Author's Notes: I am being chided to provide more last names for the other cheerleaders and any additional members of the KP Universe who are only known by their first names in the official canon. (Like Crystal in this chapter...) I'm taking suggestions-and any that I use will result in that contributor having an OC "named" after them.


Required Disclaimer: Everything related to Kim Possible belongs to the Disney folks. My own involvement outside of the plot: "nun" er...none! (Sorry, bad pun. You'll see…)


Chapter Eleven – Getting a Head

Gloved hands clutched at a hooded head as Mastermind stared at the reports on the desk. The level of incompetence among the recruits to the evil overlord's plan was breathtaking: no wonder a pair of high school kids kept handing these cretinous criminals their heads!

Most of the mistakes—so far—could be corrected.

But the loss of the Flanner girl—and what she took with her while making her escape…

Mastermind trembled with rage. If the girl genius was not recaptured soon, along with the vital component to The Plan, there would be some serious "adjustments" made to the minion pool.

Gloved fists clenched impotently.

Oh, yes! Heads were going to roll!

RSVP

After an hour of winding through endless hallways and corridors he discovered what looked like the right door. It was half concealed by a huge mound of rubble from a semi-collapsed ceiling and partial wall.

A hand protruded from the pile of broken concrete and masonry.

He began to carefully dig through the rubble so as not to trigger a second collapse. A head began to emerge.

"Hey, I know you…" Ron recognized the emerging face as that of Oliver, Dr. Vivian Porter's humanoid robot from the robot rumble and his unmasking at the Middleton Space Center.

The corridor wall shifted and more ceiling started to come down. Ron grabbed the robot's head and tried to pull the mechanical man free.

The head popped off!

Ron stumbled back as the corridor became quiet again. "Oh, man…sorry, dude!" Holding the head up with his left hand he stroked his own chin with his right, striking a Shakespearean pose. "Alas, poor Oliver—"

RSVP

"—I knew him, Horatio: a robot of infinite jest. Of most excellent fancy—"

"It's The Buffoon," Dr. Drakken grumped. "Why is The Buffoon on TV?"

All eyes turned to the drone-cam monitors. Ron's face now wobbled on the screen for Oliver's field of vision. "—and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is—" his voice crackled from the speakers on the console.

"It can't be Stoppable," Shego said, moving closer to the screen for a better look. "He's quoting Shakespeare and actually getting it right."

"Except for the robot part," Dr. Director observed.

Dr. Porter slid into the chair before the bank of monitors and keyed the microphone. "Mr. Stoppable?"

"Whoa-aoh!" The picture jiggled violently as Ron nearly dropped the robot's head. "Dude! I didn't know you were awake!" His face filled the screen as he brought Oliver's head close to his own. "And why do you sound like a girl?"

"Mr. Stoppable, this is Dr. Vivian Porter. There is a secondary power source located inside Ollie's skull. The cameras in his eyes and the microphones in his ears are providing us with a real-time feed of what is taking place around him. Can you hear me all right?"

"Oh, hey, Dr. P! No, wait: that's just wrong. Not wrong-sick, you understand, just that I know too many Dr. Ps already. I mean there's already Mrs. Dr. P and Mr. Dr. P and I guess I could call you Miss Dr. P—unless you got married since I last saw you—but then I guess I could call you Ms. Dr. P, either way—and if you did get married, maybe your last name is a different initial, now—unless it's not—or maybe you're one of those hyphenate ladies—like if you married somebody named Jones—then you'd be Mrs. Dr. Porter-Jones—hey, Mrs. Dr. P-J!—which would probably turn into a whole new nickname, like Dr. Pajamas—which maybe—"

"I was wrong," Shego muttered. "It is Stoppable, after all."

Dr. Porter laughed. "No Ronald, I'm still single. And you can call me Viv."

Was she flirting with him? Shego growled under her breath, stalked up to the monitors and snatched the microphone out of the hot, blonde roboticist's hand. "Stoppable? Get your ass back out here, right now, so I can kick it like a soccer ball all the way back to Tokyo!"

Ron scrunched up his face. "Gee, Viv, I see you've upgraded your robot since we helped expose Dr. Fen. Now he can do the scary, monster voice!"

"STOPPABLE!"

It was Dr. Director's turn to snatch the mic away. "Mr. Stoppable, this is Dr. Director. What is your plan?"

"Well, not to come back out right away, that's for sure! My ass is still sore from the last time Shego got in my way."

"Mine, too…" Drakken muttered behind her.

"Seriously, Ronald."

"Seriously? Well, no need to waste time with a lot of details you already know seeing as how you were discussing the plan with Agent Du-du this morning."

"You were supposed to be asleep."

"Lots of supposed-to-be's in this world, Liz. You and I both know that too well. It's why we're here, right now, in fact. Well…actually, I'm in here and you're out there."

Elizabeth Director was momentarily nonplussed: well-known associates might call her "Betty" on a casual basis. Shego would call her "Betts" when she was in a more mellow mood. But only a couple of people had ever called her "Liz"—it was a diminutive of her name reserved for only her most intimate acquaintances. She shook off the thought. "If you were eavesdropping all that well," she told him, "then you know the plan called for Shego's unique skills and immunities."

"Yeeeaah, about that. I'm not sure there's any answer to that that isn't going to make her madder." The image on the monitor swung wildly as he tucked the head into the crook of his left arm like a football. "I mean, I could say I'm doing it because I'm a boy and she's a girl and it had something to do with chivalry…" He threw his right shoulder against the partially blocked door: there was a shower of bricks and dust and he was through. "…she wouldn't like that because she pretends so hard that sentimentality means nothing to her." He started moving down the next corridor and Dr. Porter activated the drones to follow him now that the way had been opened.

"I could say that I've got the better shot at this because of my MMP," Ron continued as he glanced at the occasional site map posted at the junctures where one hallway met another or provided access to stairs and elevators. "And since I can borrow her mojo, while she can't borrow mine, I'm the double-threat here while she'd just be the single."

"So you are affirming that your…" Dr. Director hesitated. Ron had still not been very forthcoming about the nature, origin, or parameters of his recently discovered powers. "…your blue glow protects you from the radiation levels around the reactor?" She could tell from his hesitation that he heard the question.

He continued answering the previous question, however, without acknowledging her concerns about the inhuman levels of exposure. "She won't like that because it would mean acknowledging that I'm better at something than she is."

"HEY!" Shego bellowed, furious for reasons other than the ones Ron was enumerating, "I borrowed yours before you borrowed mine or we'd still be buried under that day-care center you were about to drop!"

"What's that?" He tapped the robot's head in the crook of his arm. "I think the speaker in this thing is starting to distort. I can't understand some of the noises it's starting to make. Anyway, since she's already pissed and going to kick my ass, anyway, I might as well tell the truth…"

Dr. Porter tapped one of the screens showing the sensor readouts from the robot's head. The radiation levels were already shading past 200 rems on the Roentgen scale.

"…I've always been jealous of Shego's plasma powers. I figured here's the chance to take them out for a test drive. They're not only badical but also kinda cool-looking. And if I like 'em, I might just keep 'em. The bonus being that the Ron-man's ass is a little safer from the fiery green ass-kicking he keeps hearing so much about." He stopped at the next four-way intersection. "Which way do I go from here?

The director consulted her computer tablet. "Go to your left."

Shego took advantage of her juggling to grab the microphone. "Stoppable…Ron! Kim didn't kill Rufus! It—"

Betty dropped her tablet and clapped her hand over the mic head. "What are you doing?"

"The only reason he's in there," Shego growled, "is because he doesn't care if he lives or dies!"

"Does it matter?" the director said, wrestling for control. "He's our best chance! Maybe our only chance!"

"Shouldn't it be his decision? And either way, he should know the truth!"

"The truth is just going to get him distracted. And that could be bad for him as well as the hundreds of thousands he might save!"

Dr. Porter stared at the two women fighting for control of the microphone and then glanced at the radiation readings again: 230 rems and rising. She slipped out of her chair and ran over to the tables where two of the three B-B bots were fully assembled and the third was nearing completion. "Dr. Freeman! Can you finish their programming in the next fifteen minutes?"

He shook his head. "To be on the safe side, I'd need the better part of the day to finish downloading and debugging stray codes. Then we'd want to run tests—"

She shook her head. "Mr. Stoppable is already getting enough exposure to make a normal human being sick, very sick. And the levels are rising the closer he gets to the reactor. He'll die if he gets much closer or stays much longer. We simply have to get at least one of these units in there as soon as possible and if that means rolling the dice, we'll do it and use the other two units as fallback contingencies."

Dr. Drakken stepped forward. "Part of the Bebe BIOS utilizes artificial intelligence to update programming through learning experiences. You could load the base program, type in specific mission instructions, and allow the positronic brain to fill in the blanks as it goes. Since the cybernetic neural net is a billion times faster than human thought, it can learn a lot faster than a human could while making decisions along the way."

"But isn't that dangerous?" Dr. Bortel asked. "Didn't you lose control of them the last time you gave them the potential for autonomy?"

"We could embed an overriding fail-safe command to complete the primary mission and then shut down, pending a programming overhaul," Freeman countered.

Dr. Porter nodded. "Make it so. Cyrus, those polymers I gave you: can you do something to modify their appearance? That blue, metallic death-mask appearance seriously creeps me out!"

"Yes, Doctor. I've programmed three different sets of nanites to apply the various textures and hues so that all three units will be distinguishable from each other. As soon as Drew is finished with the third—"

"Why don't you get started on the first two, now," she suggested. We may have to field all three before we're done, here." She glanced over her shoulder at the wrestling match that continued by the monitors. "There's been enough foot-dragging already."

RSVP

The lights dimmed and a pulsating beat was taken up by the dumbeki. At the sound of the zaghareets a belly dancer swept onto the floor, slithering and whirling between the tables and waving her veil as a prelude to the dance. Then the oud, kanoon, and bouzouki took up the music and she began the Beledi portion of the dance out in the center of the restaurant.

The diners paused as the waiters cleared away their appetizers of falafel and hummus and stuffed grape leaves. The woman in the spotlight commanded their attention. Her wavy brown tresses spilled down over her shoulders, lifting up and floating away as she swooped and spun. Her brassiere was sheathed in gold coins like scale mail, as was the wide belt about her hips that anchored the dark diaphanous, split-skirt that fell to her ankles. Her skin was color of honey and caramel and the sapphire that winked from her deep-set navel matched her mysterious eyes that danced above the veil that obscured her lower face. Anklets of bells rang over her bare feet, the small, cymbal-like zills chimed against her fingers, and ropes of beads tinkled from her throat, wrists, and the anchor points of her abbreviated costume. She was color and sound in rhythmic motion.

She moved around the circle of tables that bordered the dance floor, pausing here, teasing there, using her knowledge of psychology to select "moves" for specific patrons to maximize the effect of her performance—and the tips she would collect to augment her meager salary for the evening.

As the waiters brought out fresh plates, heaped with quail, kebda, bamia, howawshi, molokhia, and koshari, the music changed. The little band started working out improvisational solos on the various instruments as she segued into the Taxim phase of the dance.

As she moved, she mentally divided the men (and more than a few of the women) into two distinct groups: those that stared at her like a piece of meat and those that appreciated the artistry of the Middle Eastern dance forms—and the skills she brought to the performance.

And then there was that seemingly nice old man from the "old country" who had asked Hakim just last week if he would sell her to him…

She was almost surprised when the restaurant owner refused. Hakim was infamous in his tight-fistedness when it came to money. He had turned down all of her requests for a raise even though it was obvious that she was his most popular dancer and he did twice as much business on the nights when she performed.

She began "dancing off the veil:" removing the swath of gossamer that swaddled her torso, an inch at a time as the Tcheftetelli rhythm took over. Easing the veil from its moorings in her left shoulder strap and her girdle at her right hip, she danced toward one of the high rollers' tables with it held before her face, masking all but her eyes. The audience recognized the form as "The Sphinx Looks Out" and murmured approval.

Now the gossamer seemed to take on a life of its own as she performed "The Frame", "The Swirling Cape", and "The Canopy" in quick succession. She darted toward the well-dressed man and draped it over his shoulders, collecting a pair of hundred dollar bills in one of the smaller loops of pearls in her girdled belt. As she made another round of the tables, she collected additional bills—fifties, twenties, tens, even some fives and ones from the cheapskates and the ones with annoyed wives and girlfriends. Working the deeper parts of the room, she collected even more money away from the glare of the spotlight. Bills were tucked into the waist of her skirt, the straps of her brassiere, even slid into the décolleté where the golden cups pressed her breasts together like the mouth of a fleshy piggy bank. It was both thrilling and demeaning: knowing that she had such power of her audience but feeling a bit like a stripper, as well. It was a time-honored tradition of the Middle Eastern restaurant venue but she still had to endure the occasional inappropriate touch or caress.

She returned to the center of the floor and the kemanche wailed like a lost soul as she dropped to her knees and arched her back. Her long, wavy chestnut hair swept across the floor as she undulated farther and farther back. Now the back of her head was just inches from the floor as she formed a serpentine arch of flesh, silk, and hair. The patrons watched, hypnotized, as her tawny skin glistened with perspiration and her belly fluttered to the beat of the zills on her fingertips and the dumbeki in the band.

For a moment, both she and the audience were transported back a thousand years to a desert palace, a sunken grotto in the harem, with tiled mosaics, and turbaned pashas reclining upon opulent cushions and oriental rugs, the spiced smoke from the hookahs perfuming the air.

Oh Crystal knew her history well enough to know that the popularized imagery of Scheherazade was mostly Western fantasy. But we all needed a little fantasy, now and then, and she was happy enough to provide a little window-dressing for the pay…

…and the opportunity to indulge her own fantasies in the process.

Even as the former Mad Dog cheerleader was working on her degree in Psychology as a modern, emancipated woman, she still harbored a few, less-liberated fantasies of the romance novel variety. Like most of the Harlequin fictions, the style might change—bodice-ripper here, regency there—but immersed in the time and culture of this performance, she knew that, deep down, she wanted her own sexy sultan to dance for in his private chambers…

Amid cries of "Opa!" and "Yasu!" and "Yala!" she churned, coiled, and extended a foot decked with tiny bells. Her hip spiraled upwards and she quickly twisted about, writhing in a blur of colored silk, jewels, and strung coins. Her hands gathered a mass of dark, curly tresses as she rose back to her knees, swaying like a snake poised hypnotically before the charmer's pipes. She regained her feet as the Tcheftetelli rhythm picked up and moved into the Beledi finale.

She closed her eyes and pictured him now: a king among kings, a god among men. She would end her dance sprawled at his feet, awaiting his pleasure. His slave. His concubine. First wife in the harem to Prince Ronald Stoppable.

But he was not here and so the rest of her fantasy would go unfulfilled for yet another night.

Crystal ended the dance and the whole restaurant leapt to their feet. She held out her skirt and a shower of coins filled it as she slowly turned to leave the floor. There were cheers and numerous calls for an encore…but Hakim didn't pay her enough and she still had a Psych test to study for tonight. Besides, the first rule of show biz? Always leave 'em wanting more.

And it wasn't like she didn't know what that felt like, she thought as she remembered blond hair, chocolate brown eyes, and oddly endearing freckles…

Like a frustrated member of a world-wide audience, she, too, wanted more.

RSVP

The abbess came around her desk and sat on its front edge.

The young woman seated before her stared at the floor as she rubbed her hands together. "I just want to help. To do something…"

The abbess smiled down at her recent charge. "Sister Justine. It is very noble to want to help others. It is, in fact, the raison d'etre for the order you wish to join. But Japan is a long ways away and there is much to be done right here."

"But their need is very great right now and—"

The abbess held up her hand. "And many who are answering the call to service and support, even as we speak. But, as a postulant about to undertake the novitiate phase of this path that you have chosen, you must still learn to submit your will to God and to the order."

"But is it not God's will that we serve? Even if we must travel far and submit ourselves to danger and hardship?" the young woman murmured.

"My child, many young women enter a convent because they are running away from something—mistakes, unhappiness, their past, the world. But those who would take holy orders must be those who are running toward God. Not away from their problems."

"And you think I am running away, is that it?"

The abbess smiled down at her young charge. "Only time will tell, Justine. That is why the path and the process to taking your final vows will yet involve several years and not just months. Already you have outrun the normal time factor for an initiate. Your zeal and commitment are commendable, my dear. But there is a reason that you may not even take your temporary vows for at least two years and your permanent, solemn vows for some time beyond that. Trust in God's timing, child. You are so young.

"Yes, Reverend Mother. I will learn to be obedient."


ABOUT THE CHAPTER TITLE: "Getting A Head". I don't think that I need to explain this one.


A/N 2: As I have said, I like to play my cards a little close to my vest and not give too much away before it actually turns up in the story. But I'm starting to get a little more of the hang of the FanFiction software and just sent a personal message to one of my reviewers. For those who actually take the trouble to post guesses, reviews, and offer feedback, it's kind of nice to reward them with a little inside information. After all, the readers have already affected the storyline in several ways and it's nice to encourage those who are encouraging the continuation of this story. That's not to ask for a bunch of sucking-up or head-patting. Bust my chops if you think I deserve it. Let me know if I get something wrong. Ask me a question and I might answer it privately or publicly. Maybe sooner, maybe later, maybe only in part. Thanks, so far, to all of you who have added RSVP or myself to your notifications or favorites lists. And a special thanks to those of you taking the extra time to post a review or comment.

Has anyone figured out the "ship" yet?


REVIEWS FOR CHAPTER 11

CajunBear73 4/21/11 . chapter 11

Personally, I hope Shego wins the battle for microphone. He's got to know.

And I'll hold back from the 'ship' guessing for now.

And is Justine the 'real' name of the Novitiate?

CB73

The "real" name? Anything is possible: she could have been switched at birth, an alien in disguise, or, or, maybe a synthodrone… R~13


sh8ad8ow 4/23/11 . chapter 11

good chapter please update.

Thanks! More to come shortly. R~13


inkykenrd 8/13/11 . chapter 11

i like the new rewrite using the old cheersquad.

And you'll see more of them in chapters to come! R~13


Sentinel103 2/9/12 . chapter 11

Now Rip it looks like Ron is willing to make the sacrifice not really caring now what Yori implored him to do. In saving hundreds of thousands to a cruel fate he must feel that may be enough to buy himself into the grace of his wife when he enters the afterlife.

Larry (Sentinel 103)

Yeah, our Ronnie-boy is still emotionally damaged, despite his cheerful act. Synthokim and the death of Rufus and now Yori seem to have stolen all hopes of future happiness. All that is left for him now is duty and the desire for an honorable exit.

Your point about Ron hoping to buy himself into the grace of his wife when he enters the afterlife reminds me how this parallels a part of the storyline in the other novel I'm working on right now. The protagonist actually has a death wish and wants to be reunited with his dead wife however she does a better job at keeping in touch than poor Yori, and is always reminding him of the rules. He can't be with her, she tells him, if he throws his life away—and not trying hard enough to live while fighting impossible odds is just as frowned upon by The Powers That Be. Maybe someone should tell Ron… R~13


Uberscribbler 12/8/12 . chapter 11

Everything I said I about the previous chapter. Double it for this one.

No further comment possible.

If the last two chapters have rendered you virtually speechless, then I'm afraid that I'm about to lose you altogether. R~13


Some Dude 8/25/13 . chapter 11

I liked the whole chapter ( especially the belly dancing scene)... but I don't like the fact that your dragging out the whole nuclear thing.

Sorry, Dude: I drag out everything. ;-) R~13


G. Login chapter 11 . 7/11/14

Oh I see all the girls from school wanted to be with Ron. But because of the school 'food chain' they didn't want to risk their reputations.

One fantasizes about being saved by him while another wishes to be his slave girl and 'first wife'. also can't wait to see what the others think about while thinking about him.

Keep reading for more peeks inside of people's heads...

Also loved the part a few chapters ago about when Shego and Betts where talking about him and asked what did he think about older women and that the data was inconclusive lol.

Age is just a number...as we shall eventually see. And sometimes it's not even a number! (Rubs hands together and cackles evilly.)

Given that maybe Betty is starting to think of Ron differently. Then you also mentioned that thinks between Anne and James aren't going so well.

You have no idea...R~13