Usual Legal Crapola:
Alright… alright! I realize that nobody likes disclaimers. As literary devices go they're akin to a speed bump in your driveway, and in terms of enjoyment they rank somewhere between watching linoleum peel and being examined by a proctologist with bad depth perception.
However, the "House of Mouse" has a great many lawyers, and with their recent purchase of Marvel Comics they also have the X-Men, who I have been assured will personally kick my ass if I don't print this. So if we'll all just settle down and listen up, we can get through this quickly and move on to the reason that we're really here.
Kim Possible and all related matters are the sole property the Disney Corporation and their small army of attorneys. All rights are reserved by and for them. I personally get nothing out of this project, except for maybe a sense of personal satisfaction and the chance to look busy at my computer. (What the boss doesn't know, yadda yadda yadda…)
Any attempts to profit from the ideas and images contained herein will be met with malicious action of a litigious nature, and any other big, scary-sounding legal words I can think of. No purchase necessary, see store for details, void where prohibited, all rights reserved, so there!
On with the show…
Foreword:
Now before we get too deep into this little tale, I'd like to take this opportunity to clarify a few things regarding the overall timeline.
As planned, this story is going to essentially pick up where "Summertime Blues" leaves off. To that end I had originally intended for one to follow the other, holding off on publishing this story until "Blues" was complete and in the can. In that way, storylines would be more solid and potential conflicts in continuity could be kept to a minimum.
…So much for "best laid plans" and all that jazz.
As things stand right now, "Blues" is in somewhat of a holding pattern as I determine just what I want my next step to be with that tale, and to my everlasting surprise, this story is actually experiencing far more activity in terms of ideas and a progressing storyline.
And to borrow a time-honored sports metaphor, when you're at the derby, you run with your strongest horse.
Now mind you, this isn't a decision that I make lightly. I fully expect there to be consequences for my choice. Narratives my not match up entirely, revisions may become necessary at a later time, and spoilers regarding future events within the "Blues" narrative may be unavoidable. Indeed, some of the more perceptive individuals among us may be able to deduce the ending of that story long before I even write it. Such are the risks I take by publishing this story here and now, but as reality stands at this moment, I can see no other clear course of action.
So now, in a time slot far earlier that I expected, I give you the next installment of my "Where Eagles Dare" story arc: The Rise of Rhodighan!
(Insert trumpet fanfare here.)
Enjoy and be kind…
…Please?
~Chapter One ~
Dank…
Dark and dank…
Those were about the only terms that could adequately describe the quaint little corner of Hell that she now found herself in. The interior lighting had never been the best in the world, and years of deferred maintenance had reduced even that to a shadow of its former self. In fact shadows were about the only thing being projected throughout this concrete cavern, except of course for the pungent smell of mold and stagnant water: Both courtesy of storm drains that were even more neglected than the lights, provided that such a thing was even possible.
"Ah, the wonders of Eastern-Block engineering…" she sighed inwardly. "Nuking this pig sty would have only improved things."
Muttering an unspoken oath, she checked her watch for what seemed the fourteenth time in as many minutes. Her contacts had yet to show, and although they weren't technically due for another few minutes yet, it still ground her beans to no end. They were big shot businessmen of some sort, and although the identity of their corporate allegiance was a mystery, it really didn't matter to her. What mattered was that they conducted themselves as typical suits: Aloof and uncaring, wholly unconcerned for those around them and oblivious to the inconvenience such carelessness caused.
"Just who the heck are these yahoos, anyway?" She groused to herself. "And what's with all the crazy-ass clandestine meetings? Always in an empty parking garage or an abandon warehouse… Always in some Eastern European hell hole somewhere… It's like they've got some strange, cold war fetish going on. Either that or they watched one too many James Bond films at some point in their lives."
The only answer to her thoughts was the rhythmic dripping of water and the occasional squeak of a foraging rat, his furry form concealed within the cloak of darkness that enveloped the cavernous spaces of the empty parking structure. She growled ominously under her breath, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her knee-length black leather coat. Turning up her nose at the damp chill that hung in the air like the scent of death, she began mentally counting off the hundreds of things she'd rather be doing right now and praying to all that was holy that her contacts would show themselves soon. The quicker they arrived, after all, the quicker she could get paid and the quicker she could get her butt on a plane and away from this upholstered toilet of a city.
"My dear lady, you seem to be early." A voice suddenly called out from the darkness.
"Finally!" she sighed to herself.
"Don't 'dear lady' me bucko," she snarled, "and I might point out that you're early too!"
"Fair enough." The voice admitted. Through the veil of darkness it was just possible to make out the form of a trench-coated figure; a man of average height and somewhat heavy build, and flanked by two men of equivalent description. Although only the one of them spoke, their postures and body language bespoke men of power and position, while quiet confidence radiated from behind sunglasses similar to her own.
"We trust you are enjoying your stay so far?"
"Yeah, Sarajevo is beautiful this time of year." She snarked. "Between the smog and the bums on the street corners, it's the garden spot of the Balkans."
"By that description, so is Los Angeles." Her mysterious contact chuckled.
"Moving on!"
"Once again, fair enough." The man resignedly sighed. "So what have you to report?"
"Same old, same old. Your 'investments' are progressing as planned." She panned, the emphasis she placed on the word "investments" clearly indicating her disdain for the trite euphemism. "They've pretty much got all the advanced theory aspects down pat and we're starting work on specialized techniques."
"Excellent. And how long until the completion of your 'asset-building' program?" the same shadowy figure asked, his darkened features as unreadable as ever.
"Look, let's drop the dime store euphemisms and cut right to the quick, shall we?" she impatiently barked. "Martial arts and combat training don't take to well to timetables. It's a complicated and very personal discipline, and everyone absorbs it at his or her own pace. You want an estimate of when your goons will be ready for whatever little party it is you have planned? Soon: Probably by the end of the month. You want something more specific than that? Tough cookies! If you wanted to keep a schedule, you should have become a bus driver!"
The trio of shadows silently regarded her as she quietly seethed beneath their unreadable stares. Understanding and tolerance had never exactly been part of her skill set, but these dunce bags went above and beyond the call. From their cloak-and-dagger procedures to their near-obsession with secrecy to the irritating way they constantly nosed-in on her progress and nit-picked her methods… It seemed as though the entire point of their miserable existence was to find new and creative ways of annoying her. It was enough to make her question why… why in the name of everything that was good and pure… did she ever decide to go back into the evil tutoring business. There was a reason she had never used that blasted teaching credential after all.
"Very well then." Her shadowy companion finally spoke again. "Since you have evidently fulfilled your end of our bargain so far, we shall fulfill ours."
With that, the figure to his right his pulled a dark briefcase from his coat and placed it on the damp, concrete floor. He stood and straightened his coat before giving the case a swift kick that sent it sliding across the grimy surface, coming to rest just inches from the toes of her own boots.
Keeping a wary eye on her shadowy companions, she knelt down and popped the clasps that secured the lid. Behind her tinted glasses, green eyes brightened at the sight that greeted them: Dozens and dozens of paper bundles, all of them bearing a crisply printed portrait of a young-looking Benjamin Franklin.
"Ahhhhh." She sighed. "I do so love the color green."
"Would you like to count it?" the man asked.
"Do I need to?" she shot back ominously.
"No. Not at all." He replied, as unfazed and emotionless as ever. "So if there are no questions, that concludes our business for now. You will receive your final payment upon successful completion of your specified obligations."
"No problems here." She confirmed. "But mark my words, if before this is over, you clowns do something stupid and bring down the heat on me, then there won't be a corner in the world dark enough or deep enough for you to hide in."
The leader of the small group simply chuckled at the threat, eliciting a raised eyebrow from his contracted employee.
"My dear Miss Go, that is hardly a reason for worry." He explained. "None of us here have yet done anything illegal."
"Come again?"
"I ask you, what crime have we committed? All we have done is hire you to provide instruction in basic martial arts theory to some of our top employees. On its face, it is no different than the health and wellness programs implemented by many major corporations."
"So then why the hell did you drag me across halfway the continent to meet you in this makeshift monument to mildew?!" she yelled, her booming voice echoing through the expansive space.
"Because we're parked right over there."
Suddenly the darkened space was bathed in an eerie green hue, and for the first time since the exchange began, the trench-coated trio seemed nervous.
"Uh, we can get you validated… if you'd like." The man on the left offered as an awkward, conciliatory gesture.
Just as quickly as it had arisen, the glow faded, and the solitary figure turned, tucked the case under her arm, and walked quickly away, her form being almost immediately swallowed up by the inky blackness.
"Patience Shego, patience." She silently repeated to herself. "If you fry their butts now, there'll be nobody to pay your last invoice."
Retreating quickly from the source of her torment, she quietly resolved to set aside any dreams of a bloody, plasma-fueled vengeance…
At least until the final check cleared.
When one thinks of a modern city, there are many images that come to mind. The tendency is to visualize a skyline dominated by an assortment post-modern high rises, their straight lines and glass facades lending a sense of clean efficiency to the surrounding landscape. We conjure images of wide avenues dominated by streetcars and pedestrians, rather than tangled masses of noisy, fume-spewing automobiles. We have an expectation of greenery: of parks and public spaces dedicated to bringing some measure of nature to this most unnatural environment. And beneath it all we envision an extensive subway system, quickly and efficiently shuttling thousands of people about without any interference upon the surface world.
In short, we think of Rotterdam.
As the second-largest city in Holland, this metropolis has long been viewed as one of the great trend-setting centers of the world. Situated where the Rhine and Meuse Rivers join the North Sea, its history as one of the great crossroads of Europe was established centuries ago, and it continues this tradition even today as it hosts both the largest port on the continent, and some of the largest corporations in the world.
And it was within the halls of one such corporation that a particular set of events was now starting to unfold. Cloaked in secrecy behind walls of glass, nods of acknowledgment were passed silently through halls and corridors. Memos were passed and memorized, then quickly and quietly destroyed. Office chatter was at a minimum, leaving the water coolers in a state of eerie silence. Even their occasional belching seemed to be more subdued than normal.
And through it all, three dominant figures strode. Groups within the hallways made way, parting like the Red Sea as the trio purposefully strode ever deeper into the maze of corridors. Left here… right there… elevator down three floors… left again. Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth they went, until finally they were alone: Alone with nothing but the sound of their own footfalls and the electric buzzing of fluorescent lights.
And it was in the acoustic seclusion of this space that they finally felt free to speak.
"So why is it that our subcontractors always turn out to be such cooks?" one of them pondered.
"Dunno, Leopold." One of his companions replied. "But it sure seems to be a pattern. Remember the hemophobic surgeon?"
"Or the hostage negotiator with anger management issues?" Leo offered in return. "I swear, we place one Internet want-ad and suddenly there's whackos coming out of the woodwork."
"You know, there's just something about a good mace." The third member of the group whimsically observed, gradually twirling the medieval weapon that he had been carrying since they had arrived. "The weight… the balance…"
"Seriously Heinrich, would you put that blasted thing away already?" the second member of the group protested. "It creeps out the staff, and to be honest, it is more than a little weird."
"Oh c'mon, Otto." Heinrich retorted. "You're gonna tell me that you've never enjoyed the feel of a particular weapon?"
"Enjoyed, yes. But what you're doing borders on fixation, my friend." Otto shot back.
"Hardly." Heinrich scoffed. "I just like the way it handles is all. I swear, holding it in you hand… you just want to haul off and smash something, you know? Just wind up and…"
It was at that exact moment that a hapless clerk emerged from an adjoining hallway, a billowing bubble of pink chewing gum obscuring most of his face.
"Whoa-oh-oh-oh baby." Heinrich gasped, starting in the staffer's direction.
"Easy there, Attila. That's our ringer for the office softball team." Otto admonished, roughly grabbing his friend by the collar and dragging him toward a nearby office. "We'd like him to have all of his bodily appendages intact for when we play the Amsterdam branch next week."
Moments later, the door of that office clicked closed and the trio found themselves standing in stark silence before their superior. His steel-eyed gaze bore deep into each of them as he regarded his three underlings, divining unspoken truths about the nature of their mission from the nearly imperceptible ways in which the stood and moved.
"So, Team Six." he finally spoke. "What have you to report?"
"As expected sir, Project Point Guard is progressing on schedule and according to plan." Leo informed the distinguished gentleman seated behind the sizeable mahogany desk. "The subjects are performing in a satisfactory manner and there are no apparent complications at this time."
"I see." The senior manager said, steeping his fingers in thought. "And our hired help?"
"Ornery as ever sir, but so far living up to her end of the bargain."
The manager closed his eyes and laughed lightly at the thought.
"That's Miss Go for you." He chuckled. "'The professional pit bull' as we like to call her."
"Sounds like an apt description, sir."
"Indeed." The boss admitted, shaking his head lightly. "But while she may be a world-class hard-ass, she's also the hands-down best at what she does. And need I remind you that if our plans are going to bear fruit, then we're going to need every bit of talent that we can muster."
"Yes sir!" the three of them barked out in unison.
"This is big, gentlemen: Perhaps the biggest thing we've ever attempted." The boss continued, his gaze drifting thoughtfully towards the ceiling. "It's the culmination of over two hundred years of hard work… The realization of the very reason for our existence. Everything that we have done up until now; the founding of Rhodighan Industries, building it into a Fortune Five Hundred corporation, acquiring advanced technologies through corporate mergers… It all leads to this moment. In two weeks time, when we make our move against our accursed and eternal enemy, success or failure will hinge upon how well we have prepared ourselves to this point. I don't need to remind you of Sun Tzu's opinions on the subject, do I?"
"That the true general does not enter into battle until he knows that victory is already assured?" Otto volunteered.
"Very good." His supervisor replied. "I see you've been reading your 'Art of War.'"
"Yes sir."
"Very well then." The manager observed, shuffling some of the many papers that lay scattered across his desk. "So moving on to other matters then, the 'destructo-bot' joint-venture with HenchCo: I need someone to help coordinate with the… uh… I'm sorry. Was there something else you wanted to discuss, Heinrich?"
"Huh?" Heinrich grunted, quickly directing his attention to his superior. "I'm sorry sir."
"Oh it's nothing, really." The boss smirked. "I just never took you for an art lover."
Heinrich glanced nervously at the plaster bust that he had been staring at moments before.
"Ah, well… I just… ummmm…" he stammered, awkwardly fidgeting with his mace.
"Give it here." The boss sighed, reaching out across the massive desk.
"But… but… awwwwwww!" Heinrich whined, passing the spiked club over to his supervisor.
"You can have this back when the meeting is over." he stated, dropping the blunt instrument into the bottom drawer of his desk and closing it with a thud.
When it comes to the subject of international affairs, the world map can perhaps best be viewed as a playing field of sorts: A grand stage upon which geopolitical heavyweights strut their stuff and determine who amongst them can best lay claim to the title of "global superpower."
And in keeping with this sports metaphor, the players within this game can more often than not be sorted in a manner similar to the seeding chart of a tennis tournament.
First, there is the handful of perennial favorites: Major players whose names are near household words within popular culture. Names such as America, Great Britain, France and Russia populate this short list, their credentials of size, history and documented military might thoroughly known and acknowledged by all involved.
Then, there are the underdogs. These are the nations of smaller stature within the international community. With landmasses and militaries that are easily dwarfed by those of the larger players, the odds are often stacked against them. But yet even they can occasionally pull the proverbial rabbit out of the hat, and as such the wise political odds maker always hedges his bets toward the eventuality that one of these second bananas will strike it big.
And finally, there are the also-rans: Nation-states and principalities so small and insignificant that not even the most optimistic of diplomats would ever dare hope for anything greater than continued survival. These are the great "unknowns" of the geopolitical world: Few persons being aware of their existence… Fewer still even caring.
And so it was for the tiny kingdom of Rhodighan. An island principality about 60 miles off the southern coast of France, it had broken away from that nation during the chaos of the Hundred Years War and gained its independence soon after. Small and often overlooked, it had existed in relative obscurity for the nearly 600 years since that day, its people wresting out a sustenance lifestyle from the land while the centuries rolled by, and the rulers and conquerors of Europe came and went like the cycles of the tide.
Throughout the years, as the nearby continent was plunged repeatedly into war, the people of this island nation saw little of the destruction that plagued their northern neighbors. In the 1940s, while Europe burned and the whole world trembled beneath the threat of Nazi oppression, the island's rulers and citizens hardly seemed to notice. They were small potatoes to the madman with the mustache, and they took solace in that knowledge. Global fascism would never be bothered with stooping so low as to touch their island paradise.
Two world wars, a cold war, the rise and fall of Communism… The impact of all these things was hardly felt across the idyllic hillsides and quaint communities of this most pastoral of places. The modern world had little use for such a place, and the residents here had little use for the modern world. It was an arrangement of mutual indifference, and it served all parties well.
And it worked especially well for the ruler of this diminutive realm.
In dealing with the problems of a society untouched by modern maladies, King Wallace the Second found life a much more relaxing affair than his counterparts on the world stage. When he awoke each morning, the aging sovereign was not confronted by issues such as pollution, global terrorism and spiraling deficits. For the average citizen, the greatest problem faced was how to milk an uncooperative goat, and the king's own existence was all the better for this fact.
It was a fact not lost on him as he leaned casually on the marble railing that rimmed one of the palace's many verandas, allowing the warming rays of the Mediterranean sunrise to wash over him. Gently sipping his morning coffee, he gazed out at the brilliant spectacle of his capitol and the azure blue harbor beyond.
Like many of the islands in this part of the world, the Isle of Rhodighan was in fact the remnant of an ancient volcano that had long ago been reclaimed by the sea from which it had sprang. To its southern side, a broad crescent-shaped bay marked the outline of the former crater, and from these sparkling turquoise waters stretched a brilliant white beach that quickly gave way to row upon row of neatly arranged, whitewashed buildings.
Clinging to the slopes of the primordial caldera like cupcake batter on a bowl, the houses and shops ascended the hillside at an ever increasing angle until finally, soaring mightily above all else, the gleaming vestige of the royal palace sat precariously perched atop the ridge. All together, it was a scene worthy of any postcard, and for the few individuals who were actually aware of this small city-state's existence, it was the image most closely associated with it.
But this was just one small part of the overall picture of Rhodighan. For while the island's population may have been smaller than that of many apartment buildings, it's overall land mass was actually quite respectable. Spreading north from the ridge that dominated the capitol city's skyline, the land gradually sloped into a broad coastal plain with smaller ridges branching off from the main spine of the island and running toward the coast. For the most part this was open grassland, dotted by the occasional grove of cypress or pine and bearing a few small streams that made their way down from the higher elevations before draining into the sea.
There was little in the way or permanent human settlements here, the area being predominantly occupied by bands of semi-nomadic shepherds and goat herders. Tending to their families and livestock alike, they continually moved about the island's interior, ever searching for greener pastures and better grazing.
Closer to the coast, small fishing villages sprouted up from the surf line, occupying any spot where the beach was conducive to landing and launching boats. Most of these coastal communities could claim no more than a few dozen full-time residents, but one such town near the island's northeastern corner boasted a population of over 500. Known to its residents as Cadeau de le Mer, it featured a broad beach and a mountain backdrop similar to that of the capitol. For this reason, Cadeau de le Mer was often referred to as "the second city of Rhodighan."
Overall, the island resembled a cookie with a large bite missing… or a severely deformed kidney. But whatever description one used, it was an exceedingly tranquil corner of the world with a rural ambience that would have left Thoreau beaming with glee.
But such matters of geography were currently far from the mind of the aging monarch. As he serenely sipped his coffee, his mind turned introspectively toward issues of his own house, and of his own offspring.
His brow furrowed slightly as he considered the current state of affairs regarding his only son. Much to his own consternation, and in spite of his best efforts, young Wallace the Third had continued to fall short of his father's expectations. The boy simply showed no aptitude in developing the traits necessary for effective governance. Even with near constant tutoring and his own heartfelt counsel, the younger Wallace still failed to grasp the gravitational seriousness of the role he was destined to step into.
Granted, he had stated his intentions to abolish the monarchy when his time upon the throne came, and truth be told the young prince's aspirations toward a democratic society were a source of great pride for his dear old dad. But such monumental reforms don't happen overnight, and any governmental change of such magnitude is rife with risk. Things such as fraud, abuse, oppression and undue influence by foreign powers are all obstacles that must be faced when changing a society in such a fundamental way. The path to reform was fraught with peril, and its successful navigation required the ship of state to be protected by a steady hand on the tiller…
And "Weak-Link Wally" was fast proving to be little more than an unskilled, excitable cabin boy.
Wallace stared deeply into his coffee, as if trying to divine some hidden truth from its aromatic depths. It was a constant burden, worrying about whether his own flesh and blood would ever make the grade, and it was continually wearing him down. It was, in fact, an age-old issue, faced by the patriarchs of nearly all ruling families, down through the years. It had been true for the Caesars of ancient Rome, for the monarchs of medieval Europe, and even for the prominent families of the modern world.
This final fact was something that Wallace was actually grateful for, as it gave him a small collection of peers who truly understood his problems. Over the past several months he had spent many an hour on the phone with his friend George in Texas. Now there was a man who knew what it meant to have the apple fall a long way from the tree.
But hope springs eternal, and time was still on Wallace's side. Only a week before his doctors had pronounced him "as healthy as a horse," and baring any unforeseen tragedy, he could expect to yet enjoy another 20 years upon this earth. Maybe… just maybe… that 20 years would see his son mature enough to put his ways of childish narcissism behind him, and finally grow into the distinguished statesman that his father had always hoped he would one day become.
Was it a long shot? Maybe. The blind optimism of a doting parent toward his progeny? Perhaps. But it was all that King Wallace had to hang his crown on at the moment. For now, it would have to do.
And there were yet more issues to be regally confronted…
Issues such as that odd-looking smoke plume…
The one that seemed to be rising directly from the center of the city.
Now ordinarily this would not be a cause for alarm, as the city enjoyed the protection of a thoroughly modern fire department. When such structure fires inevitably occurred, they were invariably doused with top-notch efficiency. No, it wasn't the presence of this fire that worried the monarch, but the speed with which it had appeared. While such small fires would normally grow slowly over the span of several minutes, this one had seemingly come out of nowhere, almost instantly blackening a large portion of the sky.
His sense of foreboding was only strengthened as this one fire was quickly joined by others, sprouting up across the city like grotesque flowers emerging from the soil with the first rain of spring. From his mountaintop perch, he could almost feel the chaos and panic spreading like wildfire through the population below, and he could sense that this was somehow just the start of much bigger things to come.
He was therefore unsurprised when the frantic footfalls of an aide could be heard rapidly approaching across the paving stones behind him. Plaintively, he turned to face the ashen-faced attendant, almost hearing his words before the nervous young man had even spoken them.
"Your Majesty, we have a problem…"
Author's Notes:
Well here it is… Another original, multi-chapter work from yours truly. I swear, I must have a deeply embedded masochistic streak lurking somewhere within me, because I can think of no other reason to be embarking down this road once again.
A quick word of warning to my readers: As it stands right now, this story promises to be somewhat of a departure from my normal style of writing. The current outline involves several background characters from the show, at least one original character, a major expansion of Global Justice's operational capabilities, and the exploration of some concepts that I've previously never dared attempt to address.
As is usually the case with the exploration of uncharted waters, I make no guarantees regarding how any of this will turn out. I might wind up surprising everyone, (including myself, most likely), or I may just wind up sucking air. In any case, it's bound to be better than yet another f&$#ing installment of the "High School Musical" franchise, so at least I've got that going for me.
And as a final note, I'd like to thank site-member Hang Tuah for being the source of inspiration behind this tale. It was his suggestion that started this whole ball rolling, and for more than the past year we've been trading e-mails, bouncing ideas off of each other as we fleshed out the more troublesome details. Without his input, none of this would be happening. Thanks again, buddy!
Oh, and the name "Cadeau de le Mer" is a French phrase meaning "Gift of the Sea." It seemed an appropriate name for a fishing village.
Sooooooo… After centuries of waiting, the Knights of Rhodighan have made good on their threat, and not even promised reforms could deter them. How will the world respond to such unprovoked aggression? And how will this affect the lives of our two favorite teen heroes?
All in due time, my friends… All in due time.
As always… read, review and recycle… and I'll catch y'all with the next chapter.
Toodles!
Nutzkie…