First, I want to say that I am a Kim/Ron supporter all the way. But I had an idea for this storyline, so I thought I would give it a try. This is set halfway between Sitch in Time and So the Drama. I don't own the characters, et cetera et cetera.
Chapter 1: Scorn of the Savannah
The low, almost circular building was little more than a hastily thrown-together timber bunker with a thatch door, but none of the occupants cared. Miles away from the nearest village, hundreds of miles away from the nearest modern town, a half dozen men sat around a cluster of tables, shouting and smoking and laughing and, without cessation, calling for another drink from the man behind the makeshift bar.
In a country with no economic growth, no stable government, overwhelming corruption, and rampant racism, they had done what was necessary to secure a good living for themselves and their families. Now they had more food than they could eat, a handgun apiece, a steady supply of hard liquor, and their smuggling racket made enough for them to bribe the authorities and walk away with money in their pockets. Families, either dead for years or abused, no longer held their primary concern. The taste of luxury sang on lips once cracked by poverty, and the greed of human nature had befallen them, as it does so many billions.
Most people in the African savannah knew about the secluded compound and avoided it all costs. So the men celebrating their good fortune were more than a little surprised to see a white boy in his late teens walk through the door and stroll up to the bar. The door swung shut behind him. Had he been armed they would have shot him in panic, but his ratty t-shirt, perhaps dark blue at one time, concealed even less then his perforated pants. His old sneakers were caked with dust, vicious acacia thorns broken off in odd parts of the shoe. The young man limped to the bar just as everyone trained their weapons on him.
*{Drop to your knees!}* One man shouted. He stood at the head of the others, several inches wider at the shoulder and at least an inch taller than the next largest man in the room. He held a glock and a beretta in either hand. The young man turned to face him, leaning against the bar as he did so. The bartender put the barrel of his gun to the young man's head. The youth offered a tired smile, tilting his head slightly to shift bangs out of his yellow eyes.
*(translated from the local dialect)
{Sorry to intrude,} the young man responded in a tenor lighter than most boys his age. {I've been wandering the savannah for a week. Is this the Watanoaka outpost?}
{Why do you ask?}
{I came here looking for it.}
{Then you came looking for a death wish. No man can just walk into Watanoaka. Not if he wants to live.} The young man smiled. His interrogator couldn't help but notice how his amber eyes gleamed, framed by skin long tanned from the sun.
{Then this IS the Watanoaka outpost?} He asked.
{Yes.} His soon to be executioner responded. {And it is the place where you will die.} He cocked the beretta.
{I don't suppose I could get a drink and smoke first?} The young man said quickly. {Walking in the sun all day can really take it out of you.} The men laughed at this thin child and his wry requests. Why not humor the dead? The leader put his glock away and motioned for the bartender to pour him a drink. The young man downed the rum in three smooth gulps, ignoring the dirt clinging to the glass. He took a cigarette from the bartender, but the leader stopped the bartender from giving him the lighter.
{I was not born yesterday,} he said, waving the beretta in the boy's face. The boy shrugged and sunk lower against the bar, whether from tiredness or fear the leader could neither tell nor cared. He flicked the lighter and moved to light the cigarette when the young man spat the rum held in his mouth in a practiced stream, through the tiny flame and onto the larger man's chest and neck. He stumbled back into his friends, screaming as the flames rapidly began to consume the dry, worn threads.
In their moment of distraction the young man swiped the lighter, smashed his glass into the bartender's face, and hurled the bottle of liquor over his shoulder into the crowd of men. The young man leapt up and swung both legs in an arc, smashing into the bartender's face as he leapt behind the bar. One, two brutal blows to the face, and the bartender passed out. Flattening himself on the ground, the young man stuck a rag from the bar into a bottle of liquor, tilting the bottle down to soak the rag. He heard footsteps approaching. A man leaned over the counter and pointed a gun at him, but the boy struck first. Sweeping his own stolen gun in an arc he knocked the older man's weapon aside and smashed a bottle of rum into his face. His assailant fell back with a cry, but the youth didn't stop to celebrate. Lighting the rag, he tossed the molotov cocktail over the bar, bottle spinning end over end for a grand total of three seconds before it burst against a table.
It had been some months since the last rain storm, and the timber and grass for the hut had been dry when it was gathered more than two years ago. So it was no surprise that the table was completely ablaze in seconds, filling the room with smoke. A second cocktail made with a strip of T-shirt spun over the bar, and one panicky man shot it, obscuring the bar in a starburst of smoke and fire that licked the low thatch ceiling. The young man leapt through the burst of light and heat, swinging a chair into the man's head so hard the chair broke into four pieces on impact.
The next twenty seconds were a mad rush of breaking furniture and fists flying through the fire's haze as flames sprinted across the walls of the tinderbox they once called sanctuary. The young man darted everywhere among them, each blow breaking a finger or nose or tooth or arm or kneecap. The room, once a cozy place of safety to the men of Watanoaka outpost, had become a death trap, too small for them to avoid or shoot their assailant. Bullets were fired, and one even grazed the young man's thigh, but they tended to hit each other and the walls more than anything else. Wielding his captured gun like a baton, the young man drove the butt of his weapon into the leader's kneecap and jerked it up into his face as he doubled over, then brought it down on the back of his head before swinging it around into another's temple. Soon the burning hut had only one man left standing, his gaze hot like the flames around him as he surveyed his victims. Six men down, broken, disarmed, and without a scrap of fight left in them. No fatalities.
The young man allowed himself a quick smirk before he collected the other guns, pausing to kick or strike anyone who tried to resist or speak, shooting his own weapon around their head if they made a threatening move. One by one he emptied the bullets into a heap at the base of the bar and doused them in alcohol. He stuck a broken chair leg into the burning table and dropped his new torch on the ammunition. In all likelihood the bullets wouldn't explode, but the heat would definitely deform them or at least make them too hot to touch. He paused to spit on the fire, curling his lips at the combined taste of rum and tobacco in his mouth.
Kicking out the door, the young man let the building smoke rush out as he crossed the outpost to a two story wooden stockade, bound with a half dozen chains and locks. He snorted, lips curling into another smirk. The people trapped in the stockade had already prepared themselves for the worst when they had been captured. They knew what happened when you were snatched from your homes or off the road. Their lives were no longer their own. But that did not mean that they didn't start to cry in fear when they heard the gunshots. Nor did it prepare them for a loud Sshhink! to sound from behind the doors or for the man barely out of boyhood who threw the doors open with the light of battle in his leopard-yellow eyes.
{Go home.} The young man ordered. {You need no longer fear the men of Watanoaka.} He stepped aside, and they slowly realized that their nightmare was over. Never had the sun shined as bright or the breeze blown as cool as it did to the sixty odd people that streamed out of the stockade, fearful gazes flowering into laughter and exclamations of joy. At that moment the kidnappers dragged themselves from the burning hut, and the prisoners froze in fright.
{Go back to your pen!} One of the abductors yelled after a moment of surprise. A few of the prisoners edged back to the corral, but the young man stepped forward, eyes hard.
{You have no more power here.} The young man derided him, voice hard and fierce. {These people are free, and if you try to imprison them again I will beat you into the earth.} The gang of human traffickers had heard worse threats, but never before had sixty people yelled in support of one and charged them.
{Stop.} The young man yelled quickly. {Do not kill them.} Leaping between the prisoners and their captors, he bellowed like a wounded buffalo. The prisoners paused in their rush for vengeance. {I freed you, and I ask for but one thing in return: do not kill these men.} The crowd shouted its outrage, but he roared over them, undeterred. {Is death really enough for these men? Do they deserve such a deep and peaceful sleep? Bind their hands and throw them into the grasslands if you wish. Let them wander the scrub in fear that they might meet you again without weapons or jeeps.} He continued to speak to the crowd, appealing to their sense of vengeance and mankind's natural fear of the untamed wild, painting scenes of the slavers death. He spoke of divine retribution for an act of rage and the terror of helplessness in the face of infection by day and predation at night until the prisoners screamed with approval and rushed the bloodied slavers, pinning them down while others ran in search of rope.
Satisfied that there would be no corpses in the next few minutes, the young man did a quick inventory of the compound. He sorted through a few thousand pounds of black market animal parts: leopard skins, elephant tusks, rhino horn, crocodile hide, lion bones (no doubt to be sold in asian markets as tiger bones), hippo meat, and piles of zebra pelts. A few smaller pieces of ivory had been exquisitely carved, and these he took to barter with. The rest he doused with kerosene from a supply shed. He also burned down a shed of assault rifles, grenades, plastic explosives, and rocket launchers, which made a very satisfying boom.
After checking that the slavers had had their hands tied as the liberated captives drove them into the grassland per his suggestion, the young man walked to an acacia tree just outside of camp, where the Watanoak sentry slowly rotated, arms stretched above his head. A monitor lizard sat beneath him, no doubt debating whether or not he was worth eating, but it ran off when the young man approached. The young man hoisted himself into the tree and undid the belt belt that bound the sentry's wrists to the branch. He fell to the ground with a dull thud, moaning as he started to wake up. The young man crouched in front of him, ears pricked in case the monitor lizard came back, and lightly slapped the sentry a few times. The slaver awoke to the cold edge of his own knife pressed against his throat.
{Now,} the young man said, voice as soft as his eyes were hard, {where can I find a good forger?}
CallMeBeepMeIfYouWantToReachMeCallMeBeepMeIfYouWantToReachMe
Kim Possible sat down for her Friday environmental science class in good spirits. Granted environmental science wasn't her fav, but it wasn't a bad class, and it was one of the few not taught by Mr. Barkin. After a successful mission in Bolivia that morning, she felt up for anything.
"Ok, listen up class," barked a familiar voice. Kim's good spirits dipped a bit as the almost inhumanly wide shoulders and puffed chest of Steve Barkin pushed through the doorway. "Mr. Leopold contracted rabies while feeding squirrels in his backyard, so I will be taking over this class."
"Uh, Mr. Barkin," Ron Stoppable, Kim's best friend of nearly twelve years, raised his hand. "Is there any class that you haven't taken over?"
"Probably," Steve Barkin asserted, eyelids half lowering in natural suspicion toward his least favorite student. "But if there is I have yet to hear of it. And it has been a very long time since I saw anyone else in the teacher's lounge." He admitted quietly. Ron turned to Kim with a triumphant smile.
"Booyah," he exclaimed. "Told you he was the only one."
"Ron," Kim began to chastise him.
"Alright, enough chitchat." Barkin commanded. Kim made a mental note to discourage Ron's latest crazy theory after class. "I am told that the focus of this class is current environmental issues, preferably ones that are apolitical. Since I couldn't find any of those, we will instead watch a news report that I recorded this morning." Mr. Barkin turned on the overhead projector and started the video.
The report was about a new species discovered in the Amazon Rainforest, a previously unidentified species of cat. The report showed live footage of the two creatures in a cage in Belgium, where the scientist who discovered them had had them shipped. Kim had faced down her fair share of mutants and monsters, but these cats were impressive even by her standards.
Compact bodies rose at the shoulder to a swell of muscle. Thick tails swished and thumped against the bars as the beasts alternately crouched and arched their backs, spines brushing the top of the cage. Each one was the size of a black bear, smooth black coats rippling with darker spots like a mirage. Most disturbingly, their broad skulls ended in a pair of short saber teeth that came down to their chins. The reporter stated that preliminary testing had shown signs of a potent hemotoxin in their saliva, similar to the kind found in vampire bats.
After the video Barkin talked about why there were still new species to be discovered, how many more might be in the Amazon, and asked a few questions about deforestation. When the bell rang for the end of the day Barkin assigned the class a three page report about sustainable commercial logging. Ron got an extra two pages for dozing off in class. As Ron followed Kim to her locker with the usual slew of complaints against Barkin, she heard the familiar beep pattern of the Kimmunicator in her pocket.
"What's the sitch Wade?" Kim asked as the screen blinked on.
"Got a mission for you." Wade, Kim's 10 year old website manager and intel provider responded.
"Drakon?"
"Not this time. A few days ago a pair of sabertooth cats was discovered in the Amazon Rainforest."
"We just saw the report in class today." Kim told him.
"Well the scientist that discovered them, Dr. Panthera, thinks that someone might try to steal them before ownership and credit for the sabertooths are passed over to him tomorrow." Wade said.
"Why would anyone want to steal cats?" Kim asked.
"The hemotoxin in the saliva has some major juice," Wade said. "Check it out." Wade pressed a button, and a rotating image of a molecule appeared on the screen. Ron looked over Kim's shoulder at the picture.
"Uh huh, let's pretend that I don't know what this means," Ron suggested.
"The hemotoxin is more powerful that any blood thinner I've ever seen," Wade said, taking the molecule off the screen. "A few drops could kill a person."
"So Dr. Panthera thinks that someone might want to weaponize the toxin?" Kim asked.
"That, or the cats might be genetically engineered," Wade said. "In which case I'm betting the guy who made them will want them back before anyone gets a chance to study them."
"We're on our way," Kim promised.
"Got your ride waiting outside," Wade told her, smiling.
"Booyah, Belgian chocolate!" Ron cheered. Rufus, Ron's naked mole rat, popped out of his pocket and pumped both his little arms in the air.
"Mmm, chocolate," Rufus echoed. Kim smiled, thoroughly accustomed to the sight.
"Come on you two," she said, walking toward the exit. "If we wait around too long you won't have time for chocolate."
"Kim, there is always time for chocolate," Ron said, voice dropping to serious calm as he jogged to catch up to her.
CallMeBeepMeIfYouWantToReachMeCallMeBeepMeIfYouWantToReachMe
"Thanks for the lift, Dr. Acari," Kim said over the drone of the plane as it landed.
"Oh, it's the least I could do after you recovered my stolen research," the entomologist said.
"Three times," Ron chimed in. "That's a lot of bugs for one lifetime."
"No big," Kim dismissed the praise with a smile.
"Well, except for the small explosive device attached to your face," Ron offered.
"Keyword, small," Kim reminded him. "Have a nice day, Dr. Acari."
"Oh, we're not parting ways just yet," Dr. Acari said, swinging his stubby legs out of his seat and hoisting his suitcase. "Dr. Panthera is a dear friend of mine. He personally invited me to come to the formal exhibition tomorrow. I thought I could introduce you to him."
The diminutive man smiled so wide that Kim almost wanted to laugh at his enthusiasm. A half hour later and the three of them were standing outside of a museum, smooth concrete walls tinged pink by the setting sun. A tall, very thin man in a cheap suit fast-walked down the stairs to meet them, his bald head reflecting the russet light.
"Dr. Acari, so good to see you," the bald man exclaimed, shaking the entomologist's hand with both of his stick arms.
"It's good to see you too, Dr. Panthera," Dr. Acari beamed. "Allow me to introduce Ms. Kim Possible." Dr. Panthera shook Kim's hand so vigorously she thought he might be trying to remove it.
"So good to meet you, Ms. Possible."
"Please, call me Kim." Dr. Panthera turned to Ron.
"And you must be—"
"Ron, Ron Stoppable, pleasure to meet you," Ron interrupted, grabbing Dr. Panthera's hand and waving it up and own.
"Yes, well, please, come with me." Dr. Panthera led the group into the museum. He bypassed all the exhibits and brought them to a small staff only door that led into a warehouse. Rusted girders arched more than sixty feet over their head as they walked between towering shelves overflowing with excess specimens and artifacts. "I'm the museum's resident zoologist," Dr. Panthera explained. "I was conducting a study on ocelots when I found these by accident." The last seventy feet of the warehouse were shelf-less. Wooden crates had been piled around the edges to make room for a wheeled cage pushed against the back wall.
Kim was prepared for fierce monsters straining against the bars as soon as they saw her. Instead she found two animals lying with their heads on their paws, scruffy fur starting to matt. The cage was just large enough for them to crouch next to each other. A water dish had been tipped over in the corner, and the air around them had a mild arid reek of stale urine to it. The cats didn't move except to glare balefully at the group, tucking their legs as far beneath their bodies as they could. The scene was thoroughly depressing.
"Aren't they just fascinating," Dr. Panthera exclaimed.
"Dr. Panthera, are you sure this is the only way you can keep them?" Kim asked, a little alarmed.
"Don't worry, this is only temporary," Dr. Panthera assured her.
"It's wrong is what it is," Ron corrected. "The lions at Smarty Mart have bigger cages than that."
"Yeah," Rufus chirped from Ron's shoulder, folding his arms and scowling suspiciously at Dr. Panthera.
"We already have a zoological garden in France lined up to take them after the exhibition tomorrow." Dr. Panthera said. "This is just until after the presentation tomorrow. After that a Global Justice operative has arranged a safe transport to the zoological garden and the two of you can return home."
"So, all we have to do is stay in a locked room alone at night and guard two poisonous buck-toothed super cats from dangerous thieves?" Ron surmised, voice straining slightly as got nervous.
"Ho, no," Rufus groaned with a slump.
"Ron, it's fine," Kim said a little sternly. Then, more gently, "We've faced plenty of bad guys before. We'll just sit around until the meeting tomorrow and get you that Belgian chocolate in the morning." Ron perked up instantly. "Trust me, this'll be a piece of cake."
CallMeBeepMeIfYouWantToReachMeCallMeBeepMeIfYouWantToReachMe
The young man allowed himself his namesake smirk as local authorities stormed a low concrete building across the street, dragging the forger out in handcuffs, the carved ivory he had just bartered with for an American passport and airfare money carried off as evidence. The young man studied the passport, thoroughly pleased with the photoshopped picture that gave him blond hair, brown eyes, and paler skin, all easily explained discrepancies. He almost felt sorry for getting that forger carted off. He did good work. No one in customs would suspect who he really was. The youth slipped down an alley, hiking three miles outside of the city to the jeep he had taken from Watanoaka two days ago.
As he bumped along the road, the young man reflected on the fascinating story the forger had told him, a tidbit of gossip that had instantly changed the young man's plans. It was time to check up on an old friend. Next stop, Belgium.
For those of you waiting for the epilogue to my Teen Titans story, I have some disappointing news: While transferring files to my new computer, I lost the epilogue and am now rewriting it. Sorry for the ridiculous delay.
