Special thanks to MrDrP, Dr. J0nes, conan98002, surforst, AtomicFire, and neithan for their reviews.
Thanks to everyone for reading!
I apologize for the delay since I posted chapter ten; the Holidays were quite busy and hectic.
Everything related to KP belongs to Disney.
Everything from Gravity's Rainbow and Vineland is the intellectual property of Thomas Ruggles Pynchon.
Prairie tried bringing her hair forward in long bangs, brushing the rest down in front of her shoulders, the surest way she knew, her eyes now burning so blue through the fringes and shadows, to creep herself out, no matter what time of day or night, by imagining that what she saw was her mother's ghost. And that if she looked half a second too long, it would begin to blink while her own eyes stayed wide open, its lips would start to move, and then speak to her stuff she was sure she'd rather not hear...
--Vineland, pages 98-99
I.
Bonnie Rockwaller drove her practically new Mini Cooper through the darkened streets of her labyrinthine subdivision. She was talking on the phone to Tara, applying nail polish to her ring finger on her left hand, and trying with equal parts ennui and disgust to find something decent to listen to on her MP3 player. Fortunately, her cell phone was Bluetooth compatible which freed her left and right hands to perform their more pressing tasks unencumbered.
She steered by pressing the top of her right knee against the base of the wheel. If there was one thing Bonnie was more accomplished at than cheerleading and snarking, it was driving. Even when a squirrel darted out a mere ten feet in front of her headlights, Bonnie was able to seamlessly avoid hitting it without missing a beat in her conversation or botching the stroke on her nail.
The car was "practically new" because it had been a semi-Christmas/semi-Graduation gift. That is, it was meant to be her Graduation gift, but she received it on Christmas because there was no way Bonnie was going to ride the bus her entire Senior year at Middleton. The first three months of school had been literally unbearable as the posh cheerleader found herself squished between pimply fourteen-year-old boys every weekday morning.
In her Sophomore and Junior years, she had either gotten rides with Brick or, once she had received her license, driven his car. Although his teammates had congratulated him on getting Rockwaller to "chauffer" him around; the star quarterback knew better – it had been Bonnie's decision to drive, and more or less, it had become Bonnie's car. Now that he was at Colorado State (and dating that Club Banana chick), his sporty pickup was no longer an option. Connie and Lonnie had their cars at their respective colleges, and Mr. Rockwaller was avoiding buying his youngest daughter a car for some reason. Most likely, the reason was because they hated each other.
Bonnie's mother, Daryl Louise, had offered her daughter use of her car. It had been an offer her mother could easily make since she was a stay-at-home divorcee who spent most of her time spending the amply alimony she got bi-weekly from her ex-husband. She had had an excellent lawyer. However, there was no way Bonnie would be seen dead driving her mother's 1984 Trans Am. Sure, she had thought the care was "the boss" when she was five, but, c'mon, rilly.
Instead, her mom parlayed her alimony into the Mini and was able to cut a deal, so the car would arrive at Christmastime before the end of her dear "Bon-Bon's" first semester. Although she hated displaying any emotion (public or otherwise) with her mother, even Bonnie couldn't resist hugging her mom in the driveway when she saw the silver little car Christmas Eve. And she couldn't help voicing her agreement when her mother asked if the car was not "totally boss."
As she effortlessly pulled into her driveway, Bonnie ended her conversation with Tara. Her best friend was going on a date with that Renton kid she had met the previous evening at the Stoppable's house. Tara had explained they were going to do the typical "dinner-and-movie" routine. They had originally planned on visiting Possible in the hospital first, but Tara learned when she called for Kim's room number that the teen hero had already been discharged.
"Probably on another date-mission with Ron," Bonnie had offered in an only slightly-acidic voice. Even though she had developed a measure of respect over the past year for the most famous couple at Middleton High (and even acknowledged her respect for Ron to his face the previous Spring), she still could not bring herself to envision the two of them making out or … worse.
Some things are just too weird to think about.
She had even played with the idea of visiting Kim herself earlier in the day. Bonnie had been quite jolted upon first hearing the news that Kim was in the ER. True, she still never gave the redhead's missions much thought (even after having been on one); yet, Kim had never been hurt – much less ended up in the hospital -- as a result of her "hero" duties before. When she overheard from the Club Banana Chick late in the day that Kim was fine and expected to be fully recovered in a few days, Bonnie had ruefully acknowledged that she was much relieved to hear the news.
Could it be that I … well … kinda don't hate Kim Possible …I mean, really hate hate her …anymore?
This was the thought she was mulling over as she fished her keys from her purse and went to unlock her front door.
There was a little green post-it on the knocker. It was flapping in the wind that Bonnie had just noticed was picking up quite fiercely. It read in her mother's handwriting: "Gone Shopping."
Frozen cardboard pizza again! Thanks a ton, mom!
Her mother was out blowing her alimony in some overpriced boutique a time zone away in Southern California … without her. One of the few things Bonnie could stand doing with her mother was shopping. She even tolerated being called "Bon-Bon" in public on these trips. And it really irked Bonnie to no end when her mother left on these excursions without her.
As she crumpled the note and tossed it derisively into her purse, Bonnie gave the sky a glance. The enormous cumulous clouds that were swiftly moving across the moon-lit sky made her pause, if however briefly, before she entered her darkened home. For some reason, they made her think of a scene from that old space ship movie … at the point in the film just before the giant spaceship descends onto the top of a mountain.
II.
Keeping a very agitated eye upon the psychopath with the gun, Yori steeled herself to fight off the advancing monkey ninjas and their simian-obsessed sensei. Even though fear had begun to bubble and percolate at Yori's extremities, her years of training, her combat experiences, and her instincts all screamed that turning and running would be so not the right move. Self-control would be key to any successful fight resolution and (hopefully) escape attempt. And nothing gave the appearance (at least) of self-control than keeping her feet firmly planted when by all rights she should have been high-tailing it across the catwalk toward the open hanger doors.
Darwin was the first to reach her. And as he leapt in the air, his feet and front paws extended threateningly, Yori quickly flashed out her left shoe and brandished it menacingly. Without warning, Darwin desperately clutched at the catwalk's railing with his tail--this sudden movement resulted in the monkey ninja spiraling out of control--his former martial grace being reduced to a clutching and screeching tangle of fur and clattering ninja paraphernalia as he looped around the railing by his tail, banged his head against the base of the catwalk and tumbled toward the floor below.
"Dude! Get this ape out of my hair! Seriously, Curious George is messing up my do! No one monkeys with the mullet! Seriously!" The almost immediate tirade from Motor Ed satisfied Yori that Darwin's thirty-foot plunge had been somewhat broken.
Plucky was Yori's next opponent. Trying to redeem his somewhat limited role from the previous battle, Plucky approached her warily. In a classic fighter's stance, the smallest of the three monkey ninjas locked eyes with Yori and slowly began circling her. Since Plucky displayed no fear of Yori's footwear, she was obliged to follow the tiny ninja's lead. Still, she kept a peripheral glance on the approaching third ninja and Lord Fiske. They would reach her in half a minute maybe less; she would have to act fast. The sound of whistling drew her attention to the hanger's opposite wall. The tune was a peppy one, very familiar and for those reasons all the more disconcerting. Potty Mouth was whistling the pleasant air as he meandered down the opposite catwalk—obviously, so he could get a cleaner shot at her.
At the moment that Yori recognized the tune as the theme song for the classic early American-situation comedy "The Andy Griffith Show," Plucky menacingly bore his small milk-white teeth at her. Yori rolled her eyes, unceremoniously snatched up the tiny ninja with one hand, leaned over the railing, and, carefully aiming him so he would land in the wide orbit of Ed Lipsky's hair, dropped him over the side.
As she prepared to take on the lumbering, yet not entirely graceless, form of Santayana, a horrified shriek from the floor below let Yori know that her aim had been true.
"What is going on up there?" one of the scientists asked, peering up to see a young girl easily eluding the clumsy movements of what appeared to be an orangutan haphazardly dressed in a ninja costume.
"Uh, Dr. Freeman?" asked another scientist who was desperately trying to untangle Plucky from Motor Ed's mullet. "A little help over here?"
"Watch the mullet, watch the mullet! Seriously, the little guy's hands and feet are pulling my locks at the roots! Oww! Seriously, that hurts!" Apart from the stench of the scientist's motor oil/after shave, Darwin had been able to escape relatively unscathed from Motor Ed's hairdo. Plucky, with his diminutive size, had not been so fortunate and was effectively lost in the acres of strategically shorn blonde hair.
"Oh, yes, certainly! On my way." Dr. Freeman replied, advancing toward his fellow scientists while keeping an eye on the lopsided battle taking place right over their heads. Once he reached the mullet-ed researcher's side, Dr. Freeman immediately deduced what the problem was. The small monkey was none too happy about being yanked at and, subsequently, was taking a defensive stance by hanging on with all his might to anything his feet and hands could grip--i.e. Motor Ed's hair. "Why don't you tickle him?"
The question stopped Motor Ed and the other scientist cold. "Dude," Motor Ed managed evenly, "if EITHER one of you tries to tickle me, you WILL be sorry. Seriously."
"No, no," Dr. Freeman smiled, "not you. The monkey." To demonstrate, he gently put his hand among the tangled rat's nest that used to be Ed's well-groomed mullet. Within seconds, he was able to locate Plucky, and he proceeded to tickle him. The ninja's torturing shrieks instantly became giggles, and the erstwhile monkey leaped free of Motor Ed's frizzled mane and landed in Freeman's waiting arms. "See, wasn't that easy?"
Motor Ed was relieved but tried his best not to return Freeman's good humor. "All I know, dude, is that I better not have nits," he groused, eyeing his split ends with much disfavor.
"Well, I'm sure our friend here will be more than happy to pick them out and eat them for you," Dr. Freeman asserted.
Both Plucky and Motor Ed gave the scientist the "hairy eyeball" for that comment.
"Dude, I have had enough monkeys in my hair today to last me a lifetime, seriously," Motor Ed said struggling to work his hands through his impossibly tangled hair. "NEVER liked 'em. Seriously! My dad took me to Palisades Park when I was kid, that organ grinder's little monkey dude gave me a look I'll never for--AAAAAAA!" Just as Motor Ed was about to open up about a deep-seated childhood memory that, given a properly selected therapy group, may very well have resulted in a bonding moment with Ron Stoppable, he was cut short by Santayana landing on his head.
Dr. Freedman, who was developing a great fondness for Plucky (the feeling was mutual; the scientist apparently had a sixth sense for finding the location behind the ninja's left ear that screamed out to be scratched), again turned his attention to the catwalk above his head. "What in the world is going on up there?" he asked with genuine interest.
Motor Ed's third cry in as many minutes let Yori know that her final monkey ninja opponent was also unharmed by his fall.
Their sensei, however, would not be so easily vanquished. Lord Monkey Fist rose from his simian lope and stood at his full height as he approached Yori. His eyes were as cold and as focused as hers.
Again, she did not flinch. Everything about the combatants' postures indicated that a showdown to remember was imminent. Only a mere five feet separated them when their zen-mask-like expressions simultaneously broke into looks of distaste.
"He is not whistling, THAT, is he?" Monkey Fist spat.
"Regretfully, it appears so." Yori said as she eyed the gun-toting lunatic on the opposite catwalk. "The theme for the 1970's American television series 'Kung Fu', correct?"
"Indeed." Monkey Fist sighed. "Shall we?"
"One moment, I beg," Yori said as she placed her shoes, which had been gripped in her right hand, on the catwalk and out of the way.
"I feel honored, Miss Morituri," Monkey Fist said sarcastically, "you deem me worthy enough to put down your sandals. What ever do you have them off for anyway?"
A sharp right kick to the jaw was his answer. Monkey Fist shook his head, and cracked his jaw back into place.
"If we could pare the banter down to a minimum," Yori explained pleasantly with a short bow, "I would be most grateful. I am in a hurry."
"Fine," Monkey Fist grimaced, "bring it."
Releasing a sudden barrage of punches and kicks, Monkey Fist was able to back Yori down the catwalk a good ten feet. Although they weren't connecting, his attacks definitely had the young ninja on the defensive. That is, until her unexpected leg sweep put him on his biscuit.
For someone who spent the better part of three hours a day sitting in the lotus position on a straw matt cultivating "serenity time," Fiske consistently had trouble keeping his cool in a fight. And this bout with Yori was no exception. After he got back to his feet, she was able to anticipate and parry each of his moves. He soon found himself being backed down the catwalk by her attacks. As more of his attacks failed to connect and more of hers succeeded to, he became angrier and angrier. Why am I always being bested by teenagers? A different strategy was required.
"Miss Morituri," Monkey Fist began after successfully blocking one of her charges, "it really would be in your best interest to surrender now."
The stink eye she gave him was for his breaking the banter moratorium; she didn't even register what he had said.
He blocked another charge and wheedled in another line. "You do realize what is going to happen if you defeat me."
"'Leave It to Beaver'?" Yori asked.
"Pardon me?" Monkey Fist stumbled, his concentration broken. Then he realized that Potty Mouth had, indeed, switched tunes again. "No, no, it's 'My Three Sons.'"
"Ah, yes," Yori concurred, "Fred MacMurray-san."
"Indeed," Monkey Fist said before launching a flying kick that Yori easily dodged.
"Your colleague seems well versed in classic American television," she said conversationally as Monkey Fist, once again, picked himself off the catwalk.
Her calm tone only angered him more. "Yes, I believe he was home schooled by cable tv," he said before attempting a sudden leg sweep of his own.
She deftly dodged his move and countered with a flurry of kicks that drove the former British Lord back to the catwalk, gasping for breath.
It was now or never. "He is going to shoot you if I fail!" Monkey Fist said matter-of-factly.
That did give Yori pause.
Still sitting upon the catwalk, Monkey Fist gave Yori the full weight of his unblinking eyes, a look he hoped conveyed sincerity. "If you surrender now, I will guarantee that he will not harm you. Once we have what we need, you will leave without further damage to your person." He pointed to the nasty wound on her wrist. "Is it worth it, Yori?" He gestured with a look at the armed youth across the hanger, who had, once again, begun humming another tune. "This thing your sensei deigns as 'honor' … is it worth your leg? Is it worth your life?"
For the first time Yori seemed puzzled.
Monkey Fist smiled.
Dr. Freeman and his new friend Plucky had been following Yori and Monkey Fist's fight intently. "What are they saying?" he asked out loud to no one in particular. Plucky assumed the scientist had been asking him and shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly, something off to the right caught both of their attentions. "What is going on down here?"
Yori dropped her fighting stance as well as her defenses. She looked across warily at Potty Mouth and then extended her arm to Monkey Fist. As she gripped his hand, she gave him the full weight of her eyes, a look that betrayed only sincerity. "I do not know."
"Do not know what, Yori?" Monkey Fist smiled as he began to climb from the floor.
"This tune." Yori explained.
"Oh, that." Monkey Fist said. He thought a moment and smiled. "I believe it is from 'Family Affair.'" He got to his feet, their hands still joined. "Before your time I believe."
"Ah, yes," Yori smiled. "Ben Keith-san and Sebastian Cabot-san."
They exchanged smiles. Monkey Fist noticed that Yori had yet to release her grip on his wrist.
"They were all before my time, Monkey Fist," Yori explained, "as was Honor." She tightened her grip on the former Lord's wrist, and using his own weight against him pivoted on her right foot and swung him into the small pyramid of empty canisters off to their left.
With the cacophony of the empty cans still in her ears, Yori turned and fixed Potty Mouth's eyes with the same unflinching stare she had given all her previous opponents. She walked toward the railing and positioned herself so that her right leg, the one he had cocked his pistol at less than an hour earlier, was clearly visible (and in his sights) between the railings' bars.
She was unsure whether he could hear her over the noises from below or over his own tone-deaf whistling; therefore, she clearly and defiantly mouthed to him a single word: "Bring."
III.
The Middleton Space Center was located on the outskirts of town, not technically within the city limits in fact. Although the tri-city area had sprawled in every direction since 1985, the year when ground was first broken for the Center, Colorado's only space exploration complex was still a good five miles away from the nearest private home or business. Apart from the occasional late working rocket scientist, the place was pretty deserted on a Friday evening.
This Friday evening it was completely deserted.
The Center was equipped with a state of the art surveillance system which was being directly monitored by several law enforcement agencies (local, state and federal) as well as to the omnipresent systems of a Mr. Wade Load twenty-four hours a day on the odd chance anything unusual were to occur (such as the unscheduled visit of Prof. Dementor the previous evening). However, they provided no protection this night.
It happened in less than thirty seconds. In the short space of time it took for the cumulus clouds, that Bonnie Rockwaller had noticed earlier, to sweep across the face of the moon, things were utterly, irrevocably changed. One instant all the systems were online; the next they were ... gone.
The tremor was a mild one. In fact, the only "after shock" -- the rattling of a handful of dishes in the Reager household, the nearest household to the Center -- was only noticed by Mr. and Mrs. Reager who subsequently blamed it on their son Ron's impromptu "piano lesson" to drown out the sound of the" American Star-maker" television show his younger sister was watching.
The only person who was in the position to determine what had just happened, Wade Load, was otherwise occupied at the time that whatever occurred did occur.
The arc that gravity compels the moon to trace upon the night sky and the ever-inflating arc of human technology have different points of origin and termination. However, the mind must remain alert and the eyes must be wide open during the moments when these two arcs cross. For then, monsters are seen.
However, that was the problem this Friday evening. No one was watching.
Besides, the moon was behind those clouds anyway.
IV.
Potty Mouth had stopped whistling. The main reason was because it was impossible to whistle while smiling malevolently from ear to ear. He picked his target, steadied his aim, gave Yori's iron stare one final dismissive glance, and pulled the trigger.
Although she was maintaining her stare, Yori, in the seconds before the gun was fired, had already begun the mental preparations for the pain that she knew would be coming. She had never been shot before; she didn't know what it would feel like, but she had to do whatever she could. Bullet wound or no, escape would remain her goal.
However, Yori had not expected what happened when the gun was fired. She was taken completely and utterly by surprise. Like dried sand in a child's fist, all her ninjistu training and mental exercises crumbled in the face of the terror that confronted her. She reflexively covered her eyes with her hands and dropped to her knees.
"Lipsky!! You stupid expletive deleted, expletive deleted, expletive deleted, expletive deleted!!!!"
In a less-than-thought-out bid to revenge his mullet on the perceived source of the "monkey dudes," Ed Lipsky had fired up "DIPP" (Diprotodon Integrated Proteus Prototype) and maneuvered it toward Yori. Although it produced the initial desired effect--its sudden appearance momentarily scared her witless, it also provided her with an excellent shield from Potty Mouth's gunfire. The bullet bounced harmlessly off the back of "DIPP's" hull.
Potty Mouth's violent curses quickly brought Yori back to herself. She turned her face from the horrific monstrosity that was floating a few yards beyond the rails, scooped up her shoes and prepared to take off as fast as she could across the catwalk.
"What is your problem, dude? Seriously!" Unlike his blue-skinned cousin, Motor Ed was not one to back down from a fight with a bully.
"Problem? Yeah, I got a problem! I got a big expletive deleted problem with any expletive deleted brain-damaged expletive deleted expletive deleted--"
"Dude," Motor Ed interrupted, "do you realize how un-educated that language makes you sound? I mean, seriously, you sound like you did nothing but watch cable TV as a kid. Seriously."
Potty Mouth calmed down quite suddenly. Well, at least, he seemed calm.
"Seriously, dude, my mullet looks like it went through the spin cycle with a weed-whacker, seriously! And you don't see me using that language! Anger management might be what you need, seriously. I mean it didn't help me, but I only went to a couple of sessions because of the court order, but I was never as hyped-up as you, dude, seriously."
To say that Potty Mouth was ignoring everything that Motor Ed was saying would not be exactly correct. Certainly, he was not considering curbing his profanity or taking an anger management course; however, he was considering something. The chubby "baby fat" features of his face were lined in thought as if he were weighing the pros and cons for a specific decision or course of action.
"Seriously, dude, does your mother know you talk like that?"
At the mention of his mother, Potty Mouth's body language shifted drastically, and his face took on a different look. The decision had been made.
Despite his high-forehead and ample cheeks, Potty Mouth looked very much like Harrison Ford at that moment. Specifically, he looked like Harrison Ford from a particular scene in the first Indiana Jones movie. He had the same look in his eyes and around his mouth as Ford did in the moment right before he shot the sword-wielding black turbaned assassin in the market place. As Motor Ed continued to rant about his mullet and Potty Mouth's language and anger management classes and his mullet and Potty Mouth's mother and his mullet and whateverelse he was complaining about, Potty Mouth laconically aimed his revolver directly at Ed's forehead and cocked the hammer back and--WHAP!
The gun fell to the catwalk and fired, but the errant bullet harmlessly bounced off the enormous back of the DIPP. As Potty Mouth held his throbbing right hand, he noticed a sandal shoe lying beside his gun. As he shot an angry look to the place where he had last seen Yori, her other shoe struck him right between the eyes. The foul-tongued lunatic fell to the catwalk like a sack of bricks … well, a sack of bricks and marshmallows.
Yori had no time to rest; however, as the DIPP extended one of its serpentine arms toward her, its fingers morphing into laser cannons. She sprinted down the catwalk, making a mental note that either Ed Lispky had been blind to the good deed she had just performed or that he was not too honorable himself.
The first plasma blast missed her by only a few feet, but the shock waves tossed her violently into the air. Only by employing a last second duck and tumble combination that would have made Kim or any other member of the Mad Dog cheer squad proud, did Yori escape serious injury. Just as she wobbled to her feet, a second blast from the DIPP incinerated a main support for the catwalk sending the far end of the section she was standing upon crashing to the hanger floor.
As she tumbled down the steep incline toward the rapidly approaching concrete floor, Yori reached out and managed to painfully wrench a hold into the metal grillwork of the catwalk. She jerked to a stop. She could tell that at least one of her fingers was broken; she blinked back a few tears and tried to gauge what her next move might be.
Just as she realized that the catwalk touched down a mere ten feet from hanger door and freedom, she heard the unmistakable sound (she had heard it twice quite recently, so she pretty much had it down) of the DIPP's plasma cannon powering up to fire. Without looking to see where the hideous monstrosity was located, Yori unhooked her fingers (two were broken) from the grill work and allowed herself to slide toward the hanger floor.
Motor Ed was tracking Yori with just about pinpoint precision. The DIPP's guidance system, unlike most state of the art technology, really was so user friendly that it was essentially fool-proof or, in this case, Lipsky-proof. He had the DIPP's left claw/cannon aimed directly at the point where Yori's slide would end.
"Sayonara, ninja chick," Motor Ed crowed, "seriously." He pulled the trigger.
In what was becoming a trend for that lair that day, nothing happened when the weapon's trigger was squeezed. "What the--what's happening, dude, seriously?" he muttered as he looked over the controller.
"Indeed," Dr. Freeman said sternly a few feet behind Ed, "what is happening here? From what I can see, someone who is technically only a contract worker is, among other things, destroying company property."
Ed spun around to see Dr. Freeman holding an unplugged extension cord in his hand. Ed didn't need to be told that the plug was to the DIPP's main power source.
"Dude, are you seriously whacked!" Motor Ed hollered. "She's getting away, seriously!" Ed began walking menacingly toward Dr. Freeman. The good doctor did not even have time to interpret Ed's actions as threatening ones because the formerly mullet-ed mad scientist was swiftly attacked by Freeman's new friend, Plucky.
By this time, Yori had already run out of the hanger and into the night.
V.
Wade was getting pretty desperate. He had already contacted a friend at NORAD, and their advanced system couldn't pick up anything in the general location where Wade had last located Kim and Ron's plane. Apart from some commercial airliners, that airspace had apparently been quiet for hours. The fact that whoever was behind the controls of that grande-sized black jet could also effectively fake out the systems of both Global Justice and the North American Aerospace Defense Command did not bode well.
All he could do was continue to try getting through to the Kimmunicator.
Nothing.
Again, nothing.
Suddenly, Wade heard the standard Beep-be-bee-beep alert that indicated someone was making a call to Kim's site. He gave his monitor an annoyed glance and went to try the Kimmunicator again.
Wade slowly turned back around as he realized that he recognized the IP address that had momentarily flashed on the screen when the hit came through.
Unless the blue-skinned villain had "outsourced" a new IP address, Kim's site was receiving a hit from Dr. Drakken.
VI.
Cupping the index and ring fingers of her left hand protectively in her right, Yori made her way through the dunes just outside the penumbra formed by the hanger's lights. It reminded her of trudging through the snow drifts outside of Yamanouchi's walls when she was six. The desert night was cool, not as cool as a Yamanouchi evening, but the desert breeze was pleasantly refreshing, not hot as she had expected.
She almost stumbled against an unseen rock, but managed to steady herself. A few steps later, she did fall. The heat of the day was still radiating from the sand, but it was fortunately very soft. Since she had been holding her injured hand against her chest, the impact did not acerbate her injuries. She was so very tired. The strenuous work-out she had been giving her body for the better part of the last hour suddenly made itself known in her muscles and joints. Even the nasty tear along her wrist came alive with pain. A small part of Yori counseled her to stay where she was, to let the warmth and pleasant feel of the sand against her skin lull her into a healing rest. Or a deep sleep.
Yori shook this notion violently from her and began struggling to her feet. However, she immediately dropped back down again. Voices were approaching, but not from the direction of the hanger. They were in front of her.
She remained completely motionless. Figures began fading into view. There were three men dressed in white, tall and impressively built. As they got closer, Yori realized each was carrying a stack of boxes. Just then she noticed a fourth figure behind the first three. This figure was excessively short and was wearing a strange helmet on his head. Whereas the others were weighed down with dozens of flat boxes, the final man only had one in his arms.
She didn't breathe as the four marched past some ten feet downhill (or down-dune) from where she lay. As they did, a familiar smell wafted by on the cool breeze. Just as Yori recognized the smell, the fourth man flipped opened his box and in a motion that managed to somehow be both refined and crude at the same time, crammed a slice of pizza into his mouth.
"Blech!" he spat out the large bite he had taken. "Didn't I zay NO pepperoni?!? I HATE ze peppeRONI!!! Doesn't anyone LISTEN ANYMORE?!"
Dementor-san!
As Yori's eyes followed the ranting figure until he and his henchmen were out of sight, her mind struggled to come to grips with the dire implications his sudden appearance made manifest.
It didn't make any sense.
Drakken and Motor Ed were cousins, so that made sense. Even Monkey Fist had been known to team up with other villains on occasion. He and Duff Killigan had embarked on a joint scheme to turn Yamanouchi into a Monkey Ninja school and miniature golf course just that past September (Team Possible had been summoned by Sensei to assist in the villains' defeat). But to everyone's knowledge, Prof. Dementor had NEVER partnered with anyone. And Yori did not feel it was too likely that he and his henchmen were just delivering pizza.
Stoppable-san would say this does not bode well.
When Yori judged that the four men were out of earshot, she struggled to her feet and as quickly and carefully as she could made it down the dunes to where the sands were flatter, to where Dementor and his men had passed. The almost full-moon gave Yori enough light to discern their tracks and she followed them out into the wilderness.
Obviously, there wasn't a pizzeria out in the middle of the desert; the villains must have just come back from some sort of transport. Perhaps, she could stowaway on or even commandeer a hoverjet. In any case, it wouldn't take long for Prof. Dementor and his men to discover the chaos in the hanger and learn of her escape. On foot, she was only delaying the inevitable. Yori needed a vehicle of some kind.
She sighed as she saw the lights of one of Dementor's hovercrafts, followed by the roar of its engines, speed off into the night sky. Then, in the direction from where the hoverjet had taken off, she caught the pale outlines of a small parking lot of some sort. In the lot there was a truck with very, very large wheels.
Even with her years of ninja training, climbing into the cab of what she correctly assumed was Motor Ed's monster truck was no easy trick with an injured hand. However, there was nothing to hotwiring the vehicle one-handed. Especially, since Motor Ed left the keys in the ignition. Before starting the truck, Yori briefly reflected on how impractical an escape vehicle it was going to be. Unwieldy, gas-guzzling, conspicuous. It would be so easy to spot from the air. But, there was no choice, was there? She started the engine.
"If… I… leave… here… to..morrrrrrrrr..row" the speakers began croaking out, at top volume, a classic rock tune from 1970's American Top Forty radio.
No! There are limits!
Yori immediately flipped off the radio and turned her head in disgust as she winced against the fading strains of the song. As she did, she noticed another ... vehicle parked in the spot adjacent to Motor Ed's monster truck.
Drakken-san's hovercraft!
In less than twenty seconds, Yori was sitting behind the main console of Drakken's so-called "funky-fresh-flying-car." Since they had been designed so even a Lipsky could manipulate them with relative ease, it took Yori only a few minutes to figure out how to work the craft's controls. As an added bonus, it appeared Drakken had modified the steering mechanism so flying could be achieved one-handed (the other hand being employed in the wielding of any number of weapons on board). To make things even easier, Drew Lipsky, as his cousin had done with those to his truck, had left the hovercraft's keys in the ignition.
She maneuvered the hovercraft off the surface of the small parking lot and sped into the night.
Even though she had the ship's tracking system up and the screen displayed no airborne traffic in a fifty mile radius, Yori caught herself checking over her shoulder every few minutes. She was still coming down from the adrenaline rush the escape had given her, and she realized the sooner she spoke with a friend, the calmer, the better, she would feel. Besides, she had urgent information to pass on. The hovercraft was equipped with a plethora of sophisticated communication tools, not the least of which being an onboard cell phone and a laptop with satellite internet services.
She didn't dare try to raise Sensei. Her recent capture had proven how insecure Yamanouchi's communication systems could be. It was quite possible that the school was riddled with Fukasamas, traitors and spies willing to do Monkey Fist's bidding for "cash on the honor." Yori shuddered when she considered that it was quite likely that spies had broken in on her IH conversation with Sensei that morning.
There was only one communications system that she knew to be completely secure: the one run by Wade Load. Even if she was transmitting from Drakken's equipment, she felt confident that Team Possible's system would filter out any spy programming. Unfortunately, due perhaps to her still-churning emotions or even an after-effect of the braintap machine, she couldn't recall the number for the Kimmunicator. Nor the Roncom. But she did remember the address for Team Possible's website.
VII.
Wade hesitantly answered the alert he was getting from Drakken's IP address. He remembered the address from a mission a few years back when he had contacted the mad scientist to assist his friends, Shego, and her family against Aviarius. Wade never forgot an IP.
What little faith he had left in Global Justice was sorely tested by the fact that Drakken, evidently, had escaped their custody undetected. What was worse, he felt sure the scientist was just calling to gloat over the capture of his friends. As unlikely as he found it that Drakken was solely responsible for their current sitch, he had little doubt that the call was somehow related to it. Still, perhaps he could trick Drakken into giving up some clues as to where Kim and Ron were going to be taken.
That shouldn't be too hard.
The twelve-year-old super genius were pretty floored when he answered the alert and found himself looking directly into the dark, almond-shaped eyes of Yori Morituri. And since the crush he had developed on the older girl (over the course of the two missions she had assisted Team Possible with in the past year) was, he felt at least, pretty obvious, he was a little embarrassed too. He had been able to hide his surprise the night before when she made the emergency call from the Roncom on the roof of the Space Center (it wasn't that big a surprise to see her since Monkey Fist had been involved), but from Drakken's hovercraft? Wade was more than a little flustered.
"Y-yori!?"
"Load-san," she smiled, but her eyes were all business. "I need to speak to Stoppable-san or Possible-san immediately."
"Wh-what," Wade said, trying to regain his composure and more than a little relieved that the one photo he had of Yori was taped to the edge of the very monitor screen they were now conversing on, and thus out of her line of sight, "what are you doing in Drakken's hovercraft?"
"A very long story, I fear. Load-san, please could you patch me over to either Possible-san or Stoppable-san."
Brought back to his friends' peril by Yori's second request to speak to them, Wade sighed. "I wish I could, Yori." He then explained the little he knew of their current predicament and how all his efforts to reach them had proved futile.
She frowned as she listened to his story. Then she cocked an eyebrow, "Did you try calling Stoppable-san's device?"
Wade blinked twice. He hadn't. Opening up a communications window just below Yori's image on his computer screen, Wade began typing rapidly. "The Roncom does operate on a slightly different frequency. If whoever is jamming the Kimmunicator doesn't know about it--ohmygosh, it's ringing!" He beamed at her. "Yori, you're a genius!"
"Coming from you, Load-san, that is quite the compliment," she smiled back.
VIII.
Both Kim and Ron's eyes fixed on Ron's right pocket where the Roncom was beeping. After half a tic, Ron frantically put both hands into his cargo pocket and dug out the device. "Please, be Wade, please, be Wade," Ron whispered in a voice only half as frantic as his hands.
There was an ominous scraping sounding against the cabin door that drew Kim's attention back to their impending visitors. She got back into her fighting stance, keeping an eye on Ron's progress. Another loud scrape was heard. "Just a sec!" Ron barked to the door, "We gotta answer the phone!"
"Wade!" Ron erupted as his friend's face filled the screen. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
With a look of intense relief, Wade shook his head, "Thank Yori. I never would have thought of trying the Roncom otherwise."
"Yori!" Kim and Ron both exclaimed. A testament to both the direness of their sitch and their intense confusion, neither thought to jinx the other. "I guess she wasn't kidnapped by Monkey Fist." Kim said to Ron.
"Monkey Fist?" Wade asked, "I don't know. I think she just escaped from Drakken; she's flying his hovercraft."
"DRAKKEN!" Kim exploded. "GJ let him get away!? What in the world is that idiot Pointsman's problem?!"
"Uh, Kim," Ron said with deadpan delivery, "I believe we need to focus on the problem at hand."
If her boyfriend's statement didn't fully bring Kim back to the present sitch, a third sharp noise against the cabin door, followed by the tentative turning of the latch handle, certainly did.
Knowing that his girlfriend's ability to communicate complex ... stuff ... under pressure far exceeded his, Ron tossed the communications device to her, "Talk to Wade, Kim. I'll stall our friends."
As Kim briefly outlined the sitch to Wade, Ron snatched a couple of bottles of Tunguska Springs from the fridge and jammed one of them between the latch handle and the edge of the cabin door. In addition to its rich mineral and sparkling properties, the "top shelf" spring water brand also came in glass, rather than a plastic, bottles.
"Do you think you could find your way around this plane's systems in like ... uh ... five minutes ago?" Kim asked Wade. "From what I know it is a one-of-kind proto-type plane."
"No problem, Kim," Wade smiled, "Justine sent me its schematics when she first got it."
"Spankin!"
"Uh, dudes," Ron said to the visitors behind the door, "this is kinda a bad time. Important conference call going on. Could you come back in ... say ... five minutes?"
His answer was the bottle breaking as the strain on the latch handle was temporarily relaxed and then rudely doubled. Without hesitation, Ron shoved the second bottle in its place.
"Just hook the Roncom in an input jack, and I'll take over, Kim," Wade said confidently. "There should be one located on the co-pilot's console if I remember correctly."
"Ron," Kim said, assertiveness starting to filter back into her voice, "can you hold them off for a few minutes?"
Ron gave her a thumbs up. "Three more bottles left, KP. After that, Rufus and I ... uh," he patted the unconscious member of the team in his left cargo pocket, "well, ... I'll get creative."
She returned his smile and dashed for the cockpit.
IX.
Her call to Wade interrupted by the pressing needs of Team Possible, Yori felt that she still needed something to help calm her down. As her eyes wandered from the tracking system display (which was fortunately still picking up no other aircraft) to the incredibly cluttered floor of Drakken's craft, she spied what looked like a mePod among the jetsam. Placing the hovercraft on auto pilot, she picked up the device and checked to see if it still had any battery life. It did. Scrolling through the library, she smiled deeply.
Shego-san's I would imagine.
She inserted the ear buds, selected the song she wanted (no, needed) to hear, and reengaged the manual controls. As the first notes reached Yori's ears, she felt a thousand times better. The first step to recovering from her ordeal would be to chase the memory of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird" from her mind.
Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go I wanna be sedated Nothin' to do and no where to go-o-oh I wanna be sedated
As Yori sang along with the lyrics to one of her favorite songs, she couldn't help being mildly amused by the synchronicity of some of the lyrics to her day's "adventure."
I can't control my fingers I can't control my brain Oh no no no no no
She needed to have her fingers looked at by a medical professional, but she didn't feel safe stopping off at whatever hospital she flew over next. That and she needed desperately to speak with Ron and Kim once Wade was able to help them escape. She was very certain that he would be successful. These two thoughts dovetailed and led to the inescapable conclusion of where her destination should be.
Possible-san's house.
X.
The input jack was easily found. As Wade was diligently circumventing and then attempting to disrupt the foreign control signals blocking the plane's manual controls, Kim kept shooting worried glances back to the cabin. Then she heard a shrill noise followed by quieter, but no less shrill, noises.
"Ron, are you okay?" she hollered.
"Bottle's still holding, Kimbo!" he shouted back. "I'm just chillin' back here."
"What were those horrible noises?"
"Oh!" He paused. "I was just laying down a beat on Sloproth's har-mon-i-kie."
"It's Slothrop, you goof!"
"Oh, my bad," he hollered back, "How are you guys doin'?"
"Fine!" she yelled back, somewhat boosted by Ron's laid back tone. She was still concerned about him though. When she had glanced at the "visitors" making their way down the tubing earlier, she believed they were armed. With what, she had no clue. "Wade thinks he can block their signal in about a minute."
"Coolio!" came Ron's reply.
"Actually, about fifteen more seconds," Wade said as he typed.
"So, Wade," Kim asked as she gripped the plane's joystick that she knew she would be using very, very soon, "did Justine say why she sent you the schematics for this plane?"
"Sure didn't, Kim," Wade answered without looking up from his monitor.
"Maybe she was flirting with you," Kim ventured. She didn't know why she said that. Maybe a little nervousness over Ron, maybe to pass the time, maybe whoknows. But it was the first time Kim had ever brought up the subject of "girls" with Wade before. When he was ten, the subject probably would have only made him shake his head, but now that he was twelve ... in any case, she could see that she had embarrassed him. She was about to apologize when Ron's tone-deaf noodling on the harmonica momentarily broker her concentration.
Wade glanced quickly at the photo of Yori on his monitor and then back at Kim. Why did she say THAT right now?
"Uh, I've broken through, Kim." Wade said trying to make himself heard over Ron's nervous playing, "What would you like me to do first?"
The sound of the shattering of the second bottle of Tunguska Springs was followed by a few instants of disquieting silence punctuated by an ominous thump. Kim was just about to leave the controls and sprint to the cabin when she heard the sound of the cabin door swinging open. Before her heart could start beating again, Ron called out, "Kim, we may have a problem."
XI.
"Problem" was … an interesting … word to choose. Although it was true, it didn't quite encapsulate the sitch.
Sitting on his rear where he had landed after somehow slipping on the third bottle of Tunguska Springs when he went to replace the broken one in the door, Ron was looking down the "barrels" of three taser-like weapons being held by three black-clad goons … or henchmen … or aliens … or synthodrones … or whatever that had climbed down from Monstro through that saranwrapped tube and had just forced open Justine's cabin door.
Like "dumb luck," sometimes "dumb skills" ran out.
After alerting Kim to the "problem," Ron did the only thing he could think of … he grabbed Slothrop's harmonica from the floor where he had dropped it and began blowing wildly.
Although not the sharpest tool in the shed, Ron's desperate ploy was based on proven trial and error … well, sorta proven.
As he had watched the "guests" through the side window trying to breach his makeshift lock, he had nervously begun blowing on Slothrop's harp. The goon closest to the door was trying to force the latch, the one right behind was, it seemed, talking on a small communications device, and the third one in line was looking directly at Ron and making ominous gestures in his direction.
Then Ron noticed the freak nearest the door clutching at his ears, at the same moment the second one was shaking his device as if it wasn't working, and the third … well … he was still making threatening gestures. A second later, things had returned to "normal"; the first two were back as before. A few seconds after that, the first one was clutching his ears and the second was having signal problems again. Then it occurred to Ron that what was bugging them might just be his harmonica playing. It didn't seem to be happening all the time--perhaps only certain notes did the trick. In any case, he didn't quite understand why it was only the first couple of goons that seemed effected.
Maybe they're the only one's close enough to hear it?
So when the second bottle broke and Ron made a beeline for the latch and reached down for the third bottle that his foot had already found and landed rudely on his tailbone just as the door opened, the harp was truly his last best hope. The first couple of notes did nothing, the first goon advanced menacingly and brandished his blue-flared tazer like he was rearing back to hit a fast ball.
Then … as Ron inhaled deeply as he braced for the shock he knew was coming, the ungodly off-key note produced by the harmonica not only killed the power to the weapon, it made all three visitors now inside the cabin (the rest were still waiting in queue back in the tube) clutch their gloved hands to their ears.
Or to the places where their ears should have been.
As the note died away however, all four goons in the cabin (well, three and half, the fourth was only half-way through the door) were suddenly wearing colorfully stripped vests of the barbershop quartet variety, straw top hats and white slacks over their black jumpsuits. Vest colors varied from goon to goon and seemed to radiate from one to the other as they swayed to the melody provided by their voices. Instead of their tazers, they were now carrying shiny bamboo canes with exaggerated hooked ends. The most disquieting aspect of their new appearance was the fact that they were still wearing masks that were made of the same material as the rest of their jumpsuits. Dark goggles sewn into the masks completely hid their eyes and there were no opening for their nostrils or, creepiest of all, mouths as far as Ron could tell. This "alien" featurelessness contrasted with the technicolor kitsch of their new dress (not to mention how instantaneous the change had been) was bar-none the third strangest sight Ron had ever beheld.
Then they began to sing.
Where Their Ears Should Have Been
(1st goon, tenor):
Like a shark without a dorsal fin
Lost ice bucket at a motor inn
A seed-less loaf of rye bread
Are the places on their heads
Where their ears should have been
(4th goon sticking his head through the door, bass):
Shouuuuuuuuuuuld have been!
(2nd and 3rd goon, inside voices):
No bacon on your last potato skin
Bungee jumping with your Siamese Twin
(1st goon, tenor):
A rogue rocket's launching site
Like stars on a cloudy night
Where their ears should have been
(4th goon, bass):
Shouuuuuuuuuuuld have been!
Ron was so fascinated/bewildered/horrified by this impromptu musical number (especially by the way black fabric over the goons' mouths would billow out slightly when they were singing) that he forgot to play Slothrop's harp. He also didn't notice, at least not at first, when the first goon went to gently nudge Ron in the chest with his long-handled cane. As he did so, it turned back into a tazer.
The pain of the resulting shock was … quite intense. As the rivers of molten pain enveloped Ron's body, he noticed in passing, from one intense wave of sensation to another, that the hats, vests, canes, whathaveyous had all vanished as if they had never been. If he had had the sense to make a metaphor for what he felt, he most likely would have said it was as if his blood had been replaced with five-alarm Diablo sauce.
Just as he was about to pass out from pain exhaustion (as if he needed a reason), he glanced at the doorway that led back to the cockpit, and half-saw Kim. That is, he only saw half of her because the fog of unconsciousness had already closed one of his eyes. He saw the muscles in her legs (for this was the half of her he could still see) tense up and knew that she was preparing to lay all 16 kings of kung fu on his attackers.
His last conscious thought before closing his eyes and giving into the seductive whisper of oblivion was the vision of his best friend girlfriend lying beside him enduring the same ridiculous pain he was now suffering.
XII.
Then something within Ron refused that, made a different choice, and at the moment his heart broke, his eyes opened.
XIII.
Ron sat bolt upright and watched with a mixture of rage and wonderment as the four goons, now outlined in a blue haze, levitated off the cabin floor and got stuffed through the door. For a second there, it looked like there was going to be a "goon plug," but they managed to squeeze (or get squeezed) through the opening and were thrown against the handful of other "guests" still waiting behind in the tube. Then the haze shifted to the cabin door which slammed closed. The haze vanished.
Ron exhaled deeply into Slothrop's harp (which miraculous had stayed in his mouth this entire time) producing something akin to an air raid siren crossed with a kazoo, and he fell back.
Kim was at his side before his back could hit the floor. She had his upper body cradled in her arms, her eyes brimming with concern. "R-Ron, are you okay?"
"Hzzzz Dzzzz Lzzzzzz" Ron replied before realizing that the strange metallic taste in his mouth was coming from the harmonica. He pushed it out of his mouth with his tongue and tried again. "H-how do I look?"
She smiled at his question. Despite the bags under his eyes and his pale skin color, he obviously wasn't feeling too bad. "Really, really tired." She tried, in vain, to brush down his ever-present cow-lick, "But still a hottie."
"Y-yeah," Ron swallowed, "that's about how I feel. C-cept, the hottie part." He offered a weak smile and then his kaleidoscopic eyes turned serious. "Are y-you okay, Kim? They didn't hurt you, did th-they?"
She smiled and shook her head. "Thanks to your badical powers, I don't think they even noticed me." She kissed his forehead. "That was the blue halo you told me about, huh?"
"Y-yep." He nodded.
"Kim! What's going on?" Wade's voice echoed from the cabin.
Kim turned in the direction of Wade's call, but before she could even formulate a response, she felt Ron's weight shift out of her arms.
"C'mon, KP!" Ron smiled weakly as he wobbled to his knees and tried to stand. "You've got some flying to do."
He still looked so dead tired, but he seemed far more agile than she expected, and the playful glint in his eye was genuine, not just show. Even as she tried to think up a reason for why he should lay down on one of the cabin couches, she found herself helping him to his feet and actually following him back in to the cockpit. "Ron! I think it is a ferociously bad idea for you to do anything, but rest right now," Kim tried to argue.
He teetered slightly and reached out for her hand, "But, KP, I'm all about ferociously bad ideas!"
Being careful not to accidentally sit on his unconscious pet, Ron slumped/collapsed into the co-pilot's chair. Kim dropped into the captain's chair. "Ok, Wade, talk to me," she asserted as she adjusted her grip on the joystick.
Wade couldn't help noticing Ron's rather haggard state. "Is Ron okay?"
Ron gave Wade a wary thumbs up in response.
"He's tired, but … okay," Kim said giving her boyfriend a pleasant if concerned look. He looked to be a few seconds away from nodding off, and she was absently wondering what his forehead was going to smack against once he did and what she could do to cushion the blow.
"Okay, Kim, I can get your plane's hull to emit an electrical charge strong enough to break the umbilical's connection."
"Spanking," she smiled, and then the smile vanished. She quickly checked her side window and confirmed her suspicion that the handful of "visitors" were still in the tunnel. In fact, they seemed to be having some mini-conference not too far from the smaller plane's cabin door. "Wait, Wade."
"What's the problem, Kim?" The tech guru asked in mid-key stroke.
"Those goons are still inside the tube. What's going to happen once it detaches?"
"I … uh," Wade hesitated.
"They'll fall, won't they?" Kim asked, knowing she was right.
"Probably, yeah," Wade nodded grimly.
"We've got to get them out of there first. Is there anything you can do?"
"Well," Wade hesitated, "if I could leapfrog onto their plane's system, maybe I could …"
Suddenly, a slightly annoying beeping permeated the cockpit. By the time Kim had located the flashing display on her console that was tied to the alert, Wade was giving her the bad news. "You're low on fuel, Kim."
"Oh great," Ron said looking out the side window in a drowsy voice, "more peeps."
Sure enough, a half dozen or so reinforcements were making their way down the umbilical to join their friends at the jet's door.
"Kim," Wade said in a depressed voice, "it is going to take a while to break into their system … it-it's like nothing I've ever seen."
"Spanking," Kim groused.
"Kim," Wade said in an even more despairing tone, "maybe we should …"
Immediately intuiting what her young friend was afraid of suggesting, Kim resolutely shook her head. "No, Wade. Do not zap the tube. That is so not going to happen."
"Kim," Wade reasoned, "you don't have much fuel left, and they are going to try to board you again … what choice do you have?"
"Wade, I said no."
"Kim, if they do kidnap you guys, I have no way of knowing if I will be able to trace you. The Roncom was a fluke; once you're on their plane … I-I may not …"
"We are not going to kill anyone, Wade." Kim said sternly.
"Well, what are we going to do?"
Kim's shoulders sagged, "I-I don't know."
Although he had appeared quite comatose during his friends' exchange, Ron had been listening very intently. He suddenly heaved himself out of his chair and began stumbling toward the cabin. "Don't worry, guys … the Ronman's … on the case."
"Ron!" Kim said leaping to her feet. "You are in no--"
She was stopped short by the serene look in her BFBF's eyes. "It'll be okay, KP," he said with a half-yawn. "You need to stay up here and fly this tub." He smiled and then continued through the cockpit door. She was so over whatever tricks his eyes were going to play that she had barely noticed that the serene stare he had given her was with eyeballs that were completely white.
She sighed and sat back down in the pilot's chair, her eyes closed. Then, for some inexplicable reason, she felt a surge of, well, of confidence. It was as if she knew everything was going to somehow work out all right.
She opened her eyes and favored Wade with an assured smile. "Ron'll take care of it."
Kim chalked up Wade's glassy-eyed reaction as disbelief that a half-asleep Ron could somehow talk ten goons into peacefully retreating back up the umbilical into that monster black jet.
In reality, Wade's look of shock had nothing to do with his opinion of Ron's abilities or Kim's suddenly optimistic attitude. He was taken aback because when Kim opened her eyes, they were completely white.
XIV.
Bonnie felt old. Really, really old.
Her eighteenth birthday was only a week away, but the high school cheerleader felt like the best years of her life were already over.
Of course, she had felt just like this when she was five, too.
It was a Friday night, and she was home alone. Lonnie and Connie were at college and wouldn't be home for Spring Break for another week; her mother was off on one of her "sudden shopping trips" to the West Coast. Bonnie had the house to herself until Saturday morning.
It wasn't the first time, either, that Bonnie was homebound on a Friday evening; it had been happening quite a lot recently. This was so not supposed to be happening; she was a Senior--and a popular Senior! Heck a Senior who had been sitting at the Senior Table in the Caf since she was a Junior! Instead of the high school social ladder queen she, in fact, was, Bonnie felt like a shy thirteen-year-old junior high school girl with fuzzy legs who couldn't get a boy to call her on a dare. And she had NEVER been that girl!
Bonnie would die of embarrassment if Kim Possible ever found out how relieved she had been when Kim had asked if her to come to Ron's Seder. It was the first "party" she had been to in weeks. And even though it had been fun … kinda, it had still been very awkward because Brick's new girlfriend, that Club Banana girl, had been there. To make matters worse, Tara had clicked with that Renton kid and made date plans with him. Bonnie had been so hoping that Tara would have been able to help her get through another lonely Friday night.
Then again, Bonnie had been starting to feel a slight twinge of guilt about making Tara "baby-sit" her every weekend. After Tara and Josh had broken up, Bonnie had easily been able to convince her life-long friend that she needed a break from the date scene and to get some "girls'-only time"—just the two of them. However, as the months went by, Tara found herself breaking dates with boys she kinda liked just so she could keep her Fridays open for Bonnie. The previous evening at Stoppable's house, Bonnie had seen how Tara's hands had been constantly in motion whenever she spoke to Renton or whenever he spoke to her. Bonnie could not ask Tara to break a date with that boy and still call herself a friend.
Restless and sad, Bonnie collapsed into her recliner and turned on her computer. She brought up the internet and her pre-set preferences filled the screen. There was a window for her homepage—her recently created page, a browser window for the official website for Eighteen Magazine, and a small window for her Instant Holla messenger.
She immediately deleted all the new messages on her myplace page. Apart from the somewhat formal and not overly chatty "welcome" messages she had received from about half of the girls on the cheer squad who also had pages, the only messages she had received in her site's two week existence were indecent proposals from lurkers and pervs. For the fraction of a second, she contemplated adding a journal entry, but quickly shut down the window with disgust.
As if anyone would read it anyway.
As she sat in a funk, Bonnie realized that she would never want anyone reading what she truly felt like writing at that moment.
She wanted to write about how much she missed her step-father. Or, at least, the person she had believed until she was five was going to be her step-father.
Mr. Paul Rockwaller was an excessively cold, shallow, and brittle person. When Bonnie was three, he had emotionally abandoned his wife and three daughters for a designer jeans model who, for a brief period, also "wrote" a line of best-selling cookbooks. The model/chef's specialty being the creation of over one hundred dishes that included both calamari and caramel in their list of ingredients. Although the woman's career (and relationship with her father) drifted into obscurity, Bonnie could still remember the woman's oeuvre because Paul Rockwaller had carelessly/callously given a copy of one of these cookbooks to her mother as a Christmas present not too long after he destroyed his family.
Bonnie could never understand why her mother kept that cookbook, but she did—right between Betty Crocker and Better Homes and Gardens.
It was right after this first Christmas without a father that Bonnie fell in love for the first time. She was in love with her mother's friend. "Foomi," as she called him, was a handsome, slightly stocky Asian man who began meeting Bonnie's mother for lunch every Tuesday. Since Bonnie was only three and her mother preferred having her little angel with her at all times (and distrusted day care centers), these Tuesday lunches were always for three.
"Foomi" always tried making little Bonnie laugh. Sometimes he succeeded. This was not an easy task; Bonnie had always been a quiet, reserved and especially "thoughtful" little kid who almost never smiled. But she would smile whenever he called her "Bon-Bon." Bonnie's memory was especially fuzzy on this point because she could never be sure if her mother or "Foomi" had been the one to hit upon the nickname first.
A month or so before Bonnie was to start Kindergarten, she had mentioned "mommy's boyfriend" in front of Connie. When Connie, who was still quite stuck on Paul Rockwaller as a father at the time, had demanded to know who Bonnie was talking about, Bonnie realized that she had a private source of knowledge that her "brainy" sister didn't. She had smugly described to her older sibling the man she had been having Tuesday lunch with for the past few years.
"HIM?" Connie spat. "That is her lawyer, little girl, not her boyfriend." Connie then ran off giggling to share Bonnie's "stupidity" with Lonnie.
Red-faced and so angry that she couldn't stop crying, Bonnie decided right then and there to never go to lunch with her mother and "her lawyer" ever again. From then on she also started resenting her mother anytime "Bon-Bon" passed her mom's lips.
Bonnie's mom was somewhat surprised when Bonnie said she would rather visit Tara's house that next Tuesday than go to lunch.
"Okay," she relented, "but Foomi's going to miss you, Bon-Bon."
"I don't care."
A few Tuesdays later, Bonnie started Kindergarten. She learned by accident a few years later that her mother's "lawyer lunches" had stopped soon after she started school.
Bonnie sighed at these memories. She had to do something, or her Friday was going to become one long pity party.
As if on signal, her IH interface chirped. She scrolled expectantly through the message window but didn't recognize the userid of the person who had just alerted her.
Who in the heck is 'charlieowl'? Probably another myplace perv. Ick!
Then she read the message. I was quite simple. "Answer your phone."
One second later, the phone rang. Bonnie checked the caller id; it was from her mother.
XV.
Ron staggered to the cabin door where the familiar tell-tale scraping could be heard coming from the opposite side. As he rested his head against the cabin door, he thought really hard and tried to recall how he had called his badical powers the last time.
Oh yeah …
He wasn't up to getting shocked again. "Oh man, this tanks … I can't let KP down." A flash of silver from the floor caught his attention. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, they were so heavy they almost felt stuck together, and realized the silver was Sloproth's harmonica.
Well, why not …
Bending down to pick up the harp was more difficult than he had anticipated, and he almost lost his balance. When he regained his footing and turned back to the door, it was already open, and two goons were pointing tazers at him. With much more exasperation than panic, Ron began blowing into the instrument as hurriedly as he could.
Strangely, the notes didn't come out in the same staccato cacophony as earlier. In fact, they came out in a fairly coherent melody. Instead of reaching for the places where their ears should have been, the goons backed off a little … almost as if they were expecting something to happen … like for a song to kick in.
Back in the cockpit, Kim thought she heard the faint tinkling of piano keys. Just as she was trying to decide whether to call to Ron to see how he was doing or to ask Wade if he could hear music too, the pounding of the keyboard became very evident--so much so that she could feel the vibrations in the air flow up and down the handles of the joystick. The alert and quizzical look that Wade shot her made it plain that she wasn't going mad and that he was hearing it too.
"What's going on up there, Kim?" Wade said, hoping that if Kim did have an answer to that question it would encompass both the music and her tricked-out eyes—which were seriously freaking him out. Then an accordion kicked in.
Did the lights just dim in here?
"Kim, did the lights just down in there?" Wade asked. "And is that an accordion I hear?"
Before Kim could say that she so didn't have a clue as to what was happening, she and Wade both heard singing. Ron was singing!
The tune was something of a power ballad, but not so flashy, more soulful with a deep earthy sound to it. Certainly not something one would expect to be the B-side to the "Naked Mole Rap," but Ron was definitely selling the rather odd and obscure lyrics.
Never Let Go
Well, ring the bell backwards and bury the axe
Fall down on your knees in the dirt
I'm tied to the mast between water and wind
Believe me, you'll never get hurt
As the words flowed from his tongue and echoed throughout the plane, Ron got the distinct feeling that he was NOT being controlled or possessed or anything freaky like that—rather the singing began like a tickle in his throat and the words were being teased out of him. It was almost as if they were words he had meant to say (or sing) at earlier points in his life but couldn't locate quickly enough in the messy romper room that was his mind. Now, he was finding them.
Of course, none of that meant that he had any idea what was going on. But it was fun. After he sang his stanza, he found the harmonica at his lips, and began to blow with abandon.
Although the harmonica continued the more or less coherent melody that he had produced before he started singing, it also had a much bigger sound, a much bigger oomph to it. Yet, at the same time, it was gracefully echoing the waltzing melody of the unseen accordion.
The song's effect on the goons outside the door was predictable. Not only did they cover their ears, they also started, if only slightly, backing up in the umbilical.
And then something else started happening. But before Ron could get a fix on what that something was he heard Kim singing! She was taking up the song from where he had left off.
Now the ring's in the pawnshop, the rain's in the hole
Down at the Five Points I stand
I'll lose everything
Like Ron, Kim did not feel like somebody's puppet as she sang. Instead she felt like the music was unlocking something that had been sleeping inside her for a long time. As her voice found the words (or the words found her voice?), she realized that although she and Ron had both sung in public before (heck, she had even sung to Rufus), they had never sung a song together.
Can that be right?!
But the regret stirred by this fact was wiped away as Ron's voice joined hers on the verse's closing line.
But I won't let go of your hand
The effect of this impromptu duet upon Wade was predictable. As he frantically mopped up the spewed soda from his keyboard, he happened to notice some strange signals on his monitor. He had broken into Justine's plane's radar, and there were several small blips that suddenly appeared and were converging on the plane. As he tried to discern what they might be, he could hear Ron beginning the second verse.
Now, Peter denied and Judas betrayed
I'll pay with the roll of the drum
And the wind will tell the turn from the wheel
And the watchman's making his rounds
Now, with this verse a certain gravity and depth started to creep into Ron's normally upbeat tenor. The words reminded him of things he had done that weren't so cool. Things like championing Prince Wally against Kim for class president back in Sophomore Year. And then there were the things he had done that were really terrible (at least to him) … choosing a stupid video game over his best friend in sixth grade. As he sang the last two lines, he shifted his gaze from the cringing goons in the doorway and looked remorsefully down the passage that led to the cockpit.
Well, you leave me hanging by the skin of my teeth
I've only got one leg to stand
You can send me to hell
But I'll never let go of your hand
Kim's lyrics seemed to confirm Ron's anxieties of unworthiness, but not the way she sang them. Instead, the steady stream of tones poured from her with unmistakable forgiveness and a touch of bite that belied her natural Kimness. And there was nothing but reassuring determination in her voice as she sang the closing line solo.
Now, I must make my best of the only way home
Marley deals only in stones
I'm lost on the midway, I'm reckless in your eyes
Just give me a couple more throws
Embolden by his girlfriend's performance, Ron sang his round with confidence and bravado—he even went so far as to attempt, quite successfully too, some bondiggity new dance moves (sampled, to some extent, from practically every Peanuts' character in that scene from the "Charlie Brown Christmas Special"). His dancing only increased in bondiggity-ness (sp?) as Kim's warm, rich voice took over for the second half of the verse.
I'll dare you to dine with the cross-legged knights
Dare me to jump and I will
I might fall from grace
As powerful, moving, and (especially) inexplicable as this duet between his two friends was, Wade was only giving it about a third of his attention. He was much more concerned with the cluster of dozens of small radar blips that was now encircling their plane. He was just about to try and interrupt their performance when Kim and Ron sang the last two lines together (and, yes, Kim, for only the second time in her life, hit the high note).
But I'll never let go of your hand
I'll never let go of your hand
And as they were still singing the last notes, half a dozen spheres of ball lightning entered their plane.
This had three immediate effects: one, both Kim and Ron's hair frizzed out (although it didn't stop their song), two, Rufus woke up in Ron's pocket (and, yes, the dozen or so hairs scattered across his little pink frame also frizzed out), and three, the ten or so goons trembling in nervous befuddlement in the umbilical turned and ran back up the way they had come.
The ball lighting within the plane converged into one rather larger sphere right in front of Ron and, bowling ball-like, rolled up the umbilical after the retreating goons. As soon as the dimmed lights came back up to full strength and the last notes of the song had died off, Ron rushed to the open cabin door, shut it, and locked it securely. He watched through the porthole as the giant glowing orb chased the goons back into their plane. The second he saw their cabin door shut--all traces of Monstro's red internal glow extinguished, he yelled out to Kim, "We're clear, KP! Tell Wade to punch it!"
"You heard him, Wade," Kim smiled, completely oblivious the giant auburn fuzzball that her hair had become, "let's rock!"
Saving his initial question as to why Kim's green irises had returned (not to mention the multitude of other questions about what had just happened) for later, Wade activated the electric shield around Justine's plane. Immediately, a whitish glow encased the plane and the umbilical detached and dropped away. They were free.
Ron watched as the "bowling ball" sailed through the descending tube's walls, split into its original six spheres and joined the dozens of others that were now, apparently, harassing the large black jet. Indeed, the sight of the foo fighters (as Slothrop's generation would have called them) buzzing around Monstro was pretty badical. Yet, he needed to get back to Kim.
As Ron dropped into the co-pilot's seat, and their eyes met, the look Kim gave Ron filled his heart to the point that it almost hurt.
"Thanks," she smiled.
"For what, KP?"
"For saving us, Potential Mystical Monkey Boy," she said with conviction as she punched in the coordinates for Middleton, CO into the console and confidently maneuvered the plane away from the black jet.
"That wasn't me, KP." Ron said with a shrug.
"It so was, Ron," Kim said.
"Nuh-uh," Ron insisted.
"Ron," Kim said patiently as she got the feel for the plane's controls, "if that wasn't a funky mystical experience, I don't know what one is."
"Oh, I know that, KP," Ron said, "I just don't think it was my funky mystical experience."
Kim shot his rainbow-hued eyes a perplexed look.
"Hate to interrupt, guys," Wade said, "but I actually have some good news."
"Go, Wade," Kim said still pondering Ron's statement.
"I don't know how this happened," Wade explained, "but it appears that you guys now have more fuel than you did five minutes ago—a-and, OKAY, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"
Kim and Ron both stared at their exasperated friend's image on the Roncom.
"First it was Kim's eyes that were screwy," Wade ranted, "why do Ron's now look like a kaleidoscope?!"
Kim didn't know where to begin to explain a-and--"What do you mean my eyes were screwy, Wade?"
"Yeah, and what's up with your hair, KP?" Ron asked as he noticed his girlfriend's new do.
"Huh?" She hesitated and then shook her head and tried to focus back on the task at hand. "Guys, can we hold off on the freakiness for a bit, I am trying to fly a plane for the first time here."
Rufus, who had been listening intently to his humans' confusing conversation, decided it might be best to curl back up in Ron's pocket and sleep until their plane landed.
XVI.
"Mom!" Bonnie practically screamed; the index finger of her left hand jammed into her ear so she could hear her mother through the static on the cell phone in her right hand.
"Bon-Bon static my car hiss airport static thirty minutes static"
For all the extravagance of her mother's lifestyle (the shopping in Southern California, the two week-long vacations in the Pacific Rim each year, etc. etc.), there was a "cheapskate" slant to her personality that Bonnie found really quite befuddling. For instance, why did she insist on keeping her decades' old cell service with CheapSat Technologies? No one else in the family had service with them. Could the prices really be that good? And what did it matter--the coverage was horrible! And it had always been horrible. Especially at night when it was practically non-existent. And, of course, this was the time when her mother suddenly had an urgent message for Bonnie.
This mental diatribe against her mother's telecommunication peculiarities was suddenly halted when Bonnie distinctly caught her mother saying a word that she had not heard out loud in the last ten years … except in her dreams.
"Mom!" Bonnie screamed, this time no 'practically' about it, "What did you say? I didn't catch the last word!"
Only static and the feedback echo of her own voice answered her. Her mother's call was lost.
Did she really just say that?
Since she had last heard the word, Bonnie had convinced herself that it had been just another of her mother's lies of convenience--another half-repressed word from an unhappy childhood. The name for a place that had no name, a refuge meant to calm the crying of children in the night. But her mother had just spoken it. A single word snatched from a fading phrase of other words, it had rung with the same sense of urgency as the rest of her mother's conversation.
Bonnie flipped her cell closed, gathered her purse from her bed, and found the spare keys to her mother's car hanging from a hook next to the microwave in the kitchen. As she shut herself inside her mother's car and started it, she breathed the word aloud again for the first time in over a decade. And even though her voice was drowned out by the sound of the Trans Am's revving engine, the movements of her mouth and tongue as they formed the word brought back a flood of memories that made the hair on the back of Bonnie's head stand on end.
"Vheissu."
TBC ...
A/N: The seventh paragraph of Section III was heavily influenced by the Robinson Jeffers' poem "Diagram."
Section XI is an allusion (aka a verbatim rip-off) from a line on page 521 of Sir Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses.
"Freebird" written by Allen Collins and Ronnie Van Zant.
"I Wanna Be Sedated" written by Joey Ramone.
"Never Let Go" composed by the husband and wife songwriting team of Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan.