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There were some parts of Edna's lifestyle that she absolutely loved. She took great pride and comfort in her home, her physical and financial security, and her status among some of the strongest people in the world. If there was one thing she was not a fan of, however, it was her gate security system. Sure, it was nice to have a first line of defense against paparazzi and the occasional wandering tourist looking to get a peek at the Edna Mode's actual home. But there were times when Edna would answer a page from the front gate and be struck with the memory of being a little girl living in a tiny house in the countryside, running to the front door at every knock against the old wooden surface just for the satisfaction of getting to meet the visitor before anyone else in the house. It reminded her of the innocence she had once been alight with—the wonder, hope, and rudimentary ambition. It was incredibly inspiring. The gate system, by contrast, was cold and impersonal.
And so, every now and again the urge would hit her, and she would stroll down to the room filled with monitors and controls where a member of her personal staff would sit at all times, keeping a close eye on the goings-on of her large, expensive home. She would walk right in (she did own the place, after all) and shoo the guard out of his seat and away from the screens, making herself comfortable as she waited for someone—though she wasn't quite sure who—to come a-knocking at her door.
It was on one such morning, just after she had settled down with a cup of tea and that day's newspaper in front of the huge array of monitors that he showed up. At first, it hadn't seemed too far out of the ordinary; a plain black sedan rolled up to the gate with a cool sort of confidence and stopped at the video intercom. Nothing unusual. It was when the window rolled down and the person driving the car revealed his face that Edna's interest was piqued. He was unusually young, for one thing, especially for someone who seemed to have ventured out alone on this particular visit. The boy couldn't have been out of high school yet, she was sure.
Apart from that, there was something about him that gave her chills in an unexplainable way. There was a certain look in his eye that made her uneasy; it was a cold, calculating look that was poorly masked by false warmth. It seemed like the boy had practiced this particular look a number of times, and the thought was enough to activate her paranoia. What could a person like this be doing here?
"Who is it?" she asked, layering a veil of dramatic annoyance over her voice to hide her apprehension. "What do you want?" She folded her newspaper, setting it aside as she focused on the boy in the car.
"Miss Edna Mode!" the boy greeted enthusiastically, if not a little exaggeratedly. "It is such a pleasure to meet you. I'll tell ya, I am your biggest fan when it comes to your work with the heroes of this great nation! It really is an honor, believe me."
"Yes, of course it is," Edna scoffed with a roll of her eyes. Had she overestimated the icy gaze that the boy seemed to possess? "Who are you ?"
The boy chuckled with feigned sincerity. "Oh, of course. Where are my manners? I am Syndrome."
Her mouth went dry at the shift in tone with his last declaration. His entire manner was completely disrupted, and suddenly the tilt of his head and the hardness of his face matched the steel of his eyes, and he seemed to grow just a bit bigger in Edna's eyes. It was as if, with those three little words, the boy— Syndrome —had become a completely different person.
And, truth be told, Edna wasn't sure that this Syndrome was anyone she wanted to associate with.
"Well, what do you want?" she snapped, hoping that false anger would mask the wobble in her throat. Her hand drifted to the cell phone on the desk in front of her. She still had Bob and Helen on speed dial, right? Or maybe Lucius… "I am very busy—too busy to sign autographs for anybody who comes to my door unannounced!"
Syndrome chuckled again, and this time the sound felt…darker, somehow. "I didn't come here looking for an autograph," he said brusquely. "I actually have a job I'd like to offer you. I assure you, I can pay handsomely."
Edna raised one eyebrow. "You want a design?"
Syndrome eyed her image on the intercom with ferocity. "I want a super suit."
* * *
Edna bit at the obvious bait, because even after all these years of designing, she still had a remarkable lack of self-control when it came to superhero costumes. Syndrome was unnerving, but if she had turned down the opportunity, she probably would have spent the rest of the day thinking about it, writhing with the desire to get ideas on paper. She might as well get paid for it.
Except that there was a moment after her butler had come in to serve the two of them tea in Edna's sitting room when those eyes fixed on her again, boring into her own with a dark intensity that turned her stomach. When her new client brought out a small notebook with some sketches for her to work with, however, the feeling was quashed rather forcefully by her dubious grip on her own desire for the sort of marvelous work that donned the heroic forms of supers everywhere.
She looked over the notes with a critical eye, sometimes taking seriously the remarks that Syndrome had scribbled over rudimentary drawings (things like color, body dimensions, and preferred materials) and sometimes biting her lip to keep from laughing at the juvenile misconceptions and misinterpretations of her craft that Syndrome had obviously mistaken for clever fact. At one point, there was a note that the boots he had drafted—designed to accommodate a pair of rocket thrusters—ought to be made of genuine leather, but completely fire- and water-proofed, and Edna laughed audibly.
"Is something funny?" the boy said from across the coffee table between them. Edna quirked an eyebrow.
"Only your attempts to make recommendations based on a thorough misunderstanding of what truly makes a super suit," Edna criticized dryly, picking up her teacup for a sip. The cup never made it to her lips.
Edna jolted at the sudden motion as Syndrome stood, slamming his hands down on the table. The teacup fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor, sending a wide puddle of warm tea across the white carpet. Syndrome leaned over the table and into her face, forcing Edna to lean back until she was pressed against the back of her chair.
"Do not make fun of me," Syndrome bit out between clenched teeth. He pointed a finger at her face, inching dangerously close to the tip of her nose with the thick digit. "I commissioned you to create this suit, not to question my judgement or my skill. Understand?"
Edna gave a short, reluctant nod, and watched Syndrome re-establish the space between them with narrowed eyes. She wanted to yell, to forcibly eject him from her home immediately . This boy—whoever he was—was dangerous . She should call one of the supers, or one of her clients from within the government…nothing had happened yet, so they might call her on her lack of true evidence, but she had to do something…from such a close distance, Edna had practically felt sheer violent force rolling off the stranger in waves .
As soon as she opened her mouth to suggest that he find someone else to take on the task, a thought occurred to her, and she latched onto it with a twisted desire for justice building in her heart.
"I would like to propose an addition to your design," she stated boldly, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose. "A cape—white and long, so that it will billow as you rise above the crowds. It is the true image of heroism that you seek, no?"
His lips curled with a glee that seemed entirely foreign on the boy's hard face. He seemed genuinely excited at the prospect. Edna decided not to tell him about Thunderhead, Stratogale, Dynaguy, Metaman, Splashdown, or any of the other numerous heroes who had met their end by way of their fluttering, heroic capes. If the boy couldn't even do his homework, she had no reason to protect him from the dangers of hero work—that is, if he was planning to do hero work at all.
She listened to him carry on about the hideous black and white design for nearly an hour before he walked out, leaving her with nothing but his sketches, his measurements, a phone number, and a date scribbled hastily on the back of a cheap business card as he drove off in his black sedan. Edna looked over the card several times after he left before deciding to place it in a plastic bag, just in case anyone from the government came snooping around, asking after a teenager with bright red hair and dead eyes.
She would have his fingerprints, as well as his measurements and a fairly thorough description. She was a designer, after all—she had a thing for visual detail.
After Syndrome had cleared the driveway, Edna went back to wear they had been working on his suit design, drinking in the sight of the clean lines of a newly drawn-in cape hanging gently, elegantly from the figure's shoulders against the paper. She gave a single chuckle without any humor behind it.
"What a fool," she said aloud, listening to the faint echo in the empty room. If Syndrome wanted to play this part, then she wasn't going to stop him in doing so. She would even play along.
If the boy wanted a cape, then a cape he would get. And hopefully, if she was lucky, he would get everything that went with it.