Kim Possible and all related characters and indicia are owned by the Disney Corporation. Supergirl and all related characters and indicia are owned by DC Comics/Warner Bros. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.

The home of Felix Faust

Monkey Fist parried the cut aimed at his head and counter-attacked, bringing his staff down on his opponent's wrist hard enough to cause the black-clad warrior to drop his sword. The blade clattered to the wooden floor of the ballroom, even as the warrior dodged backward to avoid an attempted leg sweep. The warrior kept backing away as Fist advanced, keeping out of reach of Fist's staff while searching for a new weapon. He found one in the form of a pair of nunchaku that had been lying on a table along one wall. Monkey Fist continued his advance, but more cautiously. The warrior was a canny opponent, skilled and quick, who rarely made mistakes. He had now, though, Fist noted, unable to keep from smiling. The warrior whirled the nunchaku around theatrically in an effort to demonstrate his prowess with them. All he succeeded in doing was telling Monkey Fist that nunchaku weren't the warrior's best weapon.

Fist lunged forward, aiming a deliberately clumsy thrust at the warrior's head. As he hoped, the warrior tried to snag Fist's staff with the nunchaku as a first step toward yanking the staff out of Fist's hands. Fist let him succeed with the snagging, then jerked back on the staff. The nunchaku came out of the warrior's hands as he was pulled off balance. The end of the staff came up, slamming into the warrior's crotch. The warrior made no sound, just doubled over, clutching at his groin. Fist swung his staff around and brought it down again in a killing blow on the warrior's neck. The warrior collapsed to the floor in a heap, then dissolved into a puddle of inky liquid that sank into the lacquered wood like it was dry sand.

A slow, measured clap echoed in the spacious ballroom. Fist, who had been leaning on his staff, breathing heavily, looked up. Felix Faust was standing in the doorway. "Most impressive, Lord Fiske. You've come a long way in the last two weeks."

Monkey Fist bowed politely to his host. "Thanks in no small part to you, Mr. Faust, and these wonderful creations of yours. I've never had better sparring partners." Faust responded with a small smile. DNAmy, who had also been watching the exercise, was more ebullient in her praise. "Honey Bunny, you were amazing! That was the most incredible fight I've ever seen!" She rushed forward and threw her chubby arms around Fist, hugging him enthusiastically. Fist smiled at her and patted her on the back with one hand. He could understand her excitement: her knowledge of martial arts came solely from cheesy kung-fu movies on late night TV. For his part, Fist was pleased with his progress. He had fought the opponent he'd just bested five times in the last three days, once each morning and again each evening. The first time had been difficult, to say the least. The second time had been a bit easier, and each subsequent meeting had been less challenging. This, their sixth meeting hadn't been more than moderately difficult. It was time to take things to the next level.

"Thank you, my dear," Fist said. To Faust he added. "If you don't mind, my gracious host, I'd like to go again, and raise the bar a little."

Faust nodded. "As you wish, Lord Fiske." Faust waited for DNAmy to get clear, then passed his hand over a small statuette he was holding, twice. Black liquid erupted from the floor in two places, solidifying into two warriors almost identical to the one Fist had just dispatched. He stepped back, brandishing his staff. The warriors moved toward him while moving away from each other. One was armed with a pair of kama, short sickle-like axes, while the other wielded two tonfa, basically a policeman's truncheon. Fist bared his teeth in a predatory grin. This was going to be interesting.

Fist paused in his eating and grunted in pain as Bates' thick fingers worked at a knot in the muscles of Fist's lower back. Fist was lying on a massage table beside Felix Faust's indoor swimming pool, recuperating from his earlier exertions.

"That was a little foolish of me," he commented to no one in particular. Not taking on two opponents at once. That had presented no difficulties. Or at least it shouldn't have. The problem was jumping right into another bout without taking time to rest. He'd used up a lot of energy in the first fight and had had found himself running out of steam before he'd dispatched even one of his pair of adversaries.

Fist sighed at looked down at the bowl of rice and beef he was holding. It was half empty, and needed to be all the way empty if he was going to keep up his strength. That was one of the unexpected consequences of his new body. It might have had more potential than his old one, but it needed lots of energy. That fact, coupled with the demands of two-a-day workouts and sparring, made for an almost insatiable appetite. Which was too bad. Fist had always enjoyed eating, going so far as to consider himself a sort of Epicurean. Now, thanks to his need to eat six, seven, and sometimes even eight meals a day, eating itself had become a chore, stripped of any pleasure. Fist sighed again, dug his spoon into the bowl, and resumed his shoveling.

Middleton

Wade tapped the eraser of his pencil against his forehead while he considered the last problem of his math homework. While most kids in his age group were struggling with the multiplication and division of fractions, Wade was taking a college level calculus course, among others. Wade glanced around his room. He'd spent most of his life surrounded by its four walls. That was the trouble with being a genius. Truly exceptional intelligence always came with a price. In Wade's case his IQ, which most tests couldn't even measure, and which his psychiatrist had estimated at 175, was bought and paid for with severe agoraphobia. It had manifested itself early on, so early that Wade had attended pre-school for exactly seventeen minutes, the total extent of his public schooling. No amount of therapy had been able to overcome the crippling disorder, so Wade had been home schooled, by his mother until he was eight, then by tutors, and finally over the internet when he'd begun taking college courses. His only friends, beyond those he'd met in therapy play groups, were Jim and Tim Possible, whose back yard abutted his own. In the early days they had romped for hours in the vast wilderness of their yards, playing hide and seek among the trees and bushes, exploring the no-man's-land that ran down the center of the block, and generally doing all the things that three and four year olds do. Then the phobia had hit. Even going out in his own back yard had been more than Wade could bear. Jim and Tim had adapted quickly though. The play had simply moved indoors, where it continued unabated. When Jim and Tim's big sister Kim had needed help setting up and running her website and someone to build her gadgets, Jim and Tim had introduced her to Wade and the rest, as they say, was history.

Wade shook his head. 'Enough woolgathering,' he told himself. 'This problem won't answer itself.' But he couldn't really concentrate. Since puberty had hit his phobia had weakened considerably, and his therapist had high hopes that it would fade entirely. That would be nice. It was fun to be able to go outside without panicking. Visiting the Watchtower had been cool, but to be honest, going to the Middleton Youth Center and mingling with his contemporaries was more fun. Especially his female contemporaries. True, most of them were just eye candy. Much as he tried, the differences in education, interest and intelligence made it hard for Wade to talk to most girls his own age. College women were easier to relate to on an intellectual level, but on the downside there was an unbridgeable social gap between him and them.

Wade smiled as a thought bubbled to the surface of his mind. His mother, overjoyed that he could now leave the house and looking to boost his social skills, had enrolled him in a group called The Misfit Geniuses. The name was pretentious, but it fit. It was basically a club for the intellectually gifted but socially awkward, organized by age range. There were twenty-one kids in Wade's bracket, including nine girls, one of whom was the exceptionally intelligent, amazingly attractive (for a thirteen-year-old) Wendy Wilson. They'd had hit it off immediately, and just three weeks later had gone on a date. True, it had only been a movie, with Wendy's mother chaperoning, but it was still a date. Better still, he and Wendy had another date coming up on Friday. Wade looked at the calendar. Two days away. No doubt time would crawl until then. 'Oh well,' Wade thought resignedly. 'Better finish up the math homework then get started on that electro-optics paper and.." He was interrupted by a chirping sound and the whir of the fax machine starting up. Spinning his chair around, Wade waited until the machine finished printing, than snatched the paper and scanned it.

"Team Possible. Centurion Imports warehouse, Pier F, Long Beach. Midnight tonight." Below the words was a jumble of pictures, apparently lifted from a newspaper, of various pieces of art. Wade didn't recognize any of them as part of Monkey Fist's old collection, but it was possible he'd overlooked them, or that they were some of the objects that he hadn't been able to find photographs of. There was a caption with the photographs, in what looked like an east Asian language. Thoughts of homework and dates vanished from Wade's mind as he turned toward his keyboards and went to work.

Metropolis

The City Room of the Daily Planet was never deserted. The evening staff, as well as the graveyard shift that followed them, was considerably smaller than the daytime crew, and so sometimes gave that impression, but there was always someone here. Of course, 'someone' didn't usually include Lois Lane. The brunette reporter had only just gotten in, having spent the last three days in New York working on her latest story, and was at her desk trying to catch up on her messages and mail before heading home. It was tedious work. There were scores of voice-mails, hundreds of e-mails, and dozens of letters. Most were routine, being either tips from sources, or answers to requests for information and/or interviews. There was the usual handful of bizarre messages from cranks of one sort or another, along with a couple of threats. Lois sighed. It was too bad one of her voice mails had been from her fiancée.

"Lois," it had begun simply, "It's Clark. I had to go out of town to follow up on a lead. I should be back tomorrow morning at the latest. See you then. Love you, bye."

That was Clark-speak for 'I'm on a mission with the Justice League'. Lois smiled in spite of herself. The first time she'd met Clark Kent she'd figured him for a hayseed from the prairie, certainly no match for a hard charging woman from the big city. He'd proven her wrong though, and with patient determination had managed to turn her disdain to respect, then affection and finally, love. A proposal of marriage had followed soon after, and had been eagerly accepted. That in turn had led to Clark revealing that he was also Superman, since he wanted to have no secrets from Lois. She'd been furious at first; partly at him for keeping the secret in the first place, but mostly at herself for not figuring it out on her own. She'd forgiven him, of course, but still...

On a lark Lois picked up her phone and hit the speed dial for Clark's apartment. It was possible he was back already. That would be nice. Clark was no masseuse, but he gave excellent back rubs. The phone rang three times, then a familiar female voice came on the line.

"Clark Kent's apartment, Kara Kent speaking."

"Hello, Kara. Lois here. I was hoping Clark was back, but not yet, huh?"

"Oh hi, Lois! No, not yet. It's still looking like tomorrow morning." Lois didn't bother to ask how Kara knew that. Or rather, she didn't risk asking. There was always the possibility that one or more of their phones were tapped, so there were some topics of conversation that were off limits. Like the fact that Kara Kent, ostensibly Clark Kent's cousin, was actually Kara In-ze, AKA Supergirl. Or that Kara could check on Clark's whereabouts through the Justice League.

"Do me a favor then, and tell him I called, and to call me as soon as he gets back, would you?"

"Sure thing, Lois."

The two women exchanged good-byes and Lois hung up.

Kara. That had been another blow to Lois' ego. Not long after Clark had let her in on the secret of his dual identity, he'd had another 'out of town matter' come up. Lois, looking to ease her worries for his safety, had gone to Clark's apartment to see him off. To her surprise, Clark's cousin from Kansas had been there as well, sitting on the couch watching television.

"You brought her all the way from Smallville to apartment sit for you for three days?" Lois had asked, a touch mockingly. Before Clark could answer Kara had turned with a sly smile and said, "No, Lois, I brought myself from Smallville to 'keep an eye on things' while a certain big blue Boy Scout is out of town." Lois had stared blankly for a few seconds. Then Clark had given her a look that said 'Think about it,' and Lois had smacked herself in the forehead in chagrin.

Sitting at her desk in the City Room Lois chuckled wryly. "Trained observer my ass," she murmured to herself. A soft tone drew her attention. The email icon on her computer was blinking. Not much of a surprise. New e-mails arrived constantly, it seemed. Lois peered at her screen. The subject line read 'Goose Island Dockyard'. Interesting. A navy repair yard during the Second World War, Goose Island had been closed after Korea and sold off to the private sector. In the subsequent decades Goose Island had fallen on hard times, as the domestic U.S. shipbuilding and repair business shrank. Now-a-days Goose Island was mostly deserted, making it an ideal area for Metropolis' criminal element to do business in. Even so, as she opened the message Lois prepared herself for yet another screed from yet another crackpot/conspiracy theorist.

When the message came up Lois blinked. Far from being long and rambling, it was so short and succinct that Lois found herself giving it immediate credibility on that basis alone.

"What: Shipment of stolen Russian military equipment, including heavy weapons," Lois breathed aloud. "Where: Goose Island, 'within sight of Tanner's Wharf'." Lois bit her lip. Tanner's Wharf was one of Metropolis' more successful downtown renewal projects, having been converted from serving the local fishing industry to an upscale shopping and dining area. Unfortunately, half of Goose Island was within sight of Tanner's Wharf. "When: Tonight between eleven p.m. and one a.m. Who: Skull: Metropolis, USA and Hanover, Germany factions." The piece was signed 'A friend' which Lois ignored - aside from the fact that it wasn't very imaginative, experience had shown that it usually wasn't true, either. Mostly, such tips came from rival criminal organizations looking to eliminate their competition. Oh well. A hot tip was a hot tip.

Lois glanced at the clock. It was already after ten. "So much for my plan for a nice dinner, a hot shower and bed," she chuckled. She picked up her phone again and dialed an internal number. The phone rang twice. When it was answered Lois said, "Mike? Lois Lane here. I got a hot tip I'm going to check on. Have one of your photographers meet me in the lobby in five minutes, okay?" Pause. "Great, thanks." Quickly stuffing her notebook in her purse Lois stood up and turned away from her desk. Then she stopped. Turning back, she picked up the phone again with one hand while starting the process of forwarding the e-mail with the other.

"Kara, it's me again. I just got an e-mail I think Clark would be interested in. Do me a favor and open it up, and make sure he sees it, would you? Thanks."

Kara put down the phone and made a bee-line for Clark's home computer.

"So, Skull," Kara mused as she leaned over the monitor. She knew very little about that group. The files Clark kept about them were sparse as well. 'Basically an Intergang with global reach. Well, as long as they don't have any metahumans with them, they shouldn't be too much trouble.' Kara straightened up and began unbuttoning her blouse. 'First night in town and I'm already getting some action. Cool!'

Long Beach

"South Pico Avenue, this exit," Kim read, and guided the Team Possible van off of Interstate 710 onto the long off-ramp that led to the street in question.

"How much farther?" Ron asked from the back of the van. He was busy giving their equipment a final check, in preparation for the night's activities. Kim glanced in the rear view mirror. Like her, Ron was dressed head to toe in black. All that remained was for them to blacken their faces, something they'd take care of after they parked.

"About half a mile," Kim told him.

Ron nodded once, then asked the same question he always did before an operation these days. "Guns?"

Kim shook her head. "This is a reconnaissance, not an assault. Non-lethals only."

Kim turned right off Pico Avenue onto Harbor Place, then right again onto Pier F Avenue. The street dead ended in a cul-de-sac that was partly screened from view by railroad sidings jammed with freight cars on either side of it.

"Looks like a great make-out spot," Ron joked as Kim parked the van. Kim grinned. He was probably right. Despite being surrounded by activity, it was a rather lonely place. Which made it perfect for their purposes. After carefully applying her face paint, Kim got out. She put on the vest and belt Ron held out to her, then checked the contents: sting balls, flash/bangs, riot gas grenades (a true gas, one that induced vomiting and mild hallucinations, not the fine powder that was tear 'gas'), smoke grenades, truncheon, grapple gun and taser gun. A glance at Ron showed that he was similarly equipped, though he also carried a collapsible, spring-loaded baton that could extend into a four foot staff. Kim affected not to notice the Marine combat knife at his hip, or the 9mm pistol she knew was tucked away at the small of his back.

"Helmet?" she asked. Ron held it out to her. The helmet was Wade's latest version, fitted not only with retractable low-light and infrared vision systems and built in secure radios, but also a sound amplification and filtering system that would, hopefully, screen out background noise while making it easier to hear movement and conversation. Hopefully. Strapping the helmet on Kim jerked her head toward their goal. "Shall we?"

Ron nodded again. "We shall," he said softly.