A/N: This show has been my guilty pleasure. The show is funny and awesome as it is intended to be for a primarily kids show, but I started thinking about what it would be like in an alternative, setting where they're older. This fic is very AU, so you've been warned. I hope you enjoy reading my first fanfic for the fandom. Please review, and I am open to constructive criticisms. The italics in the story either indicates thoughts or an emphasis on words.

Disclaimer: All the properties and rights of Kickin' It belong to Disney XD, etc.

CHAPTER ONE

I couldn't recall exactly why I decided to show up to school after one of the worst nights of my life.

I do know, though, that when you show up with bloody gauze bandages on your hand, people will stare and talk. But mostly stare. When you also show up sporting bruises on your face, people tend to talk A LOT. "Word on the street" (courtesy of one Donna Tobin, I'm sure) was that I had gotten my ass kicked in an underground fight tournament. I imagined the tale got even better when people noticed Frank and Brody were conspicuously absent.

I made it three feet into homeroom before Mrs. Ashley stuttered mid-sentence into her lecture and sent me immediately to the nurse's office. I should have saved myself the extra fifty steps right then and there and headed to the parking lot. As soon as the nurse appraised me, she called for the principal, who then called in the guidance counselor, who herself suggested calling in the campus policeman, etc. My dad, already on edge from last night's debacle, was contacted via phone to explain and revisit the glorious details of the event leading to my present condition.

I had to convince them that there was no domestic abuse. No, I wasn't involved with a "troubled" boy, or for that matter, "in fear of repercussions," that I'm too afraid to tell. After an hour of this repetitive hell, I finally snapped. "Look, if anything, you should be asking yourselves why Frank hasn't shown up at all."

I stormed off. I needed sleep. Maybe a couple pints of blood. I was so consumed with my angry thoughts, that I didn't notice a pair of arms roughly grabbing me.

"The hell – "

"Is it true?" Jack Brewer demanded. "About they're saying?"

Normally, I wouldn't have minded with arguing with him, but my bullshit tolerance meter was already low.

"That you're an ass?" I replied, shoving his arms away. "You betcha."

"I'm talking about the fight, idiot," he hissed. "Rudy won't tell me anything either, but he keeps asking for you. You want to tell me why?"

"How should I know? He's your sensei, not mine."

"Yeah? You sure that his dojo being vandalized had nothing to do with it?"

I kept quiet, but it didn't matter. Judging from his smirk, Jack had already gleaned the truth. His eyes had an angry sheen to them, and maybe a bit of hurt. His body language was tenser than I had ever seen in any of the matches. He stepped closer, and I had to stop the urge from taking a step back.

"What. The hell. Happened? I get a message from you telling me to show up at like five a.m. for that? Is this your sick idea of one-upmanship?"

"That's what you think of me? You seriously think I would intentionally do something like that?" I raised my bandaged fist.

"Do I look like the type that wants to go through this," I said, gesturing to my injury, "to get your attention?"

"I don't even care anymore. I'm just done trying to figure you out."

He said it matter-of-factly, without a trace of rudeness. So why did I suddenly felt drained? Why was there this peculiar ache in my chest?

Done.

I managed to survive my share of aimed gossip, sneers, and fights for the last year, and it took a simple word to finally unravel me. His expression began to change. Concern? Pity, maybe? My blurred vision made it hard to tell.

"Look, forget about it," Jack said quietly. "You've probably been through a lot already." He reached out tentatively and grabbed my shoulder; this time less forceful. His eyes roamed over my face, taking in the details of my bruises.

"Right," I said hoarsely and turned sharply away.

"Kim – "

I slammed the doors open and cut him off. God, my head ached. God, I must have looked like shit. My hands shook so badly that I kept fumbling with the keys. I finally managed to shove my keys into the ignition and floored the accelerator.

He keeps asking for you.

To hell with that. I was not about to return there.

But you owe him, Kim, that unwanted thought came.

Not really. If anything, I just did him a favor, I debated back.

Really, Kim? How is getting his dojo trashed a favor?

It could have been worse. It could have been burned down if I hadn't kicked Shane in the groin.

I told myself to go straight home; no stops; no alternative routes. Just my bed. I guess my subconscious must have kicked in at some point, because the next thing I knew, I found myself pulling into the entrance to Seaford Mall.

The Bobby Wasabi Dojo was attracting a horde of attention. The entire front window plane had been demolished. It looked like most of the broken glass had been cleared off, and the graffiti had been wiped off. The inside was a totally different story. Chopped off dummies and trash littered the whole floor. Mats were slashed and bits scattered about.

Guilt was a bitch.

"Oi."

And so was karma. This sensei, this bleached human cockatoo, was approaching me like I was some kind of wild dog about to go off on him. It would have been comical if not for the flicker of concern I detected in his eyes. He whistled lightly.

"The Black Dragons did a number on you, huh?"

I shrugged. "A little rough housing. Nothing I couldn't handle."

Ruddy raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment. For that, at least, he's already exceeded my expectations for this upcoming conversation.

"Okkayy. Let's go into my office, shall we?"

If his dojo looked like it had been swept by a tornado, his office resembled more of a fifteen year old's bedroom with over-the-top karate memorabilia. Rudy shuffled most of the paperwork on the desk, giving his best impression of trying to be organized.

"So, it's Kimberly, right?" he began.

"Jack told me you wanted to see me."

"Ok, so not the chatty type. Well, Kimberly, I wanted to talk to you today to see if you can tell me how my dojo ended up like this, and how moi ended up like that."

"Like I said, it was just a little rough housing."

"Somehow, I don't buy that."

"Fine. Square dancing."

"Look, I already saw the security cameras, so you might as well fess up. I'm not a dance expert, but I'm pretty sure that square dancing doesn't involve tossing your partners through my windows! In case you haven't noticed, your little do-si-dos did a number on my place. That Frank kid was still counting duckies the last time I saw him."

"Frank can count?"

The conversation bored me, but I became fascinated with that bulging vein on Rudy's forehead.

Rudy gritted his teeth. "You know, if I were you, I'd be relieved that he can count. Ecstatic. You know why?"

"Because I doubt he can do anything else with a fractured rib, tibia, and minor concussion for awhile," he said, without waiting for my reply.

"Look, I get it. We damaged your dojo, Frank fell, yada, yada, yada. I'm sorry. I'll pay for the damages, yada yada."

"That's not the point – "

"Then I don't know what else you're looking for. I already gave my police statements, so I don't need another interrogation."

I pushed off my chair and headed for the door.

"Do the words 'juvenille detention facility' ring a bell?"

Shit. I paused at his words, my hand clutched around the handle.

"If I wanted to, you'd be sunning there right now if I had filed charges. There's still got plenty of time for you to change my mind."

Rudy ignored my glare and gestured to the couch, beckoning me to sit. I slouched back as far as I could; making sure his eyes drew to my legs as it loudly met his coffee table.

"I was hoping to talk like grownups, but I guess I'll get straight to it. I know you weren't trying to destroy my dojo." He paused to see if I had a reaction. When I didn't comment, he continued on. "I've been looking for someone to help out at my dojo for the summer. You'll clean, answer the phones, do some stuff here and there. If you do the work and time, I won't press charges."

"Just like that?" I asked skeptically.

"That and I reeeallly want you to join my dojo," he pleaded.

And there it was: desperation. Wasabi had a star in Jack, but even he and a handful of students weren't enough to get his dojo by. I'm sure Rudy was trying for the Bambi effect, but his bulging eyes and pursed lips gave plenty of goldfishes a run for their money. For a moment, I entertained the idea of juvie. I could build up my street cred, maybe put those bandanas to use. I raised my hand in mock surrender.

"Fine. I'll see if I can work something out with my dad. But you're out of luck with me doing karate. My dad pretty much banned me from it too."

"Maybe I can talk to your dad."

"Let me put this another way: I don't want to do karate."

Rudy frowned. "Why not?"

"Seriously? You have seen your dojo, right? And you're asking why not?"

"Well…"

"Besides, I'm really not cut out for this honor, discipline thing. I pretty much lost in the last match, in case you didn't remember."

Rudy snorted. "To Milton? Please, you and I both know you threw that match. Even Jerry picked up on it."

"Not. Interested."

Rudy continued to stare at me. He sighed and opened his drawer, reaching for something. "Alright. You gave me no choice but to pull out the big guns."

"You know what, juvie's starting to sound real good," I said.

He placed a crumpled sheet on the desk and slid it towards me. The bold headlines of "2011 National Karate Championships" stood out vividly. I suddenly felt uncomfortable and wary.

I looked up at Rudy with indifference and shrugged with exaggeration. "And?"

"You placed fourth overall in the girls sparring in your age category." Rudy tapped on my circled name. "Third overall in the katas. When I first saw you at that tournament in San Jose, I knew you looked familiar. That teammate of yours, Carson Hunter, won Jack's category that year."

I was trying not to fidget, trying to steady my breathing. The memories came fast and unbidden: Carson, him winning the whole shebang, my grandma with the stone eyes, police siren lights across our porch in Memphis, Carson crumbling to the floor in pain…

"You want to know what else I remembered?" said Rudy, more gently. "I remembered that look you had when you lost that last sparring round."

I tried hard to not waver from his gaze. Clearly, I underestimated that peroxide head of his.

"Why did you stop competing?" he asked.

"What do you mean? I was at San Jose, remember?"

"I'm talking about after nationals. You told Milton that you were going to wipe the floor with him on your first tournament back."

I smiled at the memory. Milton Krupnick had tried his hand at trash talking. He made the novice mistake of hinting to me of the work he put in to prepare for me.

"Why did you quit?"Rudy asked persistently.

"Why is it any of your business?" I snapped back. "There's no sob story here. I'm not interested in it anymore! Ok?"

Rudy looked unconvinced, but he clearly got the hint to back off. I might have pushed it too far this time. He pulled out two business cards and wrote down something on one of them. "Tell your dad to get in touch with me, and we'll work out the details," said Rudy.

He handed me the cards. I glanced down at them, raising my eyebrows at the scrawled cell number.

"In case you ever need someone to just listen," Rudy said.

I discussed Rudy's proposal the next day with my dad. No dice. He said he'd be out of his damn mind to let me continue that "jail-bait hobby." It took three more days, but he gradually and grudgingly warmed up to the idea. A threatening juvie record held more sway than anything else.

I managed to get by for that week. Fear kept the students at bay, and I was fine with that arrangement. The thing was, it kept certain types of people away too. Jack and his group of friend made it a point to avoid me in whatever way they could. I caught one of their stares now and then. Julie had stopped talking to me a month ago, but even she would look at me sometime with an array of motions. The brunt of the wrath came from the Black Dragons. They weren't dumb enough to try anything on school grounds, but I ran into one too many hard shoulders to count. My car got a complimentary paint job one day.

The only good thing that probably came out of this mess was the fact that my sister, Lily, and I got along for the longest time that I could remember. Usually sullen, she started to cut back on her catty comments and became less….well, bitchy. She sucked at sympathy, but the effort counted for something, right?

The détente didn't last long.

"So how was school, sis?"

I noticed that something was immediately off when a) she greeted me as "sis" b) she greeted me voluntarily and c) she greeted me coming into my bedroom - a place that she had never bothered to step foot into before.

"You must be really bored if you're here on a Friday night," I commented.

"Speak for yourself. I'm going with Sarah to the concert, remember?"

As if I could forget. Dad and I had to live with her Biebier fever for awhile now.

"Right," I said. "Well, have fun then."

I turned my attention back to typing. Lily continued to stand at the door, hesitating. "Is there something you need?" I asked pointedly.

Lily sighed and made her way towards the bed. She had on the same guilty expression when Dad had busted her using the credit card. "There's something Dad is planning to do, ok? But if I tell you, don't go biting my head off, alright?"

"Go on."

"Dad wants to sign you up for anger management classes instead of that dojo job. I overheard him calling up that dojo owner. He told him he'll pay off the damages. "

I peered up at her in disbelief. Lily returned my look with an equal measure of her own. "C'mon, you had to know that was coming. Loooonng time coming."

"Why don't I just save him the money then and pack for juvie," I said, slamming the laptop.

"Seriously? Do you hear yourself at all? And you wonder why people think you're selfish."

"Umm, pot? Meet kettle. How many times did Dad have to bail you out of your crap? Shoplifting, bre – "

Lily jumped off, and came at me, pissed off. "I wouldn't need him to bail me out if you had my back in the first place!"

By now, she was inches from my face and yelling. "I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for you."

"Back off," I warned.

Lily pressed closer. "Or what? Or what, Kimmy! Go ahead! Break out those kung fu moves."

"Back. Off."

"Or what, Kimmy?" Lily taunted. "You'll flip me through the window? Take your shot. Oh, but wait I forgot….when Carson's not here, you can't back up the talk."

"BACK OFF." I shoved her roughly to the ground. I regretted it instantly as soon as I saw Lily's eyes watering. She slapped away my hands and hastily got up.

"Screw you!" She chocked back on a sob. "You're pathetic, you know that? You pull everyone down with you, and you don't even see it."

Lily slammed the door in my stunned face. I stumbled back to my desk and proceeded to finish typing my homework assignment. The next few hours became a blur, and I continued to hear Lily's shrill voice long after she left the house.

I had crumbled up that damn card and thrown it away. I should have just burned it though, for all the time I kept staring at the waste basket.

In case you ever need anyone to listen.

I scoffed. Right. Grand gesture from Mini-Ghandi, himself. Yet, the more I tossed and turned, the more his words became ingrained in my head.

Out of frustration, I scrambled from the bed and scavenged for that wretched thing. I wanted to tear it up into confetti. Wanted to physically erase remnants of it from my memory. I found myself instead dialing the digits and struggling to control my heaving breaths.

After a few attempts, I heard some muffled cursing. "Does the offer still stand?" My voice sounded thick.

"What?"

"That offer for you to listen? Can I still take you up on it?"

There was a long pause on the other end before he responded, "Kimberly?"

"Yeah."

Another long pause. "I'm all ears."

I propped myself against the side of the bed, preparing for our longest conversation yet. "You remember when I said that was no sob story?"

"Yes."

"I lied," I croaked.

I know that Kim really sounds OOC. I'll try to incorporate her show characteristics somewhere in the story, and hopefully, it will make sense to how and why she ends up the way she is.