An Incredible Theory

an Incredible theory

Right, so I don’t have any programs to pull out the GIFs for anything from the movie and I haven’t found them online. 

But I and my fiancee were going over some lines from the Incredibles Movie and we caught something Edna said, which struck us as odd…

“Your outfit will be ready before you next assignment.”

NEXT ASSIGNMENT

How did she know he was getting missions? Mr Incredible never said he was taking missions, in fact he was denying he was even moonlighting as a hero at this point. 

Unless. 

She knew Syndrome. 

Now we know Syndrome has money, he has power, and he’s been trying to set himself up as a Hero. If he’s been using his resources to find all these heros it wouldn’t take much for him to also look up the person who was their costume designer. 

And he would very likely have approached her. After all, he’s wanting to set himself up as a hero.

Now Edna, she’s been working with heros her entire career. She knows a real hero when she sees one. And we also know she too is in a position of power and has her own resources to draw from. It stands to reason that she would very likely read Syndrome pretty easy and know that 2+2 equals fish in this case. BUT, she’s not a super herself. She’s also in hiding. If she refused to make Syndrome’s outfit for him he could very likely cause her a LOT of trouble. 

Edna can’t do much, she is not in a position to be able to tell anyone about what’s  going on, supers are not in good standing and ones disappearing, well no one is searching for them at all. What else can she do?

She can manipulate things as she sees the opportunity show itself to her.

Mr Incredible comes to her about repairing his costume. He’s obviously on Syndrome’s hit list (hell she likely got Syndrome monologuing and knows everything going on) 

She already had the outfits for the rest of his family ready before Helen even got there. 

She knew their powers. She knew the best things to say to Helen that would get her to go help her husband. 

She placed a tracking device without telling Mr Incredible in all the suits. She put that device into his suit apparently BEFORE she made the ones for his family.

She gave them the resources, put them into the path that would allow them the best chance of stopping Syndrome, because she knew this situation needed real heros. 

And she did one other thing for them. One major thing that goes against everything she is so vehemently against.

She gave Syndrome a Cape. 

The fandom who are still crying over it

@ink-nibs tagged me to list my top 5 ships! (gah Elle, why’d you do it? now I have to :P and I don’t really ship that many book characters)

James and Lily from Harry Potter although they’re not mentioned in the book so much

Will and Alyss from Ranger’s Apprentice :D 

Toph and Sokka in A:TLA :D

Bheema and Panchali in Mahabharata :D 

The Titanic cause I can’t think of any more people ships :P 

You know what? Fuck it. Everyone who reblogs this by… Hmm… June 6th gets a hand-drawn dragon head based off of what I think of you.just by looking at your blog.

First, I wanted to say that I love love love your Harry Potter fics and what-ifs! thank you so much for writing them :) And I also wondered if you ever written what if the Dursleys had refused to take Harry in?

When Petunia Dursley refused to take Harry in she forfeited his birthright protection, so Dumbledore took the baby to the safest place he knew: Hogwarts.

The applicable staff (mostly just… not Snape) took Harry in on a rotating schedule as he grew from baby to toddler to child. They traded extra credit for babysitting among the older students, and Harry grew up knowing a few dozen different laps that were safe and warm to nap in.

This was a Harry who grew up among books, among old transient walls and learned professors. They gave Binns night duty sometimes, and let him talk young Harry to sleep. This was a Harry whose world changed, on principle, daily. The stairs moved. The walls became doors. You had to keep your eyes open–you had to pay attention. So he did.

He grew up in a school. Knowledge was power, but knowledge was also joy. This was his sanctuary. There was magic in his world from birth.

“The castle will keep him safe,” said Dumbledore, when McGonagall came into his office to complain for the eighth time about Albus’s rather cavalier take on child-rearing. “That’s what it does.”

“Then why do we bother with chaperones ever,” McGonagall said, tempted to shriek it. “Should we let all the children run about willy-nilly at all hours, or just the orphan waifs?!”

“He’s not a student. He’s a ward of Hogwarts. It will take care of him, Minerva.”

McGonagall walked off fuming. A cat with spectacle markings followed Harry almost constantly from ages three through four. At some point McGonagall was far enough behind on her paperwork, and had seen enough suits of armor carry the kid back to his room, enough draperies lift off the wall and tug Harry away from edges, and enough stairs creakingly shift their slope for his tiny toddler legs. She gave a grumpy sigh, stole some of Albus’s lemon drops, and resigned herself to a magical world.

The Grey Lady, the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, didn’t really like boys but she liked children. She especially liked patience, and politeness, and Harry had been raised by McGonagall’s stern table manners, by Victorian portraiture and quite a few House Elves. He said please, thank you, and ma'am, and as a child he was very cunning in how he got bedtime stories and bedtime snacks out of most every adult he met.

The Grey Lady told the best stories, you see, the ones with riddles in them. You had to think and ask questions to get all the way through them. So he hunted her down with big patient eyes and plates of very smelly cheese, and she told him stories that made him think.

When Harry was stable enough on his feet to walk, and then to run, Sir Cadogan would race him through the castle, the knight scattering banquet tables and galloping across landscapes, twisting through the abstract gallery up on the seventh and a half floor. Harry stumbled and sprinted up stairways and didn’t notice for years the way Cadogan waited at the end of corridors for him to catch up.

Harry was a chubby-legged toddler, in this world–cute cheeks and stubby limbs. It’s a cute image, yes– but this is important. He was a chubby kid. He ate in a high chair on the teacher’s dais, getting peas and mashed potatoes on the adults beside him– Sprout laughed. Snape didn’t.

But this is important–Harry filled his plate. He wobbled up on little legs and grabbed biscuits from the table, slurped his soup, got marinara sauce on his chin and forehead and somehow behind his ear. When he was hungry, he ate. If he snuck down to the kitchens at night, it was for the adventure of it and nothing else. When he was hungry, he ate.

When he was four, they started letting him go sit down with the students. Bill Weasley, on route to be a prefect next year, took him under his wing and scrubbed his face down after meals. Harry was passed around the Hufflepuff table; theirs was the House Common Room he most liked sneaking into, with its barrels and cozy warmth. Nymphadora Tonks turned her nose a dozen different shapes to make Harry laugh, gurgling, as a toddler (and then a child) (and then for the rest of her life, honestly–it never stopped being funny).

The whole Ravenclaw table got distracted from meals, trying to solve riddles from a book one of their Muggleborns had smuggled in.Harry pushed his fork through his gravy, trying to draw out his thoughts but only making squiggles.

It was years before Harry sat at the Slytherin table for the first time–no one had ever set him down there, like they had with the others. But he liked green–it was the color of Professor Sprout’s greenhouses, where he went and napped sometimes in winter. It was the color of his mother’s eyes, from the little book of moving pictures Hagrid had given him when he was three.

All the Slytherin kids seemed big, but everyone Harry ever met seemed big–except for Flitwick, who was seeming smaller with every growth spurt. He leaned forward, teetering on the bench, and grabbed a chicken drumstick. “Hi,” he said, because he’d had a childhood full of tea parties with high portrait society– the French nobility and the tired housewife from the third floor and an old witch with her sleeve on fire but very particular table manners. “I’m Harry. What’s your name?”

By the end of the meal, they were flicking peas across the table with their spoons, like catapult projectiles. Harry had been unwelcome in so few places in his life, after he’d left 4 Privet Drive, that he simply didn’t expect it. He asked Warrington, a Slytherin with shoulders like a bulldog’s, to help him with the juice, which was too unwieldy for his kid-sized wrists. Harry sat there blinking, smiling, until Warrington took the jug and poured him a brimming glass.

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Me, working from home and feeling a bit lost: the neighbours have kids… I guess I’ll write them a card that we could help out with shopping and stuff? that’s not invasive, right?

My husband, pretty much the only one still allowed to go to the university to run his data experiments in a deserted building: COLLEAGUES, FRIENDS, COUNTRYMEN, give! me! your plants!