Authors' Forward

Welcome to the fic once again! This is a collaboration between Neo the Saiyan angel and kgs-wy, and we're reposting it on a mutual account, after taking some time to edit and expand a few small (wait, small?!) sections here and there... Well, maybe more than a few...? And... Not really small ones... Anyway, mostly for flow and consistency, and a few (a few?!) additions for story depth. If you've read this before, we suggest re-reading it, even if it hasn't been too terribly long since you read it over on Neo's account. You don't have to, of course, but we think the changes make for a better read.

The fic itself takes place approximately one hundred years before the Kim Possible series, following a path that explains, at least in part, what happened to Miriam Possible after she disappeared following Bartholomew Lipsky's attempted theft of the Electrostatic Illuminator.

It is also a part of a larger series of fics, tentatively set as a trilogy, culminating in a fic taking place during the time between the episodes "Larry's Birthday" and "Graduation". We hope you enjoy the fic, and please let us know what you think! Comments and criticism (constructive preferred, obviously!) are both appreciated and welcomed!

Disclaimer: please see profile for the disclaimer!

MP MP MP MP

December 17, 1904

Bartholomew Lipsky's breathing was slowly becoming erratic as he ran for the safety of the market crowds of Naples, Italy. Things had gone very, very wrong in his plan, and not just on this day! No, his failure to obtain the steel formula a few weeks prior was just the beginning of misfortune for him. It wasn't that his plans were flawed. No, most certainly not! The problem came in the form of a variable which he was unable to account for, no matter his scheme, and no matter whether he considered said flaw or not.

His initial attempts at theft were not simply for the new type of steel with strong anti-corrosive aspects, but for everything related to it! The best types of furnaces used, the ideal temperatures and atmospheres used within, the elemental make-up… In short, everything! Unfortunately, those attempts were foiled through what he thought was carelessness. This time he had simply been after the formula itself, thinking he had accounted for everything possible, but that one complication, that that one variable, still evaded computation.

Said variable had sent her second after his bodyguard when the plot had finally fallen apart. A strange move to his eyes when she made it, as the fool detective couldn't keep up with Bartholomew in a fight, let alone Miss Go! Granted, the small man could, surprisingly, take more punishment than an enraged cape buffalo, but it seemed madness. Unfortunately, he now saw the method to her madness, and far too late to do anything about it!

She was skipping the grand fight with his bodyguard, instead going straight to trying to apprehend him. Not a very sporting move, but he had to admit that she was dangerously close to being able to capture him red-handed. After all, even if the message had been written by an Italian trained in the workings of a spy for the purpose of espionage, it had been written with an ink used specifically by British secret services. It had been a deliciously clever ploy on the man's part, as it would point to a British double agent as the thief. Unfortunately for Bartholomew, to be caught with it on his person would implicate him as well, and it would not do to be caught with such in his hands instead of the Italian who still eluded him!

Very reckless on his part. It was the proper villain etiquette to do as such, of course, but he really had been much too foolish when he'd learned his apparent nemesis was on his tail as well.

Now he was a mere dozen steps from disaster. He could hear Ms. Possible behind him doing her best to try and cover the distance. If he were a decade younger he could have maintained the distance indefinitely. But as he was not, she was gaining.

"You won't escape!" Bartholomew heard her gasp out as she followed. He smirked at that; she was clearly not a runner by trade or tradition. Or by clothing style, considering her high heeled boots and the dress she wore, otherwise she would not have wasted the breath to say that. Well, she might not have worn such a dress had she planned on the encounter; he distinctly remembered seeing her in more practical clothing in New York, before he'd parted ways with Miss Go for their trip across the Atlantic. With that fact floating around, a thought struck him...

The idea, while a tad shameful, would at least help to ensure his escape. His mental map of the area confirmed that he was but a few back alleys away from the main marketplace. He just had to keep her off of him for that much longer.

"Oh?" he said with an exhale, making sure the word oozed with confidence.

"You doubt my word?" Miriam huffed, her footfalls sounding nearly right behind him. "I..." Her words halted as she took a swallow of breath, "I will stop you!"

"But you have, non?" the escaping villain stated, once again in one exhaling breath.

"You are still… Free. Justice must…" Again she gulped breath, frustration evident in her voice, "Be served! Scoundrels… Scoundrels like you... Need to be stopped!" Her growling exclamations had first sounded just out of arm's length behind him. By the end of her small speech, her footsteps sounded at least five steps behind, a rewarding sound to Bartholomew's ears.

"And you will do so?" He prodded, drawing an inarticulate growl before she spoke again.

"If I must! You will… Will not win. I will see to that!" With the last sentence, the lady seemed to gain spirit and charged forward. He could feel her fingers slide along the back of his smart looking, if informal, frock coat.

In a desperate attempt to further distract her Bartholomew cried, "So you are Justice?"

The outrageous statement served its purpose. He heard her boots briefly scrabble against the paving stones of the alleyway as she fought to keep her balance from her own shock. "I am not Justice!" She objected, and Bartholomew was honestly surprised to hear her actually stop for a precious second. The pause gave him a few more steps, before he heard her feet kick into motion once again. Her voice when she continued was sharp and incisive, but it bothered the man not in the least, as it further sapped her apparently prodigious stamina all the more, "I… Am not even a represen… Representative. My reasons for trying… To catch you… Are my own. You are a foul… Man who has only his… Own desires in mind. Selfishness… Should not… Be rewarded!"

With each breath she took, with every word uttered, there was a further the loss of air and, in relation, a loss of speed. Soon he found himself well over two dozen steps ahead of her. To his immense relief he also saw the marketplace perhaps forty-five meters ahead through the narrow alleyway.

"Yet you seek me out for your own ends!" He breathed in a rush, "As such… My goals are no more… Selfish than your own!" His protests drew a sudden, frustratedly enlightened growl from his pursuer.

"I see your game!" Miriam yelled to him. He took that as her ignoring his point, though it served to end the discussion. Shame she had caught on so fast. It also piqued his interest; who was this girl? He knew next to nothing about her, aside from her being a reporter of all things, and had only known a few women of such fortitude and quick wit… Honestly, he hadn't met a woman as intelligent and grounded since his introduction to Miss Go!

She put in a valiant effort to catch him, but it was in vain. He smiled in triumph as she attempted to grasp his coat's collar, countering with his own burst of speed. She stumbled and his sudden sprint left her grasping air, propelling him to the end of the alleyway in a handful of seconds. He slowed enough to easily slip into the small space in the crowd that seemed to open for him, which began to close almost immediately behind. Turning about, he turned back to see her grasping at a windowsill as she caught her breath.

"My apologies," Bartholomew called out, her green eyes locking on his and flashing brilliantly in the dim alley. Unable to resist one last little provocation, he smirked jauntily to her, inclining his body with the slightest bow while tipping his stylish bowler at her, "But I must bid you good day!"

With that, the crowd closed about him. Bartholomew did his best to control his speed and breathing as he walked into the ebbing and flowing traffic. After several meters of walking and gentle apologies as he passed people somewhat brusquely, he slowed and matched pace with the others about him. The distance, followed by the change of pace of both movement and breathing, he hoped, should make him less conspicuous. So long as my exertions left my face no more sweaty than those surrounding me...

He took a moment to orient himself with well known landmarks, allowing a soft sigh of relief to leave his lips as he thought on his escape route. He was not only on pace, but slightly ahead of schedule! His path would lead him to the harbor where Miss Go would hopefully be waiting for him with a chartered boat. His favored alias, Sherlock Atelier — a name taken from his favorite fictional character and his own late cousin — had rented it for the day, ostensibly to do business in the port of Gaeta.

In truth, he would stop there, but only to fetch a pair of horses stabled and waiting for a brief trek into the hills surrounding the port town where he'd hidden his new airship. His eyes glazed over slightly as he thought of the beautifully designed ship he had commissioned back home, and had, upon taking delivery, modified. With the help of one of his dear friends, airship designer extraordinaire Eva Poitier, of course! The beautiful lines, the exceptional craftsmanship… Everything about it was enough to set the heart of any man of science aflutter. Ah, yes, my airship. It is so much better than that balloon I used in the United Stat-...

His thoughts were cut off quite painfully as, in his distraction, he ran smack into another man about halfway down the next block. Both he and the man fell on their rumps, their hats sent fluttering to the dusty street between their feet. He shook his head and found himself blinking away the painful blow, feeling not unlike he had been kicked by a recalcitrant donkey. He quickly snatched his hat and stood to his feet, dusting himself and the prized bowler off and extending his hand to the man, who seemed to have come out the worse for the collision.

"I'm terribly sorry," Bartholomew began in fluent Italian as the man stared at his hand and accepted it without a second thought. He'd just pulled the man to his feet and replaced his hat on his head when he continued, "I am a bit distracted, an-... You!"

"You!" the man parroted back, his eyes widening as he realized Bartholomew's clenched fist was barreling straight at his jaw.

"That was my wife you slept with!" Bartholomew ad-libbed, allowing an angry scowl, which had nothing at all to do with his words, cross his face. He smirked as his punch landed flush with the angle of the man's jaw, sending him easily into unconsciousness. He glanced around and growled in a heated tone, "Private business..." He quickly dragged the man into an alley, earning a few understanding grunts from some men that had overheard the brief conversation.

"Now, Mr. Giordano," Bartholomew chuckled when he was assured of their privacy, "Let us see what you have here..." He opened the satchel pouch that had been around the man's shoulder and rifled through the contents, almost crowing aloud when he realized what he'd found.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Giordano," the villain all but cooed, a huge smile crossing his features, "So thoughtful of you to carry your work around with you. In full, no less!"

He was about to let loose with a devious laugh when a voice from the street made his breath catch in his throat.

"Damn you, Lipsky!" Slowly, Bartholomew looked back and spied Miriam just at the entrance to the alleyway, leaning back against the corner, still working to catch her breath. With as much care as he could, he secured the satchel around his own shoulder and stood, carefully placing a hand on his hat before dashing off down the alleyway, toward its intersection with another.

"Lipsky!" he heard from behind him, and the stomp of heavy, tired feet trying to follow him, but he had caught his breath, unlike his pursuer. He allowed himself a triumphant chuckle as he heard her stumble and curse his name again, and only slowed his pace when he was safely ensconced within another crowd.

Well, this changes everything! I will have to arrange rail travel for Miss Go from Naples proper to Paris… By way of Marseille, I believe that should take about four to five days. I will send the satchel, with blank papers, along with her... She should be able to avoid Miss Possible and Mr. Stoppable, and the circuitous route will give me time to take the plans via airship to Le Mans, and meet there with the daughter of Prince Dakkar... He walked on, making plans and paying more attention to his path, lest Fate play a cruel joke on him like it had Mr. Giordano and thrust him into the clutches of those he would wish to avoid instead...

MP MP MP MP

Back at the alley, Miriam was left in a quandary. She could leave the man Bartholomew had been chasing, and possibly have something bad happening to him on her conscience, or she could stay here and await his waking, and help him. Her conscience won out quickly, and she bent over his still, but breathing, form to slap his face lightly. "Come on, wake up!"

After a moment of this, and progressively harsher words and slaps from the reporter, the man sat up with a start, almost slamming his head into Miriam's. Her quick reflexes saved them both from an ironic collision, and she quickly covered his mouth with her hand. "He's gone, and we're going to have a long talk about what he was after!" she growled before catching herself and sighing slightly. "My apologies, but I am under a bit of stress."

"It is quite alright, Miss Possible..." he muttered while searching for something, presumably the satchel he had been carrying. Miriam's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she could see several realizations congealing on the man's face. The first being that Lipsky had caught him off guard enough to be knocked unconscious. Second, she guessed, was that the satchel had been on his person. Most glaringly obvious was not that his home accent had slipped so plainly, but that he'd used her name, which he should not, by any stretch of the imagination, know. The dangerous glint she knew always lurked in her eyes when angered made him swallow involuntarily, and he shrugged, dredging up an excuse that echoed hollowly to the redhead, "I... Remember reading about you and your friend Jonathon Stoppable helping Hercule Poirot..."

"Fine," Miriam drew the word out threateningly, standing but not offering the man a hand up, her addressing him in fluent French taking him further off his guard, "But we will discuss this in a civilized manner. As I believe you would not like me becoming uncivilized, non?"

"Very true, mademoiselle..." he muttered back in his native tongue. He rubbed his sore jaw with a rueful grin, sighing as she put her fists on her hips and tapped an expectant foot while glaring at him, "Ah, the things I do for my family."

MP MP MP MP

Miriam woke with a start, sitting bolt upright and clutching the bedding to her form. She quickly looked around the cramped, private sleeping quarters, as if expecting… Someone to jump out and attack her. She blinked a couple times at the bright light filtering in through the drawn curtains, glancing around the room. While spartan, the comfortably firm mattress and a few other items were of a luxury bent. It had a small bar, which she had used with abandon the prior night, a small partition to close off an area for changing — which she had daringly left latched open — as well as a key wound wall clock. She sighed and blinked a few times, the numbers finally resolving to indicate it was almost a quarter to eight in the morning.

After looking around, she began to take in the creaking and clacking from underneath the bed, as well as the distant chugging of a powerful steam engine and relaxed slightly. We are still on the train, then…The thought gave her pause, the plurality of her statement taking her aback.

She felt a stirring to her left, drawing the prior day spent chasing Bartholomew Lipsky through Naples to the forefront of her mind. She pursed her lips briefly, remembering the frustratingly protracted meeting with the Frenchman. That had been followed shortly with a hurried booking of rail travel to Paris, by way of Marseille to briefly meet with monsieur Poirot while the train took on water and fuel...

Then the prior night's activities struck her like a blacksmith's hammer.

She blushed slightly, smiling softly as the man next to her stirred further, a soft groan emanating from the slowly waking form. She sighed in a strange mix of contentment and anxiety as she thought back to a half drunken conversation with him the night before. Her bedmate muttered incoherently after a moment of glancing around himself, and she took in the bleary eyed, blond headed face of her best friend. And now, apparently, occasional lover, if their conversation — not to mention actions — from the prior night was any indication.

"G'mornin', Mim…" he muttered, smacking his mouth to try and clear the gumminess from his tongue.

She didn't say anything for a long moment, only stared at his face and the sleep filled eyes trying desperately to focus on her, so different from the clear, sure gaze of the prior night. She remembered it clearly, and let her thoughts trail back, running the conversation back and forth in her mind...

"Jon… I…" She'd leaned in, tears falling from her eyes as the stress of the past months took over, "I desperately need to release this… This tension within me… Before it destroys me."

"Mim, I love you," Jonathon had whispered, "But you do realize not in this way."

"I know, Jonathon... Jon..." she had whispered just as softly, "But… I do not want to become some harlot, nor should I like to sell myself or purchase the services of such as Isabella and her ladies do for men, and even women, for my release. Such a silly concept, I'd thought once, but now?" She'd sighed, "I am even past the point which self-release helps! And wish only to do this with someone I trust, and love... Even if I am not ready to love like I loved my Albert. I am only recently able to talk about his loss, and… You are far from unattractive, and I know that I am comely. And I know you desire me, at least physically, if not romantically."

"I guess it'd be a lie if I said otherwise," Jonathon had laughed at his own self-depreciation, before sobering significantly, "Are you sure about this? I know you haven't slept well, and if this... Situation is bothering you so strongly, perhaps you do need it, but I have to know, are you truly su-..."

"Yes!" she'd nodded firmly, a gentle smile of apology for interrupting him lighting her face, "And... I am unable to conceive children, Jon. You know my Albert and I tried for a few years before he died..." Her smile had brightened as he'd nodded and reached out to touch her face gently, cupping his hand to her face and kissing his palm in a manner that was anything but coy, "And frankly, you're right about my sleeping, and the stress. I desperately need good sex..."

"Good morning, Jonathon," Miriam Possible sighed, shaking herself from her memories and dropping the bedsheets. When his attention turned briefly to her bare bosom, she reached over to ruffle his hair fondly, "Sleep well?"

"More impor'an'ly," Jonathon Stoppable slurred, blinking slowly and rubbing at his sleep fogged eyes to clear them, "Did you?"

"Quite well, thank you." Miriam stretched unabashedly, her slight breasts lying enticingly along her athletic frame. She dropped her arms, folding them and leaning forward on her knees. She glanced back at him, a rueful, hesitant smile upon her face, "Are you alright with…" she gestured between him and herself, not agitated, but obviously concerned, "All this? Being a lover of occasion to me, but no promises of more than our friendship?"

"Miriam..." Jonathon sat up fully, sleep forgotten by the words and the concern, even worry he heard in her voice. He reached over and enfolded her in a hug, ignoring the stirring such proximity engendered, "As I said last night, I care for you, love you even, as a friend. And if I can help you, in any way, you only had but to ask."

"As I feel for you, Jonathon... Jon." Miriam sighed slightly, then gave a minute shake of her head and continued, "I know you, though, and know there is more left unsaid with such a bold statement."

"You know, Mim, that I'm not exactly an innocent when it comes to women, right?" He pulled back and waited for her to nod in agreement, ignoring her smirking, knowing snicker to continue with a slightly melancholic smile, "And that, well, I've never really, truly had love as you and Albert did."

"I know, Jon." Miriam's smile became a bit fragile, but she nodded for him to continue.

"Would I like more? I… I must admit that, especially after last night, the idea is appealing, yes." He held up a finger when she opened her mouth, the suddenly stern look in his eyes belied by the expansive smile that came upon his face, "But it is, and always will be, for you to decide if it'll ever be more than friendship and... How'd you say it? 'Occasional physical dalliances to help both of us with pent up pressures and desires!', I believe?" Miriam's smile relaxed, and she let out a girlish giggle despite her own personal revulsion at how she sounded when she did.

"That is exactly what I said, Jon. And… Thank you." She compulsively leaned over and planted a gentle, friendly kiss on his cheek, "Now, I do not know about you, but I feel rather famished." She gently rested a hand on his still covered leg, an eyebrow climbing towards her disheveled hairline as she realized he was more awake than his appearance led her to believe. A slow smirk chased the smile from her shapely lips, and her voice dropped slightly, "Or would you rather earn the break to our nightly fast?"

"You're insatiable, Mim!" Jonathon groaned in a melodramatic manner, before smirking himself, "No wonder Albert was always so tired looking in the morning."

The comment earned a fond, reminiscent chuckle from Miriam as she leaned down and began planting intense kisses down his fit, surprisingly muscular body…

MP MP MP MP

December 24, 1904

"Come, Miss Go!" Bartholomew Lipsky piped in an enthusiastic, even happy tone, "There is much we must do today!"

"Ugh, must you always be so foolishly happy in the mornings?" Aglaya Go growled at the well-dressed German aristocrat, scowling as she took a long sip at the small cup held daintily between her thumb and forefinger.

"Was your sleep restless, Miss Go?" Bartholomew asked in a seemingly concerned tone, before his tone became serious. "Perhaps your restless sleep is why you missed the presence of that woman, the reporter... What was her name?" He pondered for a moment before nodding, as if the information he sought hadn't been at the forefront of his own mind, "Oh, yes, Miriam Possible! Not to mention her lapdog detective, Jonathan Stoppable… You remember them, the ones who foiled my plans in America? The ones who have become such a nuisance even here in Europe?"

"Yes," Miss Go grimaced as her right hand unconsciously went to her cheek, gently rubbing the spot where she'd had a bruise for almost two weeks following the fight atop the giant Ferris wheel in Middleton, "I remember them, and aside from a small tussle with Stoppable in Naples, I've seen neither of them!"

"Truly?" Bartholomew asked in an almost mockingly confused manner, "According to the passenger manifests of the steam ship I thoughtfully booked you passage on, when we had to go our separate ways in Maryland?" he held up a telegram where he had supposedly gleaned the information, his tone rising ever-so-slightly at the end of the question, "They happened to board the same ship as you! Which, reasonably, explains how they found us in London when I began following Mr. Giordano."

"Interesting..." Miss Go drawled lazily, as if awaiting his point.

"Similar manifest checking showed they also followed you from London to Naples. I had wondered how they had kept up, considering I had left London to France to pick up my airship from mademoiselle Poitier before I picked you up in Gibraltar." Miss Go opened her mouth to speak, but Bartholomew cocked his head slightly forward, stalling her words as he continued, "According to the train's passenger manifest, they followed you not only from New York to London to Naples — while catching up to us after an airship voyage for over two thirds of that leg of our journey, mind you — but from there to Paris, and, somehow, managed to get on the same train as you from Naples to Paris!"

"I don't know ho-..." Miss Go began sharply, but Bartholomew interrupted her just as sharply.

"Ah, ah, Miss Go, I am not finished!" His gaze darkened slightly, a mix of anger, frustration and curiosity easily discernible, "I am wondering if you would care to explain how you managed to miss a beautiful red-head and a prim, stylishly presented young detective from that American agency you detest, hmmm?"

"My apologies, Lipsky!" Aglaya snapped. Her tone was angry, but Bartholomew let it slide, as the woman's tone held a strong note of sincerity, "But you know I was on the run from the blasted Pinkertons that Possible's lapdog sicced on me to New York. I stayed in my cabin until I was in London!"

"And why-…" Bartholomew began, but a frustrated harrumph from Miss Go stopped him.

"It was in case they had international warrants, which I could not confirm until I was in London, on British soil!" She paused and took a deep breath, calming herself before continuing. "And you're quite right, my sleep from Naples to here was restless."

"And why so?" Bartholomew's skeptical gaze drew a grunt of annoyance from the woman.

"Because the newlyweds in the next car kept me up most of the night, and sometimes half of the morning!" She smirked evilly as the aristocrat blushed slightly, and nodded, "Yes, the woman seemed quite insatiable…" She glanced at her drink and, satisfied it had cooled enough, drew it to her lips, downing the strong, bitter black liquid within in a single gulp, "That's why I've had four of these Italian coffees."

"You do mean, of course, espresso?" He sneered in an oddly mocking manner, though the tone was not directed at her. She smirked slightly and clucked her tongue, agreeing with his sentiment as he continued, his tone falling into the one he reserved when speaking about the autocrats bent on ruining the world, "Or caffè crema, as those slavish to snobbery would say." He considered her words as they left the cafe, finally nodding as he accepted her story, albeit grudgingly.

Of course, his snide comments had granted him time to consider her explanations and reactions. Bartholomew had worried at the possibility that Miss Go had somehow been convinced to work against him as a saboteur by those that would see him ruined. Possibly even as a spy for that reporter and her second, what with the seeming ease they had in following her. The latter had seemed the most likely, since the Pinkerton agent could potentially reduce or eliminate any warrants against her back in her home country.

Ultimately, however, she seemed sincere, and his checking into the rail trip had told him that it was one of the more comfortable travels to take, as well as being the last leaving Naples that evening. It could even be that one of their opponents had a fear of heights, which necessitated a non-mountainous route. Or, more disturbingly, that they had a friend in Italy that had informed them of Miss Go's route to Paris.

He pondered a moment as Miss Go managed, somehow, to both relax and appear more attentive and awake at once. With a minute nod, he decided to accept that it was simple coincidence all-around. "Perhaps that does indeed explain why you have been out of sorts… My apologies as well, Miss Go."

Miss Go nodded and sighed as she felt the first tingling of caffeine buzzing within her system. "So what are we doing today, Lipsky?"

"Why, my dear…" Bartholomew grinned in a decidedly maniacal fashion, "You are going to distract a certain Pinkerton agent for me, by implying you have the documents detailing a new steel formulation and mass production process, and I am going to attempt surveillance on Ms. Possible, or even a bit of a parley, without that damnably tenacious lapdog of hers around to interfere!"

Authors' Notes

And there ya have it, Chapter 1 of the rewrite all done, dusted, and — we hope — polished! It's taken far longer than we'd originally intended for this to come to fruition, but we're glad it's finally starting to roll along. Currently, we're looking at an upload rate of one chapter a month, though we might increase that speed, depending on how things feel moving forward.

As to the story... Interesting to see that, even with Mim and Jon taking the good fight to Bartholomew, he managed to thwart their attempts to capture him... And, with a bit of a smile from serendipity, he managed to succeed in his original plan, to boot!

Then there's that bit of happening between Mim and Jon! Mim, ever the progressive sort of woman, and Jon fully in support of it! Well, there's a few obvious reasons he's not complaining, but it's fairly certain he wouldn't have complained before, non? Of course, Bartholomew had a bit of concern with Miss Go, but at least she had valid reasons for what happened. And now, yet another game's afoot!

We hope you've enjoyed the remaster of A Touch of Warmth! Look out for the next chapter, coming out on the first Friday of March!

As always, readers, there are a lot of fics out there, and a lot that deserve your attention... So keep on reading, enjoying, and if you feel like it, reviewing!

Thanks from Neo and kgs-wy!