Disclaimer: I don't own Kim Possible. Damn.

A Note from the Authoress: Well, I'm back. I know Limits of Our Love has not been updated, but I've finally decided it needs to go on hiatus. If you like it, then know that I will finish it eventually; if you don't, relax in the thought you've got some time without having to see it mar your monitor when it pops up on ffn for a while. ;)

Okay, about this story: I took a break from Limits of Our Love to write a one-shot that will hopefully be submitted to the next fanfic contest and a new, shorter novel called Requiem. Requiem is even about a third of the way done! But . . . well, I have very little of the beginning written, so it'll be awhile before you see it. But then! I was in the middle of Oz rehearsal and this story just popped into my head. Not what I usually write, and it's sort of open-ended right now. It's got an idea but not a set in stone plot yet. I'm expecting somewhere between novella and novel length, but most likely the former. Lots of short chapters . . . I'm not being the anal person I usually am about word count on this one. Well, anyway, this is the prologue, which is mostly angst. The horror will come in soon, promise. :)

Enjoy!

Kismet

Prologue

-November 3, 2005-

It was raining. Rather appropriate, he thought. He'd once heard that it only rained when angels cried, but he'd never believed it, not until today at least. Surely any angel would cry; the death of such a young woman warranted such. It was the kind of rain that made you sleepy, coaxing your eyelids to droop and your clarity of mind to mist over into that sort of fuzz that reigned between sleep and wake. But his body trudged along down the path regardless, for fear of what he would see should he give in and drift off into unconsciousness.

Shivering, he wrapped his wet jacket more firmly round himself.

It was an early November morning, he recalled, in Middleton, Colorado, and under other circumstances, he'd have been thankful for this light drizzle; a break from the incessant droughts this area had grown accustomed to. But dry grass and expensive water was no longer their greatest worry. No, now the Plague had officially arrived.

The Plague . . . no, it wasn't a disease carried by rodents or an illness that could wipe out entire populations in the span of a few years, but a series of mysterious deaths occurring around the world. This area had remained unaffected for a very long time, but one death, this one death, signaled its arrival.

The grave markers shone in the dim light, reflecting off their wet surfaces. At first, he'd tried to count the rows, but soon lost his train of thought to more important things . . . things like her. She wasn't his best friend, nor was he hers, but she'd managed to find a special place in his heart nonetheless. She never deserved this, not this sort of dreary ending. Just last week she'd been telling him how the school quarterback was beginning to take an interest in her! But now all that was gone. She was gone.

They ventured off the path now, moving across the wet ground, the soil and grass, softened by the rain, gave way under their feet here and there as what seemed to be the entire student body encircled the coffin suspended above the grave. They must have covered at least half the small cemetery, those on the outskirts paying their respects humbly; he assumed they were only acquaintances.

But there, there in the very front weren't her parents, but her close friends. Her parents had been killed only a few days sooner in a tragic car accident, leaving her to take refuge in the Possibles' home; a place where she was welcomed with open arms. Kim Possible was her best friend, as she was his, and so they stood, Kim Possible and Ron Stoppable, beside the body of a friend they'd never forget.

But next to Kim was a slightly stranger addition: her boyfriend, Josh Mankey. His arm was wrapped tightly round her, gently urging her to cry into his shoulder should she need it. But her eyes remained dry, staring blindly at the coffin.

Before long, whatever anyone had to say had been said, even without their hearing. Perhaps it was better that way; words were meaningless, after all. They couldn't bring the dead back to life, nor could they end the evil they would now have to face head on, perhaps at the cost of their lives.

The crowd dispersed, and Kim took the opportunity to turn fully into Josh, to wrap her arms round him and bury her face in his chest. But she did not cry; she restrained herself for the time being, trying to draw strength from his presence, but alas, she could not. Ron turned away, not wishing to intrude on the tender moment they were sharing, and ventured a little closer to the casket. Its surface shined back at him, allowing him to truly examine his own appearance for the first time since the Plague had started. He'd been forced to call on all his potential to face villains using the current tragedy to their advantage, often causing him and Kim to each take on their own mission at once. And here, staring into the reflective wood of his friend's coffin, he was finally seeing the results.

His form had filled out in these past few months, leaving him with well defined muscles on his formerly lanky frame. Even in his suit, he could make out the strong sinuous chest that lay beneath his shirt, no longer scrawny and boyish. His cold and numb hands, once soft and unmarred, carried a mass of little scars, hardened and worn. But beyond these obvious physical changes were the psychological effects. He looked into his own eyes, once warm, loving and ever humorous, and saw now that they were tired, as if he'd been to the ends of the earth, and within their brown depths, he could see his own pain, that sort of hurt that causes one's soul to become temporarily hollow.

He sighed and brushed his hair from his eyes.

"Ron?" came a tremulous voice from behind him.

He turned round slowly to see Josh walking away, back towards Kim's parents and the rest of the student body, and, approaching him cautiously, was a very distraught Kim Possible. "Hey, KP," he said softly, truly oblivious to how to handle this situation. He opened his arms and she immediately launched herself into them, clinging to him tightly and allowing herself to cry openly within his embrace. He whispered words of comfort to her, but all she could do was pull herself more tightly against him, sobbing his name over and over again.

When she had calmed down, he stroked her hair a few times then whispered, "Why don't you go back to Josh? I have a few things I need to take care of here, okay?"

She pulled away from him slightly, nodding and wiping at her nose and eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but decided against it, and simply leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek before turning away to do as he'd suggested.

With a sigh, he turned back to the coffin. He wanted to say something, but would it really even matter? She wasn't there to listen; she was gone. "Well," he said to himself, "I guess this is goodbye. I only wish she'd be here to hear it." He dug around in his pocket, but pierced the skin of his forefinger with a thorn. "Damn," he cursed quietly, carefully retrieving the object. He studied it for a moment, noting that one of the pure white petals had been stained with his own blood.

He placed the rose reverently upon the casket and, with one final glance to the temporary grave marker, turned to join the other students in their mourning.

MONIQUE JENKINS

B.: MARCH 17, 1988

D.: OCTOBER 31, 2005

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