Kim Possible is very sorry for the great delay in her activities. She attributes it to last semester's burnout, which resulted in a three-point-five frikkin' GPA!!! Yaaaay! But now she's better, and is ready for more adventure. Enjoy!
Kim Possible
The Power of Trust
by Cyberwraith Nine
"Respect. Independence. Control. All of them simple expectations we take for granted in our everyday lives. All of them denied to people just like you in Imperial Japan, for lack of one simple thing: Power."
Seated in an auditorium among three hundred other students, Kim Possible fought the overwhelming urge to itch at the hem of her black wig. Far worse were the itchy knee-high stockings and breezy, frilly skirt teasing her knees. How could Japanese students stand wearing these awful accruements every day? It didn't look nearly so uncomfortable in the animé Ron had forced her to sit through.
Ron.
She chastised her treacherous thoughts and focused instead on pretending to take notes in the Hiya Tabby notebook tragically included in Wade's equipment package. That package, which also came with the disguise she now wore, was almost enough to convince her to post a want ad online for a new gadget freak. As if she could ever find someone even half as good as Wade. But did her damn wig have to itch so much?
At the head of the auditorium, Lord Montgomery Fiske stood behind a lectern, which rattled at his enormous fist's blow. "These people were patriots, persecuted not only by the pompous ruling class, but by those humble peasants they sought to liberate. Even today, they retain the scorn and prejudice of the ignorant. They are misunderstood, these masters of the Monkey Arts."
Again with the Monkey Mastery crap. Over the past two hours, Kim had listened to Fiske ran on about monkey this or magic that. All the while, Kim kept a low profile. Behind Fiske, his assistant kept watch over the crowd. She was dressed in a business suit that was far more conservative than her choice of attire the night before, but that same scowl remained stuck on her face, and it swept across anyone foolish enough to let their attention drift. Even with the black wig, Kim knew her foreign features stood out, and so pretended to pay very close attention.
Sensing the last of the students' interest fade, the professor rose from his seat in the front row and muscled Fiske out of the way. "Thank you, Doctor Fiske, for your, ah, thorough lecture. If there are no questions?" There were none. Everyone seemed as eager to escape the monkey madness as Kim was. "Thank you again, Doctor Fiske."
Kim waited for the other students to rise before she gathered her Hiya Tabby school things and put them into her Hiya Tabby shoulder bag. "Wade," she hissed, "Are you still transmitting?"
"As if there could be a doubt," Wade's voice sang from the flesh colored earpiece hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. "Seems like my Yak Patch is working fine, too."
She resisted the urge to fiddle with the paper-thin microphone secured to her throat under a latex patch and camouflaged with cover-up. "Like a charm." Up at the front, Fiske watched his assistant gather up his things and file them away in a polished leather briefcase. The Professor's attempts at pleasant conversation went unanswered as Kim's two targets made their way up the aisles. Lacing her shoes became paramount to Kim as the pair walked past, though she did keep one eye glued on that assistant of his through the gaps in her wig. "They're on the move," Kim hissed, inaudible to everyone but herself and the mike at her throat.
"Roger that." Kim heard typing in the background, followed by the sound of a slurping straw that made her cringe. "You still haven't gotten those tracers on them?"
"No," Kim whispered, stuffing the last of her things down the smiling cat's zippered mouth. "I was busy taking notes on mountain hermits with fetishes for prehensile tails."
"Yeah," balked Wade. "Snippy much?"
The bag flew over her shoulders and boffed the timid girl square in the face as she tried to circumnavigate Kim's bodily obstruction of the row of seats. "Not today, Wade. This is the ron day to screw with me."
"Huh?"
People milling about stared in mute fascination of the bold foreigner shoving her way through the crowd and talking to herself. "I said it's the wrong day to screw with me!" she snapped. Several boys tripped over each other leaping out of her way, scalded back by the green fire in her eyes.
"Sorry," said Wade. "Are you sure you're okay to go solo?"
"Just have a cab waiting outside."
"Done." There was a pause, and then he said, "I need to sign off for a little while. Independent consulting gig."
Kim grunted. "Don't go far. I'm expecting trouble."
"Expecting it, or hoping for it?" was Wade's last message before she heard the line click dead. It irritated her to realize she really wasn't sure which one was true, either.
A pair of black dots clung to the ceiling of the lecture hall, suspended by climbing spikes and aching muscles. They were invisible to the oblivious crowd below them, cloaked in a technique as old as the pyramids and far more mysterious. Thousands of years' worth of tradition adhered them to the ceiling, and determination kept them there.
One of the shadowy figures turned to his companion and breathed, "I have to pee." She gave him an irritated stare before rolling her eyes back toward the floor. "Well, I do. We've been watching him all day, and, well, nature does its thing even if Fiske won't do his."
"You should not have finished the coffee in his penthouse." She chided him so softly that the noise from the air duct a few feet away, their entrance into the room, nearly drowned her out.
He shifted ever so slightly, trying to keep the cramps in his muscles at bay. "I was sleepy," he said. Truthfully, he knew there was no excuse for slipping into Fiske's penthouse condo and drinking the last of the tycoon's imported coffee from one of Fiske's hand-crafted crystal mugs while the millionaire showered and his assistant skulked about the place. But it had been funny.
"And now you have to pee?"
"And now I have to pee."
She watched Fiske and his assistant stalk down the aisle at the conclusion of his lecture. As of yet, they hadn't gotten close enough to the pair for Fiske's familiar-ish assistant to come into clear focus, but something about her rang in her memory. The regal strut her shapely hips flaunted as she fell into step behind her employer tickled something just out of reach in the ninja's past. "Hold it in. They're moving."
Her partner's legs began to tremble. "Can't I just set off the fire sprinklers and, y'know, sneak it in?" he pleaded.
She began working her way back to the air duct slowly so as not to draw notice. During the sluggish process, she spared a heated glance back in his direction. "This, she harangued him, "Is not the manner in which a Champion of Yamanouchi comports himself."
"Hey, what can I say?" Ron waited until she had reached the duct before starting for it himself. Once her eyes met his, he grinned through the black fabric stretched across his mouth and said, "It's my first day on the job." Her almond eyes became stern, but the twitch beneath her own mask broadened his smile.
Regaining composure, Yori cleared her throat and said, "Rufus-san, if you could attend to the ventilation-"
"We have got to work on your conversational English," sighed Ron. "Rufus: Grate." The sleepy mole rat crawled from his warm, safe pocket in his buddy's robes and scurried across the ceiling with his charcoal claws. The millimeter slits of the ventilation grate were no problem for Rufus, whose body flowed like warm gelatin through the breezy metal. His teeth clanked, rattling softly until he pulled them through.
As Rufus worked the tiny screws on the ventilation screen loose, Yori observed the crowd below. Throughout the lecture, she had kept watch over the gathering for a flash of red among the black and brown student scalps. She knew Ron was doing the same, for his eyes kept wandering, even when he spoke to her. "I did not see Kimberly-san. Perhaps she did not-"
Ron's eyes narrowed. "She's here."
Yori's eyebrows shot up. "You have seen her?"
"I can feel her." The humor drained from his voice, leaving only mountainous ice. Somewhere, amidst the sea of Tokyo U students, Ron could sense her familiar presence lurking about. The fact that he couldn't see her was proof positive of just how good she really was. "She isn't far."
She smiled once more. "You trust your instincts. You truly are our Champion."
The screws on the grate finally worked out, falling into Ron's outstretched hand. A tiny squeak of protest rattled as the grate swung down, revealing Rufus with a toothy grin. "Ta-da!" he squeaked.
"I'm sure trying," Ron grunted, and shimmied over to the opening. "Now let's catch up. I don't want to lose kim."
She did a double-take. "Pardon?"
"I said we should catch up before he gets away." His body disappeared into the vent, leaving only his cloaked head to glare back at her. "I don't want to lose him." Then his chestnut eyes flashed and faded into the darkness of the vent, out of sight like a true professional. The gaze carried with it such potency that it was several seconds before she could move again to follow him.
"Another warehouse. Great." Kim put down her binoculars and shivered against the bitter wind tearing through her mission clothes. Even though she held no lost love for the miniskirt of her shucked student disguise, her olive cargos weren't much better at warding off December chills. Parkas weren't much good on steal missions, but she was certain she would have taken the biggest, warmest jacket she could find in exchange for making herself a triple-sized target if someone gave her a redo.
She stood on the sandpapery, tarred rooftop of one of the very buildings in question, continuing her surveillance of the target in total misery. Bad enough she had been forced to watch him eat a thousand-dollar lunch at a private bistro while she sated her hunger with saltine crackers and a canteen of tap water. Now she had tracked them to some expansive field of the accursed buildings. She was so sick of warehouses. Maybe he had to check on his private jet, or maybe he was checking out a possible site for a new night club. Who knew what the wealthy did when they got bored?
Fiske exited his limousine, allowing his assistant to open his door. 'When you're rich,' Kim mused, 'You must forget how to work doors.' The pair walked among the tall, boxy buildings, unaware of Kim's observation. They also seemed unaware of the biting cold outside of their long, dark coats, for which they earned Kim's spiteful envy. Instead, Fiske's gaze roamed about, never lingering on any one spot for more than a second. Either he owned (or planned to own) several more of the buildings and was inspecting them all, or he was nervous.
The latex patch on Kim's throat buzzed at her touch. "Wade, check with city registry. How many of these buildings does our friend own?"
Clacking keys preceded his answer. "None," Wade said, surprised. Kim lifted the binos back to her face and relayed the warehouse numbers to him as she watched Fiske enter through a side door and disappear inside. "According to the registry, that warehouse has been condemned. Termite damage."
"Do tell." The binoculars found their way back onto her belt as she swapped them out for her grapnel gun. She double-checked the CO2 charge on the device. Its red casing felt cool through her thin gloves. Memories flashed behind her eyes, back from the days when Wade (and his sick sense of humor) designed her equipment to appear like mundane items. Memories of her old hair dryer grapnel always brought with them the sound of ripping pants and a high-pitched, horrified male shriek.
'Yow! It's cold out here, KP!' Ron's voice howled from behind her. She turned around, expecting to find Ron, pantsless and with a misfired grapnel gun. Instead, there was only more frostbitten wind waiting to scrape her cheeks raw.
Kim chastised her mind and ousted any thoughts that weren't of finding out what that sleazy Englishman was up to. She had dealt with more monkeys, ninjas, and monkey ninjas in her eighteen-year-old life than even the most exciting of adventurers ran across in collective lifetimes. And here she was, potentially throwing herself into yet another monkey mess. That alone was proof positive of her growing concern for her psyche, as if hearing Ron's disembodied voice in her head wasn't evidence enough. "I'm going in, Wade."
"Copy that. I have to get back to my consulting gig anyhow. Keep in touch."
Instinct kicked in as she took aim at the next building over. 'For a girl who can do anything,' her inner scrutiny jibed, 'You sure can't help getting into trouble.'
"Like the chicken says," she murmured. As she spoke, she heard Ron's voice chime in again, harmonizing with her, "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it." Then there was only the silent kick of her grapnel, then the whistling of the wind in her ears, as she swung down to do what she did best.
The instant they snuck inside, Ron knew they had hit pay dirt. The odors of mildew, sawdust, and time permeated the air around the rafters. His senses burned with thousands of details he let his subconscious sift through while Yori shut the squeaky window behind them without a sound. Most of the information fed through his senses was simple white noise unworthy of his notice. But one clue screamed in his nose, jabbing into a sensitive nerve forged years ago during the horrors of his tenure at Camp Wannaweep.
"Monkey," he snarled. The scent was unmistakable. Where once his phobia would have crippled him with fear, he now felt only a rage that threatened to upset his inner balance. Reaching up, he pressed a hidden patch on his throat beneath his ninja hood. "Got 'im."
Rufus growled, "Yeah," from Ron's robes, rumbling at the offensive odor. His skin rippled with pure hate. "Grr, monkeys…"
There was a hiss of static before, "Copy that," filtered through in Wade's voice. "Sorry I've been out of touch. My other consulting job put in a quick call."
"No big," Ron said.
"You want me to call the cavalry?"
Below them, Fiske walked the length of the empty concrete with a deliberate gait. Arms clasped behind his back, jacket front unsashed, he looked comfortable and very much the master of his surroundings. His valet was elsewhere, vanished from sight, and it bothered both ninjas that neither of them had seen her vanish. "What is he doing?" Yori whispered, perplexed. "There does not appear to be anything of interest here."
Ron grunted and touched the Yak Patch on his throat again. "Hold that call, Wade. I doubt the Tokyo Police will arrest one of their most upstanding rich white old dudes on the charge of going into some old building riddled with monkey stank. We'll need something solid."
"Say the word," Wade assured him, "I'll make the call, and they'll be there."
"Thanks Wade. Later." The channel hissed shut, and Ron's team was left to their own devices. He felt his hatred drain away at a sudden, violent wave of cold. The warning beacons that had dazzled his senses a few days ago were buzzing now, their clamor growing steadily in his mind. He felt Rufus quaking, struck by the same fear that sent his buddy aquiver. Nowhere near as potent as that first experience, the warning nonetheless set Ron ill at ease and nearly toppled him from his perch. Only Yori's steadying hand saved him from becoming paste on the floor below.
"Something's here," he told her, clutching at his temple. "I feel…weird. Sick. I dunno."
Another set of eyes glared at Fiske from thee shadows, situated behind a stack of forgotten crates. A satisfied smile infected Fiske's thuggish features and chilled the blood pumping behind those green eyes. His silk-lined leather jacket pooled at his feet with a roll of his shoulders, revealing charcoal robes sashed with a band of red. Team Possible (despite being at half strength at the moment) could bring him in on trespassing charges, but his checkbook would have him back on the sidewalk inside of an hour. They needed real proof of his malicious intent, whatever that was.
"What are you doing here, you miserable limey?" she hissed. "And where did your eye candy go?" That Tsuruko skank had slipped out of sight between entering the building and the time it had taken Kim to catch up. Now she was gone. So far as she knew, Kim had the only hiding spot in the warehouse. Aside from a few lonely boxes here and there, the place was barren. So where could she be?
"Intriguing, isn't it?" Fiske said aloud, clasping his hands behind his back and gazing up at the lofty line of windows filtering in cold sunlight. "They say that to live in ignorance of history is to invite its return. I always wondered how it was possible to exist in such a manner in the Information Age."
"Oh crap," Kim swore under her breath as she watched the rich boy begin to pace. She felt her insides twist at the sound of his reverberating voice. "It's a monologue. Villains never monologue without an audience."
Fiske paused, suddenly fascinated by his own hand. The appendage rotated in front of his face. Beneath the white leather of the glove, his powerful fingers flexed, aching to fulfill unspoken desires. "But then, the true irony is that the very mistake itself is repeated throughout history as well. No matter how many times the lesson is taught, its students still live in ignorance of history, refusing to learn."
"Oh crap," Ron breathed, hunched over atop a steel rafter. Yori tensed next to him as he continued, "It's a monologue." Sensing her confusion, he added, "Villains never monologue without an audience."
"And now," Fiske called into the emptiness, "The lesson has come around again. Once more, history offers the world a chance to fear the power of the Chosen One."
Ron began to shake as the warnings inside his head expanded, becoming impossible to bear. He gripped the I-beam at his feet with whitening knuckles. A gunshot sounded off in his mouth as one of his grinding molars cracked beneath the pressure. Rufus leapt from his robes and began scampering across the rafters, unsure of whether he was going or coming. Skittering on his claws, the mole rat twisted around the rafter at blurring speeds. Yori could only watch helplessly as her two boys went nuts before her eyes.
"Monty is a good lad," the elder Fiske brother sighed, "He really does try. And in a strange way, I'm proud of him. But his execution, it leaves something to be desired. All this brawling with American children and gallivanting around, creating such a ruckus. And that business with the blue fellow and his nuclear missile really was too much, I should think."
Kim squeezed her eyes shut and allowed herself a moment of mourning for her element of surprise. 'Shit. Okay, he is the villain we're after, and he knows I'm here. Okay. Maybe he doesn't know exactly where I am.'
Up in the rafters, Yori fought off a flash of terror. 'Curses,' she thought, 'He is the villain we seek, and he is also aware of our presence. Perhaps he has not discerned our precise location yet.'
The excitement in Fiske's voice snowballed, drawing his arms out in a broad gesture of bold ambition. That wild glint in his eye burst into white flames as he called out, "But now, the next and true Monkey Master shall arise from the shadows. One truly worthy of being Chosen. One with the patience, the skill, and the leadership to bring about the rebirth of the ancient ways. But most importantly," he crowed, "One who possesses strength far exceeding that of any mere monkey." A sly grin slipped over his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder and straight at Kim's hiding spot. "Unless you care to try your hand at stopping me, Miss Possible."
The jig was up. Kim sprouted from behind her crate cover, hands knifed in preparation for trouble. Her features twisted with bitter readiness as she circled around the stack. "Where is the Idol of Simor," she demanded.
"Kim?" The familiar voice cut through Ron's episode. He pushed away the unnerving din inside his head and gaped down as his best friend revealed herself. Panic seeped into his eyes, overriding every other thought and feeling swirling through his mind. She shouldn't be there. He couldn't let anything happen to her.
"The Idol," Fiske shot back, "Is at last in the hands of its proper owner." His fingers snapped, and a full dozen monkey ninjas melted from the shadows. Tsuruko appeared at his side in an instant, arriving from parts unknown without detection via sound or sight. One moment, she wasn't, and the next, she simply was. It unnerved Kim to the point of panic, but she maintained an outward cool to keep up appearances. Tsuruko's arms were draped behind her back as she took up position to Fiske's right, maintaining a respectful distance behind him.
Surrounded on all sides by weapon wielding monkeys, Kim's heart began to sink. "Wade," she muttered, "I'm going to need backup, quick."
"I'm afraid you're on your own, my dear," the sharp-eared Fiske delighted in telling her. "You'll find your communications' uplink quite offline."
Wade's silence confirmed his boast. "So," Kim snarled, "What is all this about? Brotherly rivalry? Or are you just trying to be another Monkey Fist because-"
His snicker cut Kim short. "I assure you, Miss Possible, I intend to become so much more." Never removing his smile from her frustrated, furious features, he pressed a hidden switch on his Rolex. "Behold."
The boxes that had not long ago served as Kim's haven shattered into a thousand splinters with a startling bang. From the shower of broken wood emerged a skeletal, headless figure with gargantuan feet and hands. The dusty air began to settle, and through her irritated tears, Kim caught the glint of blackened steel as, with pounding footsteps, the decapitated body lumbered across the concrete floor.
"No mere mastery of monkey could ever suit me," Fiske continued as the skeletal framework of mechanical parts stalked gracelessly toward its master. Upon reaching him, it paused, opening its ribcage into a set of swinging double doors. "I shall become stronger," he gloated as he climbed in, slipping his legs down into the behemoth's and sliding his arms in as if he were donning a large coat. Only his head protruded from the exo-frame at ludicrous disproportions as the hatches resealed themselves, swallowing the Brit whole.
"And here I was worried," Kim quipped to mask her fear of the now-towering Fiske, "That I finally had to deal with a normal, boring criminal."
"Your courage in the face of overwhelming adversity is admirable," Fiske complimented her from his new, robotic, apelike body. A gleaming crest containing the silhouette of a fist glinted in Kim's eyes. Neither Fiske, nor Tsuruko, nor his simian soldiers, had moved since revealing themselves. "Join me now, swear allegiance to me, and I shall spare you the misery of defeat."
Kim never twitched a muscle. Her defensive stance remained rock steady. "You can't be serious."
"Then your answer is…?"
"You can find my answer," Kim retorted, lifting a leg and waggling its foot in his direction, "On the bottom of my boot. Just tell your proctologist to dig deep."
Fiske tsk'd and shook his head. "Such manners."
"I get ticked when brain cases ruin my holidays," said Kim.
Yori glanced over at Ron. "I am beginning to see what entices you so about her," remarked she.
"We go," Ron said with unwavering focus, "On three. One-"
"Perhaps," Fiske replied, "You would feel better if Mister Stoppable and his lovely companion were to come down and join you."
"Shit. Three." Ron pushed off the edge, with Yori close behind him. They sailed through the air, diving toward the ground and executing flawless flips to land lightly on their toes. Rufus simply dropped off the beam and fell like a stone, splattering into a pink smear on the floor. With a burble, he pulled himself back into shape and cast a tiny snarl at the monkeys surrounding them.
Far from surprised, Kim shot each of them an irritated glare. "Ron," she uttered and nodded. "Yori."
"Kimberly-san," Yori returned the cold greeting in kind.
"Kim," Ron nodded back, and then continued, "Yori. Rufus."
"Ron," the naked mole rat squeaked back.
"And now our little gathering is complete." Fiske smiled, raising an enormous metal hand in greeting to the assembled teens and their tiny entourage of one. "I must admit that, though an exciting prospect, I feel primarily saddened at the thought of your impending demises."
Ron stepped forward, ripping his ninja mask away to bring the full force of his freckled fury upon Fiske. "Game's over, Fiske. We're the good guys, we always win."
The mention of his name sent Fiske into a small frenzy. "I am no longer Gregory Fiske!" His shrieking voice reverberated off the empty walls, "I am the true lord of all things simian. I am Gorilla Fist!" An upraised mechanical hand curled and smashed into the pavement, cracking the cold concrete and quaking the floor beneath them. "And you, my impudent foe," he said as that same fist rose to shake at them, "Will soon learn respect."
Still clad in her hood, Yori spoke, "You are yet another pretender to the title, Lord Fiske. You possess no attributes of the true Chosen One." The words sent a shock through Kim. The redhead shot a startled sidelong glance at her two teammates. Ron's face flashed a brief look of guilt, while Yori's remained steadfast.
"True," replied Fiske. He snapped his new fingers, which resonated with a metallic clang. His masked aide brought one hand around, revealing a small statuette, the very bauble Team Possible was looking for. "You've forced me to act ahead of schedule. But once I capture Stoppable, I can unlock the Idol's secrets at my leisure. And after I find its twin, and activate them both, my destiny shall be realized."
"Actually, Master," Tsuruko spoke with an even tone, "The Idol of Simor is already active." As if to prove her point, the statue's small jade egg flashed green with hidden power.
Fiske whirled upon her in a storm of metal footfalls. "What?" he cried.
Her other hand unveiled a second, identical statue hidden behind her back. "As has the Idol of G'dall."
The voice behind the ninja mask tortured Yori's memory. Could it be?
His aide continued, unaffected by Fiske's stammering shock. "And now that you have lured Stoppable to me, your purpose is served." Her head tilted slightly at the end of her frosty announcement.
Fiske felt a prick in his exposed neck, and began to wobble. His crushing fingers proved to be too clumsy to grasp at the dark protruding from his flesh, still quivering with the force of the monkey's paw that had launched it. The world grew black for the self-titled Gorilla Fist as he tilted to the floor, slamming into the ground with force enough to rattle the teeth of everyone present.
"Goodbye, Master." The treacherous disciple handed her precious statues to a monkey on either side, then pulled away her mask, pulling free her lustrous hair. "And hello, Yori-san. I had hoped Sensei would send you."
"Sister," Yori gasped.
Their animosity forgotten, Ron and Kim exchanged incredulous glances. "Sister?" they harmonized.
With a smug smile, Tsuruko drew a pair of glittering daggers from the sash at her waist. "It gives me the opportunity to tie off another loose end.
A feather could have easily bested Yori and knocked her off her feet. "Tsuruko, is it truly you?"
"No," the woman said with acidic venom in her tone. The daggers spun in her hands, eager to taste the blood of the foolish and the unworthy that stood against her. Long, vicious canines revealed themselves as her lips drew back into a cruel smile. "Now," she proclaimed, "I am Simia."
To Be Continued
