Chapter Two: The New Sitch.

The elevator doors slid open, allowing Dr. Drakken to step out onto Henchco's office level. He had made a few changes since taking over the operation, several weeks ago. The first and most noticeable change had been to turn the company upside down. Jack Hench had maintained his office on the top floor, giving him a panoramic view of the city outside. Drakken wondered if Jack had appreciated this view when Amy (Drakken refused to think of her as Warmonga) threw him out of one of the windows.

Drew Lipsky had long ago given up trying to understand his own mind. For some reason, he had always felt most comfortable underground. Perhaps it was because so many of his inventions were so noisy, in an electromagnetic sense, and he needed the shielding the ground provided to keep his activities secret. Perhaps it was because he lived in a world where heroes, law enforcement, and villainous rivals could come swooping in from the sky. While enemies could also tunnel their way in, it took considerably more effort and generated a lot of noise. For whatever reason, since he was now in charge of this organization, he ordered all of the offices and conference rooms moved to the complex's second lowest level. The only thing lower was a combination mechanical and utility level.

"Good morning, Mr. Lipsky," his personal office assistant (Drakken hated the term secretary) greeted him.

"Good morning, Hank," Drakken returned the greeting. These days, Drakken went by his birth name, at least professionally. Very few people knew the blue-skinned, would be world conqueror's real name. While Hank Perkins was one of these people, the overly enthusiastic administrator knew enough to maintain the deception. "What's on the docket for this morning?"

"Well sir, you have the division heads' meeting in two hours. I have the income summaries right here." The young man handed Drakken an envelope. Drew gave the contents a cursory scan while Hank continued his report.

"You should be getting a call from your superior, at any time," Hank went on. "I forwarded these reports to her as soon as I compiled them. She's probably going to want to review them with you."

"Very good, Hank," Drakken saw that the income figures were still below what he expected, but given the fact that the world had just shrugged off a major invasion and most supervillains were either in hiding or incarcerated, he found the figures. Throw in the fact that he had just managed to reorganize a very chaotic Henchco and Dr. Director would be satisfied, as well.

"I'll hold all but emergency calls," Hank assured his boss, as Drakken walked into his office.

"Thanks, Hank," Drakken murmured, hitting his head on the doorframe because he was paying more attention to the report than his locomotion. Rubbing his forehead, Drakken sat at his desk and delved deeper into the report, going into the details behind the summary.

As he had suspected, equipment sales to villains and criminal organizations were at a distressingly low level. With the world's economies in turmoil, not to mention most of the more flamboyant criminals in prison, nobody wanted to buy a luxury submarine with leather seats, a DVD player and a built-in cappuccino machine. Nobody was in the market for a stealth hoverjet with high-gloss flame detailing and fuzzy pink dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

His personnel division was also generating disappointing results. With so many of the larger, criminal masterminds out of commission, there wasn't much demand for relatively unskilled henchmen. Drakken realized that he had employed about fifty henchmen in his Caribbean lair and guessed that Dementor must have employed a similar number, at each of his lairs. Drakken hoped that some of his former colleagues would set up some low-skill, high-labor enterprises soon.

His contracting division, on the other hand, was doing extremely well and gave him hope that the unskilled personnel situation was nearing its end. While Dementor, The Mathter, and Aviarius remained in prison, several other villains seemed to want to move into the high profile bracket. While the clients weren't using names, Drakken was reasonably certain that he recognized Falsetto Jones, Killigan and the Seniors, by stipulations on the contracts. Since they were building lairs, it made sense that they would have to hire henchmen to staff the lairs in the near future.

If he was pleased with the contracting division, the specialized personnel division left him absolutely giddy. Corporate espionage was at an all time high, with the world scrambling to rebuild after the Lowardian attack and governments seeking defenses against a similar incident. Not only had Drakken managed to employ all of his 'information acquisition specialists', he had been forced to lure a couple of elderly, former specialists out of retirement, just to train more operatives.

The office phone interrupted his musings.

"What is it, Hank?" Drakken asked.

"Your superior, on line one," the voice gushed.

"Put it on the secure video screen,"

"Done, sir," Hank's voice had barely faded when Dr. Director's stoic visage dominated one wall.

"Well, Drew," the woman's voice didn't have any readable emotion. "What's your opinion on the latest financial reports?"

"I'm disappointed with the overall income," Drew reported honestly. "But I don't think that we can expect a great deal better with circumstances the way they are. I'm still just getting the company on line, much less dealing with the villain situation."

"What do you intend to do, in broad terms?" She asked.

"I intend to keep up the marketing blitz," Drew insisted. "As you can see by the contracting reports, we have villains and organizations moving into the niches my former contemporaries and I once held. If we can gain their loyalty early, we'll retain it throughout their careers."

"I concur," Betty director gave a very slight nod.

"I have to wonder, though," Drew broached a subject that had been confusing him. "The building standards you set for Henchco's contracting division are very…excessive. They really increase building costs at a time when we're trying to gain customer patronage. When I was in the game, so to speak, I knew that I would see higher construction expenses than a legitimate business, but I didn't realize that I would have to pay for such extras."

"What do you mean, Drew?" Did Drakken detect a touch of humor in her expression?

"I mean the building designs and the systems inside the buildings!" He insisted. "I never really thought about my lairs' air handling systems, but I've found out that no building codes in the world require reinforced steel ductwork, like your standards require. In addition, the ducts are much larger than they need to be. Add to that, your standards call for much larger below-floor and above-ceiling plenum spaces, as well as drop-in ceilings much stronger than any building codes require."

"Why do you think we require this, Drew?" Drakken could definitely see the ghost of a smile on the woman's face.

"At first, I thought that you were running up the costs," Drakken admitted. "Then I realized that if you were simply trying to get more money, you wouldn't actually overbuild the systems, you would just charge more and save the additional material expenses."

"What other reasons can you think of for having oversized, reinforced airways?" Dr. Director now sported a broad grin.

"I don't know!" Drew snapped. "It's almost like…like you're making me build pathways for Possible and her sidekick to sneak in…to…the…" Drakken's eyes suddenly flew wide. "Do you mean to tell me that whenever I hired Henchco to remodel my lair, I was installing access routes for Global Justice's agents?"

"Exactly," Dr. Director informed him. "And that's why Henchco's contracting division will continue to build to the established standards. We estimate that Hencho performs sixty percent of all lair remodeling, for major villains. While we insist that you maintain confidentiality with your clients, every time you work for them, you are installing the potential infiltration gaps that will bring them down. It's a fine line between trust and betrayal that we count on you to maintain."

"That would explain the electrical conduits," Drakken muttered.

"What's that, Drew?"

"The electrical conduits," Drew repeated, louder this time. "Henchco's building standards call for a minimum of two-inch conduit. One of the electricians I hired says that even the US Defense Department allows conduit as small as three-quarter inch. I'm willing to bet that two-inch conduit is large enough to provide access for some sort of Global Justice probes."

"Robot probes and naked mole rats," Dr. Director agreed, sporting a satisfied smirk. "You'll find similar…over-engineering…traits throughout your contracting division. Plumbers, bricklayers, carpenters, cabinetmakers and carpet layers all wind up providing us with the ability to either break in or gain other intelligence."

"I'll bet that my personnel division works the same way!" Drakken exclaimed, experiencing another moment of epiphany. "While who hires my personnel is confidential, the employees' skills are not."

"Very good, Drew," Dr. Director complimented him. "And that's part of the fine line between loyalty and betrayal. While we don't know which villain is hiring which henchman, by analyzing skill requests and accident reports, we are able to decipher what the villain community is up to. Figuring out what to investigate is our job; your job is to help us figure out what we're looking for and when we need to look. If you give us any additional information, it will risk blowing Henchco's cover. That said, let's go over your business plans; I don't want that hanging over our head during game night, tomorrow. It's Monopoly night, if my memory is correct."

"And you are so going down this time!" Drakken declared. "Okay, with construction nearing an all-time high but henchman employment still below average, I'm planing on employing some of the henchmen as unskilled laborers. This will not only alleviate both my shortage of contract workers and my excess of henchmen; it will provide some cross training. Not all of the henchmen have the ruthless streak needed to make a long term living in that field, helping them learn a trade will expand their horizons."

"Not bad, what else?"

"On the appliance side, I've shifted the research and construction emphasis to corporate espionage gizmos. Since we have a market, I might as well tap it." Drakken heaved a heavy sigh. While he was perfectly capable of building the data extractors and covert, communication devices he had described, he didn't enjoy it a great deal. His passion lay in the large, complex machines. He loved to build weather control machines, super-lasers and hyper-sized power sources. Still, he couldn't complain about his lot in life.

"It seems you have a solid grip on the organization," Dr. Director approved. "Do you have anything for me?"

"I know I've asked this before," Drakken asked, hesitantly. "But is there anything I can do to help…"

"Drew, I've already told you that you can help Ed best by keeping away from him," Dr. Director firmly told her underling. "Keep in mind that you're officially a missing, convicted criminal and Edward is a parolee. If you do anything for him, and anyone finds out, it's going to put him back behind bars."

"I understand, but I can't help but think that he wound up with a raw deal after all of this."

"He did, to a certain extent," the head of Global Justice admitted. "However, he's coming out of this in better shape than he went in. Since he was abducted and coerced to help construct the walkers, and he proved instrumental in taking them down, the Department of Corrections is planning on taking a great deal of time off of his parole."

"I know, but what does he do after he gets out of prison?" Drew insisted. "The only legitimate job he's ever held, he lost because he refused to cut his mullet. He isn't exactly wired to be a productive member of society."

"You'd be surprised,' Dr. Director smirked at him. "He has plans to open a repair shop, followed by opening a demolition derby. While he won't show up on the Forbes' 500 list, he'll be able to make a comfortable living and keep out of trouble, if he chooses to do so. However, if he were to hear that you were building some sort of spy-spider robot for Falsetto Jones, and you were having trouble with the suspension system, what would he do?"

"He'd build the system for me," Drakken answered. "Both for the challenge and out of loyalty."

"And he'd get in trouble, if any law enforcement agency found out," Dr. Director concluded. "I hate to say this, Drew, but right now, you're the biggest danger to his future."

"I never thought I'd see the day that Eddie was a more respectable citizen than me," Drakken admitted, with a grin.

The wind tore at her hair, making what extended below her helmet stream out behind her. Her mane was going to be a tattered mess, but she didn't care. Team Possible was officially on vacation! Kim wrapped her arms around Ron's torso and watched the miles slip by.

The two teens were heading southwest, looking for warm weather and a sandy beach. They had reservations at a small hotel, in a small town north of San Diego, for tomorrow night. The minimal luggage they had with them was stowed in the bike's saddlebags, or lashed behind the backrest. Since few reporters paid much attention to Ron, nobody seemed to recognize his bike. This, combined with the fact that Kim and Ron were wearing tinted face-shields, gave them a wonderful anonymity. Sure, someone might recognize them when they stopped for lunch or made some of the other necessary 'pit stops' but Kim didn't care. For the first time since she started her web site, she and Ron were free to just enjoy themselves.

Kim smiled behind her darkened shield. She had thought that explaining this to Dr. Director would be hard, especially since the fallout from Loward's takeover attempt was still…well…falling. She had informed the older woman that she wanted to take a week off, with Ron, to just relax. To her surprise, Dr. Director had insisted that they take off more time.

"Various agencies and news organizations are going to be calling on you repeatedly, in the days to come," Dr. Director had told her. "I concur that you must take whatever relaxation and recreation that you can find."

In the end, Kim had to argue with her to limit the vacation to two weeks. Dr. Director wanted them to take off an entire month. Kim had a strong suspicion that, even though she and Ron would be back 'on watch' two weeks from now, they weren't going to be getting calls from any government agencies.

That was fine with her. For now, she was just enjoying the freedom and the company. After they stopped for lunch, and they didn't know where that would be, they would switch off with her driving and Ron riding on the back. Most guys wouldn't consent to such an arrangement but Ron, her Ron, had absolutely no concern about his 'image.' This left Kim free to be the 'Alpha' member of their partnership with no concern about his ego. It also left her free to contemplate which she enjoyed more; wrapping her arms around his torso as he drove, or feeling his arms around her while she did.

"Deep in thought, KP?" Ron's voice sounded in her ears. Wade had tricked out their helmets, providing low power radio frequency communications. Right now, they were on intercom mode. With a touch of a button, they could tie into the Kimmunicator on her belt. Wade could also activate the link, in case of an emergency.

"Just enjoying being away," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Your hands tend to wander when you're zoning out," Ron told her. "It's totally badical, but it can be a little distracting."

Kim quickly returned her hands to his waist. While Ron was a capable rider, it required his complete attention. Slight distractions could have major consequences.

"So, what all were you hoping to do on our little vacay?" Kim asked, as much to break the silence as to ask. When they had agreed on their destination, they had agreed to not discuss what each of them wanted to do until they left Middleton. Since their hometown was over two hours behind them, it was time to reveal the surprises.

"Not all that much," Ron admitted. "The main things were swimming and wakeboarding. Beyond that, I wanted to visit the zoo in San Diego and visit a local dance club at least one night. I checked, and there's supposed to be a really good place near the resort. How about you?"

"I gotcha with that one," Kim giggled back. "I decided to throw away the Blue-Fox for this trip. My list is totally blank so I'm pretty much good with whatever you come up with."

"Oh, so it's my fault if you don't enjoy yourself?"

"Not the drama, monkey-boy," she chided him, with a slight poke below his ribs. "You've always been so much about what I want to do that I decided I'd be about what you want to do…just this once."

"I still can't believe that your dad was cool about us going off alone like this," Ron commented.

"No more surprising than your mom," Kim replied. "I think my mom and your dad have been working on them. That, and now that we're eighteen, I think that they've realized that we're adults…kind of." Kim frowned, thinking about the discussion she had with her mother last night.

"You're starting to zone again, KP," Ron pointed out.

"I'll tell you about it later," she replied, quickly. "For now, let's just have fun."

"I'm all about the funage," Ron assured her.

The two teens simply watched the scenery pass by, looking forward to sand, sun and surf.

Little Jack drove his Porche through the rows of warehouses on Seattle's waterfront, heading for his home base. When he and the rest of The Boyz started pushing black-tar heroin four years ago, he thought it would be some sort of cloak and dagger operation. Instead, it seemed more like the four months he had spent, before then, working at a fast food restaurant; cars showed up at the warehouse, he and the rest of The Boyz unloaded the stuff, paid for it, then sold it to anybody with cash. There were no secret knocks on doors, no late-night meetings heralded by coded headlight flashes, or any of the other Hollywood spy stuff. The cops were so overwhelmed that the slightest efforts to remain discrete meant that other gangs got caught instead of The Boyz.

The only downside that Little Jack could see was the violence. Competition for selling turf was intense and deadly. Fully half of The Boyz who had started out on this adventure were dead and even though many more eager recruits had appeared to swell their ranks, the dead were childhood friends that Little Jack missed terribly. Even the guys he hadn't gotten along with very well had been lifelong acquaintances. He idly wondered if the rivals that The Boyz had gunned down in the process of claiming and defending their turf had left similar memories behind.

Still, the money was more than good. Black tar heroin wasn't something that either sat on the shelf or went out of style. The only argument The Boyz had ever had with their supplier was the quantity; The Boyz always wanted more. With the money came all of the things that money could buy; state of the art security systems for their warehouses and homes, fast, flashy cars, stylish, flashy clothes, exclusive clubs and the flashy young women that came with the lifestyle. Vacations were also part of the mix, Little John was just returning from two weeks spent between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. He would have headed to his house for another day of unwinding but Robbie had called him a few minutes ago and said that he needed Little Jack at the warehouse right away.

Still, the drive into Seattle's less than affluent section had made him a little uneasy. Even before he had left to unwind, competition had arrived in the form of several, new drugs. While whoever was pushing the new stuff hadn't invaded The Boyz' turf, yet, The Boyz hadn't been able to find out where the new stuff was coming from. To be perfectly honest, Little Jack would have been more interested in expanding operations than shooting it out with the new entity but something was…different…about the new competition.

For one thing, most gangsters walked a fine line between anonymity and celebrity. While most prudes and cops couldn't spot the gangsters, other gangsters could spot each other miles away. This new bunch was all but invisible. What was the point of entering this violent, but lucrative, life if you didn't live it up?

Secondly the street people, prostitutes, bums and general crazies had started to vanish at about the time the new stuff had started to appear. Little John really didn't care much about them but they were useful pushers and lookouts. The Boyz actually had to look for people to hold the merchandise, watch for cops and rivals and sell the product. Sure, they only had to look for a few hours, but that was a lot longer than they used to.

The final item bothering Little Jack was the stories he heard about this new force on the street, someone known as Bigfoot. A few of The Boyz' new recruits were formal rivals who had fled the areas where the new stuff was now available. According to them, these drugs were controlled by someone they called Bigfoot. Little Jack had no doubt that the stories were exaggerated, but if they were to be believed, Bigfoot was nine feet tall and always wore some sort of burqa so nobody ever saw his face. They said that Bigfoot had shrugged off gunshot and stab wounds, and had crushed his attackers with single blows. The new recruits, who got the most thankless and dangerous duties, claimed that Bigfoot could move like lightning. They didn't refer to Bigfoot as a him or her; they referred to Bigfoot as a what. While Little Jack wasn't looking forward to meeting up with this frightening legend, he was interested in seeing how close reality came to the stories.

Little Jack drove up to his warehouse and honked his horn. After a few moments, enough time for the guy on watch to check him out on the camera system, a bay door opened. Little Jack drove inside and parked in his spot while the door shut behind him. He stepped out of his car and stretched his 6'3" frame.

"What's goin' on?" He demanded of Creeper, one of the youngest Boyz.

"Robbie an' Smoke are meeting with someone new," the youngster told him. "Somethin' about getting more smack to sell."

Little Jack grunted his approval. If they could get their hands on anything with a kick, they could sell it for a profit. The gangster walked up to the door separating the parking area from the distribution area. Again, he waited for a moment while someone recognized him on the camera and while Creeper stepped away from the door. Creeper hadn't been a Boyz long enough to be allowed past the parking section.

The door opened and Little Jack made his way through the warehouse, where a small swarm of gangsters were packaging black tar heroin, breaking it down from the bulk shipment into sellable doses. This was another thing that he wouldn't have suspected before he got into the business. Back in his younger days, he had imagined people preparing the stuff in dim, dank, dirty basements. The Boyz had figured out pretty early that the stuff got prepared faster in well lit, ventilated and clean rooms. The room Little Jack walked through almost looked like an open office, except it wasn't numbers being crunched. He waved to several of the workers and received friendly gestures in return. Was it his imagination, or did several of the workers seem…nervous?

Shrugging his shoulders, he approached what The Boyz referred to as the office door. Again, he waited a moment or two for the door to open, then stepped inside.

"Okay, we're all here," his friend, Smoke, said from his position at the head of the large table. Just as the room outside looked like an efficient office, this room looked like a modern boardroom. The central table was highly polished wood, the seats were comfortable and the walls were well insulated, blocking the sounds from the activities outside. Little Jack closed the door behind him and took his seat. The other four Boyz around the table: Smoke, Robbie, Frown and Dutch, looked too sad for Little Jack's peace of mind.

"What's going on here?" Little Jack demanded. "Everyone out in the factory was tense and everyone in here looks scared, as well. Did someone make a move on our turf while I was gone?"

"You could say that," a deep voice, not belonging to any of The Boyz, answered him. Little Jack spun towards the voice, to see a giant figure walking in through the 'administrators' secret exit. Only the five, original Boyz knew about this passage that led to an enclosed stairway, down to a tunnel, then to another warehouse. "On the other hand," Little Jack corrected himself. "The five of us plus one know about it."

"You must be Bigfoot," Little Jack said to the burqa-clad figure. The gangster stood again and crossed his arms. This move brought his hand close to the snub-nosed .38 in his jacket pocket. While other gangsters might prefer the large, intimidating .44s or .45s, he put his stock in the smaller weapon. Little Jack considered a small weapon, which nobody knew about, to be more dangerous than a cannon that everyone could see.

"Some people call me that," the deep voice replied. Did Little Jack detect a hint of a feminine lilt in the voice? It couldn't be, the figure towered over him!

"Okay, since nobody else wants to talk, I'm gonna ask; what the hell are you doing in The Boyz' boardroom?"

"It's not your boardroom anymore," Bigfoot corrected him. "You all work for me now."

That was enough for Little Jack. There was no way that someone was going to just walk right in here and take over what he had spent four years building. He pulled his pistol and shot the towering figure. It wouldn't be the first time that The Boyz had to remove a body from their boardroom.

To Little Jack's shock, Bigfoot seemed to just shrug off the two bullets he managed to pump into him. A giant hand, encased in a glove, lashed out and caught his pistol hand, pointing the weapon towards the ceiling with irresistible strength.

"Don't do that again," Bigfoot snarled at him, starting to squeeze.

Little jack felt bones in his hand break as the pressure increased. Staring in disbelief, the gangster watched the pistol bend, warping under the incredible pressure. Once the pistol was rendered useless, Bigfoot released him to fall, moaning and clutching at his shattered hand, to the floor.

"I'll make this short," Bigfoot rumbled, producing a syringe. The giant seized Little Jack and injected him. "Like the rest of you, Little Jack's body is now incapable of synthesizing certain amino acids. I won't tell you which ones." The giant tucked the syringe away and produced another, which she set on the floor next to Little Jack.

"In order to avoid a very painful death, you must inject a synthesized version of these acids every day. Each of you has a specific malady, so stealing from each other won't do you any good. Now, let's get on to business." The giant stalked to the head of the table. Smoke scrambled out of the way.

"The first thing all of you are wondering, is what do you need to do in order to get your daily dose of life. This answer is simple. You sell the drugs I deliver and I'll send one of my…employees…each day to deliver your medicine and pick up the money from your sales. If you roll my employee or hold out on me, I'll simply quit producing your medicine. It's that simple."

"You might be concerned about your junkies' desire to purchase this product," Bigfoot continued. "Don't be. First of all, it won't do you any good and secondly, if they liked black tar heroin, they'll love the stuff I supply." The giant now produced a city map and threw it on the table.

"You're responsible for distribution in this area," Bigfoot informed them. "I don't care how you conduct your internal business. Sell my product, deliver my cash and there won't be any need for unpleasantness or any need for anyone outside of this room to know about our arrangement. If you cheat me, sell another product or muscle into someone else's territory, I'll simply quit producing your medicine. If you want to find out just how rough this will be, just wait twenty-six hours before injecting your medicine. I'd say wait twenty-seven but you have a very good chance of not surviving and I don't want to go through this more than necessary."

"What if someone moves in on us?" Robbie demanded. "How can we tell the difference between someone outside the family or another of your…slave gangs?"

"There's a very bright boy," a chuckle rumbled from Bigfoot's unseen mouth. "You've figured out that I've come to the same agreement with your formal rivals. It's very simple, if you catch someone else moving into your territory, you'll inform my employee during his next visit. I'll decide whether to let you take care of it or if I need to deal with it myself." The burqa shifted, as Bigfoot stared at each of the assembled gangsters. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant for you. You'll probably make more money than you did by selling heroin. Just do what you do and you won't have any problems."

"Jay-Ray and Squirmy," Little Jack gasped. "They came from one of our rivals! They ran away and told us about you! I didn't see them in the factory, what have you done with them?"

"Another bright boy," Bigfoot commented. "I know the two you're talking about. I didn't have the chance to…medicate them…before they ran away. You weren't here earlier, when I sent them to my own facility. Very shortly, they'll be serving me in their own way."

"You killed them, didn't you?" Little Jack demanded.

"Actually no," Bigfoot's grating chuckle froze everyone's blood. "I'm making good use of them. Trust me, there are worse fates than death. When you go to bed tonight, say a prayer and beg to never find out just how they're serving me."

"My employee will arrive in a large van tomorrow at two-thirty," Bigfoot concluded, turning and stalking towards the secret exit. "He'll tell you all about the product you'll be selling and give you your second doses of your medicine. I suggest you limit your questions to the product. I don't like people being curious about me. Remember that I don't have to actually do anything to take any of you out, I just have to quit making your medicine. Good day, gentlemen."

The assembled Boyz stared at the door long after the giant had departed.

"What do we do now?" Little Jack, squirming and grimacing from his injury, asked the room.

"We get you to a doctor," Robbie told him. "We'll say that I managed to run over your hand. They should believe it."

"No," Little Jack insisted. "What do we do about Bigfoot and the medicine?"

"I guess we start selling whatever he delivers."

A/N: Again, my thanks to Joe Stoppinghem for his invaluable beta services. Thanks for reading everyone.

Until my next update, best wishes;

daccu65