Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:
For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!
- Chapter Two -
"Thanks for the lift, Mr. Earhart."
"You're more than welcome, Kim. It's the least we could do after you got us back on course following that communications blackout."
"Meh, it was no big." Kim replied with a dismissive wave. "Anybody could have jerry-rigged a directional radio receiver from a microwave oven and a partially complete erector set."
"Well we appreciate it just the same. Why don't you go back to the cargo bay and relax? We'll be in the air for a while."
"Spankin' idea… Please and thank-you." Kim chimed, turning to walk back toward the aft-compartments.
Kim had to smile as she thought about the new significance that transit time had come take in their missions. Ever since that night at the prom when she and Ron had admitted their true feelings for one another, this had become some of the best quality time that they spent together. Away from the distractions of missions, parents, friends and schoolwork, and with the pilots busily flying the plane, it was just Ron and herself: Free to simply relax and enjoy being in each others' presence.
Images of the many hours they had spent huddled together amongst crates and equipment, cuddling and kissing as the plane flew on into the night flooded into her mind, and her smile only broadened at the passing parade of memories.
Her smile quickly faded, however, as she fully entered the cargo bay. Ron was on the floor, leaning against one of the crates, and he was obviously stewing over something.
Concerned by this unexpected behavior, she moved to kneel beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Okay, I'll bite." she stated playfully, hoping to pick-up his mood somewhat. "What's the sitch?"
"Huh? Oh, it's nothing. Nothing at all." He replied in a most unconvincing tone.
Kim wasn't buying it.
"Ron..." she stated, "Try to remember who you're talking to here. I know you well enough to tell when something is eating you. So spill already!"
Ron sighed heavily, averting his eyes from Kim's sympathetic gaze.
"It's nothing that you'd be interested in. Trust me." He replied, heavily.
Finding herself somewhat put-off by being rebuffed again, Kim decided to switch tactics. She moved over and sat down on the floor in front of Ron, placing her self directly in his field of vision.
"Ron, look at me!" she demanded. "We're best friends, both since and for ever, and that means no secrets. Do you get that? When something is bothering one of us, we unload it. We don't bottle it up."
Ron found himself looking directly into the pair of emerald-green eyes that he had come to love so dearly, and his resolve immediately weakened. Kim wasn't going to let this go; that much he was sure of. Plus, there was the little matter of her being right.
He looked right at the young redhead, sitting eagerly and attentively in front of him, and took a deep breath. It was time to "'fess-up."
"Be honest, KP. Am I an asset on missions?" he asked in a near whisper.
Kim was clearly taken aback by the nature of the question.
"Of course you are, Ron." Kim replied reassuringly, quickly recovering from the shock. "I wouldn't be dragging you along all the time if you weren't an asset to me. For cryin' out loud, I couldn't save the world without you."
Ron seemed somewhat less than convinced.
"I know you think that, Kimbo, but what do I really contribute to the team?" he asked, pleadingly. "Sometimes I think all I really do around here is act goofy and lose my pants."
"Hey, you do lots of stuff." Kim replied, emphatically. "Just look at tonight's mission. You were the one who blew-up Electronique's lair."
"I tripped and fell against the self-destruct button." Ron admitted, incredulously. "I didn't even know that the stupid thing was there. I just got lucky was all."
"So what of it?" Kim asked, rhetorically. "I thought your 'dumb skills' were a big part of your fighting style."
"Dumb luck, Kim. Let's be honest with ourselves." Ron admitted again. "And that's really the root of the problem."
"Explain, please?" Kim demanded, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest.
"It's like this, KP." he dutifully explained. "Most of what I contribute to our operation is just luck-of-the-draw type stuff. Tripping over the right cord, falling on the right button, distracting the villain at the right time, et cetera. Sure, it's usually effective, but how often can we keep going back to that well? I mean, how long is it going to be before my luck finally runs out?"
"Ugh, Ron..." Kim groaned, placing her face into her hands. "This isn't another 'actuarial obsession' like last time, is it? Because if you start going crazy about 'odds' again..."
"No, it's totally different this time, KP." Ron said, as reassuringly as he could. "At least I think it is… probably… yeah."
"Way to go, Mister Decisive."
"No, I'm serious about this! I mean, so far I've always fallen on the right button. But what if next time I fall on the wrong button? I could wind up really hurting someone. And who's that gonna be? Rufus? ...myself? ...you? I mean, if you were ever hurt because of something I did, I... I..."
His words trailed off, indicating that he was either unable, or unwilling to even complete the thought now running through his mind.
Kim was stunned by this sudden outpouring of emotion. Sure, she was aware that Ron was concerned for her well-being, and that he took great pride in always watching her back. But it was a shock to see this concern so blatantly exposed. It was at once both unsettling and touching, and it gave her new appreciation for just how strongly this young man cared for her.
"Hey, now... Don't beat yourself up like that." Kim chided, once she had regained her composure. "Luck isn't the only thing you contribute, after all. You bring lots of abilities to the team."
"Oh yeah?" Ron replied, indignantly. "Like what?"
"Well, let's see... There's the thing with the uhhhh... ummm... Well, you can do that... ehhhhh... Hey, what about the time that... uhhhhhhh... hmmmmmm..."
"Yeah, that's about what I thought." Ron replied with a smirk.
"Ron, look... It's not as bad as..." an exasperated Kim replied.
"Don't bother, KP." Ron retorted, cutting her off. "I think we both know what the sitch is here."
"Ron, please..."
"I'm sorry, Kim," Ron sullenly said, getting up to walk toward the back of the plane. "Don't take it personally, but I think I just need some time alone right now."
Kim could only watch helplessly as the figure of the most important person in her life slumped down onto some rice sacks and heaved a heavy sigh. He was hurting right now: She knew this too well. And what was worse was the fact that there was nothing she could do to stop it. She felt helpless: unsure of what came next.
There was one thing she was sure of, however: This was going to be a very lonely flight home.
Ask any medical expert and they'll be sure to tell you; walking can be highly therapeutic. It has been known to improve circulation, promote cardiovascular health, increase lung capacity, stimulate muscle growth, and you tend to meet the nicest people while you're doing it.
It's also a good activity for the guy who's got a lot on his mind.
For Ron Stoppable, this was currently the case. Without a word, he had walked home from where their ride had dropped them off in front of Kim's house, his thoughts precluding any awareness of his surroundings. It had taken him only a few minutes to cover the short distance between Kim's home and his. When he finally turned the corner onto his own street, his head hung low as he walked the final few yards to the foot of his home's front path…
And kept right on walking.
As the quiet streets and manicured yards of suburbia slowly gave way to the storefronts and streetlights of downtown, the sullen young man hardly seemed to notice. A thousand different thoughts fluttered aimlessly through his mind like moths orbiting a campfire, all of them centering on a single, overriding question:
What was his place in Team Possible?
Sure, he brought a certain amount of luck to the table, but that wasn't really something you could count on. Much like his so-called Mystical Monkey Powers, it tended to come and go. What was more, it had the potential to be every bit as much a liability as it did an asset, should it ever decide to leave him or turn against him at the wrong time.
He had provided distractions on many occasions, but that wasn't really much to talk about either. It wasn't so much a skill as it was a task: Something which anybody with half-a-brain could do. Heck, even Rufus had provided distractions on several occasions. If that was the case, Kim could do just as well by carrying a naked mole rat of her own into battle.
He was loathe to admit it, but he couldn't for the life of him find any unique quality that he brought to the team. The more he thought about it, the more he just seemed to be in the way. He wanted to be there with Kim, to stand beside her through the thick of the fight, to help her when she needed him. On the other hand, however, he didn't want to be the cause for her needing help. This was, after all, something he just couldn't live with.
He was a liability to his best friend, he finally admitted, and this thought only served to drive him even deeper into the realm of depression.
He turned a corner into an alleyway, so utterly absorbed in his rapidly growing funk that he failed to notice the gaping hole, which had just opened in the pavement before him.
Ron wasn't sure what had just happened. One instant he was moping along, minding his own business, and the next instant he was taking a hard fall into some sort of underground cavity. Groaning with discomfort, he slowly hauled himself to his feet and looked around. It didn't take long to recognize that he was standing inside of a Global Justice transport tube.
"Ho, boy!" he gulped, realizing what was about to happen. "I'm definitely gonna regret grande-sizing that burrito this afternoon."
After several seconds of subterranean freefall, the tube lurched to a stop, disgorging its contents unceremoniously onto the concrete floor.
"Awwww, man! Why can't you guys just have a normal door like everyone else?" Ron groused as he picked himself up from the floor once again. He blinked several times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
He had expected to see the GJ command center, just as he had all the times before when this had happened, with technicians in white coats scurrying busily about, and an eye patch-clad Dr. Director standing watch over the entire operation. Instead, all that greeted him this time was darkness: darkness and silence.
"Uh, hello!" he called out into the void. "Dude without a clue over here! Could somebody shed some light on the situation, please and thank you?"
Several spotlights chose that moment to come to life, all of them focused on his position, fairly blinding him in the process.
"Ugh! I'm sorry I asked." He lamented under his breath, squinting strongly under the harsh glare.
"Mister Ronald Adrian Stoppable?" An anonymous voice suddenly called out from the darkness.
"Uhhh… Maybe." Came Ron's weak reply.
"Current member, senior class, Middleton High School..."
"Ummmmmm…"
"Social security number 572-63…"
"Okay, okay… You obviously know who I am."
"Yes we do," the voice confirmed, "but we're more interested in what you've done."
"Ahem… ahhhhhhh… Listen, if this is about something I've broken, I'm sure my parents insurance will…"
"Relax, son. This isn't about any damages."
"Ohhhh-kaaaaay… Then I'm officially confused."
"Allow me to be a little more specific, then." The voice replied. "Approximately nine months ago, you took part in a mission to thwart a global domination plot in Germany?"
"Uhhhh… Not sure on that, dude, but I'll take your word for it. When you go on as many missions as Kim and I do, after a while, they just kinda start blending together."
"And on said mission, you had the opportunity to operate an AV-8B strike fighter in a combat role?"
"Oh yeah! That much rings a bell! Man, I was on my A-game that night." He rubbed his knuckles across his chest, proud that for once, somebody was actually noticing his handiwork.
"And you are the current points leader on the Midwest-Region server for 'Wings of War?'"
"Yeeeeeah, well, when it comes to the mad gameage skills, the Ronster is… Wait, wait a sec… What has that got to do with the price of eggs?"
"Perhaps an explanation is in order."
"Hmmmm… Ya' think?"
With that, another spotlight came on, revealing a man in a neatly pressed, military-style uniform. He stood no more than ten feet in front of Ron's position, the collection of medals and insignia he wore seeming to indicate a person of some rank. Ron suddenly felt the unnerving suspicion that he was in some sort of trouble.
"Nearly a century ago," the man began, "the first combat pilots took to the skies in machines made of wood, wire and canvas. In craft that would barely qualify as orange crates with wings, they left the confines of mother earth to do battle. Without instruments, without flaps, without brakes or throttles, they fought savage engagements, inventing rules and tactics as they went.
"In these hellish battles, they discovered danger and heroism beyond anything which had preceded it. They discovered the basic rules of aerial engagement, a code of honor, and perhaps most importantly, they discovered a common bond: a camaraderie far stronger than any forged of nationality or political allegiance.
"Eventually, these men formed a sort of brotherhood: a fraternal organization dedicated to using the power of flight for goals far loftier than conquest or national defense. They vowed to use their skills and their machines to defend freedom, justice and liberty wherever it may be threatened, and they called themselves 'Thunder Eagles.'"
"Uh-huh, yeah." Ron finally broke in. "Still wondering what this has to do with me."
"It's quite simple, actually." The uniformed man continued. "Today, the Thunder Eagles exist as a branch of the Global Justice network; a paramilitary wing, if you will. While Global Justice's agents function in a law enforcement role, investigating crimes and apprehending suspects, the Eagles provide the bite behind the badge, neutralizing those perpetrators for whom traditional criminal proceedings simply aren't enough. In a sense, we take down the criminals who operate above the law."
"Ahhhhh, I see! So you dudes go out and bomb the bad guys!" Ron exclaimed, suddenly catching on.
"That would be the short version of it, yes." The man said with a smile. "To do this, however, we need pilots, and for this purpose we monitor a variety of channels, searching for individuals whose character and aerial skills stand-out amongst all others."
"Wait… you mentioned my 'Wings of War' scores earlier. Were you guys monitoring me or something?"
"I'm afraid so." The man admitted. "We do apologize for invading your privacy in that way, but it was necessary at the time that we stay under the radar."
"Well, it's all okay, I guess." Ron thought aloud. "But I'm still feeling majorly confused here. Just what the heck does all of this mean for me, then, exactly?"
The man placed his face into the palm of his hand and sighed. He would obviously need to spell it out for this kid.
"This is what we refer to as a 'Tapping Out' ceremony." He explained. "It is how we approach individuals who have exhibited the skills and abilities we look for, and how we offer them the opportunity to join our ranks."
"Question…" Ron interjected, raising his hand for effect. "Just who exactly is we?"
No sooner were the words out of his mouth, then a series of floodlights charged to life, revealing a ring of uniformed individuals encircling the entire room.
"We are the Thunder Eagles," the man stated succinctly. "And we wish to offer you an opportunity: The opportunity to become one of us."
Ron could only stand frozen in place, blinking in confusion. He had certainly been hit with some bombshells in his day, but this was a genuine, certified, fifteen-megaton thermo-nuke. In desperation, he tried opening his mouth, but words simply would not form.
"If you agree," the man said, continuing with his explanation, "then you will enter our organization as a trainee. You will go through physical conditioning and classroom instruction, putting yourself in the best physical and academic shape that you've ever been in. You will be schooled in survival and evasion techniques, and receive both hand-to-hand combat and small arms training. These will prove useful should you ever be forced down inside hostile territory.
"You will be trained in a variety of aircraft, ranging from bombers, to transports, to attack planes and fighters. Eventually you will choose an area of specialty, and be assigned a position within the organization after completion of your training."
"Because… I'm… good… at… video… games?" Ron stammered, not entirely believing the words that were now coming out of his mouth.
"Flight simulators." The man corrected. "There's a level of realism in those programs that goes way beyond a simple game, making them a fair test of aeronautical skills"
"Yeah, this is true." Ron thought aloud.
"So, what is your decision, young man?" the man asked, his tone clearly all-business in its nature.
"Wha… what? You mean I have to decide right now?" Ron stammered.
"I'm afraid so." The man replied. "This is a one time offer. Either you leave here tonight with us or without us. Either way, your decision will be final."
Ron's head was now fairly spinning out of control. There was so much to process, and he only had a few moments to work with. Admittedly, he didn't know much about military training, but from the little he did know, he suspected it to be a hellish ordeal of hard work and long days. Still, it would be so cool to look people in the eye and tell them he was a fighter jock.
Then there was something else to consider: His conversation with Kim earlier that evening.
During their flight home, he had lamented that his limited skills translated into limited contributions to the team, and Kim had all but agreed with this assessment. Now, as he stood here in the glow of the spotlight, it seemed he had been handed the opportunity of a lifetime. The fighting and survival skills would certainly come in handy while working in the field, and the ability to fly a plane: well that just had to be good for something, didn't it?
"Besides," Ron thought to himself. "Fighting for freedom and justice? Isn't that what Team Possible is all about?"
Ron looked up at the uniformed man with a steely gaze that conveyed an intensity and determination seldom displayed by the young boy.
"All right, I'm in." he said flatly.
"Excellent!" the man said, a broad smile creasing his face. "We'll begin your training immediately. If you would please follow Lieutenant Andrews, over here, he will show you to your transportation."
Ron was downright giddy as he walked past the uniformed man and toward his new future. "Man, oh man! Wait 'till KP hears about this!" he chimed.
Just then, his forward progress was halted by a restraining hand on his arm.
"Just so you're aware," the man growled in a low tone that brokered no argument, "all Eagles training is done under deep cover. You will have no contact with anyone on the outside while you are part of the program. That goes from this very moment, until the day you graduate and get your wings. Got it?"
"Eeeep… Yeah, got it." Ron gulped.
"Good. Now get moving, soldier."
Ron quickly complied, moving toward the door indicated by one of the other officers.
Once Ron was out of earshot, the uniformed man turned to one of the junior officers amongst the group.
"We got that jamming signal in place yet, Ensign?" he asked in a no-nonsense tone.
"Affirmative, sir." The young Ensign replied. "The signal is up and running. That tracking chip in his neck isn't going to be leading anybody, anywhere." He then turned to the older gentleman with a quizzical look on his face.
"Do you think we should tell him about that, sir?" the young man asked his superior.
"Negative. There's no need for that." The older man replied. "That kind of information would just stress the boy out. And besides, he's about to get more stress than he can handle."
Author's Notes:
Well, it looks like the Ronster just enlisted for the ride of his life. Will he wash out, or does he actually have what it takes to be a Top Gun? One thing is for certain: When this kid gets behind the controls of a 40 million aircraft, you know something big is bound to happen. (Your tax dollars at work here, folks)
This chapter, (and possibly future chapters as well), makes minor references to my previous story, Shadows of Angels. It's probably not a big deal, but if you really want to avoid any confusion, you can go to my profile for a link to that story. Chapter Six is what most of the references will be alluding to.
As always, remember to take care, don't eat yellow snow, and watch for the next chapter.
Right off! Far in!
Nutzkie…