process the jab, Frozone smirked, gliding past him, and casually flicked the other hero in the side of the head.

“Not all of us can fly, you know. Some of us actually obey gravity.”

Gamma Jack’s scowl was sharp enough to cut brick. He leaned away, eyes narrowing as he gave Frozone a slow up-and-down look. The silent message was clear: Touch me again and see what happens.

Mr. Incredible didn’t even break stride. The man brushed past their posturing like a weary parent ignoring squabbling children, tugging open one of the oversized, gilded doors. “Come on, Simon. Edna’s waiting.”

Simon, still hanging back a safe distance in case radiation and ice started flying simultaneously, nodded quickly and scurried after him. He swore he could feel Frozone’s and Gamma Jack’s eyes drilling into his back as he slipped into the opulent building, trailing behind Mr. Incredible’s frame like a loyal hound.

Once inside, the building’s cool atmospheric pressure was enough to evaporate at least some of Simon’s anxiety, compared to the blinding sun outside. But the relief didn’t last long. The moment he actually looked around, his thought process ground to a halt, hijacked by pure awe.

The interior was every bit as grand as the exterior—maybe even more so. The marble floor beneath his shoes was polished to a mirror-shine, each step echoing faintly as if he were walking in a cathedral. Chandeliers hung overhead in sharp, modern angles instead of crystal drops, their golden light bouncing off sleek glass walls lined with displays.

And the displays—the displays.

One section boasted mannequins draped in elegant evening gowns, fabric that looked so soft and expensive Simon felt guilty even looking at it. Silk the color of starlight, sequined in constellations. A midnight-blue tuxedo tailored so sharp it could probably cut him. Another alcove displayed suits that had to be early prototypes for Supers: one with an aerodynamic sheen and subtle wing-like extensions, another armored in a way that still managed to look like high fashion. Each piece whispered of gala nights and heroic glory, as though the building itself was half-museum, half-temple to Edna’s genius.

Simon’s mouth was dry. He blinked, finally dragging his gaze from a gleaming crimson cocktail dress that looked like it belonged to royalty, and glanced at the others to see how they were taking in the luxury.

Bafflingly… they weren’t.

Mr. Incredible walked in front of him, relaxed and casual, like he strolled through halls like this every week. Frozone, a few steps behind, looked equally at ease—though with his visor hiding his eyes, Simon couldn’t tell if he was admiring the artistry or silently calculating how many zeroes each piece cost. And Gamma Jack—of course—looked the most uninterested of all. His arms were raised and laced behind his head, his expression bored, almost disdainful, as though the glittering history around him was a grocery store aisle.

Simon quickly looked away from him, heat prickling his gaze just as Jack’s eyes snapped in his direction. Better to avoid eye contact entirely. If Simon’s anxious staring somehow counted as provocation, he had no doubt the radioactive Super would disintegrate him on the spot. That, and being disintegrated after accidentally shooting him with his eyes.

From above, a new voice cut through the hall—sharp, bright, and utterly confident.

Simon’s head snapped up to see her.

At the top of a glass staircase—its steps so clean and perfectly suspended they looked like floating ice—stood a short woman who barely would have reached Simon’s torso. Her sleek black bob swung just above her shoulders, every strand in place, while her dark, angular clothing framed her as if she herself had been designed. Black, thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose magnified her wide, inquisitive eyes, and those eyes were fixed squarely on him.

Simon swallowed. The weight of her stare was unlike the others. Mr. Incredible’s look was friendly, Frozone’s analytical, Gamma Jack’s piercing. But Edna’s was… assessing. Calculating. Like she was already sketching him out in her mind.

“Ah, my darlings!” she declared, her voice carrying through the cavernous entryway with theatrical ease. She didn’t just speak—her voice performed. Her greeting to the Supers was as warm as it was commanding, yet somehow when her gaze returned to Simon, it softened, easing the knot in his chest by half.

Without hesitation, she descended, her short legs moving quickly but her bearing regal, as if she were floating down instead of walking. “At last!” she cried, her tone dancing somewhere between excitement and inevitability. “A new hero to clothe! Fresh canvas, fresh story, fresh possibilities. Do not make me wait—I despise waiting.”

Simon blinked rapidly and straightened his glasses before anyone could notice. He stood stiffly, then forced himself to loosen up as Mr. Incredible and Frozone traded casual greetings with her. Gamma Jack muttered something under his breath, which Edna ignored, causing the blond Super to frown.

When it was Simon’s turn, he bowed his head slightly, taking the moment far more seriously than the others seemed to. “Simon Paladino,” he introduced himself, voice careful but firm. “It’s…an honor to meet you. And thank you for what you’re doing—for me.”

Edna waved a dismissive hand, already bustling closer, though her wide eyes never left him. “Bah. I do not do it for you, darling—I do it because it must be done. The world is ugly, dangerous, unkind… it requires brilliance, it requires beauty, and it requires me. Besides—” she leaned forward, almost conspiratorial, “—I find it fun.”

Simon smiled, polite but tight, unsure if “fun” were a word he would ever apply to his current situation.

“You three,” she declared, voice leaving no room for objection. “Sit in the waiting area. There are refreshments, there are seats, there are magazines—do whatever it is you lugs do to pass the time. Eat, drink, brood—I do not care. But do not. Touch. Anything.” She punctuated each word with a flick of her hand toward a nearby display case where what looked like a half-finished suit glittered faintly under protective glass. “If it looks important or fragile, assume it is, and assume I will end you if you so much as breathe on it.”

Simon glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Mr. Incredible’s sheepish grin and Frozone’s smirk. Gamma Jack merely rolled his eyes and slouched toward the couches without protest.

Before she dismissed them fully, Edna softened her voice—barely. “No more than half an hour, darlings. Relax. I shall return your stray lamb to you intact.”

That earned a chuckle from Frozone, and with that, the Supers were gone, leaving Simon standing awkwardly in the middle of the lavish entry hall.

Edna turned back, already moving toward the floating staircase. “Come along, come along,” she said, gesturing impatiently for him to follow. “We have work to do, and it shall be splendid.”

Simon hummed in acknowledgment, a noncommittal sound he often made in court when stalling for time. His eyes swept over the staircase again. The glass looked solid enough, but the way the steps seemed to hover in open air made his stomach tighten. Still, he placed one foot lightly on the stair and began his climb.

At the top, his breath caught—again.

The second floor was more intimate than the grand entrance, but no less dazzling. Here, the walls were lined with suits, capes, helmets, and mannequins that carried designs so extravagant they were more like art than clothing. Deep indigo armor with silver filigree; a scarlet bodysuit lined with golden circuitry that shimmered faintly under the light; a black cloak sewn with fiber optics that blinked like stars. These were not gala pieces or show garments—these were battle hymns, frozen into fabric.

And every last one of them seemed to watch him back.

Simon adjusted his glasses, trying to keep his expression neutral. “So this is… the workshop?” he asked, though his voice sounded much quieter than he had intended.

Edna didn’t answer—she was already striding ahead at a pace that seemed impossible for someone her size. For every step of hers, Simon found himself taking two. He quickened his pace, careful not to trip on the immaculate flooring, and realized that of course she would move like this. She wasn’t the type to wait for anyone, much less someone like him.

The measurement room was more clinical than glamorous, and Simon found himself grateful for it. The walls were a pale cream, every surface clean and sterile, with racks of measuring tapes, calipers, and clipboards neatly arranged. A single bright light above bathed him in an unforgiving spotlight, and he felt briefly as though he had been summoned to testify before a jury made of fabric and steel.

“Arms out, straight,” Edna barked.

Simon obeyed immediately, arms rigid at his sides like a schoolboy being scolded. Edna circled him once, twice, eyes narrowing with each sweep. Then, without warning, the tape flashed in her hands, and she began her work: torso, chest, arms, legs, biceps, inseam. Her hands moved so fast he almost didn’t feel the tape before it was gone, numbers being rattled off in sharp bursts.

“Average height, solid build, good proportions—mmm, yes. Beautiful posture, darling. We like our Supers to look as wonderful up close as they are from afar.”

Simon felt his face redden at the—he assumed—complements that were aloud thoughts.

Not even two minutes later, the whirlwind ceased. Edna shoved the clipboard toward a silent assistant in the corner, a woman who had appeared without Simon noticing and disappeared with the same efficiency once the measurements were in hand.

“Done,” Edna declared, already gesturing for him to follow. “Come, come, we haven’t got all day!”

Simon followed dutifully, still shaking off the sensation that he’d been measured down to his soul. They emerged into an even wider chamber, this one more like a gymnasium than a studio, though with a peculiar elegance. In the center of the floor, glass walls rose in perfect squares, forming a separate chamber-within-a-chamber. The glass gleamed faintly, reinforced and thick, but entirely transparent.

“Inside,” Edna ordered, pointing toward the sealed room.

Simon hesitated. “…Inside?”

“Yes, inside, darling. Do you think I will risk my hair, my glasses, my beautiful couture over a Super? Please. For art, we must observe from safety.” She tapped the glass with a fingernail, and it rang like a bell. “Go, go.”

Simon exhaled and nodded, slipping inside. The door sealed with a hush of air behind him, leaving him alone in the chamber. The room itself was stark: a few targets stood propped on the floor, some hanging from mechanized arms above. Embedded in the high walls were gunlike devices that made his stomach tighten—though they appeared dormant, their very presence made his skin prickle.

He swallowed. “Hopefully not live rounds,” he muttered.

Edna’s voice cut crisply through a small speaker embedded in the glass wall. “Of course not, darling. Purely test mechanisms. Today I want to see your natural output, nothing more. Begin with the ground targets. Show me what you do.”

Simon stood rooted for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides. His lawyer’s mind raced through objections, counterpoints, excuses. But in the end, he only exhaled and slid off his glasses. Folding them carefully, he tucked them away into his pants pocket. His pale blue eyes—so deceptively unordinary—fixed on the furthest wooden target.

He focused.

And then it happened. Like he expected.

Twin beams of crimson light burst forth, straight and true, slamming into the target. The wood blackened instantly, pierced clean through before the edges sagged and melted. The sharp scent of scorched timber filled the chamber.

Simon blinked rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut until the afterglow faded. When he reopened them, he glanced toward the glass wall.

Edna stood with her arms crossed, chin tilted, eyes alight with fascination.

“Fascinating,” she murmured, pacing closer. “Rare—yes, quite rare. Simple in concept, devastating in execution. Precision beams, direct from the eyes. No gauntlets, no devices, no artificial focus. You, darling, are a weapon just by looking.”

Simon’s throat tightened at her words. “A weapon…”

He didn’t like how easily that label fit.

But Edna’s voice carried on, unbothered, full of quick conclusions and brighter ideas. “I will need a material resistant to heat to reflect your lasers in case of accidental shots. Reinforced lenses—no, a visor for protection—non-reflective, of course, to prevent dangerous ricochet. A suit that stabilizes posture for accurate shots, channels discipline. Yes, yes, I see it already. Beautiful. Magnificent.”

Simon couldn’t help but give a dry laugh under his breath. “Magnificent isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Of course not, darling,” Edna replied smoothly, still scribbling. “But I am not designing for your opinion. I am designing for greatness.”

As the machines in the walls whirred to life, Simon’s brow creased. This time, the sleek black cannons embedded in the upper walls tilted downward, their barrels glinting under the fluorescent lights. The ground targets rose on hidden platforms, jittering unpredictably, while new hanging discs swung lazily from above.

Edna’s voice cut through the buzz of mechanics, sharp and commanding.

“Now we see if the eyes are faster than the brain, hm? Dodge, Simon darling, dodge and shoot! Show me you are not merely a lamp with legs!”

Simon’s jaw tightened. “Lamp with—? …Right.”

The first pellet whizzed past his cheek before he could finish. He jerked aside, his glasses bouncing in his pocket. The second came almost immediately, but instinct took over—his eyes snapped toward the moving disc, two streaks of crimson carving through it before the wooden shards even hit the ground.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Okay. This was…different.

The next barrage came faster. Simon ducked, sidestepped, twisted his torso to avoid the harmless rubber bullets snapping past his ears. His laser beams cut through swinging targets like they were butter, each hit sending a pleasant rush through his veins. His body felt alive in a way it rarely did—like he was shedding years of anxious stiffness in every movement.

Behind the glass, Edna scribbled furiously. “Yes, yes, very precise! But you hesitate—too much calculation, not enough instinct! Your mind is your enemy here. Trust the power, let it flow!”

Simon gritted his teeth and tried. For once, he loosened his shoulders, allowed his gaze to flick and fire without the usual fear of what—or who—he might hurt. The room lit with flashes of scarlet, the rubber bullets pinging harmlessly off the reinforced floor as he nailed target after target.

By the time the test wound down, Simon was panting lightly, though not from exhaustion. His heart thrummed in exhilaration, every nerve humming. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, then glanced up at Edna’s silhouette through the glass. She was smiling—not kindly, but like a scientist who had just confirmed a promising hypothesis.

“Excellent,” she declared, tapping her clipboard. “Efficient, reactive, controlled under pressure.”

Simon chuckled under his breath, somewhere between nerves and relief. “Glad to be of service.”

“Service?” Edna waved a hand. “Nonsense. You are artwork in progress. Now…final trial!”

The wall panels rumbled again, louder this time, and Simon’s fleeting confidence wavered slightly.

The room hummed with a new, heavier energy, the kind that prickled Simon’s skin with anticipation. He stood tall in the center, the polished floor reflecting faint glints of red from his eyes as he waited for the signal.

Edna’s voice, sharp and commanding as ever, cut in over the intercom.

“Final test, darling. This is not about precision alone—it is about discipline. Power is meaningless without restraint. Endurance, control, awareness…you will prove you have all three. Targets will differ—wood, metal. Wood requires delicacy, just enough sting. Metal, however—” she tapped her clipboard so hard Simon could hear it through the glass, “—burn it like it insulted your mother. Fail to balance, and your suit will fail you. Now…begin!”

The lights above flared, and suddenly the room came alive.

Targets shot up from the floor, clanged down from the ceiling, and even slid along hidden tracks in the walls. Some spun in rapid circles; others swayed like pendulums. The cannons along the upper walls swiveled and began to move this time, gliding on rails that looped around the room. And then came the first volley—rubber bullets raining down in quick succession.

Simon ducked hard, instinct kicking in as a beam of scarlet lanced from his eyes and struck the nearest swinging disc. It split, smoking faintly. Wood.

Good. Easy enough.

Another target shot toward him from the floor. He turned, adjusted the intensity of his gaze, and fired again—only this time the beam bounced off with a sharp metallic clang. Simon gritted his teeth and narrowed his focus, pouring more power into the shot until the target glowed red and cracked open.

Metal. Got it.

The rhythm established itself quickly—wood, light beam. Metal, full blast. Easy on paper, but harder when half a dozen bullets zipped past his head and the targets spun so quickly they blurred together.

He pivoted sharply, knees bending as he dodged a rapid-fire spray from a moving cannon. A beam streaked out almost reflexively, his body following the rhythm of movement and light, searing through the cannon barrel. Sparks flew. Simon didn’t stop—another target, this one wood, zipped across his peripheral. He dialed his eyes down, hitting it just enough to char the surface without obliterating it.

He was sweating now, though not from strain—more from the sheer rush. His pulse was hammering, the kind of pounding beat he usually associated with anxiety but now…now it felt different. Exhilarating.

“Do not overthink!” Edna barked over the speaker. “Faster, Simon! Show me you can decide in moments!”

More targets. Dozens. It was like the walls themselves had become his enemy. They shifted, rose, clanged, and spun at every angle. Simon twisted on his heel, shot a beam left—light, wood. Snapped his gaze right—intense, metal. He ducked, rolled across the floor as a barrage of rubber bullets hissed past, and sprang back to his feet, firing at the gliding cannons above.

Red light cut across the air in blazing arcs, striking target after target. His shoulders burned with the constant twisting, and sweat clung to his temples, but his body refused to quit. The more he moved, the more alive he felt, his muscles carrying him with a confidence he did not recognize as his own.

One wood target darted low toward his shin. He snapped his eyes downward, giving it just enough of a tap to blacken it. At the same time, two metallic discs whirled at opposite angles overhead. Simon spun, firing twin beams at full force, both discs exploding in a shower of sparks.

The room smelled of charred wood and scorched metal, smoke curling faintly toward the ceiling. The targets were falling faster now, the cannons shooting relentlessly, the room spinning with motion—but Simon didn’t falter. He found the rhythm between restraint and force, between movement and stillness.

By the time the final targets collapsed in a heap of smoke and ash, Simon stood in the center, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, but his legs steady beneath him. His eyes glowed faintly even as the beams flickered out, leaving red afterimages dancing in his vision.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t embarrassed by the heat in his gaze or the faint burn in the air around him. He felt…capable.

Edna clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Magnificent. You see? Strength with control! Power with grace! Your endurance is promising, your adaptability even more so. You are no lamp, Simon darling—you are a laser scalpel. Precise, sharp, and oh-so-dangerous if misused. I can work with this.”

Simon let out a shaky laugh, half out of relief, half from the energy coursing through him. He had never felt so drained and yet so alive.

The hiss of the sealed chamber door broke the silence, and Simon blinked against the sudden shift of air pressure. Edna swept him out with her clipboard, still scribbling notes as she spoke.

“Endurance, darling—lots of it. Extremely useful.” Her pen danced across the paper. “Your kind of stamina is rare, and it will keep you alive.”

Simon, still catching his breath, tilted his head. “How’s that so important? I mean…I thought powers were what counted.”

That made Edna pause. She lowered her clipboard and fixed him with wide, dark eyes magnified by her glasses. Her tone sharpened into something that carried weight.

“Many Supers, Simon, rely too much on their gifts. They forget the body beneath it. Forget the limits.” She jabbed her pen toward him for emphasis. “A tired body means sloppy judgment. Sloppy judgment leads to mistakes. And mistakes, dear boy, lead to innocent civilians in graves. Or Supers themselves.” She gave a small approving nod. “You—are different. You think, you pace yourself. I like that.”

Simon swallowed, his throat tight, and nodded. Different. He wasn’t sure if that was good or terrifying.

Edna turned briskly on her heel, gesturing for him to follow. He did, trailing after her into a smaller, enclosed room that smelled faintly of pressed fabric and machine oil. Even smaller here meant vast—walls lined with mannequins dressed in elegant half-finished gowns, bold tuxedos, and sleek armor-like suits. Bolts of fabric were stacked neatly, shimmering under the light like liquid metal.

But Simon’s eyes were drawn instantly to the far end.

There it stood.

A mannequin clad in a suit unlike anything he’d ever seen. Rich navy-blue fabric hugged the body in clean lines, broken only by a paler blue triangular design stretching down from the neckline to the chest—sharp, simple, but eye-catching. The sleeves and legs tapered smoothly, flexible but firm, every seam purposeful. And resting above it on a stand was the helmet. The visor caught the light like a mirror, sleek and reflective, thicker than Frozone’s and carrying the gleam that only new polish could shimmer.

Simon froze. His heart stuttered.

A Super-suit. His Super-suit.

His mouth went dry, and for a moment, he could only stare. Awe and horror wrestled inside him. Somewhere deep down, a version of himself—the old him—was screaming, this isn’t real, this isn’t possible, collapsing into a coma at the sight.

Edna, oblivious to his inner panic, gestured proudly at her creation. “Breathable fabric—your body will not suffocate, hm? Flexible, so you move like water, but sturdy enough to endure punishment. Lightweight, durable, heat resistant. Flames, lasers, explosions—bah!” She snapped her fingers. “They will slide right off.”

Simon stepped closer, his shaky reflection caught in the polished visor. He lifted a hand but stopped just short of touching it, as though contact would make the reality crash down too hard to bear.

He whispered, more to himself than anyone, “A Super-suit…for me.”

Edna smirked, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Of course for you, darling. Who else?”

Before Simon could even begin to process the weight of what he was seeing—the suit, the helmet, his future—Edna clapped her hands sharply and ushered him back toward the hallways.

“Changing room, darling. Go, go, go—time is precious, and fashion waits for no one!”

Simon opened his mouth to protest, or maybe to stall, but Edna was quicker. With surprising strength for her size, she plucked the suit from its stand, the helmet from its perch, and promptly dumped both into his arms. The door to the changing room swung open, and with a not-so-gentle shove and a click of the door behind him, Simon found himself alone.

The first thing he noticed was the weight in his hands. Not heavy, but…real. Solid. The suit’s texture was unlike any fabric he had felt before—sturdy yet smooth, almost humming with purpose. He rubbed the rich navy material between his fingers, trying to convince himself this was fabric and not some symbol of a future he wasn’t sure he wanted.

This is it, he thought, his throat tightening. This is the moment the scales tip. Simon J. Paladino, attorney-at-law…buried beneath a visor and spandex. From here on out, the world won’t see the man who spent years building cases, studying law, fighting in courtrooms. They will see…this.

The suit looked back at him, as if challenging him to step into it.

For a moment, Simon simply sat on the bench, staring at the bundle in his lap. His lawyer brain kicked in, rattling off arguments both for and against. For: you are protecting people, doing good, saving lives. Against: you are throwing away a career, a carefully built reputation, and for what? Glory? A spotlight you never wanted?

He swallowed hard.

In the end, his fingers betrayed him. They moved on their own, tugging at zippers and seams, turning the fabric inside-out and right again until he could figure out how the thing actually fit on. He grumbled under his breath at the complexity—at least a three-piece suit never required a manual.

Finally, piece by piece, he pulled the suit onto his body. And when it settled, snug but not suffocating, Simon froze.

It was…strange. Strange, and yet—he rolled his shoulders experimentally—strangely good. Flexible. Light. Comfortable in ways he had not expected. It didn’t itch or pinch or restrict. It breathed with him, like a second skin that had been waiting for him his whole life.

Cautiously, he turned toward the mirror.

And for a second, Simon did not recognize the man staring back.

The suit hugged his form, every seam precise. The pale triangular design drew the eye to his chest, giving him a posture of strength he didn’t know he had. His reflection looked taller somehow. Sharper. A figure that belonged in headlines, not behind a courtroom desk.

This isn’t me; he told himself. This can’t be me.

But another voice whispered: Maybe it could be.

His gaze fell to the helmet in his hands. Its visor gleamed back at him, reflecting his hesitant expression. He ran his thumb over its smooth surface, awe prickling through the dread. The thought struck him like lightning: once he put this on, once his face disappeared behind that visor, there would be no mistaking him for Simon the lawyer ever again. He’d become someone else.

Someone the world expected to save them.

He lingered in that thought longer than he should have, but eventually, with a sharp breath, Simon opened the changing room door.

Edna was waiting, as though she had known the exact second he would appear. She clapped her hands together and made a noise that was equal parts approval and excitement.

“Marvelous! Splendid! Look at the lines, the fit! Perfect!” she exclaimed, circling him like a hawk sizing up prey. Simon wasn’t sure if she was praising him or the suit—but honestly, he didn’t care. Either way, it felt…nice. Strange, but nice.

Praise wasn’t something he often got. Not like this.

Edna scribbled one more thing onto her clipboard, then without explanation, grabbed a strange object off a nearby counter—a sleek metal cylinder, maybe some sort of gadget, paired with a mirror she tucked under her arm.

“Come, darling, we must show the others. They will want to see,” she said, waving her hand impatiently.

The word others hit Simon like a shockwave.

The others—he had forgot. Mr. Incredible. Frozone. Gamma Jack.

Simon’s stomach twisted. He tightened his grip on the helmet, his nerves sparking to life as he realized this wasn’t just about him and Edna anymore. His reveal was about to happen in front of people who had worn their identities as Supers like a second skin for years.

And him? He was still Simon. A lawyer playing dress-up.

At least, that’s how it felt.

Simon trailed after Edna, trying not to glance down at the translucent steps beneath his feet. Every time his foot pressed against the glass, he imagined the tread giving way, imagined himself plummeting through endless space to a very unheroic splatter at the bottom. By the time they reached the ground floor, he was relieved enough to exhale audibly—but of course, Edna didn’t notice. She was already striding briskly toward a wide archway that opened into yet another space Simon hadn’t known existed inside this bizarrely glamorous fortress.

The room itself was half waiting lounge, half luxury kitchen, and all gleaming sophistication. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows framed with sheer, silk-like curtains that swayed gently with the air-conditioning. A long counter lined one side, black marble polished to such a sheen Simon could see his reflection warped and stretched across it. Behind the counter stood a chrome fridge that looked like it had been stolen from the future, its surface humming faintly.

The other half of the space was devoted to comfort: a broad sectional couch upholstered in padded cream leather, accented with throw pillows in colors that somehow matched the rest of the room’s warm palette without looking gaudy. A low coffee table made of some smooth, golden-brown wood sat in the middle, its surface perfectly free of clutter except for a crystal bowl of fruit that looked so ripe it could’ve been painted there. The air smelled faintly of espresso, citrus, and something buttery—shrimp, Simon realized belatedly.

Of course, he thought dryly. Why wouldn’t Edna’s waiting area look like a five-star resort lounge and a Michelin-star kitchen collided?

The first figure his eyes landed on was Frozone. It wasn’t difficult—his sleek, icy-blue and white suit clashed sharply against the warm browns, oranges, and creams around him, like someone had frozen a piece of the sky and set it down in the middle of the room. He was slouched comfortably on one end of the couch, visor tilted downward as he flipped casually through a magazine. Simon squinted, and sure enough, the cover displayed something about climate and ice shelf collapses. The corner of Simon’s mouth tugged upward despite himself. Of course he’s reading about climate. What else would the ice guy read? Stock market reports?

On the opposite end of the couch, Mr. Incredible sat with his elbows planted casually on his knees. He had a water bottle in hand, tossing it high into the air, then catching it without once looking up at it. Each catch was easy, effortless, the motion practiced. The sheer relaxed confidence of it made Simon tense. Mr. Incredible didn’t look bored, just content—like someone who trusted the world to keep spinning while he sat back and flexed his reflexes for the fun of it.

Gamma Jack, however, was in his own little world. He’d claimed a separate armchair angled toward the couch, equally padded and comfortable. He lounged deep into it, a small porcelain bowl balanced carelessly on his lap. Shrimp—plump, pink, and chilled—glinted under the lights, the kind you would expect to find at a fancy gala buffet. Jack popped one into his mouth, chewing lazily, while his deep blue eyes stared hard and unfocused at the wall across from him. His whole posture screamed disinterest, but his stillness gave Simon a prickle at the back of his neck, like Jack’s attention wasn’t as absent as it looked.

Simon stood just inside the threshold, helmet still clutched in his hands, the suit feeling suddenly far too noticeable on his body. His first thought was how utterly normal they looked in this extraordinary space. Three Supers, lounging as though this was just another Tuesday, as though five-star luxury and shrimp bowls were everyday waiting-room decor. Meanwhile, Simon still couldn’t decide if he’d stepped into a high-end fashion magazine spread or a dream he would be embarrassed to admit he had.

I really need to stop getting surprised by this place, he scolded himself silently. First the floating stairs, then the gallery of gowns, and now a waiting lounge that looks like it was designed by royalty. What’s next, an indoor waterfall with koi swimming through champagne?

And yet…his heart hammered all the same. Because the real show was not the décor. It was him.

Edna’s sharp hand clap cracked through the room like a whip. It was startling how quickly it commanded attention—Mr. Incredible paused mid-toss, the water bottle smacking lightly against his palm instead of flying, Frozone’s magazine folded in on itself as he set it down, and Gamma Jack blinked out of his distant stare.

Except Jack didn’t turn to Edna like the others. His eyes locked directly onto Simon, unwavering and oddly intense. A stare that crawled down Simon’s spine like freezing water. He tried not to shift under it, but the sensation of being studied so deliberately was more unnerving than the moving targets in the chamber had been. He fiddled with the helmet as an excuse to look away.

Edna swept forward with a proud flourish, heels clicking against the polished marble floor. “Simon’s suit,” she declared, voice sharp as a blade, “is a triumph. An upgrade from Blazestone’s—thanks to my latest advances in heat-resistant technology.”

That earned a broad, toothy smile from Frozone, though it had an edge to it. The kind of smile you give when someone made a rude comment on someone you despised greatly. Simon filed that away with a flicker of amusement.

Edna continued. “His laser vision will prove indispensable when confronting relentless drone strikes and advanced flare weaponry. With its pinpoint precision and searing intensity, the laser can slice through hostile targets with ease, neutralizing threats before they even get close. Moreover, this innovative design is engineered with a sophisticated safety mechanism—any accidental misfires or stray beams will not just pose a risk; instead, they will be expertly absorbed, redirected, or deflected entirely, ensuring maximum efficiency and absolute control in the heat of battle.”

Simon felt the weight of three gazes on him now. All filled with a quiet awe—though in Jack’s case, it wasn’t admiration so much as calculation. The expression was subtle but unmistakable: What can I do to obliterate that? Simon shifted his grip on the visor helmet in his hands again. Creepy. Absolutely creepy.

Edna plucked up the metal cylinder she carried and held a hand up showing that she would toss it into the air. “Destroy it.”

Simon’s heart kicked. He nodded once, briskly, and removed his glasses. The air around him sharpened the way it always did when he let go of the restraints of his lenses. Edna tossed the cylinder up and his vision zeroed in on the metal cylinder as it spun, silver flashing in the lights overhead. Simon braced his breath, hardened his gaze—and shot at it.

Twin beams of concentrated crimson snapped into existence, spearing the cylinder mid-air. The metal burst, not clattered, dissolving into a cloud of ash that fluttered down in gray flakes before the fragments could even hit the floor.

The three Supers stared, their eyes wide with raw curiosity. Simon could read the silent question in their expressions: So this is what you can do.

Edna broke the pause with a wave of her clipboard. “Now we try the helmet and it’s visor. Put it on.”

Simon swallowed and slid the visor into place. The snug seal around his face was unfamiliar but not suffocating. He braced himself to see the world tinted red—like looking through blood-colored glass—but instead, his vision narrowed to an acute point of focus, almost too sharp. His temples prickled as though his eyes might flare just from staring.

“Switch on the left side,” Edna instructed. “Down for precision. Up for intensity. A matter of volume control, darling.”

Volume? Simon wondered, fingers brushing the small mechanism. The concept of dialing his eyes up or down felt alien—like trying to mute or blast a radio that was grafted into his own skull. Still, he hummed his acknowledgment and turned it down to its lowest setting.

Edna’s hand appeared again, this time holding the polished mirror angled toward him. “Now,” she said with complete calm, “shoot the beam towards yourself.”

Simon froze. His eyes darted, not to the mirror, but to the Supers lounging just a few feet away—watching. Waiting. He could almost feel their expectation pressing down on him, heavier than the helmet itself. His chest tightened. Shooting a target was one thing. Shooting something that would deliberately reflect his own power back at him—he had learned that lesson the hard way more than once.

Still, Edna’s calm expression told him she had no doubts. That should have reassured him. It did not.

He drew in a breath, set his jaw, and looked back at the mirror.

The visor clicked faintly as he adjusted his volume lower, fingers lingering nervously. Then, bracing himself, his gaze fell on the raised mirror and the laser shot out at it.

The laser struck the mirror dead center—ricocheting back at him with a burst of red light. Simon winced slightly, shoulders tensing, bracing himself for the familiar searing agony of heat burning into his skin.

But it never came.

The beam dispersed harmlessly across his suit, absorbed like sunlight against stone. He staggered half a step from sheer instinct, then straightened as he realized—he had not felt a thing.

Edna raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Simon blinked rapidly behind the visor, then reached up to pull it free. He was smiling before he even realized it, a small, startled grin tugging at his lips. “It… it didn’t hurt. Nothing.” His voice cracked just slightly with the weight of relief. “It feels… nice. Not being burned by myself.”

That earned a laugh from Mr. Incredible, low and hearty. Frozone chuckled along, shaking his head in approval. Even Gamma Jack’s lips twitched, though he smothered the smile almost instantly, his eyes flickering over Simon then away and darkening slightly in that haze again

Simon tried not to squirm under that stare.

His attention was saved by Frozone, who leaned back comfortably and tapped a finger against the rim of his visor with a sly grin.

“Nice to see I won’t be the only one with eyewear anymore,” Frozone said, tone light. “You have no idea how much I stuck out to villains. Every time, it’s like: ‘Hmm, who should I attack first? Let’s see—oh, the guy with the visor! He’s clearly important!’”

He pitched his voice mockingly low, adopting the casual lilt of some cartoonish thug. The imitation was ridiculous, and Simon couldn’t help smiling—just briefly—at the way Frozone leaned into it.

Simon tilted his head. “But why would you need one at all? Your powers aren’t from your eyes.”

Frozone smirked knowingly. “Snow blindness, my man. Light bouncing off ice—it’s brutal. My visor keeps me from frying my retinas every time I make a glacier in the middle of a fight.”

That made Simon blink. He nodded thoughtfully. He never would have thought of that.

“I didn’t know that,” Mr. Incredible chimed in, genuine surprise on his face.

Frozone turned his head slowly, raising his brows at him in disbelief. “How… do you not know that? We’ve been working together for years. Years.”

Mr. Incredible just shrugged, all innocent bulk and broad shoulders. “Never came up.”

Frozone muttered something under his breath, shaking his head with exasperation. Simon, watching, fought the urge to laugh—it felt like stepping into a conversation already years old, and weirdly, he liked it.

Then Edna clapped her clipboard against her palm. “Darlings, I have prom designs to finish—imagine! Prom!” She threw her free hand dramatically to the ceiling, then snapped back down to business. “That means out. All of you.”

Mr. Incredible sighed but hauled himself off the couch. Frozone stood smoothly, adjusting his visor. Even Gamma Jack rose, though his expression hadn’t softened. Simon followed their lead, still awkwardly holding his helmet under one arm.

But before they reached the door, Edna’s sharp voice cut out. “Simon!”

He stopped in his tracks, turning back just as she strode over and pressed a neatly stapled stack of papers into his hands.

“What’s this?” he asked, flipping through the pages briefly—notes, diagrams, even what looked like readings of his energy output. His name was printed at the top.

“Your record,” Edna said briskly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Details of your power, your performance, my observations. Deliver it to the NSA. They’ll keep it in your file—so people know what you can do.”

Simon’s throat tightened a little at that. His file. His power, his life, written down in neat bullet points and charts. It was strange to see himself reduced to statistics. He wanted to ask her why it was necessary, but she was already pivoting on her heel, waving them toward the exit.

“Ciao, darlings!”

“Thank you,” Simon called after her, voice too quick, almost tripping over itself. She lifted a hand in her usual, breezy wave without disappearing up the stairs again.

Still gripping the papers, a little tighter than necessary, Simon hurried to catch up with the others, his footsteps echoing down the polished hall toward the main doors.

Chapter Text

The doors shut behind him with a soft click, and Simon was swallowed by the heat and brightness of the sun. It hit him like a hammer after the cool, precise atmosphere of Edna’s palace-like studio. The light reflected off the gleaming pavement and glass of the outside glamour, stabbing his eyes until he instinctively squinted. Already, he missed the way Edna’s air-conditioning had wrapped him like a shield, keeping his pulse steady.

He had taken barely three steps down the front steps when he realized all three Supers were waiting. Waiting for him.

Their gazes landed squarely on him as if they had been in mid-conversation and his presence was the cue to stop. Frozone leaned easily on the railing, visor catching the sunlight. Mr. Incredible stood planted on the steps, broad shoulders relaxed but posture unmistakably straight. And Gamma Jack—he was slouched against the iron post like he owned it, eyes low-lidded but sharp, trained not on Simon’s face but on the stack of papers in his hands.

Simon instinctively clutched the records tighter to his chest, feeling suddenly exposed. That was his life in there. His tests, his power, his limits, probably even his fears if Edna ever caught that much—all of it written down, neat and official. And now it felt like they all knew.

Frozone was the first to break the silence. His tone was casual, but Simon caught the curiosity laced through it.

“You know,” Frozone said, “I can’t help wondering why Edna’s the one putting you through the wringer instead of the NSA. Normally, they’re all over this kind of thing. Interviews, paperwork, testing.”

Gamma Jack let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Please. The NSA doesn’t trust their own shadows. They wanted to see how the newbie handled himself without their ‘watchful protection.’” He curled his fingers in the air to mock the word. “Less interference, more honest results. Classic paranoia.”

Mr. Incredible’s deep voice cut through, steady but subdued. “Not paranoia. Precaution. It’s always smart to take a step back and make sure things are stable. We’re not just talking about powers—we’re talking about certain people with powers. That changes everything.”

Simon glanced between them, unsure whether to speak. He didn’t want to get caught in the middle, but he also didn’t like being talked about like he wasn’t standing right here.

Frozone, however, wasn’t done. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he turned to Gamma Jack. “The NSA only got paranoid after you joined, Jack. Can’t blame them really—your reputation doesn’t exactly scream the most stable guy.”

That made Simon’s chest tighten. Frozone’s voice was smooth, but underneath it was a jab sharp enough to sting.

Gamma Jack’s arms shifted, folding across his chest. He rolled his eyes with practiced boredom, but his jaw was tight. “The NSA’s a bunch of pansies. Too soft to handle real Supers, so they cling to control. I didn’t need their leash to become what I am. I’m an honorable Super—because I chose to be, not because they roped me in with promises of a paycheck.”

“Roped you in?” Frozone barked a laugh. “Jack, no one roped you. The NSA just didn’t like the idea that when you threw tantrums, you could easily level a block into nothing. That’s not honorable, that’s dangerous.”

The air between them sharpened like glass. Gamma Jack’s lips curled into the faintest sneer. “My dangerous side keeps people alive. They listen when they’re afraid.”

Simon felt the tension pulse between them like a wire about to snap. His palms went clammy. He wasn’t sure if they were seconds away from trading punches or if this was just their version of friendly banter. Either way, he didn’t want to find out.

“Uh—” Simon blurted, louder than he meant to. All three sets of eyes turned on him at once, and his heart skipped. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak evenly. “Can someone… just tell me the real reason the NSA wanted me so fast? I’d rather hear it straight.”

Mr. Incredible looked at him with a grateful smile. Like he was silently thanking Simon for pulling them back from the edge. His voice was firm when he answered, the kind of tone that carried weight without needing to shout.

“They want you under their order because it’s safer that way,” he said simply. “If you… chose the wrong path, if you used your powers against people instead of for them, they’d have protocols. They can’t afford another wild card. Not with what you can do.”

Simon nodded slowly, though the words sank into him like stones. He had never thought of himself as dangerous in that way. Dangerous to himself, yes. Dangerous in small, accidental moments, sure. But dangerous enough that the NSA thought he could turn into a villain? That was different. 

Mr. Incredible went on. “You’re not the first, Simon. One of us—Blazestone—you probably heard her name. She didn’t want to join the League either. Thought she was fine on her own. But her power…” He shook his head, a shadow in his expression. “It got away from her once. A gas station burned completely down. People got hurt. She went to jail for it. Only joined up later when the NSA freed her and promised protection, a steady salary, and better benefits. Structure for a better life.”

Frozone made a sound in his throat, not quite a laugh. “She hasn’t changed much. Blazestone still rivals Jack when it comes to blowing up over nothing. Throw them in a room together and you better pray the walls are flame and radiation proof.”

Simon’s gaze darted nervously to Gamma Jack. The radioactive Super hadn’t moved much, but when he looked up, his eyes flickered with something Simon couldn’t name. Not anger. Not humor. Something colder, deeper. It went straight through him and left his skin crawling.

Simon forced himself not to flinch, gripping the papers in his hands tighter.

Maybe Gamma Jack wasn’t brooding earlier. Maybe his stare had been about him all along. But why? He didn’t do anything unsetting. He hoped…

Simon wasn’t sure why Gamma Jack’s eyes were plotting his death—and he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to push it that far. Still, he reminded himself firmly: too much flinching and wariness was not going to earn him anything from these people. If he wanted even half a chance at being respected—or, at the very least, tolerated—he couldn’t look like a rabbit that was surrounded by wolfs.

He folded his arms with the papers tucked to look casual, grounding himself in the fact that Mr. Incredible and Frozone were at his side. They had vouched for him. As long as they were around, Simon figured the odds of him being fried alive by a radioactive blast or snuffed out before he even got his feet under him were…lower. At least, that’s what he hoped.

“So,” he asked, trying to steer things forward, “are we going somewhere else now that I’ve got the suit?”

Mr. Incredible gave a small nod, his broad frame shifting as he crossed his arms. “Yeah. We’ve got to bring you to the NSA facility. They’ll want to evaluate you—make sure you’re trustworthy. Both with your powers and with the public. It’s standard procedure.”

Simon hummed in acknowledgment, pretending like that did not spike his nerves all over again. He thought they were about to head out immediately, but no one moved. The silence stretched.

He glanced around, uncertain. “…So…are we…leaving, or…?”

That’s when Frozone cut in, voice even but with a note of amusement. “Not yet. You need a Super-name first, man. You can’t show up to the League as just Simon.”

Simon blinked. Then blinked again. “Oh. Right.” His mind stuttered blank. He had been so focused on the immediate chaos that it hadn’t even occurred to him. Names were supposed to be flashy, purposeful, memorable. And here he was—someone who had never planned on being a Super in the first place—standing in front of people who carried theirs like a crown.

Off to his side, just out of view, he heard a sharp snort.

“Don’t tell me,” Gamma Jack drawled, his voice radiating smug amusement. “You’re actually considering just calling yourself ‘Simon.’”

Simon turned his head slightly but kept his eyes straight ahead. “Why,” he asked flatly, “would I even consider that?”

He didn’t have to look at him to know Gamma Jack was grinning. He could hear it in the tone. “Because you reek of that kind of boring vibe. Playing it safe. Staying casual. ‘Hi, I’m Simon, totally trustworthy and uninteresting. Giving off my identity because I’m just a classic Joe Schmo.’”

Mr. Incredible’s scowl cut across the air like a thundercloud. “Enough. Quit acting like a grade-school bully, Jack, and shut it.”

But from the corner of his vision, Simon caught the faint sharpening of Gamma Jack’s smirk. He leaned ever so slightly forward, like a cat testing a new toy, and murmured just loud enough for all to hear.

“What? I’m just sayin’. If he can’t handle a little itty tease, how is he supposed to handle the rest of us? Or the villains?”

Simon’s jaw tightened. He forced his posture to stay steady, his tone light—even if his gut twisted with every word. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, finally flicking his pale gaze at the blond Super. “I can handle myself just fine.”

Gamma Jack’s brows lifted, though Simon couldn’t tell if it was a challenge or just amusement at his expense. Either way, he didn’t have the energy to care. Instead of firing back, he shifted his focus toward the two Supers who actually seemed to care about whether he survived this initiation.

“Look,” Simon said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not great with names. Never have been. So… maybe one of you could come up with something? It would probably mean more that way anyway. To have someone else give me one. Makes it feel…more, in a way.”

Mr. Incredible and Frozone exchanged a look. Their surprise was obvious, but not unkind. It was the sort of look two veterans gave each other when the rookie had done something unexpected. Slowly, their expressions softened, twisting into thoughtful lines as both fell quiet.

Mr. Incredible rested his chin on a hand, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Hmm… something with eyes, maybe. You’ve got that stare that can… what is it, exactly? Lasers?”

“Yeah, lasers—or beams,” Simon supplied quickly, a little embarrassed at his voice rising. “Concentrated energy. From my eyes.”

“Right. So… names…” Mr. Incredible muttered, pacing half a step as though the movement would jog inspiration. “Vision-beam? Focus-point? Laser-sight? No, no, those sound like… gadgets.”

Beside him, Frozone was muttering quietly under his breath as well, his arms folded tight. His tone carried the rhythm of someone testing words for flavor. “Prism… Beamline… Radiant… Optic-something…”

Gamma Jack gave a theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes so hard Simon half-worried they might get stuck that way. “This is riveting,” he drawled. “A real naming committee at work.”

But Simon ignored him. For the first time since he had met these people, he felt a flicker of something like belonging. They were thinking about him. About what he could be. That mattered more than Gamma Jack’s barbs.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, Mr. Incredible straightened. His eyes lit up, and he pointed at Simon like he had just solved an ancient riddle.

“Gazerbeam.”

The word cut sharp and clean through the air.

Frozone gave a satisfied hum of agreement. “Yeah, that works. Smooth, memorable. I like it.” He nodded once, firmly. “Fits you.”

Simon froze, letting the name roll around in his head. Gazerbeam. Imposing, but not arrogant. Clear, but not boring. It carried weight. It sounded like a name that could belong on a roster, in a headline, in a story whispered about by kids who looked up to Supers. Simon felt his ears warm at the silly thought. There was no way he would get that popular.

But more importantly—it was a name someone else had given him. Someone who saw more than just Simon. He never thought in his life that he would ever want such a thing.

Slowly, he found himself nodding, almost shyly. “…Yeah. Gazerbeam.” His lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. “I think I could get used to that.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought stirred in his chest: if he put heart into it, gave it meaning with his choices, his actions… then maybe the name could be more than just a label. Maybe it could become his legacy.

Even Gamma Jack’s annoying snort from the side couldn’t dim that small glow of pride that bloomed in his chest. For the first time today, Simon didn’t feel like he was just an awkward outsider fumbling through the motions. He felt like—maybe—he was stepping into something bigger.

Maybe he was making the right decision.

Gazerbeam’s thoughts of his future—of headlines, of maybe even belonging somewhere else—were cut short by a sharp beeping echoing in unison from the three Supers’ wrists. He blinked and glanced at them, realizing for the first time that each of them wore a slim metal band fitted snugly just above the wrist. Frozone lifted his hand, turning the band so the faint blue glow was clear.

“NSA check-in,” Frozone announced, his tone casual. Then, with a deliberate grin in his direction, he added, “Or should I say—they’re reminding us to bring Si— Gazerbeam to the facility.” He emphasized the name with a warm smile, the correction so natural that his chest gave an odd, unfamiliar flutter.

Gamma Jack, of course, wasn’t about to let the moment stay meaningful. He let out an exaggerated groan. “Finally! It’s like listening to dames' schedule events!” Then, without another word, he launched himself upward, his form streaking skyward in a blur of neon green. Radiation shimmered in the air for several heartbeats after he vanished, the only trace of his presence.

Good riddance, Gazerbeam thought dryly. If luck ever decided to be on his side, maybe he wouldn’t have to see Gamma Jack again anytime soon. Somehow, though, he doubted it if they were now working together under the same force.

“Come on,” Mr. Incredible’s deep voice cut in as he started down the steps, his deep blue and black suit looking nauseously under the sun. He called over his shoulder, “We’ve got to get you to the facility before the NSA starts panicking. They don’t like waiting…the inpatient bunch.”

Gazerbeam’s stomach dropped. His eyes widened as the implication hit him like a boulder.

The car.

No. The car.

The car with the reckless driving, sharp turns that nearly defied physics, the absence of brakes where brakes should absolutely be, and a driver who treated speed limits as abstract concepts.

Oh no.

His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, he glanced desperately at Frozone like a man begging for reprieve. Maybe—just maybe—the calm, rational Super would step in and suggest a safer, saner alternative to their transport.

But Frozone only grinned, mouth lifting with mischief. “There’s a good reason I don’t ride with him,” he said smoothly, clearly savoring the moment. Then, before Gazerbeam could protest, Frozone shifted his weight, conjured an icy path beneath his feet, and shot off down the driveway in a slick arc of blinding ice. His laughter echoed faintly as he vanished from sight, leaving only a fading streak of crystalline white in his wake.

The traitor.

Gazerbeam sighed, shoulders slumping as if all the air had been stolen from him. With resignation heavy in his bones, he followed after the broad-shouldered Super trudging toward the car. Every step toward that polished hunk of metal felt like a march to his own doom.

He reminded himself—again—that he had faced worse in the past.

But none of that terrified him half as much as climbing into Mr. Incredible’s back seat again.

Gazerbeam was more than happy to step out of that car again. His legs were jelly, rubber, noodles—pick a metaphor, and it probably applied. His knees wobbled as he tried to gather enough strength just to put one foot in front of the other. Honestly, it felt like the ground was still swerving beneath him, like some phantom echo of Mr. Incredible’s “driving technique” had been burned into his body. The new Super could and probably never would understand how the broad man could function as a living being and drive like that at the same time. It was less transportation and more roller coaster without rails.

And what unsettled him most wasn’t the speed, or the near misses with pedestrians, or the way the car seemed to bend around corners at impossible angles. No—it was that Mr. Incredible hadn’t even broken a sweat. Calm, humming under his breath, like it was just another day. That was the real horror.

It would forever be a mystery Gazerbeam had no interest in solving. Some things weren’t meant to be known. Especially if you want to remain sane.

He had only managed three steps forward before Mr. Incredible’s deep voice commented beside him, reminding him, “Visor on. We don’t need the public recognizing your secret identity.”

Gazerbeam blinked, then quickly did so, sliding the helmet into place. The world shifted slightly through its tinted lenses, his vision sharpened and contained by the careful design. It gave everything a sharper edge, an almost clinical clarity—as if the world itself had been put under a magnifying glass.

Then he looked up, and his breath caught—not for the first time, anyway.

The facility wasn’t just big. It was colossal.

At first glance, Gazerbeam thought of the White House, and it wasn’t a stretch. The building sprawled across the landscape with a kind of immovable authority, its long central structure crowned with a domed roof, gleaming in the sun as though it had been polished only that morning. Marble-white stone walls rose high and proud, marked with tall columns that gave the entire façade a kind of austere majesty. Symmetry dominated the design—every window, every arch, every decorative flourish was placed with meticulous care, a deliberate attempt to radiate both order and power.

It wasn’t until Gazerbeam’s visor caught the details that he realized just how different it truly was.

A high fence circled the property, dark metal bars rising like spears. To the untrained eye, it could have been mistaken for something ornamental, like the fencing around historical landmarks. But with the visor enhancing his focus, Gazerbeam saw the truth—each bar was a machine in disguise. Hidden seams and faint grooves betrayed compartments within the metal, the kind that could snap open in a heartbeat. He spotted sensors tucked into the posts, faint gleams of lenses catching sunlight like animal eyes. A passing bird landed on the top rail, only for the surface beneath its talons to ripple faintly—an energy field so subtle it could have been invisible without the visor’s clarity.

And it wasn’t just the fence.

The building itself seemed to breathe with hidden defenses. What at first looked like harmless decorative spires were actually disguised antennae, their surfaces faintly etched with patterns that looked like art but hummed with faint energy. The lantern-shaped lights flanking the wide front steps? Cameras, cleverly blended into the shape so perfectly that no civilian would think twice about them. Gazerbeam spotted subtle slits in the walls—gun ports, if he had to guess—concealed under the guise of stonework flourishes.

It was brilliant, terrifying, and overwhelming all at once.

His visor traced the lines of the sprawling courtyard that led up to the grand steps. Green lawns stretched on either side, perfectly manicured, yet Gazerbeam noticed subtle mounds in the grass that weren’t natural at all—camouflaged bunkers, perhaps, or retractable turrets. Flowerbeds bloomed vibrantly along the walkways, but even there, something was off. The edges of the planters were a fraction too thick and too clean. Armor plating.

Everything about the place was designed to impress the eye—and deceive it.

It wasn’t just a building. It was a fortress wrapped in the skin of a monument.

Gazerbeam forced himself to keep walking, even though each new detail his visor picked out made the pit in his stomach grow heavier. It was miraculous and astonishing, yes. But it was also the kind of miraculous that reminded him of how small he was, how easily he could be crushed if this place decided it didn’t want him inside.

Still, he followed Mr. Incredible up the wide marble steps, the polished stone reflecting the glare of the sun. The air seemed heavier here, like it carried the weight of authority. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into the jaws of something vast and unseen.

For a fleeting moment, Gazerbeam wondered if this was what Blazestone had felt, back when she first stood here before choosing whether to join.

And for the first time since leaving Edna’s, Gazerbeam was not thinking about Gamma Jack’s smirk or Frozone’s teasing. He was thinking about the fence, the disguised turrets, the way the very architecture seemed to watch him closely.

And he wondered—was he walking into a sanctuary, or a cage?

Before following Mr. Incredible inside, Simon’s visor caught a glint above the massive front doors. The sun reflected off a spread of metallic letters carved deep into the marble archway, so bold and deliberate that no one could miss them:

NATIONAL SUPERS AGENCY

Each letter stood tall and sharp, cut from polished stone and inlaid with gleaming metal, as though the words themselves were meant to cast a shadow over all who entered. No subtlety here—the message was clear: this was the center of power, of control, of authority over those who wore masks and bore powers.

Gazerbeam felt a pinch in his gut, something between awe and dread, but he forced his chin up and followed Mr. Incredible inside.

The doors swung open silently, though their sheer size suggested weight that could stop a tank. Gazerbeam stepped into a place so vast and so carefully designed that Edna’s workshop—grand as it had been—suddenly felt quaint by comparison.

The first thing that struck him was the scale.

The ceiling stretched higher than some cathedral domes, panels of glass and steel arching overhead to allow the sun to pour down in slanted beams that danced across polished marble floors. Gold accents framed the high walls, though they were muted, tasteful—less opulent vanity and more controlled elegance. Huge banners draped from the rafters, embroidered with the NSA’s logo.

But as his visor swept across the space, the grandeur gave way to something more practical—something tailored not for the comfort of civilians but for Supers.

The wide staircases that curled upward toward upper levels were reinforced with steel beneath the decorative wood; he could see the faint sheen under the polish. The lobby itself was large enough to accommodate giants—literally. Doorways were over eight feet tall, wide enough to admit Supers who didn’t fit neatly into human proportions. One hall had a ceiling lined with ventilation grates far larger than necessary, clearly meant for those with wings or unconventional locomotion. Even the floor had subtle grooves in the marble, almost like tracks—a design choice he quickly realized was to support Supers with heavy armor or unstable balance.

Benches lined the walls, but they were not ordinary benches. They were crafted from reinforced alloy, padded with flame-resistant cushions. One had scorch marks already singed across it, but no damage to the material itself. Fireproof. Bombproof, probably.

The air itself hummed faintly with energy—he wasn’t sure if it was coming from the elaborate chandeliers or from the hidden devices tucked into the architecture. The entire place felt alive, as though the building itself was monitoring every heartbeat inside it.

And then he saw them.

Other Supers.

Not just names from whispered conversations or newspaper clippings—but actual legends of the League.

On the far side of the lobby, Downburst leaned casually against a pillar, sparks of energy of some kind snapping faintly off his shoulders like water-like currents. His dark suit gleamed faintly under the overhead light, and even from this distance, Gazerbeam could feel the tension ripple through the air around him like warnings for others to leave him alone.

Dynaguy walked past with a few thick books tucked in his arms, speaking to a staffer who struggled to keep up with his long strides. His vivid red and white suit gleamed under the warm lights brightly and his crimson cape trailed after him like waving fire. Though Gazerbeam remembered vividly how long Gamma Jacks gold cape was—it brushed the ground even.

On a nearby staircase, Elastigirl was halfway through a stretch, her body bending and curving like taffy as she leaned over to pick up a stack of papers someone had dropped. Her movements were effortless, fluid, like the stretch wasn’t a power but simply a natural extension of her body. She smiled faintly at the embarrassed staffer she was helping before resuming her climb up the stairs.

Closer to Gazerbeams line of sight, Psycwave stood with her arms crossed, speaking low to another Super whose name he didn’t yet know. The air shimmered faintly around her head, subtle distortions like heat waves—psychic energy, Gazerbeam realized with a faint shiver.

And those were just the ones he could identify at first glance.

Others moved through the lobby in pairs or alone, some so ordinary-looking that if Gazerbeam didn’t know better, he would have mistaken them for civilians wearing very bright and fancy clothing—until his visor picked up the faint tremors of power flickering off them like second heartbeats.

He froze.

He hadn’t expected this many Supers in one place at this time. To him, Supers were distant figures—names on pages, faces on the televisions, whispers of exploits that sounded half made-up. And now, here they were, brushing past him, adjusting their gloves, chatting with one another as though they were not walking miracles. He has never seen so many Supers before—he didn’t even though there was this many!

Fortunately for Gazerbeam, most of them kept to themselves. Their eyes slid across him, then away, the way seasoned veterans appraised but didn’t engage. But some… some stared longer.

One or two let their gazes linger, wide with curiosity, heads tilted in faint recognition of something new in their midst. Their expressions were not hostile, but they weren’t dismissive either.

Gazerbeam felt the weight of their curiosity settle on his shoulders like an extra layer to his suit. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he looked ridiculous to them—this ordinary man in a brand-new visor and suit, standing stiff beside one of the most recognizable Supers alive. Did he belong here, among these people who had been fighting villains and saving civilians since before he ever admitted his powers existed?

He straightened instinctively, clasping the papers Edna had given him tighter in his hand.

Don’t look skittish. You’re fine.

He forced his breathing steady and kept pace with Mr. Incredible’s broad stride.

Still, the feeling clung to him as he walked deeper into the grand lobby: the undeniable truth that eyes followed him—not with malice, but with the kind of interest reserved for things untested, unproven.

And Simon couldn’t shake the thought.

They’re waiting to see if I belong or not.

Before Gazerbeam and Mr. Incredible got too far down one of the expansive hallways, the steady echo of their footsteps was suddenly broken by a rushed, energetic voice behind them.

“Hey—! Hey, wait up! Please, wait!”

The new Super slowed at once, turning toward the insistent voice, his brows climbing in confusion. Barreling down the corridor toward them came a kid who couldn’t have been older than sixteen—at least, he couldn’t imagine any older. The kid’s stride was clumsy with youthful urgency, their boots tapping faintly against the polished floor as they ran, their grin wide and bright eyes shining with excitement. Though Gazerbeam—shamefully—could not for the life of him, tell if he was looking at and hearing a boy or girl.

Mr. Incredible turned too, and Gazerbeam, half prepared to question the kid's presence, caught instead the broad man’s expression: a fond, almost amused smile tugged at his features. That softened the newcomer’s initial tension, though his thoughts still tumbled when his eyes finally registered the suit.

Green. No—green with striking neon green accents that caught the light in a way that made the youngster look like a streak of lightning given form. The material fit practically and light in places, like it had been patched or adjusted hastily, and yet it still carried a kind of earnest confidence—like the kid was wearing possibility itself rather than fabric. Still—he could not tell what gender he was looking at.

Chestnut-brown hair, neatly combed to one side, bobbed slightly with every bounding step, and the glimmer in their gaze spoke more of eager determination than seasoned control.

They skidded to a stop in front of them, a little breathless but undeterred, and looked between the two Supers as though they had just spotted the greatest figures in the world.

Gazerbeam blinked at them, utterly baffled. The kid had no business being in a place like this—or so he assumed—yet Mr. Incredible did not seem the least bit alarmed.

A young Super, perhaps?

“Well then,” Gazerbeam said evenly, a small, measured smile forming as he inclined his head politely toward the kid. “Hello there. Seems you were quite determined to catch up to us.”

The boy nodded so eagerly that his chestnut hair nearly came undone from its careful comb, their grin widening as they finally caught their breath. “Sorry—sorry for running you down,” they said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. “I just—well—I was really excited to see you! A new Super! Me and Stratogale—we’re the only two new ones in the League, and that was just last week! And now you’re here too, and that means we’re not alone anymore—we’ll all be learning together how to be heroes!”

Their words struck fast and genuine, no filter, the sort of honesty only the youth could manage. Gazerbeam blinked at them, momentarily stunned. His earlier guess had been correct: the kid was not an intruder or a stray civilian. They were one of them. A Super—though still more youth than adult.

Still, Gazerbeam held to his usual steady courtesy. A thoughtful hum left him as he dipped his chin in acknowledgment. He always believed it best to be careful with new introductions, and, well—names mattered. And pronouns. The last thing he wanted was to address the kid wrong, not when they clearly looked up at him with such shining admiration.

“And may I ask,” Gazerbeam said, his tone polite but warm, “what name you go by?”

The young Super lit up even more, if such a thing was possible. “Macroburst! That’s me.” He puffed up proudly, tugging at the neon-lined suit as if to show it off properly. “I’m apprenticing under Everseer.”

Everseer. The name was familiar—Mr. Incredible had mentioned it back at the café, one of the veteran Supers known for impeccable foresight in combat. If this boy was being mentored by him, then his place here was as legitimate as anyone’s.

Before Gazerbeam could say anything more, Macroburst leaned forward on his toes, bouncing with renewed eagerness. “Do you wanna see what I can do? I’ve been working really hard on it.”

Gazerbeam flicked a glance at the larger man beside him. Mr. Incredible only shrugged, his smile widening as if he had seen this play out before. “Wouldn’t hurt to spare a minute or two,” he said, voice carrying its usual easy confidence. “Macroburst has a lot of potential. The more he practices, the better he’ll get.”

The boy’s face shone brighter than the polished marble floor. His grin was so radiant that Gazerbeam was nearly convinced that he alone was responsible for all the sunlight streaming through the vaulted windows.

With a small, resigned chuckle, Gazerbeam shifted his stance, folding his arms—not defensive, but relaxed, open. “Very well,” he said, inclining his head with a faint smile. “I’d be honored to see what you can do. Please, go ahead.”

That was all the permission Macroburst needed. With a little hop and a burst of determination, the boy sprang into the air. His green cloak flared behind him like a living banner as his body lifted off the ground. To Gazerbeams astonishment, he didn’t just hover awkwardly—he floated. Controlled, deliberate, swaying from side to side, as if dancing on invisible currents of air.

Gazerbeam found himself nodding appreciatively, a genuine smile curving his lips beneath the visor. Flight. How extraordinary. He had often wondered what it must feel like to rise above the earth, free of gravity’s chain. To soar instead of… well, instead of burning through targets with searing beams of energy. Surely it must be more enjoyable.

For a fleeting moment, he thought of Gamma Jack, of the way he would cut through the sky with ease and grace. A pang tugged at him, wistful and private, but he quickly pushed it aside. He hoped not to see him soon.

Macroburst’s cheerful wave snapped him back to the present. “Wait! That’s not all I can do!”

One brow arched under his visor, though Macroburst couldn’t see it. Still, Gazerbeams voice carried the dry patience of a man indulging his client’s kid. “Oh? Then by all means—I’m watching.”

Macroburst grinned, his focus shifting toward the long row of flagpoles stationed along one section of the corridor. Raising one hand, he flicked his wrist in a swift, confident motion. To Gazerbeam’s surprise, the air itself seemed to answer him. A visible gust of wind whipped forward, rattling against the flags, setting them to flap and wave as if a storm had burst into the hall.

Macroburst let out a quick, boyish chuckle—one of those uncontrolled, bubbling laughs born from the sheer delight of seeing your own power in action. It was contagious. Gazerbeam couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips, and even Mr. Incredible chuckled warmly beside him.

“You keep at it,” Mr. Incredible said with encouragement, his deep voice gentle but firm. “Keep practicing, and you’ll be amazing.”

“Thanks!” Macroburst called back, still beaming as he slowly descended, the floating cloak trailing behind him like a soft, shifting flame until his boots touched the floor again.

No sooner had his feet landed than his attention snapped back toward Gazerbeam. “So—what about you? What’s your power?”

Gazerbeam hesitated only a moment before giving the simple truth. “I can shoot lasers from my eyes.”

Macroburst’s gasp was loud and genuine. “No way!” He jabbed a finger toward the visor, wide-eyed. “That’s why you wear that thing?”

Gazerbeam dipped his head once in confirmation. “Indeed. It helps me control the intensity. Otherwise, I might cause more harm than good.”

Macroburst stared for a beat, then grinned even wider. “That’s so cool! We should spar sometime! You with your lasers, me with my wind—we’d look awesome!”

Gazerbeam chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “I can’t make any promises,” he said, ever the cautious one, “but I’ll… keep it in mind.”

Macroburst seemed satisfied with that answer, still glowing like a sun that refused to dim. And Gazerbeam—though careful not to show it too openly—felt oddly honored. To be welcomed with such youthful enthusiasm, to be regarded not as an outsider or a liability, but as a fellow hero-to-be. It warmed something inside him he hadn’t realized was cold.

A new voice cut sharply through Gazerbeam’s drifting thoughts, clipped and precise, coming from the far end of the hall.

“Paladino?”

The sound of his surname—so sudden—snapped Gazerbeam’s head around. His body stiffened as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t, though all he had been doing was standing politely.

Down the hall, an older gentleman was already striding toward him. Jacket and tie. Neat but plain. Not a Super, that much was obvious. Everything about him screamed civil service: the muted colors, the posture, the hard set of his jaw that seemed carved by decades of duty. On his lapel, a small enamel pin glinted faintly, the kind of insignia Gazerbeam had learned to recognize during his briefings—a marker of his authority under the NSA. Two other men flanked him, younger, probably aides or security.

Gazerbeam gave a curt nod in answer.

The older man’s gaze flicked down at the sheaf of papers he held, eyes narrowing just enough to crease the skin at their edges. There was no smile there, no warmth, only the bare acknowledgment of someone confirming inventory. “Follow me. Back to my office.” His voice was flat, dry, the kind of voice that had long ago stopped wasting syllables on courtesy.

Gazerbeam blinked, shifting his grip on the papers. He opened his mouth to ask—clarify, maybe—but caught himself. Best not. Instead, he dipped his head once more and began to follow.

It was then he realized Mr. Incredible was no longer beside him. He had lingered back, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching the exchange with the sort of detached ease that came from familiarity. Clearly, this wasn’t his rodeo. Gazerbeam was on his own. Huh. Just like that.

Macroburst’s bright voice cut through the hall. “Hope to see you soon!” He waved enthusiastically.

Gazerbeam, still moving, lifted one hand and gave the smallest of waves over his shoulder. No words—he wasn’t sure he trusted his voice not to betray his unease.

The older man had a stride like fire was licking at his heels, each step brisk and sharp. Gazerbeam had to lengthen his own to keep up, the younger of the two aides drifting slightly behind him, clearly tasked with making sure he did not wander or lag. Gazerbeam could not help but think, with a weariness, Geez. Is this normal? Everyone always in such a rush? Everything scheduled down to the second?

The thought pressed on him like a weight. He hoped not. Being a lawyer had already drained him with deadlines and high-strung clients. He hadn’t come into this world of Supers hoping for more of the same relentless time-crunch.

Finally, they reached an office at the corner of another long, window-lined corridor. The blinds on the door’s glass pane were pulled down, a thin strip of light cutting through at the bottom where the slats didn’t quite meet. The older man pushed inside without preamble, Gazerbeam trailing behind.

The aides were dismissed with a flick of the hand. They stepped back into the hallway, the door shutting firmly behind Gazerbeam as it clicked into place. Now it was just the two of them.

The office itself was orderly, almost austere. Dark wooden desk polished to a faint sheen. Stacks of files aligned in unnervingly precise piles. A desk lamp casting a pool of light across papers already in neat rows. Even the blinds were drawn tight, letting in only muted stripes of daylight. No wasted space, no unnecessary decoration—except for a single framed certificate hung on the wall, tilted ever so slightly off-center.

The older man moved behind the desk, lowering himself into his chair like a man settling into his command post. His eyes flicked to him again, then he gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Gazerbeam did so, placing himself in the seat, posture straight but not stiff, hands folded loosely over the stack of papers he carried. His visor reflected the dull light as he tried not to look like a child called into the principal’s office.

The silence stretched for a beat before the man spoke again, his voice as flat as it had been in the hall. “The papers. They’re for me, yes?”

Gazerbeam blinked. His mouth went a little dry. Are they? Edna hadn’t exactly clarified who under the NSA he was supposed to hand them off to. He had assumed… but assumption was not confidence.

He gave a slow nod anyway, extending the folder across the desk. "I believe so."

The man’s expression didn’t shift as he reached forward, fingers brushing the stack. He looked like someone who didn’t smile often. Maybe ever. And as he slid the papers toward himself, Gazerbeam had the creeping sensation that whatever was about to happen in this office—it was not going to be anything as simple as a friendly orientation.

The man was quiet for a moment after flipping through the neatly stapled pages Edna had sent along. His eyes scanned line after line with the calm precision of a man used to absorbing reports daily, but when he finally looked up, it wasn’t with the suspicion Gazerbeam half-expected. Instead, his gaze was steady, clinical, professional even.

“My name is Rick Dicker,” the man said, tone even, as if it were just another item on a checklist. “Government agency liaison under the NSA. I handle cases like yours. My job is to learn who you are, what your abilities and morals are, and your state of mind. I file the reports. I keep the higher-ups informed. That means I will be watching you. Closely. And if you’re wondering—yes, everything I see, hear, or learn about you will be reported down.”

Gazerbeam’s heart gave an uneasy thump. He fought the instinct to straighten his posture more, already sitting upright like a schoolboy who got caught skipping class. Still, he gave a slow, respectful nod. “Understood.”

Rick adjusted the papers, separating a fresh form from the stack. On it, Gazerbeam noticed rows of neatly numbered questions, with long blank lines stretching beside each. A pen clicked twice in Rick’s hand, sharp in the otherwise quiet office.

“First,” Rick said, eyes scanning the sheet, “I need your Super name.”

He paused, briefly thrown by the bluntness of the request. He cleared his throat. “Gazerbeam.”

Rick didn’t react, only wrote the name down, his pen gliding smoothly across the paper. “And your full legal name—your secret identity name.”

“Simon James Paladino.”

The pen scratched it down quickly. Rick didn’t look up, his voice dry as parchment. “Good. And for clarity, your Super name and your secret name are always kept separate. One is for the public; the other is private and should not be used or said lightly. Never confuse them.”

Gazerbeam bit down on the thought that flickered into his head. What? Wouldn’t it be opposite? Why isn’t my Super name the secret one instead? He chose to keep quiet. If there was one thing he was learning, it was that everyone here did not seem to really care about his former life.

Rick clicked his pen again and skimmed down to the first item. “Now, I will be asking a series of questions. Answer honestly. We will know if you don’t. Truth determines how we classify you, how we train you, and what we trust you with. Understood?”

Gazerbeam swallowed, the visor across his face suddenly feeling heavier than before. “Yes, sir.”

“Question one.” Rick’s tone was brisk, businesslike. “What is your true motivation in becoming a Super?”

Gazerbeam blinked slowly, gaze drifting down to the floor. His fingers flexed once against his knee as he thought. Why am I truly here? His lips tugged into something like a rueful smile, though it barely lasted a breath. “I hadn’t planned on being one. Not anytime soon. Honestly, I never even considered it. I only agreed because Mr. Incredible, Frozone, and… Gamma Jack encouraged me into choosing this path recently.” He rubbed his hand over his shoulder to stop a nervous twitch. “But…if I originally chose to be a Super by my own admission, then I’d honestly have to say I’d do it to defend and protect the people who couldn’t themselves.”

Rick hummed—noncommittal, a sound more like a box being checked than approval. His pen moved steadily.

“Question two,” he went on, tone never changing. “Have you ever used your powers for personal gain?”

Gazerbeam looked up briefly, trying to read the man, but quickly found nothing there—just calm neutrality. His gaze dropped back to the desk. “Rarely. I only use them when it is absolutely necessary. Most of the time I keep them… hidden.” His voice softened, almost defensive. “The only times I have used them were when I was alone. Removing blockages in my path. Protecting myself from falling rubble or debris. Things like that.”

Again, the scratching of pen on paper. Rick’s eyes remained on the form, but Gazerbeam couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was also studying him—the way he spoke, the pauses, the weight of his answers.

“Question three,” Rick continued, lifting his gaze this time. “What is your greatest weakness—when it comes to your powers, or yourself in general?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Reflective surfaces.” His voice was firm, practiced. “Mirrors, glass, anything shiny. If I fire at the wrong angle, my lasers can bounce back and hit me—or worse, someone else. Someone innocent.”

Rick gave a single short nod, pen already at work again. “Noted.”

“Question four. You are working under orders. Civilians are in danger. The NSA tells you to stand down. Do you comply?”

Gazerbeam’s lips parted, then closed again. He thought carefully, teeth pressing lightly together behind his mouth. The visor made it easier to hide and avert his eyes, as if hiding the debate in them. “It depends,” he admitted. “On the danger. On the civilians at stake. On who’s giving the order and why. If people are in harm’s way… I couldn’t promise blind obedience.”

Rick’s pen paused mid-stroke. He glanced up, meeting the faint reflection of his own face in the visor’s surface. Then he lowered his eyes, nodding slowly as he wrote.

“Question five.” His tone remained neutral, but the question carried weight. “Have you ever killed—or come close to killing—anyone with your powers?”

Gazerbeam’s heart sank. His gaze fell to the floor again, shoulders stiff. He didn’t want to answer. But lying wasn’t an option—not here, not with a man like Rick Dicker sitting across from him.

He drew in a slow breath. “I hurt someone once.” His voice was low. “I… grazed my mother during an argument. Years ago. It wasn’t serious, but it was careless. She was hurt. Other than that… no. I’ve never killed anyone. I’ve never even come close.”

For the first time, the pen did not immediately move. Rick’s head tilted ever so slightly. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something heavier in the silence that followed. Finally, the pen scratched across the page again, measured and deliberate.

Gazerbeam sat still, the sound of writing loud in the room, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

And for the first time, he wondered—not whether he was fit to be a Super—but whether the NSA already had its mind made up about him before he had even walked through the door.

Rick continued, his pen scratching faintly against the paper as he finished writing down Gazerbeam’s last answer. Without glancing up, he spoke in the same steady, gravel-edged tone he had used from the start.

“Question six,” he said, pausing to click his pen once. “If you were to learn—or directly witness—that another Super had or was going to betray the League in any way, what would you do?”

The question landed like a brick in Gazerbeam’s chest. He straightened slightly in his chair, his eyes flicking toward the window of the small, dimly lit office before coming back down to the table. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, buying himself a moment.

He hadn’t thought about betrayal. The League felt untouchable to him—Mr. Incredible, Frozone, Gamma Jack, and Macroburst he met, seemed to be reliable and serious people when it came to defending what they loved. They were symbols of strength and unity. The idea of one of them turning against that? It didn’t fit into his picture of how things worked here. But Rick wasn’t asking him to be comfortable—he was asking him to answer.

Gazerbeam folded his hands together again, fingers tightening briefly. “I don’t… really know most of the Supers here,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. “Outside of Mr. Incredible, Frozone, Gamma Jack, and Macroburst, I’ve hardly spoken to anyone else. So if I saw one of them—” he paused, searching for the right words, “—or someone else betraying the League, I think I’d have to report it. To the NSA first, if it was absolutely necessary. The League, the government, you—” he gestured vaguely toward Rick “—you’re all the reason Metroville hasn’t fallen apart. If one Super decided to put all of that in jeopardy, then… I wouldn’t want to let silence make me complicit.”

Rick looked up at him again, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though weighing not just the words but the hesitation behind them. Then he gave a short, thoughtful hum, the kind that revealed nothing. His pen moved again.

“Question seven,” Rick said after a pause. “The final question for today, and one I consider important. If the League—or the NSA—told you that you were too dangerous, in any way, would you comply? Would you stand down?”

The room seemed to shrink. Gazerbeam’s breath caught, his heart quickening. His powers had always been the sharp edge of his life—dangerous, destructive if mishandled. He thought of mirrors, glass, polished metal… how easy it would be for his own beams to ricochet back at him or into someone else. He thought of his mother, the accidental graze years ago, the way her sharp intake of breath had carved into his memory like a scar.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice firm even if his stomach twisted. “If there was a good reason. I’d never want to endanger anyone—not civilians, not other Supers, not even the people I disagree with. If the NSA decided I was a liability… I’d stand down.”

Rick studied him for a moment that stretched longer than it should have, then finished writing. He capped his pen with a click and leaned back in his chair. “Good. We will revisit that if the time ever comes.”

Gazerbeam exhaled softly, his shoulders loosening with relief. The questions had felt like walking a tightrope—every word weighed, every pause dangerous. Maybe that’s why he felt so raw, so unsettled. He had been through interrogations before, depositions, endless legal arguments in court. But this was different. This wasn’t about the law—not entirely. This was about him.

Rick rifled through the papers again, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze returned to Gazerbeam. “One more thing,” he said casually, though the air tightened again. “How do you handle the unexpected? Situations that demand you act before you have time to think?”

The question blindsided him. Gazerbeam blinked. He shifted in his chair, lifting one shoulder in a slight shrug. “I’ve… been a lawyer most of my life. Courtrooms change on a dime—judges throwing unneeded questions, witnesses fold, cases pivot in seconds. I have gotten used to adapting. To thinking quick and keeping calm. I’m not saying it’s easy, but… I can manage.”

Rick nodded, noting something on the page that Gazerbeam couldn’t quite read from his angle. Then the older man leaned back again, folding his arms. His tone changed slightly—still level, but carrying the faintest thread of challenge.

“There’s been some gossip,” Rick said, “about a group of criminals eyeing a jewelry shop not far from here. Police have had trouble catching them. Nothing too dangerous—petty crooks, greedy opportunists. But it could be an opportunity. A test.”

Gazerbeam’s brows shot up. His mind stalled. “A test?”

Rick didn’t blink. “An opportunity to demonstrate your control. To show us—and yourself—that you can handle crime directly. That you are more than theory, more than papers from Edna Mode. We can train you in this building for months, Simon. But the real question is what you do when it’s not staged. When it’s real.”

Gazerbeam just stared at him, heart pounding. On his first day? They wanted him to walk into a live crime scene? He swallowed, his mouth dry. Dangerous was one word for it. Reckless was another.

Rick didn’t seem fazed by his silence. Instead, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a sleek metal band—the same kind Gazerbeam had seen on the wrists of other Supers who had captured him from the café, and slid it across the desk to him.

“You’ll need this. Wear it always, as a Super or as a civilian. Think of it as a lifeline.”

To Gazerbeam’s relief, he went over the things that were important.

“If the band flashes blue with a short beeping sound, then that means that the NSA is doing a check-in on you or is summoning you to the facility. If it flashes yellow, then it means that there is nearby danger of your location, regardless of you being a Super or a civilian at the time. If it flashes purple with a few long beeps, then another Super is in danger and that you can be of assistance if necessary. And If flashes red, then there is active crime or a villain currently being active.” He tapped the band on the side. “Whenever you think is necessary or if you are reporting yourself to answering to any problems to the NSA and other Supers, you press this small button here. Give them your name and that you are on the case or activity.”

Gazerbeam repeated the colors silently in his head, burning them into memory. He would be writing them down later for sure. Better safe than sorry.

Rick gave a curt nod. “If you want to be reliable, Simon, this is the first step. Always be prepared to help when necessary.”

The band felt heavier than it looked as Gazerbeam picked it up and slid it onto his wrist. Snug, but oddly comfortable. Almost like it was meant to be there.

Rick’s gaze softened—barely, but enough for Gazerbeam to notice. “You should probably head toward that jewelry shop now. If you want to get there before the others, that is. Incredible, Gamma Jack, and Apogee—they like to race to crimes like it’s a sport. To be seen as dependable.”

Gazerbeam rose slowly, tucking his chair back with care. He gave Rick a small nod. “Thank you. For the guidance. For the… needed information.”

Unlike Edna, who brushed off gratitude as if it were routine, Rick returned the nod with surprising gratitude. “Proud individuals don’t always say this, Simon, but I will. My job is to guide Supers when they need it. Come to me if you have doubts. Questions. I’ll make the time.”

A warmth spread faintly through Gazerbeam’s chest—unexpected, but grounding. He offered a final “thank you,” even more sincere this time, before turning toward the door.

As it shut softly behind him, the metal band pulsing against his wrist like a second heartbeat, he couldn’t help but wonder: was this the first step of his career as a Super… or the first step onto a path he couldn’t turn back from?