Disclaimer: "Kim Possible" belongs to Mike and Brian… OOPS, wrong fandom. I mean, "KP" belongs to Mark and Bob. There we go.

Author's Notes: Before you read this chapter, I must let you know that I HAVE ADDED SOME INFORMATION TO THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER. PLEASE GO BACK AND READ THAT BEFORE CONTINUING ANY FURTHER IN THIS STORY. It should clear things up a lot for you and make way for this new chapter. And if you happened to not read this author's note the first time and are totally like, "WtC?" Shame on you.

So, yeah. Haven't updated in forever… But I thought I would let you know that this story will get finished. Maybe just not as quickly as you or I would like. I suppose I could give you some long-winded rant about how horribly busy my life is, and maybe in some ways, it kind of is. But that's still no excuse for my lack of updates. I am only 15, and my adolescent mind simply cannot comprehend how some people can be so interested in a story I find such trouble in writing. Thankfully, inspiration has struck, and I'm ready for another shot at updating.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone for reviewing and reading this far. Even if you don't leave feedback, it still means a lot to me that you took the time to click on my link.

Thanks to The Real Sidekick (as usual), Solarstone, and Aqua94 for reviewing last time around.

To Build an Empire

"Desert Places"

The scar-faced man entered through the automatic doors of his bed chambers, muttering incoherently under his breath. He sat down heavily on the bed and ran tiny fingers through his greasy black hair. So many things were bouncing around in his turbulent mind—more so than usual.

Something was off. Something was wrong. He needed to fix it.

But how?

Stoppable wasn't acting normally; somehow he had lulled the others' disbelieving ears with soothing lies and taunting half-truths. He had filled their minds with promises and partnerships and results that tasted far sweeter to their embittered tongues than Drakken's own half-hearted pleas. He was just too good.

And that was a bad thing.

Drakken rubbed his eye thoughtfully. It wasn't as if he hated ruling an entire country; it had been his dream all along. But he kind of wanted to do it himself. When that sidekick had come along and just defeated the whole world so easily, brought them to their knees with the swiftness of a circling hawk, he felt empty—and now a twinge of jealousy and uneasiness was constantly gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

He needed to get rid of this problem. This feeling. This awful just knowing that something was terribly, awfully, horribly wrong. This "benevolent" dictatorship wasn't the way the world was supposed to turn. Through many hardships and turmoils, Drew Lipsky had finally come to the realization that the world could not be ruled by one man alone—though that would not stop him from continuing to try. He didn't really care if he controlled the world; the whole fun of it was just trying—and fighting Kim Possible, of course.

But Ron… Ron was just off. He didn't care about the "fun" or the fighting or keeping the world in balance. He didn't purposely continue to build weapon after weapon, or continue to imagine scheme after scheme, just to be blown to oblivion. Then to come back and do it all over again.

When Drakken started, he knew he would never successfully take over the world. And that was OK with him. Sure, he enjoyed doing bad things, kidnapping people, and threatening the world with horrible machines, but for the most part, the people were unharmed, his threats idle, and his machines obsolete. Ron… or Zorpox, whomever… didn't spare people's lives. He really built machines that really hurt people.

And, Drew realized, he didn't like it.

It was wrong, it was off.

He stood up from where he sat on the bed. Call him stupid, but the villain thought he had finally grown a conscience. He had to do something.

--

The tower was large and lonely. The cold stone floors and empty metal walls felt more like a prison than a home. But as time went on, Kim realized there was only one room in the whole complex that she felt she could be truly at ease, and this was the workout room.

Mats and dummies lined the walls, and thick hardwood covered the floor. It felt warm and homey compared to the polished steel and shining tile of the rest of the building. The red-haired woman stood in an offensive stance, mind and body ready. She began throwing sharp punches and kicks at the punching bag hanging before her. A white, chalky dust erupted whenever her fist or her foot connected with the sand-filled bag.

Kim still had a bit of pudge from being just recently pregnant, but her young body combined with her vigorous training routines had greatly diminished any remaining fat she had. Her little boy and girl sat quietly in their baby carriers off to the side; there was no way Kim would leave them alone for one second, even if she was training.

Sweat began to pour down her face as she attacked the bag with more fervor. This is his fault. I can't believe this.

For a while, there had been a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something just short of uneasiness and contempt was gnawing away at her insides, and she knew it had something to do with Ron. It's his fault. Although he has been acting strangely… different lately.

She didn't know what to think. It was his fault, she told herself, yet she couldn't help but still feel a small tug on her heartstrings. He had been her best friend for so long; it was just so hard to think of him as anything but. But all the things he had done to her, done to them, done to the world was slowly eating away at her. Could this erosion of my soul ever be reversed? I am not the same as I once was. I think I feel… regret. The never-ending record player that had come along so long ago in the back of that squad car had now resurfaced. The redhead thought she had buried it for good; but the seeds of doubt had been planted, and they had taken root in her mind. All she could do was push them back and try to forget.

But every once in a while, on days like today, they would spring up with greater fervor and intensity than ever before.

Kim hated these days.

So she released all of her feelings on the punching bag, kicking and ripping and tearing through it until there was barely anything left of either of them.

A familiar voice greeted her ears and interrupted her thoughts. "Hey."

She whirled around to see Ron standing at the door of the room, completely decked out in his usual black garb. "What do you want?" she spat venomously.

"Nothing." He walked further into the room. "I just thought I would come see what you were up to."

His smooth voice calmed her nerves, and her tense muscles relaxed just a bit. She was still on edge. "Why?" she questioned.

"'Cause I wanted to." As if that was a good enough explanation.

Kim's green eyes traveled to her sleeping twins, then back to the man before her. When she saw her son, staring purposelessly into empty space, she felt another, hotter fire rekindled within her. She lunged at Ron with the ferocity of a feral tiger. "I hate you!" she growled as she tackled him to the ground. He landed beneath her in a whoosh of air and looked at her with an almost confused look on his face.

"What?"

"Stop playing stupid!" she spat. Kim began throwing punches and kicks at him. Ron managed to roll out from underneath her and did his best to block her attacks. This only made her more frustrated. "I know this is all your fault." She kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over, but did not fall. "My life is a mess, this world is screwed over…" Her knee connected with his back, and the blond man fell to his knees. "I hate you!"

Tears stung at her eyes as she glared at her former friend with embittered loathing. "It's all your fault!" she screamed at him. "My son is blind because of you!"

He looked up, and brown eyes connected with green. His face was a mask devoid of any emotion, but there was one tiny crack. One small sliver of light so small and so minute that the raging Possible immediately dismissed it—it was shame. He, clad in black, superior to all, on his knees before his most hated enemy, felt… ashamed. But she did not notice.

Ron rose to his feet. "Kim, I—" He reeled back as her fist connected with his face. He fell on the ground but didn't say a word.

"Why don't you fight back?" she said, the obvious tears streaming down her face. "Why do you only block and defend when I am attacking you with such vigor? I hate you, and you hate me back! You are a coward for not fighting me!" Kim yelled at him. He did not move.

Then Kim said something so quietly that her opponent almost did not hear her. "I know what you did to Josh."

He wiped the blood from his brow and looked at her with an impassive gaze. "What—?"

Her stormy eyes were now full of sadness and pain. "I know what you did to him," she repeated softly. Her fists clenched in agony, and the tears poured forth. "I know he is dead."

Ron stood there, his face still a mask of anything short of emotion. But on the inside, his soul was fighting with itself, ready to explode from the turmoil raging within. How did she know? Did he make the right choice? Perhaps Josh was right about all this… No. He could not let himself be swayed by such stupid and childish thoughts. He had already embraced his mature destiny; there was no turning back now.

Kim looked at him, searching his features for the emotions or conflict she had missed before. Maybe… maybe there was still something down there beneath all that black, something left of the old Ron. The Ron she had loved. But her searching came up short; his dark eyes were as blank as ever. She turned away, partially in shame because of her childish hopes, and partially disgusted that he could be so effectively void of anything. She pulled a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear, gathered her two sleeping children, and left the room.

It was a long time before Ron followed her out.

--

Ron traveled through the complex, never once staying in one room for too long. He walked through the kitchen and grabbed himself a cup of coffee with chocolate and whipped cream before heading back to his office. As he sat at his large desk, sipping his coffee and staring out over his vast kingdom, he contemplated the loneliness he felt deep in the pit of his soul.

He enjoyed his life right now. It was perfect, and everything was running smoothly and like he wanted it to. He was literally the most powerful man in the world. But he felt his mind had been corrupted by that red-haired woman and her late husband. He reached a hand into his pocket and felt the wedding ring he had taken from Kim a while ago, before her twins were born. Why did he do that? Why did he care if she was married to some jerk who really didn't love her? What did it mean to him if she screwed over her life for a love that was nonexistent?

Ron wasn't usually one to brood and contemplate over the minute details of life, but this one had him stumped. He had loved her more than she could ever imagine; why would she leave that behind?

And more importantly, why did he care so much?

He got up and walked towards one of the huge ceiling-to-floor windows, running a gloved hand through his sandy hair. He was supposed to be cold, stoic, emotionless; he was supposed to hate Kim Possible for what she had done to him and be willing to stop at nothing to get her back.

…But do you want revenge, or do you simply wish to win her over again?…

He shook his head and nearly laughed at the notion. What a preposterous idea! He had simply taken over the world so he could prove his worth and his invaluable genius. He was sick and tired of being taken advantage of, and if he could prove to everyone… prove to Kim… that he was worth something, then he would do it no matter what.

Right?

He placed a gloved hand over the polished glass. Ron tried to look past his reflection and see the world he had created outside, but all he could see was the mirror image of himself staring right back at him. Odd; his skin didn't appear to be as blue as it used to be, even with the tone-changing watch turned off. The bright cerulean had diminished into a cream-colored sky blue—the color of a freshly-packed glacier reflecting the ocean at one of the world's icy Poles.

He ran his hand up and down, suddenly getting the odd urge to feel the heat-spun sand cleanly beneath his fingertips. Ron removed his glove and placed his fingers back upon the glass. It felt cold beneath his warm hand.

That was even odder. It had been a while since he had felt so hot on the inside. Probably just the coffee he drank.

He examined his hand and marveled at the complex intricacies of the human body. So many working parts, all functioning perfectly in sync with one another. Humans were a miracle of nature; in all honesty, people really shouldn't exist at all. They were far too complex to make it even past the first small stages of evolution.

Besides, the rules of the world stated that things became simpler, not more complex. Perhaps, then, a being even greater than himself was at work here, running and dictating and allowing everything that went on.

If that was true, then why was he allowed to live? Why was he allowed to create such a perfect utopia when so many people were complaining about his methods? Was he good or was he bad? A madman searching for his mind, or a simple man trying to escape the all-consuming void of his own despair?

His uncovered hand found its way over his heart. It used to beat strongly and full of purpose; but now it was weak and sporadic. It had no reason, no will to spasm the way it did, pushing blood throughout his body.

And, Ron realized with increasing concern, that things were definitely not the way they used to be. He had been swept away by his rage and this uncertain will to be evil, to get back at everyone for ever thinking badly of him. But now, the storms had receded and had left him stranded in a strange land with cold and foreign emotions.

The blond man ran his hand down the glass, streaking it with oil. He was trapped inside himself, he thought, desperately trying to escape his own desert places.