"Hey dude! You can't just barge in here without an appointment — seriously!"

Motor Ed nearly knocks over a fat stack of paperwork rushing out of his chair, body cramped in his tiny New York City office. He leans forward and catches his stumbling accountant before his head smashes into the papers and makes it worse. The shaggy bearded accountant shoves his thick, insect-like glasses up his rather large schnoz and stutters, "I — I — I tried Ed! I tried to tell the guy to go away but he didn't listen, honest!"

"Seriously?" Motor Ed's gnarly mustache droops.

"Seriously," a high voice snarks from the doorway.

Silhouetted by the light from the lobby, the man props a foot up against the door frame, hand arching like a swan's neck over his head to scoop off the fedora, revealing a bushel of golden yellow hair. "He tried real hard, but nothing stops the Unstoppable. Heh."

"No way man," Motor Ed scrambles back. "That's — this is impossible!"

"Impossible you say?" the man flicks the light switch besides him, finally illuminating his pale face. Not the same boy from twelve years ago, he's well-built with only a fraction of his former pot belly. His freckles have aged away into rougher skin, with less of a gourd for a head to boot. Though he's still got that mean gamer's slouch. "You should talk to my friend about that."

Ron Stoppable spins his fedora around his finger before presumptuously lobbing his fedora onto Ed's desk. He pulls the lapels out to his tan trench-coat, sauntering over to Ed and his accountant like some badass. His knees kick up the tail of the coat, briefly showing the same old baggy cargo pants get-up from the old days, and it's not hard to see the familiar black sweater underneath the coat either. "We've been watching you for a long time, Ed. Just waiting for you to crack, to make a mistake, and hey credit where credit's due, right? You did good. But then you hired Francis Lurman two months after Frugal Lucre broke out of prison."

The bespectacled accountant steps forward, hairy arms sliding out past the cuff links. "Frugal Lucre, huh?! I don't know that gu! Yeah, see? I'm Francis Lurman you palooka, what's it to ya?"

Ron forces a laugh that he then holds back behind square teeth. "Dude, did you really think that we would forget that Frugal Lucre was just a moniker and not actually your legal name?"

"Ha," Frugal Lucre laughs despite his paling cheeks. He runs a big hand through his tangled knots of hair. "Whoopsie doodle then. Ha ha. I mean, I am pretty forgettable. I figured it'd slide."

"Yeah, well — uh — so what?!" Motor Ed spits out frantically, roughly shoving Lucre back into Ron's arms. "I didn't know it was him I swear! You got nothing on me youze mugs! Seriously!"

Ron licks his lips and quickly handcuffs the wriggling Lucre from behind. Ron's about to compliment Ed for being such a swell guy, rememberin' his name and all, but a little nippin' from under his jacket and into his ribs reminds him that he's gotta be a tough guy right now. "Uh huh yeah, well, last night, there was a robbery at the New York Annual Auto Show and I think you'd really like the performance the thief put on for our audio capture."

Ron gently pushes against Lucre's shoulders, sending him crashing to his knees. He smirks and dips a hand deep into his coat, pulling out the Ronnunicator and clicking a button. The sound of a beefy man (poorly) playing the air guitar plays. Ed sucks his lip while Ron's eyes dart back and forth until the grand finale of the sad excuse for a guitar solo, then promptly shuts the thing off.

Motor Ed rips his chair from the floor and whirls it over his desk. It soars and splinters into dust and wood chips over Ron's braced elbows, Ed quickly rummaging through his desk to grab onto a piece. By the time Ron's recovered, he's got a gun trained right between his eyes.

"You seriously wanna go this route, Ed?" Ron smirks, hands falling back into his pockets. He doesn't even bat an eye.

"Seriously!" Motor Ed growls, voice spiking in pitch. Since when was this guy so calm? Ed remembered him acting like a freak! He takes one long step towards his window.

"Uh oh," Ron purses his lips. "So we're doing this."

Immediately the sleeves to Ron's admittedly over-sized trench-coat wave, the bumps rising and falling from his shoulders to his wrists like wavelengths. When he pulls his hands free, wisps of blue light empty from the cuffs, pluming into the air.

Motor Ed shrieks higher than he's ever air guitared and whips around, throwing himself through the air and into the window which promptly shatters.

The last of the blue light comes out and Ron grabs his Ronnuicator once again. "Yo. We got a runner."

Motor Ed takes the impact of his fall with the brunt of his iron-knit bicep, rolling against the gravel and managing to hit the ground running. His graying mullet waves frantically from his jaunty sprint, sweat spilling down onto his sweet mustache. He runs a glove to his forehead and breathes a sigh of relief that Mystical Monkey Nightmare Stoppable isn't coming for him.

But someone else is. By the time Ed notices the shadow trailing after his scrambling legs, it is far too late to slip away.

A body slams into him like a truck, pancaking him flat against the gravel, face steaming through the bits of rock. He feels knees grind against the small of his back, quickly flipping to the flat side of legs, toes digging into his kneecaps. The figure leaps off of him and he just manages to crane his neck up to catch their descent.

She lands nimbly, body not even faltering or flinching from the impact. She grins and brushes auburn locks away from her worn, green eyes. She smiles.

"Did someone say my name?"

"No, uh, I just said impossible I think, I mean that's not a name it's — " Motor Ed's pupils shrink at the realization. She hasn't been on his tail for more than ten years now, so strange that she's now as adult as he is. " — oooooooh. I get it."

"Yep," Kim Possible steps forward, a thick tweed overcoat buttoned over a violet tunic and form fitting black pants. She smirks with youthful spry that betrays the small wrinkles under and around her eyes, and sets the brim of her tweed cap at a tilt. "So how are we doing this Eddy? Easy? Hard? I'm down for a grudge match if you can throw down."

Motor Ed checks his surroundings and stumbles into a sprint, arm lifted high over his head, uvula vibrating with his classic war cry (or shriek), "SERIOOOOOOOUSLYYYYYYYYY!"

Kim rolls her eyes and doesn't even drop into a fighting stance, just leans back and avoids the downswing that Ed somehow expected to crack open her head. Her knee shoots up, hands still plowed into his pockets, and nails him right in the chin. He stumbles back, one dirty fist wiping the crimson stain from his 'stache, the other hitting his belt, grabbing for a gun.

Her eyes narrow and she makes one long stride for, still poised as a nun, and kicks the gun clean out of his grip. It soars high into the air and her smirk only sharpens. He screams and swings again, but she just twists around it as if slipping through a tightly knit pack of pedestrians, and leaps into the air, legs clamping around Ed's thin waist.

Her hands release themselves from the pockets and clasp over her head. She takes in a deep breath and smashes him in the forehead. He stumbles back again and she bends so far back that the tips of her fingers actually reach the ground. Her legs spring off, knocking him into even more stumbling, and she flips back to her feet and snags the gun right out of the air as it passes by. She turns it over and breaks it apart like a wishbone, disassembling it into pieces and moving into an unwavering advance.

Motor Ed actually crouches down a little too deep for Kim's tastes, and it makes her sad. She really wanted him to go for the hard way, but it's amateur hour apparently. So she waits. By now she's supposed to have ripped off the tweed crap because she's so hot in the damn thing, but she doesn't really mind. She drums her fingers against her hips, waiting for the loon to snap and finally he does.

He comes in swingin', fists snapping at the air like snakes. She lets him throw a few out so he can regain some confidence, and then retorts even faster. Her flat palms smack his limbs like flies, and she moves in so fast you would need to have recorded it on video to really get her movements. She pirouettes to his side, just avoiding a crack at the skull, and grips him by the shoulders, fingers wedging deep to bone.

Her hips crack back, her feet plant hard, and she slams Ed against the ground. He writhes to grab at her but she flows right from the throw to a crunch, fist nailing him in the flat face and that's game. He goes limp and she fishes his limps out from under his prone form and cuffs him fast.

A thump from behind her and she turns to see Ron stepping away from the grapple line he must have dropped down. Both of their coats trailing along with the wind, it's quite the scene.

"Is he unconscious KP?" Ron asks.

Kim shrugs and holds up a finger, stooping down to kick Ed one last time in the cranium. She looks back up at Ron. "So how did it work out, Inspector Gadget?"

"Ha ha," Ron laughs wryly. "Hey Rufus. Coast is clear."

A single bump pops up in the trench-coat, sliding fast up Ron's arm until it emerges on his shoulder. The panting pink rodent leans up against Ron's cheek and shakes his head in a tizzy. "Nyugh! Sweaty!"

Kim giggles and scoops Rufus off Ron's still sloped shoulders. "Can I see?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah, of course, KP," Ron grips the edges of his coat, fluttering it high over his head, stretching the sleeves out to reveal a peculiar gadget. Spring-loaded metal tracks run along both sides of his arms, fans clipped on at the wrist. He gives one a squeeze and blue smoke puffs out. "They fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Super badical."

"Spankin'," Kim pats him on the back. "I told you losing your powers was no big. Hey, can you lug Ed up for me? It's more 'in-character' for you to do it."

Ron raises an eyebrow, protesting even though he knows he's already lost this one. "Well, I mean, Lucre's unconscious, I don't think it matters that we keep up appearances — "

His lips purse when two of Kim's fingers gently slid up against him.

"Lucre will be awake by the time you're up. Promise."


By the time Ron hauls his ass back up the grapple line with Motor Ed precariously strewn across his shoulders, Lucre is up and at 'em just like Kim promised. Bushy beard soaked with water, Ron can only imagine how the scrawny chump returned to the light.

"Oh! Oh!" Lucre cheers at the sight of Ron. "I was hoping you'd come back! Get this! Get this! She — ah, Kim! Kim doesn't know — doesn't know about — ah — ah — "

"Jeez, one sec dude," Ron rolls his eyes, ramping Ed off his back like a dump truck. He brushes himself off and snatches his fedora back from the desk. "What's up?"

Lucre tries jerking himself to his feet, but his wrists crack against the pole he's now tied to and he rubber bands back into the metal harder than Mario Kart 64 AI. "I'm tryna tell her that I'm gonna be your Fredo!"

Kim looks to Ron for help. "I don't know what that is."

Ron tuts, waggling his finger. "Kim, Kim, Kim. This is why I keep telling you we need to watch The Godfather Part II."

"I didn't like the first one," Kim shrugs. "The wedding scene was too long."

Ron shakes his head and looks very intentionally to Lucre. "Fredo betrays Michael in Part II. That's what Lucre is saying. He's gonna be our li'l mole."

"Oh no Fredo," Kim frowns, but nevertheless looks to Lucre eagerly. "What's the sitch, dirt bag?"

"Dirt bag? Ouch," Lucre's frown sinks so deep it falls under his beard. "I got intel for yas. But you gotta let me go, ya get?"

"Tsch, no!" Kim giggles, running a hand through Lucre's hair, gently manipulating his head like some kind of doll. "Nice try, though. Let's see — are you wanted internationally or just in this country? It's been a minute."

"What? You don't remember my capers?" Lucre's frown sinks even more and his mouth almost vanishes behind the patchy beard. "I'm international, boyo."

"Got it, so you're Global Justice's bag. Ron, do you think we can…"

"Yeah yeah," Ron groans. "I'll talk to Will. But first Lucre, you gotta make like Fredo or you might have to be careful next time you go fishin'."

Lucre's butt dances with glee and he starts to ramble, but Kim's hand slaps the air. Her eyebrow twitches, "Can we please amp it down on the pop culture references right now?"

Ron and Lucre both frown but agree. Lucre somehow finds the same pep and goes into his schpeel. "Listen, pals. I might be Moto Ed's accountant, but that's just my side hustle. Really, I work for the Seniors. Yup yup."

Both Kim and Ron blink at that. Kim furrows her brow and leers at him as if to call his bluff.

"Heh heh, didn't expect ol' Lucre to work so close to the Angels of Death of New York? Well I did. I'm their li'l money guy. I crunch numbers and they pay me — handsomely. Now, get this, right? I got a little invite to a little shindig in Manhattan today, and because Señor Senior Sr. — just noticing what a mouthful that is, but hey, who am I to talk about mouthfuls? — liked me so much, I got a +1 to boot! Reach into my pocket. C'mon. Do it. Be amazed by my illustrious big dog hustle time."

Kim does so and pulls out a very pristine envelope. She hastily rips it open and slides out the invite, eyes widening at whatever it says.

"What is it KP?" Ron cranes his neck over.

Kim gently shoves him off and folds the envelope into her pocket. "We have to get across town in like 15 minutes. Ron, we're going to need transpo, can you — ?"

"Double whammy for Will?" Ron frowns. "Fine. But KP, once you finally settle down with a nice young lady, they better have some power to toss around because I'm gonna wanna pull favors too. Y'know like ah — makin' an offa you can't refuse."

Ron winks and looks very intentionally to Lucre, as if Kim is a dummy who doesn't stand a chance catching that reference. Kim growls and slides onto her knees, peering deep into Lucre's soul with cold, dead eyes. He blinks and tries to shift away, but her hands slap against his rough beard, pulling him in.

Lucre sweats, wishing he could tug on his shirt collar or something. "Hey, hey, kid, I — uh, don't look at me like that, okay!? Whaddya doin'? C'mon! You're making this awful weird, Kim."

Kim suppresses her chuckle and dives her lips into his his, plastering him with a kiss so intense it tightens her face into hard lines of rage, almost like she's screaming down a funnel. She pulls herself free, eyes livid and alive, and whispers, "I know it was you."

"Wha — wha — " Lucre rambles.

Ron repeats the same fumbly-wumblies. "Wha — wha — "

"Frugal, you broke my heart," Kim's voice cracks through her chest down to the rib cage, entire self splintering from grief. "You broke my heart!"

Lucre's lips move together but no sounds come out, his eyes beady and petrified. Kim laughs and whispers with the cadence of toes gently crossing shards of glass. "That's just what Bonnie will say to you when she finds out…" and before Lucre can protest or sweat anymore bullets, she strikes him across the face and he slumps back into unconsciousness.

"Wow…" Ron frowns from far off. "KP, I didn't know you…" He grabs his jaw as is he can't finish the sentiment. So Will Du finishes for him.

"I thought you didn't know Godfather Part II," Will says in the same frosty demeanor..

Kim shrugs it off, flinging an elbow onto Ron's shoulders and leering over the Ronnunicator. "AFI Top 100 Lines or something. Ron does brush me up on pop culture every now and then. So how about that jet?"

Will rolls his eyes. "Well, that's a tall order — you need it in ten? I'm not pulling strings for amateurs like — "

" — that's not what you called me last night, Will," Ron purrs.

Will immediately coughs and rubs his nose, noticeably looking away the screen and off at something surely more interesting. He mutters something about jets and begins to smash away at some keys. "Be ready in five," he finally clips.

"Booyah, thanks Willie," Ron chuckles.

"Stoppable, my name is a pun, it doesn't work if it's Willie — "

Ron continues as if his boyfriend didn't say anything. "Yo bee-tee-dubs — Lucre just did us amateurs a solid. Can you make sure Betty trims some time off his sentencing?"

Finally Will smiles. "Only if we try that thing I was telling you about last night."

Now Ron is scarlet. Kim looks between the two men, "I almost don't want the jet now. Um. Play safe tonight boys."

"Oh my God," Will groans and immediately signs off.

Five minutes later, the two detectives are on a Global Justice jet, blazing across the city. Ron kicks back in his chair. "So what's the occasion KP? Are we good in business formal? Do I need my wackadoodle gadgets?"

Lights dawn in Kim's eyes. "Oh shoot, you're right! Dammit, I can't wear this — " she stretches out the tweed with an immense frown. " — um, I mean, I don't want to make it look like we're investigating them or anything because um… you know?"

Ron catches the pink crawling into Kim's cheeks, wondering if she's like cold or something. "Not really, KP, sorry." But then he remembers the pretty face Kim is probably worried about upsetting. "Ooh, you don't want to antagonize BonBon, yeah?"

Kim almost avoids eye contact, but she yields and spins to face him. "Yeah. I mean — we're so not happening — like, ancient history and all that, but the last thing I want to do is hurt her. Especially today of all days, I'm sure Bonnie's feeling really sad."

"Sad?" Ron raises an eyebrow. "I didn't know she was capable — ow!"

He rubs his bicep where Kim playfully slapped him.

"Ron," Kim yanks out the hair tie and lets her locks fall past her shoulder, delivering one of her own serious faces. "It's a funeral."


Monique is a very busy tailor, working her small boutique solo, and can't afford time to look at the door when the bell chimes at the entrance of a guest. When it chimes this afternoon, her hands are occupied doing touch-ups to the jumpsuit of a lean balding man with a sharp goatee. She hears the click clack click clack of a very particular set of heels, and then silence when the door closes on its own.

Something about the silence, the presumptuous pause that Monique is meant to use to say hello, tells her who this is. So without looking up from the man's shoulder, she whispers into his ear. "Come back in a half hour, I'll knock off a hundred for you. 'Kay?"

The man sneers to her at first, grumbling things he ought to not say in front of the woman who can rectify his fashion disaster, but when he pulls away he catches himself, eyes falling on the infamous Bonnie Rockwaller, scourge of New York City. He completely forgets his anger and performs a bow so deep his schnoz nearly knocks the floor, and jumbles out the door, flipping the Open sign to Closed.

Bonnie snickers to herself, still remaining perfectly still. Outfitted in a ghastly black, the gown just skims her ankles, smooth along the tanned legs. A wide-brim hat rounded out by a veil, brown hair still shaped into the bob from her adolescence, she just needs an overly large handkerchief to sob into.

Gloved fingers peel back the veil and she can't help but flash her canines.

"Can you believe what this tailor made for me? So on-the-nose, right?"

Monique elects to ignore that, jabbing her hands deep into her hips, chest puffed out. "You have a lot of nerve to show your face around here, girlie."

"I do have a lot of nerve, thank you," Bonnie observes her delicate wrist, cloaked in a glove that runs past the elbow. "It's what's gotten me this far. But really, today is celebration not a funeral. Have you heard the latest?"

"I've plugged out," Monique says very dryly.

Bonnie ignores that, or maybe even relishes in it — it's hard to say with her — and reaches into her purse, fishing about for some time. She licks her lips and plucks out a stack of bills so thick that they fit perfectly in the crease between index and thumb. "I want you back on my team, Mon."

Monique takes several fast steps forward, nose almost passing through the veil. She bites into her lip and roughly whips the hat from Bonnie's head, dropping it to the floor. "You shouldn't have ghosted me like that then, BonBon."

"What is this — high school?" Bonnie doesn't flinch as her hair shifts from the swipe, but she does pinch her fingers together and wheezes, "I'm making you an offer you can't refuse."

Things remain so still between the two women, yet as much as Monique's cold gaze attempts to spark the tension, Bonnie remains colder. The wrinkle along her upper lip is smarmy, confident, like someone who can read the future.

"I missed you," Bonnie finally says, the teal eyes momentarily widening, the voice hitching into a younger register.

"You say missed like this is enough," Monique growls, face drawing dangerously close to Bonnie's dry lips.

"It'll have to do because BonBon just became a very powerful woman. Now — " she falls back into a husky growl. " — take the money."

Monique allows herself a little smile…

… then spits right onto Bonnie's cheek.

Still locked into position like a statue, the spit strikes the cheek and reflects white spots under the warm lights, hanging to the spot like mold. The smallest crinkle of a smile, and her hand spirals around the wad of cash, propping them up only to fall evenly into her palm. She looks at Monique expectantly, and Monique reluctantly taking them, rolling through them past her flared nostrils.

Smack! Smack! go the bills, smashing like bricks into Bonnie's jaw, no hesitation of play. But the Rockwaller Again, the Rockwaller handles herself with poise. Doesn't flinch, almost even turns the other cheek to lean in. Only smiles underneath the brief veil of green flickering over her lips.

The money crashes to the floor and Monique's pointed stiletto jabs into them, kicking them off to the side of the room. Another step forward and the women are so close, not even the foolhardiest of men could dare to cut in and steal one for a dance. Monique's jaw works up as if building into another gob of spit, but finally, the tailor breaks into a smile and splays her hands out, bobbing in to kiss Bonnie on both cheeks. Mwa. Mwa.

Like sparks lighting the wood. Bonnie's shoulders slowly fall back into what is natural, but there's still a clenching in the heart. This was once a game and is now business. She can't pay it any mind, though something forlorn lives within the retracting irises.

"We're good now," Monique muses. "Though if you wander into my bed again and pull that shit — "

Bonnie's jaw almost pops. " — we just won't fuck. Probs not the best call."

Monique lowers her eyes and searches her hip satchel for measuring tape, shifting against Bonnie's back and running the tape 'round the mourning woman's waist. Hot electric touches, almost like a test, but Bonnie stays still for the sake of the numbers' accuracy.

Monique smiles because she knows what she's doing. "You and Junior finally committing to each other?"

"No," Bonnie sticks her nose in the air with an elegance that just suits her. "But being together has its uses. Similar wants, you know? Like Bill and Hillary Clinton. Which makes you…"

"Moniqua Lewinsky," Monique shakes her head. "Very funny, BonBon."

Bonnie doesn't react, but does shimmy around the tape as it hugs her waist. "I was going to say the Senior Family Tailor."

Monique almost slips and knocks her head into Bonnie's ribs, but thankfully maintains composure. "Oh! Um. Are you sure you can make a call like that? I thought you were just a figurehead. No offense."

"Didn't you hear?" Bonnie looks at the ceiling, letting her arms droop lazily. "My father in law kicked the bucket and I'm feeling pinstripes today."

"So a pantsuit?" Monique snorts, then quickly catches herself. Looks at Bonnie as if seeing her for the very first time. "Oh shit. You really are Hillary."

"Mhm," Bonnie holds her teeth together, and in a sing-song voice says, "I'm with her…"

Monique offers a dry smile then finally finishes processing. "Oh fuck, does that mean I need to make an ensemble for Junior? His proportions are so hard to work with."

Bonnie coughs into her hand, quickly pinching her lips to remain ladylike. "Yes, ahem, you will. If you put a feather in his fedora though, it'll keep him very happy and on the sidelines where I want him — ha, I'm being a little too transparent."

Monique grins. "It's fine. I caught the vibe. Um. Bonnie. When you say family do you mean you and Junior or do you mean — " she trails off at the dark look in Bonnie's eyes. Hands clench a little, and then she readjusts the measuring tape.

Bonnie raises her hands high into the air, her eyebrows following their trajectory.

"Welcome to the family."