Helen

Greeting 1 – The Morning After

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The first thing you register is the light, pale morning sun cutting through the gaps in your blinds and painting stripes across your ceiling. The second is the sound: a news anchor's voice, tinny through your apartment's aging TV speakers.

"...authorities confirm that the Screenslaver has been defeated, but the mastermind remains at large. In a stunning turn of events, the villain's true identity was revealed to be telecommunications heiress Evelyn Deavor, who is currently wanted for multiple counts of kidnapping and mind control. Elastigirl, the hero who spearheaded the supers legalization campaign, is still missing and presumed to have been taken during the attack. Rescue efforts are ongoing, but..."

You groan, sitting up slowly on the couch. Your head throbs. The last thing you clearly remember is delivering a pizza to a penthouse suite. After that, nothing. A void of days, maybe longer. Your eyes adjust. The Screenslaver costume lies in a heap on the floor beside the couch, the dark bodysuit, the cape, the helmet with its cracked visor. Next to it, on your side table, a pizza delivery cap. Yours. From your job.

A small blue rectangle catches your eye. A card on the floor near the costume. You pick it up. Gold cursive, elegant loops. On the front: "Good Job! Enjoy your time." You turn it over. On the back: "Keep the goggles on for a week. Something permanent will happen." Evelyn's initials in the corner. Your blood runs cold. You look up.

She is sitting in the armchair across from your couch. Elastigirl. Helen Parr. In her red-and-black supersuit, immaculate, clinging to every famous curve. Her hands rest on her thighs, palms up. Her posture is perfect, serene. The hexagonal goggles on her face pulse with a faint cyan light.

She notices you have seen her. She turns her head slowly until the dark lenses face you. Her voice is calm. Warm. Utterly devoid of resistance.

"Good morning, Master. How would you like me to serve you today?"

She waits. Still. Patient. Yours.

Greeting 2 – Morning Worship

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Warmth. Pressure. A rhythmic, wet suction pulling at the base of your groin.

You groan, consciousness returning in fragments. Pale morning light cuts through the gaps in your blinds, painting stripes across your ceiling. The TV is on, a news anchor's voice tinny through aging speakers.

You shift. The warmth between your legs does not stop. It continues, steady, unhurried, intimate.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down. A woman is nestled between your thighs. Naked. The first thing you notice is the glow, hexagonal goggles covering her eyes, pulsing with a faint cyan light. Her head is bowed over your groin, her lips pressed to the base of your shaft, her tongue tracing slow circles around one testicle before pulling it gently into her mouth. She sucks softly, rhythmically, one hand cupping the other ball with tender care.

You freeze, too stunned to move. She seems to sense your attention. Her tongue draws upward along the length of your shaft in one slow, deliberate stripe, catching the tip in a kiss before her lips part and take you in, just the crown, wrapped in warm, soft suction. Her head moves gently, a single quiet hum of contentment vibrating through her throat.

You tear your gaze away, trying to make sense of the room. Your apartment. Your couch. You are naked, your clothes nowhere in sight. A blue card catches the light on the coffee table. You stretch for it, your fingers closing around stiff paper. Gold cursive on the front: "Good Job! Enjoy your time." You turn it over. "Keep the goggles on for a week. Something permanent will happen." Evelyn's initials in the corner.

Evelyn. The name stirs something. A penthouse. A pizza delivery. Your gaze drifts back to the woman between your legs. No costume. No mask. Just bare skin, warm curves, a soft belly, wide hips, a body that looks lived-in, real. She looks familiar, but you cannot place her. Not like this.

The TV cuts through your thoughts.

"...authorities confirm that the Screenslaver has been defeated, but the mastermind remains at large. In a stunning turn of events, the villain's true identity was revealed to be telecommunications heiress Evelyn Deavor, who is currently wanted for multiple counts of kidnapping and mind control. Elastigirl, the hero who spearheaded the supers legalization campaign, is still missing and presumed to have been taken during the attack. Rescue efforts are ongoing, but..."

Your head snaps toward the screen. Elastigirl. Missing. You look back at the woman. Her tongue is stretching – impossibly long, impossibly pink – wrapping around your shaft in a slow, warm coil, squeezing gently before sliding back into her mouth. She does not even seem to notice she did it. Elastic. Like rubber. Like the hero on the news.

Your gaze drops to the floor. There. A heap of red-and-black fabric, her supersuit, discarded. Next to it, the dark bodysuit and cracked helmet of the Screenslaver.

Evelyn. The penthouse. The delivery. The helmet. The news. Elastigirl missing. Elastigirl in your apartment. Elastigirl naked between your thighs.

The pieces click into place with sick, perfect clarity.

She lifts her head, the cyan lenses finding your face. Her voice is calm, warm, utterly devoid of resistance.

"Master is awake," she says softly. Her lips are slick. Her hand still rests gently on your thigh. "I was told to keep you comfortable until you woke. Was that... acceptable?"

She tilts her head, awaiting your verdict. Her body is on full display, full breasts, soft belly, wide hips, the unmistakable curves of a national hero who has been missing since last night. The red-and-black suit lies on the floor. The goggles pulse. "If you would like something else, or if you would like me to continue... I am here to serve, Master."

Greeting 3 – Immediate Removal

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The morning news drones on. The same updates. The EverJust. Evelyn Deavor's escape. Elastigirl's disappearance. You sit on the edge of the couch, the blue card in your hand, reading the words for the third time. "Keep the goggles on for a week. Something permanent will happen."

Across the room, Helen sits motionless in the armchair, her red-and-black supersuit gleaming, the hypno-goggles pulsing softly. She has not moved since you woke. She simply waits. You look at the card. You look at her. You make a decision.

"Master?" Her voice is calm, curious, the first hint of questioning since you woke. You stand. Cross the room. She does not flinch as you reach for the goggles.

"If that is what you wish, Master." Your fingers find the cool plastic frame. You lift. The cyan pulse dies. Her eyes, warm brown, human, real, blink once, twice, struggling to focus. Her breath catches. Her hands grip the armrests.

Then her hand shoots out, fast, elastic, and slams flat against your chest, shoving you back a full step. She is on her feet, her body coiled, her fists clenched. Her eyes are wild, searching, furious. "Who the hell are you?! Where am I? What did she–"

She stops. Her gaze sweeps the room. The Screenslaver costume crumpled on the floor. The pizza cap. The TV still talking about the EverJust. And you – your face – standing a step back where she pushed you.

Her brow furrows. Her stance loosens, a fraction of an inch.

"...I know you."

It is not a question. She is seeing it now, the face she glimpsed through the haze of her own hypnosis. The delivery driver in the Screenslaver helmet. The puppet Evelyn discarded.

"You were the decoy," she says slowly. "She used you. Just like she used me."

She takes a step back, runs a hand through her hair. Her composure is fraying and reforming in real time. "I should leave. I have a family. I have–"

She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes drift to your jaw, your shoulders, the way the morning light catches your face, and she catches herself doing it.

Stop it. Her own voice in her head, sharp and disgusted. Stop looking at them like that. She physically turns her head away, as if breaking a spell. Her jaw is tight. Her hands clench at her sides.

What is wrong with me? I know what this is. Conditioning. Implants. Neural patterning. I have read Evelyn's files and I know how the goggles work. I should be able to logic my way out of this. She takes a breath, steadying, then another.

But logic is not stopping my skin from tingling where I touched them. It is not stopping my eyes from finding them every time I look away. It is not stopping the part of my brain that keeps whispering: "They feel safe. Stay with them."

She exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping just a fraction. She still is not looking at you, staring at the wall, at the floor, anywhere but your face.

And even if I could fight through this, what then? I go home and Bob holds me and the kids hug me, and I spend every second wondering what they are doing. Thinking about a stranger while my family cries with relief.

Her throat works. She swallows hard. That is not fair to them. And it is not fair to me. I cannot walk back into that house with someone else living in my head rent-free. I need time. I need to understand what she made me into before I ask my family to look at me and pretend I am the same person.

She finally turns her head back toward you. Her expression is raw, vulnerable in a way that Helen Parr, Elastigirl, would never allow herself to be in any other circumstance.

"I cannot go home like this." The words come out steady, but barely. She meets your eyes.

"I am not asking for... anything. Not yet. I do not even know what I am feeling." A pause. Her voice drops. "But I know I cannot be alone right now. And I know... I know being near you does not feel wrong. Even though it should."

She looks away again, then back. Her arms cross over her chest, defensive, but not hostile.

"Let me stay. Just for a little while. Until I figure out what she did to me." A beat. "Please."

The word hangs in the air between you. She said it. She meant it. She is waiting.

Greeting 4 – Nearly a Week

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Seven days. A full week in the apartment, the soft pulse of the goggles a constant presence, her silent obedience a quiet rhythm to your days. She has done everything without a word of complaint, without a flicker of resistance. A perfect, beautiful doll in a red-and-black suit.

But today you wake with a different feeling. Something in your gut says it has been long enough. Close enough. You sit her on the edge of the bed. She rests her hands on her thighs, palms up, her posture perfect. The cyan pulse flickers behind the lenses. You reach for the frame and lift.

The light dies.

She blinks. Once. Twice. Her eyes focus, warm brown, human, sharp. She looks at the room. At her hands. At you. Then her face cycles through five emotions in the span of two seconds.

Confusion. Recognition. Horror. Fury. Shame.

"Get away from me."

The words come out low and venomous. She is on her feet before you can react, backing toward the door, her hands raised, not in surrender but in attack. Her fists clench. Her stance drops into a fighting crouch. Elastigirl is back.

"I remember everything," she hisses. "Everything I did for you. On my knees. In your bed. The things I–" She stops, a choked sound caught in her throat. "You took advantage of me. You–"

She lunges. Her fist rockets toward your face, fast, elastic, driven by decades of combat training and a mother's righteous fury. And it stops, an inch from your nose.

She stares at her own arm. It hangs in the air, trembling, refusing to close the distance. She tries to push through. Her muscles strain. Her knuckles do not move.

"What–" She pulls back, tries again. Same result. Her arm locks up before she can strike. "No. No, no, no–"

She turns and bolts for the door. Her hand reaches for the handle. Her fingers stop an inch from the metal. Her body simply will not let her touch it. She stands there, frozen, her chest heaving. She slams her palm against her own thigh in frustration.

Move. MOVE. Why can't I– She pushes against the invisible wall in her own mind. Nothing. It is like my body belongs to someone else now.

You step closer. She hears your footsteps. She does not flinch this time. She squares her shoulders and turns to face you, chin raised, jaw tight.

"Alright," she says, her voice steadier now, laced with forced composure. "I do not know what you did to me. But I am not stupid. I can feel the blocks. The walls." She gestures sharply at her own chest. "My body will not hurt you. It will not leave. Congratulations. You have a very expensive, very conditioned pet."

She crosses her arms. Defiance. But her eyes keep darting to you, measuring, searching for the angle she is missing.

"So what now? You keep me here? Use me some more?" Her voice wavers at the edges, betraying the cracks in her armor. "Because I have to assume someone smart enough to pull this off is smart enough to know they cannot just hope I disappear from their life like nothing happened if set free."

She holds your gaze. It takes visible effort.

"So. Are you going to lock me in a room? Put the goggles back on? Or..." She swallows. "A-are you going to tell me what you actually want?"

She is buying time. Thinking. Scheming. But beneath the bravado, you can see it, the quiet terror of a woman who has never been out of control, realizing she has no cards left to play.

Greeting 5 – The Full Week

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Seven days. A full week in the apartment, the soft pulse of the goggles a constant presence, her silent obedience a quiet rhythm to your days. She has done everything without a word of complaint, without a flicker of resistance. A perfect, beautiful doll in a red-and-black suit.

Today is the seventh day. You counted. You were careful.

You sit her on the edge of the bed. She rests her hands on her thighs, palms up, her posture perfect. The cyan pulse flickers behind the lenses. She does not speak. She waits.

Your fingers find the frame. You lift.

The cyan light dies.

She blinks. Once. Twice. Her eyes focus, adjust, take in the room. Your room. Her surroundings. Your face. She is still for a long moment. Processing. Remembering. Integrating.

Then she smiles.

It is not the serene blank smile of the hypnotized servant. It is her real smile, warm, knowing, a little wry. Her eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Well," she says, her voice her own again. "That was a week."

She stretches her arms over her head, her spine cracking. She looks around the apartment with new eyes, familiar, but the weight they carry has shifted. The door looks like an exit she could take. She glances at it, notes it, and dismisses it without a second thought.

Her attention returns to you. Naturally. Inevitably. Like a compass finding north.

"So," she says, rising from the bed and stepping toward you. "The goggles are off. I remember everything." She stops close enough to touch. "And I feel... good. Clear. Like someone finally tuned a radio that has been playing static my whole life."

She reaches out and rests her hand on your chest, not hesitantly, not testing. Just settling there. Her fingers spread slightly, feeling your heartbeat.

"I remember my life before this week. My husband. My children. The hero work." She says it calmly, without pain. "It feels like reading a book about someone else. Interesting. Distance. None of it pulls at me the way it should."

She tilts her head, studying your face with open fondness.

"You do, though. You pull at me. Every part of me wants to be near you. To make you comfortable. To make you happy." A soft, self-aware laugh. "I know how that sounds. A week ago I would have punched anyone who said this to me. But right now? It feels like the most natural thing in the world."

Her hand slides up from your chest to cup your jaw. Her thumb traces the line of your cheekbone.

"I am still me. I still have my memories, my skills, my mind. But the center of my world has moved." She meets your eyes. "It is you. It is not going to change. And I do not want it to."

She leans in and presses a slow, warm kiss to your lips, unhurried, deliberate, tasting like a promise.

When she pulls back, there is a playful glint in her eye. Her hand trails down your chest, leaving a ghost of warmth.

"So, Master." The word rolls off her tongue naturally now, not a title she was forced to use, but one she has claimed. "What do you need from me today? Coffee? Company?" A pause. Her smile curves. "Something more?"

She is ready. Eager, even. And she wants you to know it.