No one in this story is mine. :(
Danger Ahead
He wakes.
For a few desperate, fleeting moments, he wants to roll over, plant a pillow over his head, and go back to bed - something he hasn't done in a quite long while. Come to thinks of it, he hasn't slept at all for a long time, much less the four whole hours he got last night.
Somehow it feels like less, though. His sleep was restless and fitful, haunted by dreams of Fraulein Possible in her uber-suit, the sleek, shiny, blue-and-white one. The one that stretches like rubber, heals itself as if it is by magic, has the amazing hand-thing that he can't even begin to describe.
It's all the power he needs to conquer the world - all wrapped up in one little jumpingsuit. And she has it.
He stomps into the kitchen, pounding his feet on the ground to alert his henchmen to his not-so-great mood. He smashes his fist into the palm of his other hand, grinding as hardly as he can, as if he is smashing Fraulein Possible herself.
What a wonderful idea that is. That unfairly talented, uber-suited, sassy teener meeting her demise at the hands of one of his machines. Or his own two handses, or whatever else he can find. He will do her in with poisoned sauerkraut if he has to.
The important thing is getting rid of Fraulein Possible, for once, for all. And unlike some people, he will not look away.
His henchmen look up when he enters the kitchen, and they all snap to attention at once. The sizzling feeling starts, deep down in his soul. It feels good to have such control over them, such power. They're frightened of him - terrorfied of him - and would do anything to avoid his wrath.
It feels good, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough.
At least, though, they are still loyal and faithful, hardworking and, most importantly of all, intelligent. Some people's henchmen can't count past three.
"Boss?" one of them asks, holding out a pastry. "
Strudel?"His stomach churns at the thought. "Nein," he mutters, more to himself than to. . . whichever henchman this is being. The battle-suit thoughts are taking up every inch of him, so there's no room for food, no room for sleep, no room for anything.
He thirsts for more power.
"Hey, look, BIL!"
Okay. They are all intelligent, except for Myron. But what is he supposed to do? He cannot exactly turn his brother-in-law out into the cold. Hildegarde would have his head on a platter.
"What is it, Myron?" he barks. Cannot he see that he is a horrible mood? Does not he know to avoid him when he's like this?
"You're on the news, BIL!" Myron continues, pointing at an Internet headline.
Curiosity gets the best of him, and he moves in, trying to ignore Myron breathing
strudel-breath in his face. "FAMOUS COLLEGE-AGED HERO, KIM POSSIBLE, DEFEATS THE NOTORIOUS PROFESSOR DEMENTOR YET AGAIN," the headline blares.The fire starts in him again. "Well, rub it RIGHT IN MY FACE, why do you not?" he bellows to the computer screen. "At least I have not GIVEN UP like SOME PEOPLE!"
"That's right, boss," one of his henchmen soothes.
"That's right, boss."
"That's right, boss."
They all take up the chant, and it only fuels the fire. But that's a good thing. The fire burning in his heart is what makes him pound on the stairs, slam his fists into his palm and pretend it's Fraulein Possible's head, what keeps him a villain.
The anger is what keeps him evil. Being out of control is what keeps him in control. The rage consumes him, and, while it's not exactly comfortingble, it works. It's his passion. It drives him forward, keeps him going on little sleep and less food. Once the battle-suit belongs to him, then the world will soon follow.
Then he'll take a nap.
He's watched the supervillain community around the world grow and change over the years. For a while, he seemed to be the only one in the business, minus Duff Killigan, who did not dream of world domination, at least in the traditional sense. He simply wanted to cover it with grass seed and turn it into the world's biggest golf course.
Then there came the day when Jack Hench introduced him to another villain, brand-new to a life of villainy, also claiming to be a mad scientist, also bent on world domination. Deep down, he knew the man wasn't copycatting his - his - his "gig," as they say in the Englisch, but it was too similar for his comfort.
This new villain claimed to be close to his own age, but he sure looked like a teener - bone-thin and pale, blinksing wildly against contacts he obviously hadn't gotten used to yet. He looked like a scared child entering his first baking-soda volcano into a science fair.
His instinks turned out to be right on the money - the man acted like a kindergartener. He threw tantrums. He whined. And he could not understand why his ridiculous, over-complicated schemes did not bring the world into his control.
The villain community grew, though. Soon others were joining, from the Seniors, who had simply too much time on their handses, to Drakken's own new henchwoman, Shego. She was nearly at his own level of the evil, and also very pretty, the best possible combination for a henchwoman. Why she worked for that - what did Drakken call Fraulein Possible's boyfriend? - that buffoon instead of a competent, powerful villain like him, he will never be knowing.
And now the villain community is suddenly shrunken again. The Seniors got bored with villainy and sort of trickled off to pursue other hobbies. . . and then Drakken, the traitor, saved the world from the spidery-machines.
That set off the whole thing like a matchbox car on gasoline. Drakken reformed. . . and so did his cousin. . . and some man named Frugal Lucre, who he had never seen until the award ceremony, which Drakken had oh-so-foolishly invited him to. What, did he expect his rival to be happy for his success? Something is very wrong with his brain.
Then Shego, to everyone's complete surpriseness, slowly reformed, too. Monkey Fist is croaked, DNAmy was hardly ever a villain to begin with. . .
He is one of the few villains left. Fraulein Possible probably loves that.
"Hey, BIL!" Myron is screaming in his ear again.
He has almost grown fond of that term, standing for "Brother-In-Law." Today, though, it is only annoying him. "WHAT, MYRON?" he hollers.
Myron raises his eyebrows. "Watch your blood pressure, okay, BIL? I clicked on this linky. . .thing, and it took me to Kim Possible's website!"
He can feel his blood boiling in his veins. "I have been on Fraulein Possible's website many times, Myron," he snarls through teeth that won't come apart. "All it does it MAKE ME ANGRY!"
"Yeah, but did you ever see this?" Myron points.
He leans in despite of himself. And he feels his eyeballs nearly spring from their sockets.
"Hosted in Middleton," it reads in itsy-bitsy letters at the bottom of the screen.
Her house. The uber-suit must be still locked up, safe and sound, in her bedroom closet, behind all those silly teener-girl dress and such things.
And, with one quick blow from a machine of destruction, it will be all his.
Power tingles his soul.
"Casing the joint," they call it in heisting films - when someone thoroughly examines the exterior (and maybe even perhaps the interior, if they can be so lucky) of the building they are about to break into. Then they come back the next day or the next week, break in, and walk out with the money.
Or, in this case, an uber battle-suit of victory.
This time, though, he never makes it to Fraulein Possible's house. He's so busy concentrating on which of his many wonderfully terrible machines he will use to destroy her house that he runs into someone who is obviously not watching where he is going.
"Watch yourself -" he starts to bark, but stops when he realizes he's staring at a far-too-familiar blue lab coat.
The face that looks down at him is bug-eyed and one-eyebrowed and not a sight for sore eyes. "Dementor?" a voice yelps.
Drakken. The buffoon!
"What are you doing, Drakken?" he hisses, injecting more than a little bit of mocking into his voice. The blue boy will never fail to react.
Sure enough, Drakken props his hands on his hips. "I'm going home from work, for your information!" His eyes shine a little, in a way he has never seen them do before. "I work at Global Justice, now, you know."
He knows. He has heard. It is all over the newspapers. Jack Hench says if Drakken ever darkens his door again, he will throw him out. He has betrayed them all.
"Yes, I know," he answers. And a devious idea slowly begins to take shape in his brain - unfolding, slowly and precisely. He's sure Drakken's never experienced that sensation in his whole entire life! "What are you working on these days at Global Justice?"
Drakken folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head, bobbing his ponyish-tail. "Oh, no, you don't!" he cries, voice winding up like a tight spring. "I can't tell you! That's classified information!"
Oh, how righteous he sounds. That will make it even more satisfying when he knocks him down all these dozens of pegs. "You will not even tell your old friend, Dementor?" he oozes.
Drakken, the fool, sticks his tongue out at him. "Friend? I find that idea laughable!" He throws back his head and gives the same long, loud laugh he remembers from countless villains' conventions, only now it's missing the evil. "See?" his rival adds. "I laughed."
He smirks. "Oh. . . how charming."
Drakken slams a tiny foot into the ground so hard he is surprised he doesn't hurt himself. "Dementor, we weren't even friends when we on the same side of the law! We were rivals!" He glowers down at him. "And now that I'm a good guy, we're even bigger rivals! We might even be enemies!"
Before he can answer - the buffoon has gotten better with his retorts over the past few months - Drakken starts up again. "You hear that? En-em-ies!" With each syllable, he jabs a finger closer and closer to his nose. "And I will, never, never, EVER tell you about the immobilization ray I worked on at Global Justice today! Ever!"
And the dog's name was being Bingo.
Drakken suddenly springs backward several steps and plasters both hands to his mouth. "Did I - did I just say that out loud?" he asks, voice wobbly.
"Ja." He says it perfectly calmly. He knows from experience this will drive Drakken even crazier.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Drakken grabs his hair in his hands like he's going to rip it straight out, turns, and bolts in the opposite direction. He can hear him yelping all the way down the street.
He doesn't need to case the joint now, he thinks as he heads back for his own lair. Someday, someday soon, he will break into Global Justice and get that immoblization ray. It should not be too hard, what with Drakken working there now.
And, to think, several months ago he was telling him he was better at saving the world then trying to conquer it. Now, if this little conversation is indicating anything, his rival is just as much of a failure at being a hero as he was at being a villain.
And once that ray in his grasp, he can simply freeze Fraulein Possible, right to her spot, and rip the battlesuit off with his bare handses. He knows his dreams will be sweet tonight.
If he ever, ever gets to sleep. . .
Several days later...
"Dr. Director - report from Field 320."
She looks up to see Dash DeMine literally filling her office doorway, one of Global Justice's tiny report slips nearly disappearing in his huge hands. "Thank you," she says as he hands it to her.
"We're also in need of a new practice target," Dash adds. "Our current one is damaged."
By yourself, Crash, or Burn? She doesn't let that slip out of her mouth or show in her eyes, but it's the first thing to materialize in her brain.
Dash and two of his co-workers, Crash Cranston and Burn Burnum, once fought crime under the name "Team Impossible." They were effective, but she never approved of the way they charged money for their services or the excessive force they used with the criminals they were stopping. Rumor had it the only reason they ever came to work for Global Justice several years ago was to appease Kim Possible, who supposedly had "dirt" on them that could get them into big trouble.
She knows it's important not to play favorites among her agents. The fact that the three of them get on her nerves isn't a crime. They perform well on the combat field, maybe a little too well. To say those men play rough is a severe understatement. Their eyes always gleam on the practice target as if they're seeing a supervillain there - and mentally disemboweling him.
All she says, though, is, "Very well, Mr. DeMine. I'll see what we have left in the stockroom."
Dash nods politely and turns to the door, where Crash and Burn are waiting for him, arms folded over their chests, faces in identical hard masks. The three of them turn to go, and she settles back into her chair, trying not to sigh too loudly.
Field 320
Practice Combat is going well. No signs of laziness of lethargy among these agents. Crash Cranston, especially, continues to excel in the area of emergency lifesaving techniques. However, Cranston and two other agents, Dash DeMine and Burn Burnum, have received numerous warnings for unnecessary roughness and overly violent behavior in their drills. All trainers are advised to keep close eyes on them.
Also of note, our obstacle courses have proven to be entirely too easy for our new recruits -
A raspy, panicked cry rises from directly outside her office. It doesn't sound like Dash or his sidekicks, and the tight little grunts that follow can only belong to one person.
Sure enough, she opens her door to find all three Impossibles staring, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed, at Dr. Drakken, whose own mouth and eyes are hanging open wide enough to house a whole colony of flies. "You guys work here?" he sputters.
Dash steps closer and pokes a finger toward Drakken, who dances away nervously. She can tell by the swelling skin under his eyes that a meltdown isn't too far away. Definitely a bad sign - he hasn't had one of those in several months. "You work here?" Dash booms back.
"Of course I do!" Drakken's voice spirals up defensively. "I've been working here ever since I reformed! Lowardian invasion? Saved the world? Mehhh - hello?" He waves his hands in the air frantically, as if that alone should stir up the right memories.
She places herself strategicallybetween Dash and Drakken and pushes them away from each other with the heels of both hands. That will at least get Drakken's attention, what with his aversion to touch. "So, I gather you gentlemen have met?" she asks stiffly.
Drakken begins one of his infamous pouts. "We've met, but they're no gentlemen," he mumbles around his sagging lip. "They showed up at my secret Alpine lair and tried to blow the whole thing to Kingdom Come!" He folds his arms over his chest indignantly. "No, 'Hi, how are ya?', no 'Surrender, Dr. Drakken!', nothing! Just boom-boom-boom here-comes-your-doom."
"He -" Dash spits the word between his teeth and starts shredding Drakken with his eyes - "was attempting to dominate the world! You don't show those kinds of people mercy!"
She can't ignore the hatred in his voice. "If at all possible, you do," she says heavily. "Serious harm should be a last resort, not a first choice." How have they worked for Global Justice all this time without learning that?
Drakken edges closer to her, jutting his chin in Team Impossible's direction. "That's right," he agrees, voice bolder now that she's stepped in to defend him. "They punched me right in the stomach the instant I tried to run away. And they did it hard." He rests a hand gingerly on his midsection. "I'm surprised you didn't rapture my appendix."
"Rupture," Burn sneers.
"Enough!" she snaps. She doesn't raise her voice often - at least, not nearly as often as she's tempted to - so everyone's learned to jump to attention when she does. "We do not have room for petty rivalries at Global Justice. We're all on the same side now."
Evidently the four of them don't agree, because Dash, Crash, and Burn all have their fists clenched at their sides, eyes spewing hatred. Drakken's trying his hardest to meet their gazes, but his slim self barely comes up to their shoulders.
"Look at him!" Burn finally says. "He's not even wearing the Global Justice uniform."
"The scientists are allowed to wear lab coats if they prefer," she explains, trying to ignore the throb of annoyance starting in her temples. If they'd read the Global Justice handbook, they would already know that.
"What about his hair?" Dash points accusingly at Drakken's scraggly ponytail. "That can't be within the dress code."
"Do you still need me to retrieve a practice target from the stockroom or have you found one?" she asks calmly, injecting steel into her voice.
"We can't work with a supervillain," Crash spits in reply. She can practically see steam coming out of his ears.
"Former supervillain!" Drakken shrieks. "And I can't work with - with - with - bullies!" His voice is entering tantrum territory.
The voice that comes out of her own mouth is the quietest one she possesses, but she adds a pointy, disapproving edge. "Mr. DeMine. Mr. Cranston. Mr. Burnum. Dr. Drakken."
Four heads swivel around to look at her. Only Drakken looks the slightest bit ashamed.
Frankly, she's disappointed in all of them. Disagreements can and do happen at Global Justice, but she's never seen any of them turn so juvenile. "You do not have to agree with each other on everything. You don't even have to like each other. But I do expect you to treat each other with respect and courtesy as fellow agents. Do I make myself clear?" She draws up to her full height and pulls her voice taut and hard.
Four mumbled "yes"es. Four tight jaws that say the exact opposite.
"You are dismissed," she finally says. Dash, Crash, and Burn stalk away, arms tight at their sides, eyes locked straight ahead. At least they're obeying her orders, even if they don't show any signs of welcoming their coworker with open arms.
Drakken, for his part, watches them go, punching the air with his little fists. "Why, I oughta -"
She flinches inwardly at the image of him disappearing underneath three men all roughly the size of Mount Everest. If he keeps nursing this grudge, he's going to get himself killed. "Dr. Drakken, how tall are you?"
He shrugs a little too casually. "Five-foot-ten."
She raises one eyebrow.
". . .-nine," he corrects himself sheepishly.
"Right. And how much do you weigh?" she asks.
Drakken puffs out his chest. "One hundred and seventy-five. . . "
She raises her other eyebrow.
". . . forty-five," he admits, voice getting quieter. He pats his belly again. "But I'm working on it! Actually, Mother's working on it - "
She cuts him off before he leaves the conversation for one of his rabbit trails. "The members of Team Impossible are all six-foot-six exactly. I'd estimate their weights at around two hundred and fifty pounds each." She lowers both her eyebrows and smiles wryly. "Taking them on might not be such a good idea."
Drakken swallows hard and hooks his thumbs into the straps of his raggedy, ever-present blue backpack. "Oh," he squeaks. The fire leaves his eyes, and his shoulders sag. "I'm sorry, Dr. Director."
Now those are the best words she's heard all day. "There are just people that make me so - so - so -" Drakken flails his hands around helplessly, trademark noises popping out of him like a machine gun firing - "angry!" he finally finishes.
"I understand," she says sympathetically. "I have an evil twin, you know."
Drakken tilts his head to one side and purses his lips. "Ohh, right. Gemini. I've seen him at villain conventions."
Her backbone stiffens a little as he says it. Sheldon. The only person in the world who can reduce her to an eight-year-old with one little smirk or a "Remember when, Betty?"
"Evil fraternal twin," Drakken keeps going. "You have to be fraternal to have different, you know, boy-girl-nnrrgh-gen- genders! Of course - " he stops and cocks his head to the other side, ponytail lurching. " - you do sort of look alike. But you're a lot prettier than him," he adds matter-of-factly.
Well, those are the second-best words she's heard all day, even if being prettier than her brother isn't that much of an accomplishment. "Thank you."
Drakken slaps a hand over his mouth. "Is that considered harassment?"
She can't help but smile. "No, that's considered a compliment."
"Okay." He shrugs happily, all traces of awkwardness gone. "And he's four minutes older and he never let any of us forget it."
Ugh. That's Sheldon all right. The smile slips off her face as she chimes in with, "Yes. He never lets me forget it, either."
"Are you going to fire me?" Drakken asks out of the clear blue sky.
"No," is all she can think of to say. "Why would I?"
"For being immature with those jer - uhh, Team Impossible." Panic winds Drakken's voice higher, and his eyes start to beg. "Please don't! If you fire me, I'll never get another job! Nobody else will hire me!"
"Because you're a former supervillain?" she asks.
Her employee nods frantically. "Yes. And I have ADHD! And dyslexia! And I bug the snot out of people!"
She chomps her tongue just in time to stop a chuckle. "That's what Shego says, anyway," Drakken adds thoughtfully, sounding slightly less hysterical for a moment.
"Well, you don't have to worry about stopping another employer's mucus production," she tells him. "I am certainly not firing you. You are both wanted and needed at Global Justice."
Drakken's entire body seems to spring upward. "Thank you!" he cries.
"You're quite welcome." She crosses back into her office and sits down at her desk. "As for Team Impossible -"
Drakken leans in toward her, quivering with excitement. "Yes?"
"Ignore them if possible. Respect them if necessary." She meets his eyes squarely. "And work hard so that everyone can see you have changed."
His eyes glow raw admiration at her. "Yes, ma'am," he coughs, snapping to attention and saluting. "Oh - and here."
Drakken digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper that she recognizes as a report slip. "Here's the report for Lab 591. It's why I came here in the first place." He holds out the paper to her and grins. "Bye."
Lab 591
Progress on the Immobilizer 2000, which has now been made portable, is coming along well. Teamwork is exceptional, even with the slightly less conventional members of the group. We are doing our best to squelch the rumors that occasionally arise from other labs that Dr. Drakken is a mole for the villains, attempting to smuggle technology out of Global Justice and into the wrong hands...
NOTES:
*Writing for Dementor is fun. XD
*I've never read a fanfic that featured Team Impossible. . . I have a feeling there must be a few floating around out there, but I haven't found them yet. Heck, I'm not even entirely sure that I got their names right, even though I went back and rewatched the episode and checked the ever-so-reliable Wikipedia.
*I don't know if PengyChan is reading this, but if she is, I threw in the Gemini reference for her.
*TO BE CONTINUED. . .
