Disclaimer:
Kim Possible and her entourage belong to Disney. "Guess the Author #4"(for which this story was originally written) is a Zaratan production. Yvj was responsible for the "Soap Opera" prompt. And this story shows why it's probably a really, really good thing that KP and company don't actually live in a soap-opera universe.

Notes:
This story disregards the events of Season 4, with the sole exception of acknowledging "Ann" as Mrs. Dr. Possible's first name.

For this "Director's Cut" upload, I'm dividing the story into chapters, and there will be a brief commentary or two along the way.

1 • What Is It You're Not Telling Me?

It had all started, Kim reflected much later, when she'd had Wade handle the pre-wedding blood test...

"Uh, Kim?" the preteen genius's voice was a little squeakier than usual as it emerged from the Kimmunicator's speakers. "About that blood test?"

"What blood test?" That was Ann Possible, poking her head through the open door into Kim's bedroom – and if Wade's voice was abnormally squeaky, Kim's mother also sounded oddly strained. "I thought you were going to let me handle that. I've already got—"

"Yes, well," Kim said quickly, "you're already doing so much for the wedding, I thought I'd save you the trouble. It's not like there's anything funky about my blood, right?"

A throat-clearing noise squawked across the Kimmunicator frequency. "Well, actually . . . there kind of is."

Abruptly, Mrs. Dr. Possible was halfway across the room, her hand reaching for the Kimmunicator's Off switch – but Kim caught her mother's wrist with an instinctive kung fu move, and held on. "Mom," she inquired, in a tone she was more used to using on Drakken and Shego, "what is it you're not telling me?"

As suddenly as she'd swung into action-mode, Kim's mother deflated. "I hoped you'd never have to know," she said. "That I could just put that night behind me forever."

Kim's eyes narrowed. "That night? What does that have to do with my--?" She broke off, her eyes widening. "Oh my God. You mean . . . ?"

Tears pooled at the corners of Ann Possible's eyes. "I'm afraid so, Kimmie. I never meant to betray your fath—James," she said, "but he swept me off my feet, showered me with roses, plied me with champagne, and – I couldn't resist. It was just that one night, three weeks before James and I were married. You arrived nine months later to the day."

"But – but that doesn't mean . . . does it? That I'm not? That Daddy isn't?"

"I've tried to tell myself that for years," her mother said, sighing. "But when I finally worked up the courage to do the tests, I couldn't hide from the answer."

Kim swallowed. "Does . . . does he know?"

"James? God, no – it would shatter him. I've been . . . massaging your medical records since you were three. Till now, no one's found out, I'd swear it."

"Till now," echoed Kim. "So – who was it? One of Dad's classmates?" A look of utter horror crossed her face. "Oh, God, not--?"

"Drew?" Ann laughed weakly. "Good Lord, no. No, not a classmate. But you do know him – it's one of the other reasons I never told you. I was afraid he'd take you away from us—from me."

"Never," Kim said, trying to sound as if she believed it. "Not in a million years. But if it isn't Drakken, then . . . ?"

Mrs. Dr. Possible took a deep breath. "The one man on the planet who might have been able to steal you away from us," she said. "Senor Senior, Senior."

Madness, Drew Lipsky reflected much later, was vastly overrated – especially when it was mostly a cover for something much more complex.

Deep in the innermost reaches of his lair – locked in his private sanctum, safe from Shego's taunts – Dr. Drakken waited.

Minutes passed.

Then – without warning, out of the silence – a communications screen woke to life, though the figure that appeared was cloaked in shadow, its voice disguised by an electronic scrambler.

"Scythe to Drakken," said the voice. "Acknowledge."

"Drakken here," replied the blue-skinned scientist nervously, one hand absent-mindedly turning his glass of cocoa-moo in place.

"Your rubberizing ray was destroyed," Scythe said in an implacable tone, "and the girl still lives. You have failed me again."

With an effort, Drakken drew himself up in his chair. "The ray was built to your specifications," he said, "but the design was flawed. The interphase module was calibrated for helium-dichromate reactions, which caused a cascading induction overload." He spoke evenly, his tone markedly different from the half-maniacal, half-childish voice he ordinarily affected.

Scythe's silhouette cocked its shadowed head very slightly sideways. "I will require your logs to check that analysis. And the girl?"

"Uploading now," Drakken said, touching a control on his desk. "As for Kim Possible, she fell into the pit of giant Saturnian flytraps as planned."

"Why was she not consumed?"

"She released a cloud of anti-pheromonal mist," Drakken responded, "that apparently masked her presence, giving her time to escape the plants' tendrils and activate her grapple gun. The mist is a new weapon," he added, "not part of her known arsenal. However, its composition has been analyzed, and the information added to her profile."

"Can the flytraps be mutated to resist its effect?"

Drakken frowned. "Unknown," he said. "If so, I would need several months to clone and propagate a new strain in sufficient numbers."

The synthesizer registered the Scythe's response as half rumble, half buzz. "Too long," the silhouette said, "at least for the near term. Pursue the matter at tier three priority."

"Understood," said Drakken. "Are there new instructions?"

The Scythe was silent for a moment, then said, "Smartsilk. Dr. Caroline Rochet at the Middleton Institute of Technology has developed a synthetic thread with unique bio-electrical properties. With the proper transmission equipment, the wearer of clothing incorporating smartsilk can be paralyzed or physically controlled. If a line of such clothing were introduced into Club Banana or Smarty Mart . . . ."

"An army of teen zombies at my command!" For the first time in the conversation, Dr. Drakken allowed himself a touch of maniacal glee. "Perhaps even Kim Possible and the buffoon!"

The short bark of laughter that burst from Drakken's speaker system was colder than Arctic ice. "Especially Kim Possible and the buffoon," Scythe said. "In fact – there is a small quantity of prototype thread in Dr. Rochet's office, and I am told that alterations to Miss Possible's wedding gown are not yet complete. That would seem to present an opportunity."

"And I do so enjoy weddings," said Drakken. "Opportunity indeed!"

The silhouette tilted its head in what might have been a smile. "So be it. I am sending security specifications for Dr. Rochet's lab now, as well as notes on the thread's properties and a possible transmitter design. This project has tier one priority."

Drakken glanced at a smaller monitor and nodded. "Data received."

"Then you have your orders. Scythe out." The comm screen went dark.

Drakken briefly studied the material his mysterious patron had sent, sipping his cocoa-moo thoughtfully as he read. "Virtually foolproof," he murmured to himself. "And almost childishly easy to engineer. There's no doubt this time. Kim Possible is finally doomed."

He drained his glass, shut down his workstation, and went looking for Shego.

Desire, she reflected much later, was a dangerous emotion – especially when paired with the power to make one's desires reality.

"It is destiny," the tall but curiously stooped man told the slim, black-clad girl, "and not merely because your power calls to his. She is a dilettante, an amateur – a mere prototype. You are what she was meant to be, and—" he paused, grimacing slightly, "you are who he is meant to have. Only you and he can unite the ancient powers at last."

The girl regarded the older man skeptically. "So you say. But if I am truly all that you believe, why wait until now to speak of these things?"

"I only learned the truth quite recently," he responded. "She who created you passed away scarcely a month ago, and only then did her lawyers send me the sealed files she left behind. You have seen them yourself now; the genetic records leave no doubt."

"What of his feelings for . . . her?"

The older man grinned wickedly. "As far as he is concerned, you will be her. A few small changes to your outward appearance will work wonders – and once he is yours, nothing will separate you."

"Yet she must not be harmed."

"Any harm she suffers she will bring upon herself; for that, neither you nor I can be responsible."

The girl gave her visitor a long, dark look. "Very well," she said. "It will be my honor to marry Ron Stoppable a week from now."

And silent as ghosts, Yori and Monkey Fist slipped away from the Yamanuchi School, heading for the landing strip where Monkey Fist's jet awaited them.

And so it begins. We've had a revelation about Kim's paternity, been introduced to Drakken's secret mentor, and seen Monkey Fist conspiring with Yori in the interests of romance. Oh, yes, and Kim's getting married – there were a lot of weddings in these "Guess the Author" soap-opera stories, weren't there?