Theatrical? Syndrome?
  The overcast afternoon caused the shadows to vanish, and in some way, that was true. Not that he was desperate for the world to see him, as few knew of his feats. Why would The Incredibles (crappy name, by the way) think to report a dead man?
  No, they shirked off their problems to that Rick Dick guy, who went to his bosses and, well⊠Who did they work for? There was a reason the division closed down; the government was in debt to his company for weapons, and they needed to get their money from somewhere.
  Whatever, the point is, hereâs the one who caused all these problems. Not that the mechanical ball of death hadnât made most of them. He approached, dark coat, dark shirt, dark expression. âFor someone so smart, you really donât question things, do you?â His voice was light and airy, thoughtless â she really kept coming here, huh?
  âKinda desperate, honestly.â
That voice- familiar, painful, impossible... but there was no body it wasnât impossible but no one could have seen it coming. You should have. Anger, shock, disbelief, grief, relief- everything swirled around her head making it difficult to think to process. She turns towards a familiar figure she never thought sheâd see again.Â
âWhat?â when every emotion tries to come out in one word all she is left with is a noise of breathy disbelief in a sharp juxtaposition to her form- graceful yet with a posture stiff and defensive, a viper coiled and ready to strike if needed. âYou-â
-should be dead, -canât be here,-âre alive, -should have stayed dead, -âre a bastard, -âre here so what do you want.
She relaxes slightly- the shock gone she had always been good at processing things even with her emotions making things difficult- but not enough to make anyone believe there was any trust in the figure before her, no that was gone.Â
âSyndrome.â there is ice in her words, her anger had always ran cold- the ice to his fire.