Death by Laughter

Then realize that Edna anticipated practically every threat that the Incredibles would run into from Syndrome and built help into their suits. The only logical conclusion is that he contacted her–possibly scores of times. Syndrome was a stalkery fanboy before he turned supervillain. And Edna is THE suit maker for supers, as well as Mr. Incredible. Of course Syndrome would go to her. Edna is the best, and Syndrome would want the best designer for his costume.

Think about all that. Think about the woman who was so horrified and grief-stricken by Stratogate’s death being asked by a supervillain–one who was a genuine threat to supers she cared about–to design his costume.

And then realize that, despite her horror and guilt and rage at the gruesome deaths of Stratogate and other supers, despite her vehement conviction that such deaths should never happen again…

But that was before the Ban.

Now, now she knows he dances with fire, too foolish to wear flame retardant cloth.  He wants what he can never have.  What even the great Edna Mode cannot give him.  And she knows he will hurt her friends to get it.  There are precious few supers now who still talk to her, but she counts every one she ever dressed a friend, no matter how estranged.  The closest resemble family.

And the boy will hurt them, with her help or without it.

That does not mean Edna is without power here, she has been kidnapped before, of course.  Some of the most traditionalist villains will arrange meetings no other way, it offends their sensibilities.  She can respect that, fashion is about sensibilities.  The subtle game of prisoner and captor is actually fun when she plays with a good partner.  The boy is not a good partner, he takes the game too seriously, and all she needs to do is acquiesce with her normal levels of snide dismissal.

It’s almost too easy to ask him for design input.

He shows her countless drawings, some the obviously deliberate hand of a child, devoted to a craft he had not mastered, some the mad scribbling of a spoiled man.  The colors document his changes, how he darkened them, how the hues became stark and bold tipped into offensive, aggressive.  It is a study in the fall into madness done in carefully chosen fabric swatches and angular fashion plates.

Her hand stutters over the one at the bottom of the stack, the newest.

“Do you like that one?  I put a lot of thought into it.  I wanted to use the je ne sais quoi of the greats.  The classic jumpsuit design I pulled from Mr Incredible, my idol as a child, you know.  And you can’t go wrong with a domino mask, even if some say it’s too simple to hide the identity.”  He smiles, guileless child with no idea, no idea at all what he’s going to push her to.  He had dropped the one name, the one family, that Edna would move mountains to protect.  She was going to kill the boy, as she had others, and he would say thank you as he took his poison.

“Nice cape,” she says.  “Little short though.  Stratogale’s went to the ground.”

Some people say not all heroes wear capes when they discuss the actions of non-supers.  If Edna Mode has any say, and she has substantial say, no hero (super or not) will ever wear a cape again.  He shouldn’t have chosen this path, because she will make him a cape, and he will die.  He is a villain, and not under the protection of her vow to give no cape to an innocent again.  She will make the suits for the ones who go to defeat him, and they will live.  She will take note of all his strengths and stack the deck.  Edna Mode will play god, decide who lives and who dies and how the history is recorded.  She knows this, and she knows who and what she is.  She accepts it.

Later she makes a new funeral outfit for herself.

It’s elegant and chic and will remind the world of her name.  The fall of the fabric will draw eyes to her, and the sweep of the veil will make men kneel in support.  It has neat tucks and a demure silhouette.  It has every aspect of good fashion, from the slight cinch of the waist to the beads at the hem and neck.  It has specially designed outerwear that drapes dramatically over her arms as she bows her head respectfully by the memorial to the ones who died in Syndrome’s attack.

I mean really. If everything was exactly the same except for this trope think of how many people would have hello written on their wrist. Think of how many people would meet the wrong person but hit it off anyway and think well this must be my soulmate(s) because we get along more or less. Think of how many people would get married and have a life and a dog and like start up some kind of artisanal meat market or something and then find out that they married the “wrong” person. Like, people wouldn’t be signing prenups, this is your soulmate it should last forever. So now you’re stuck in this crazy legal battle with your fake soulmate while your real soulmate is like trying to fend off people who also have hello on their wrist and think they’re making the wrong choice. Divorce lawyers would probably make it big in this hypothetical world.

But. I don’t think the above is actually all that likely when you consider that this would be a world where everyone knows that the first thing you say to your soulmate(s) is on your wrist. I think a whole world of this trope would basically teach people that you don’t say hello to strangers.

Instead you blurt out something very original. Last thursday I ate a live worm! I own a collection of glass eyes! I’m secretly a super villain and this is my android body! You know. Distinctive. Something that isn’t likely to be ambiguous.

Think of the possibilities. Think of a society that celebrates truly unique first words. People could see someone and spend hours agonizing over what ridiculous thing they want their first words to be. An unusual metaphor for your undying love? A declaration about how much you like snails? A compliment no one could have ever possibly said to them before? Your nose is a glorious rendition of the Summer Triangle. 

Kids would grow up being encouraged to say outlandish things. You wouldn’t be told to stop saying silly things. You would be told to make sure not to copy the silly things your friend said. Think of how careful parents would be about introducing very young children to new people. Kids that are too young might meet their soulmate and not realize it. They could miss their one chance because they were too busy fighting over a little mermaid eraser.

What about people who can’t read? What about people who are blind?

You wouldn’t say sorry if you bumped into someone on the street. You’d either stay silent or shout something oddball out first, I shove lilacs up my nose. and only then do you say sorry.

here’s the thing. the human doesn’t actually realize they’re at a monster school. they’re basically the living embodiment of “staying in their lane”. they see strange monster things happening and they’re like “huh. well that’s none of my business” and just go about their day

so the monsters think the human knows what’s up and doesn’t care. the human thinks they’re at a weird but ultimately normal human school. then the human sees something so explicit that they can’t help but connect the dots, like a werewolf transforming right in front of them. the human screams, the werewolf yelps, everyone else starts screaming too. there’s lots of confusion all around. 

eventually they all figure out what happened. then the human’s friends start quizzing them on how the hell they never noticed.

“the werewolves literally walk around with their ears and tails out.” “I thought they were just furries okay?!”

“but the vampires drink blood at lunch! only blood! they don’t eat!” “listen, even goths can be insecure about their weight. it’s not my business if they want to go on a weird tomato juice diet.” “I guess that explains why you hugged Travis and told him he was beautiful the way he is that one time.”

“there are fairies in our math class. they have wings.” “*shrug* theater kids are weird.”

“Ynolk'ku is the offspring of an eldritch abomination. the whispers of the dead follow xem wherever xe go. are you saying you never heard that?” “I figured it was just really loud creepy music playing from xer headphones.”

“centaurs. harpies. nagas.” “okay I know I already said furries, but really committed furries.”

“Cindy is a sasquatch and she’s covered in fur.” “who am I to tell a girl to shave?”

you almost say seven but the answer floats in your lungs like rising mud. you shift your shoulders. some part of you is already forming an excuse. that it’s not that bad sometimes. one, two, three on a day that the clouds are out. you’re just complaining about stuff. yesterday you laughed past a brick of a four, does that make the brick come down to a two-point-five.  the solid seven panic attack of last tuesday feels somehow like a little thorn, just a regular day full of a gentle three-point-nine earthquake rocking after yesterday’s close-to-an-eight. see but if tomorrow you have a real bad day, it will make today look simple.

and what if. what if tomorrow it’s a big old red eight-point-nine. like one of those days where sirens are going off in every part of you but you’re stuck behind a glass window watching it all burn down. like one of those days that your skin against the air feels foreign. like too much of everything. like sitting-in-the-shower, like can’t-eat, like the tide isn’t just coming in, it came while you were sleeping and now you’ve gotta learn how to swim. like bounce me against a bullet hole kind of day.

you keep numbers like nine and ten way out of reach. those are for the people who really are suffering. you’ve got no excuse. nine and ten are funeral numbers, for real problems, not yours, no. and sometimes you’re fine. and you’re kind of used to it. and it’s not sad, it’s just numb like a television caught on static. numb like i can’t remember if i care about this. numb like nothing works but i can’t be bothered to fix it. that’s not sad that’s every day stuff. everybody feels like this, right? feels like they’ve been shut off. right.  

maybe five. right in the middle. like not gonna shoot myself but i’m not wasting your time. a nonanswer. like could be worse could be better. like i need help but i don’t want you to worry even though i need someone to worry about me because i can’t worry about myself. maybe five. but what if five is too small. what if five is too big. what if -

He knows how it feels to see their faces pinch outside the window before they hurry to the next room.

Shane grew up in a 100 point nursery. They had torn, ratty, books and no teachers, and when snack time came, the tray was pushed through a slat in the door. They were called “unruly” and “damaged” and “stupid.” A lot of the other kids threw tantrums and broke furniture (and sometimes other kids). A lot of the other kids went quiet after the first few years when they realized they’d never be adopted until they were old enough (or pretty enough) to be useful. A lot of the kids cried and didn’t stop until they got taken away or were aged out.

Shane’s grown up a lot since aging out. He put himself through school, got himself a job, shed his 100 points like the torn clothes he’d left the facility in. He’s powerful now, successful, and he’s grown out of the twisted nose, big ears, and gap-toothed smile that had made him one of the less attractive 100 point babies. Or maybe he’s grown into them. Who’s to say?

It’s taken him a long time to get enough Parent Points to do what he wants. Being a man is, for once, somewhat hindering as most of society equates “parental” with “maternal.” He’s lost count of how many social workers have politely hid expressions of surprise when he told them he wanted to adopt stag, that he’s willing to take the classes, get the grades, make the oaths to get even one Parent Point.

Heterosexuality is a couch. Nobody even bats an eye if you keep it in the living room for everyone to see–it’s simply expected. I mean, where the hell else would you keep it? Hidden in a bedroom? No, that would be weird.

Homosexuality is a bed. Having a bed in a public room is considered weird and gross–you’re expected to keep it in private bedroom you close the door to before anyone else comes over. Because even though there are a million and one things someone can do sitting on a bed that aren’t sexual (and plenty of ways to have sex on a couch), the first and foremost thing anyone associates beds with is sex.

Bisexuality is a Western-style futon. Sometimes it functions like a couch, sometimes it functions like a bed, but whichever position it’s in at the moment, it’s still a goddamn futon. People who want to use it as a couch give you shit for not having a real couch; people who want to use it as a bed give you shit for not having a real bed. It’s acceptable in your living room, but only if you make extra certain to put it in couch position and hide the sheets before company comes over. Otherwise, you’d better hide it in a guest room.