9
Kim's fingers absently ran over the threads on her cheek, the stitches she had to have sown in her flesh, like they were splinters. The whole process sucked. The doctor at Middleton General was a sadist, administering nothing to quell the pain as his fingers worked their magic the strings.
She couldn't complain much. At least she was back at home, zoning out to the mindless blather on the family's big screen. She chuckled weakly. She made international headlines with her little race around Prague, and thankfully no one had made the connection between her and the mysterious event. It was a strange thing about her really, because no one else announces her own presence with such a fanfare.
She frowned. *Uzi.! * The intelligibility was lost in her growl. He'd get his just desserts; she'd make sure of it.
Her neck gave out, and her head flopped onto her shoulder. From the angle, her mother clad in purple sat at attention in the high-backed, winged chair. In her spidery grasp, she fumbled with a small revolver-- probably the one she and her dad had purchased--carelessly like she never held it before. On the carpet near her pumps sat a black, plastic box no bigger than her forearm.
"Don't kill yourself now, mom." she smirked weakly as she let her body flop onto the rest of the couch. She bounced gently as the springs recoiled. "It'd be pretty ironic to find a top neurosurgeon with a GSW on her head."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Kimmie." The mother looked up from her careless work, blue eyes beaming the sarcasm.
"Isn't my fault you look like you're about to shoot yourself!" she laughed. "The way you fumble with it and all."
"I know what I'm doing." The gun made a *click* as she nudged the cylinder closed.
"Then why are you staring down the barrel then?" she smirked. "And why's your thumb resting on a hair trigger, hmm?"
The woman blinked as she dropped her gaze to her lap, and the gun went airborne for a moment before her mother grabbed it out of the air. She trained the snubbed muzzle to the carpet.
"Uh--right!" the mother nodded. "Thank you, Kimmie."
"No big." She shook her head. "That's why I've got that training under my belt."
"Indeed." The mother said. "But how's that guest of ours? Is she comfortable?"
"Who?" her body felt like it sank a few inches on the sofa as she sat up. "Hershel?"
"Yeah." The mother affirmed. "That tan blonde who walks like she owns the place. What's she doing?"
Ariel Hershel decided to crash her downtime, about an hour after she got home from the Middleton Airport. It had been about three hours since she strolled in the door, and she spent all of it yelling at the person on the other end of the phone lines when she wasn't drinking them out of the house. In fact, she could barely hear that accent of hers over the TV.
"Either screaming at her higher-ups or ordering something from the delicatessen very loudly." She chuckled.
The tanned woman strolled out of the kitchen doorway gracefully with her open jacket and business skirt, her skin a contrast to her beet red face as she screamed into her cell phone.
"I'm telling you for the last time!" the woman yelled, almost foaming at the mouth. "I want that corn beef on rye bread, not wheat!"
Kim rolled her eyes. "Called that one."
The cell phone closed, clicking shut just before it disappeared into her jacket pocket. Her heeled shoes wobbled a bit on the plush carpet as the woman strolled toward the couch. The blonde grabbed her by her ankles.
"What are you--?" Kim got her answer as the woman dropped them onto the floor, nearly taking the whole body with it. "Hey!"
"Hey what?" the rude Barbie doll shrugged. "Remember, I'm the guest now."
Her head rolled along with her eyes as she sighed. "Is everyone in the intelligence business as blunt as you?"
"It's a double edged sword really:" the Barbie doll tossed a large lock of wavy hair onto her back, with a whip of her head, "finesse means everything and nothing in this business. Kind of like your Sunday drive through Prague, if I remember right."
"The epitome of it all, right?" She groaned. "Just be grateful that no one got hurt."
"Got hurt?" the woman blinked. "Oh--you mean like those VSA members your boyfriend torched, right?"
The open shape of her eyes pressed into a thin slit just as her lips.
"No," the blonde continued, "they're not hurt. They're dead--but they're not hurt."
"How long are you going to keep this up!?" she spun onto her back, her abs crunching as she sat up.
"As long as it takes, Ms. Possible!" the woman stood up, as if to lord the power over her like the boss to a stuck up employee. "That little stunt drive you took nearly torched the city! The Czech government is up in arms over it--and the UN is having a fit with Israel over Syria! Do you really want to escalate that!?"
"No--I--!"
"Then you'll lay low as long as I see fit!" the woman crossed her arms firmly. "Your mission was reconnaissance--not shoot the place up like Beirut!"
She blinked. "But--I--!"
"Hershel's right, Kim." The voice of her mother joined the scolding. She didn't bother to look over. "I didn't think intelligence gathering involved the gun fight at the OK Corral."
Her head shook as she slid down the length of the couch, her hairs shaped like bobby pins as her arm draped over her eyes.
"It is when Uzi's in the mix." She said flatly.
The blonde dropped her arms. The limbs dangled at her sides as her the whites of her eyes grew.
"What?" the woman said quizzically.
"He's still alive." She said. "Mangled to hell, but alive nonetheless. He was receiving treatment at that hospital in Prague. It's probably the reason why Bonnet was hanging around the city, more or less."
"Damn it--this changes everything!" the woman cursed. A limb became useful again, as did its hand as she jabbed it into her pocket at tore out the cell phone. It flipped open with a flick of her wrist. The phone rang out in various, flat bleats as she thumbed the buttons. The receiver pressed against her ear, and she spoke in some kind of tongue.
The phone clicked shut like defective castanet, and it disappeared behind the flap of her jacket.
"Ugh." the woman buried her head into a hand, thick locks draping over the hand like the branches of a willow tree, "and if my superior wasn't thrilled enough."
"What?" she sat back up. "What's going on?"
"There's been a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv." The locks swayed gently as the head shook. "About 10 people have died and many more are injured."
Her heart felt as if it sank a few inches in her chest, the guilt swelling in the back of her mind like a tumor.
"Many of them are children."
Her heart sank as her guts twisted in knots.
"Oh my God!" her mother gasped. Something fell onto the carpet in the pregnant silence, hitting the plush textile with a *thud*. She flopped onto her belly, and her heart nearly broke as she gazed at those broken eyes, brimmed with tears.
The revolver sat on the carpet, sitting in its plush area as her mother took her leave, heels clacking as she moved into the tiled kitchen briskly.
"W--!" She couldn't speak. Her hands clenched into tight fists, trembling at the sudden anger that rushed through her system. "Who--Who did this!? Boy--are they going to get it!"
"That Uzi character." her mother cried with a broken voice. "How could he do such a thing!? To his OWN people!"
The blonde capped head looked up. "DID YOU HEAR A DAMN THING!?" the woman's accent was nowhere to be heard within the shout. "I said SUICIDE BOMBING!"
"Uzi or NOT!" she yelled in an anguished, uncontrollable rage as it burned throughout her body like a wildfire. "I'm still going to get them! I bet it was those terrorist groups!"
"You may be right." The accent returned in Ariel's voice. "But no one's claimed responsibility yet. Regardless, latest satellite footage shows VSA troops on the move toward the West Bank. Last I recall they weren't picky fighters."
"What are you saying?"
"Take Milosevic, and times him by 10!" the blonde said strongly. "The VSA hates Muslims and hates the US even more!"
"But--what'd we do?" she growled.
"Given how your government is constantly restraining Israel from taking retaliatory action for every bombing, they have a lot of reason for hating you." The woman explained as she took a seat on the couch. "Plus this Road Map the current administration is backing doesn't help the case either."
"But you guys need it--!"
"Let me make this clear--" the woman frowned grudgingly. "ISRAEL IS SOVERIGN!! We will do whatever we see fit to protect ourselves--and by God- -we will NOT LET YOU TAKE IT FROM US!!"
--Kim found herself at the corner of the couch, huddled with her knees pressing into her breasts, shivering like that neurotic Pepe dog. The locks of blonde hair whipped around as the woman shook her head, seemingly shaking the anger off like flecks of water. Her hands disappeared into her briefcase that lay on the coffee table.
"The smart people's opinions aside:" the blonde said coolly, "you're still under contract with the Israeli government, and we'd like you to prepare for your next assignment."
"What is it?" her breathing eased. A quizzical frown tugged her lips as the agent--her superior--withdrew a book from the chocolate briefcase. And she rolled her eyes just after they caught the black, sans serif title printed on the cover, as if she knew it all along:
The Idiot's Guide to the Middle East Conflict.
"Welcome to Israel, Ms. Possible." The woman stated.
***
*BAM! * The CAR-15 shouted out the spilt second after Tara had pulled the trigger. A blood red stripe raced for the target stand, ringing out with a *TANG* and ricocheting up into the air from the pockmarked plate a good 100+ yards downrange.
The eyepieces of Yune's binoculars pressed into his eyes--and right off the bat, the bullet had hit the steel plate dead center. There was a hole on the target paper that was tapped to the plate; the globular tear brimmed with black a few mere millimeters away from the bull's-eye.
"Did I hit anything?" the girl asked. The binoculars swung to his chest by the tether, bouncing on his sternum once. Tara had his pre-ban Bushmaster carefully in her small grasp, the flash-suppressed barrel trained downrange and the bolt clanged as she easily slapped in another nine-round magazine.
"You bet!" he nodded. "Almost dead center on your first magazine, with the iron sights too."
The blonde's eyes beamed pure delight. "Really?" her smile was wide and full of giddy.
"Now would I lie to you?" he chuckled.
"Do you got a reason to?" her head tilted curiously.
"Nope." His good hand cupped onto his bad shoulder, massaging the muscle gently before it flopped back at his side. "Sure don't."
"Glad to hear it." She nodded as she took up her shooting stance again; the collapsible stock of the rifle square against her tiny shoulder. "But is there anything I could work on?"
"One." He smirked teasingly.
Tara's open eye gazed at him. "And that would be?"
"Yeah." He shook his head. "You should dress for the occasion. Do you always have to wear that every time we're out?"
The stock dropped from her shoulder as she looked over her trademark ensemble. Her head whipped back up upon her shoulders, her face confounded.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked.
"I told you should dress down for a time at the range." He shook his head. "Yet here you are in the same thing you wore last time."
"It's so NOT the same thing!" she frowned.
"Is too." He smirked.
"IS NOT!" the rifle made a clunk as she gently--more or less--set the gun down on the table. "The last outfit came from Club Banana! These ones came from Smarty Mart!"
"I fail to see the difference--"
"There's a HUGE difference!" her makeshift clog kicked up a tiny whiff of dirt as she stamped her foot boldly.
"Last I've heard, both outlet chains are owned by the same company." He noted from an earlier conversation with Ron. "Same company, same merchandise the way I see it."
"Ugh!" she rolled her eyes. "Syllogism noted!"
"Oh!" he chuckled. "T's angry! She's using really big words now!"
"Remind me to hand you your soul the next time we spar!" she growled.
"Is it a blue-light special?" he pressed jokingly. "Bin-Mok's soul, aisle 5!"
She threw up her hands in disgust. "UGH--!" she yelled hoarsely. "MEN!!"
"Can't live with them, can't live without them!" he noted playfully again.
His brow perked as something bleated out from his hip; his phone bleating out Fur Elise like a manic-depressive instrument. The light danced across the plastic case in the midday sun, the belt clip snapped quietly as he relieved the phone from its catch in the fifth pocket. The whinny tune ceased as he thumbed the blue lined button.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Yune?" called out the voice of that redheaded freelancer. "It's Kim."
"I know." He nodded, speaking rather loudly over T's quick staccato of shots. "I saw the number read-out on my phone."
"What's going on over there?" her voice was overrun by the gunfire. "Sounds like war."
"In a manner of speaking." He chuckled under his breath. "If you call T's time at the range that."
"I heard that!" he looked over, quickly eyeing the blonde's solid frown.
"Besides our day on the prairie, what's going on at the Possible household?" he asked. "Is that blonde over there giving you shit over your driving skills?"
"Well--duh, Yune!" the auburn exclaimed. "Given how the networks had a field day with it. I'm lucky that my house isn't swarmed with paparazzi!"
"Thanks to a little disinformation from the Czech government, right?"
"Exactly."
"So what's up?" A kink rose from his sinking brow. "You don't need me for anything, do you?"
"Actually, we do." The freelancer replied.
"Who's we?" his lips pulled into a corner.
"Ron and I, Yune!" she exclaimed. "Don't play dumb. It was Ron and I last time and before, and it's the same this time around."
"So what?" he rolled his eyes. "You could have recruited another person after we got back home, like dropping a rock."
".Uh.what?"
"Past experience tells you when you drop a rock, gravity pulls it down towards its center. Yet the next time you release it, it could either drop accordingly or float up to the ceiling."
"And. what's your point?" his junior asked.
"The past can never determine the future." He concluded, nodding as if to assert it.
"You're being paranoid." There was a long-winded sigh after the last word.
"Maybe," he pressed, "maybe not. You never know till it's too late."
"Ugh!" the girl sighed gruffly. "Do you want to help us or not!?"
*Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to get that afternoon nap I deserve.? * His mind egged him.
"My arm's still in a sling." He said. "So wherever you're going, or whatever you want me to do, Tara has to come too."
"This is a pretty chaotic region were traveling too." The girl pointed out. "It's too dangerous for her. But the Mossad will provide you with all the medical support you need."
"Where are we going then?" he asked.
".Israel." She said flatly.
He laughed.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
"All that drama for that little place?" he blinked hysterically. "Please!"
"But the suicide bombings--!"
"Trust me on this," he stated, "the country, Jerusalem in particular, has a lower murder rate than Denver. With only 5 murders in the past year, three of them related to terrorism."
"But--!"
"Tara will be safe, don't worry." He assured.
"But--!"
"Either Tara goes, or I don't go." He frowned. "I don't trust anyone else but her."
"But. oh--fine!" the girl gave up. "Have it your way! But you have to keep an eye on her!"
"That's fine with me." He nodded.
"Then get packing." Kim said. "Our flight leaves tomorrow morning."
"Rodger." He thumbed the line button, feeling it click beneath the pad of his thumb. The clip of the phone met the lip of his fifth pocket once more.
The blonde set his pre-ban carbine down gently upon the wood table, her eyes beaming just like her wide smile.
"So. where are we going to now, Yune?" she grinned. "Paris, Berlin, Seoul?"
"Well." he looked up into the clear, baby-blue sky in thought. "How does a trip to the Middle East sound?"
***
Everything seemed so distant, so detached as if he was in a dream. Ron couldn't believe his ears when Kimberly told him the news. It had been well over 10 years since he left the promised land, as did a certain. *completeness* when his shoes touched off of the pledged ground when he boarded the departing flight.
A chill ran up his spine, spreading its frosty tingle throughout his body.
He was going back home.
With the permission of his parents, he decided to spend the night over at Kim's house since the trip to Middleton International was shorter than from his place. He gazed blankly up at the ceiling. The heel of his foot tapped his duffel bag as he carelessly moved his leg; the pile of fabricated cloth merely ruffled indifferently.
The bottom of his jaw pressed flatly against the top of his chest as he glanced at the diligent auburn at her workstation. The screen of her desktop flickered in a Technicolor lightshow, typically of whites, blues, and few varying colors in between. That Mossad agent, Hershel, gave Kim some information about her latest endeavor via email through a secure line. Hershel made sure of that before she left.
"Um. what exactly are you looking at, Kim?" his butt sank a few inches in the mattress as he sat up.
The redhead glanced over her shoulder briefly, only to just acknowledge his presence.
"Oh--it's nothing that we haven't seen already, Ron." She explained. "You know: maps, profiles, communication transcripts, GPS, etcetera, and etcetera."
"Pf.!" he scoffed. "Just that? Heck--Wade does that stuff already."
"Too true," that puffy, reddened mane bobbed, "but we can't use him with the government breathing down our necks."
"But his transmissions are highly encrypted, with only the Kimmunicator satellite playing middleman." He argued. "Not even the NSA can crack the cipher!"
"But they'll shut us down if they even suspect we're exchanging sensitive material."
"Bah!" he chuckled. "They can't even find Saddam Hussein!"
"But there's always the 'yet'." She noted distantly, the voice drowned under the humming drone of her desktop.
The bedsprings squeaked as he pushed himself off the bed, the carpet scraping against the soles of his feet as he shuffled over to the workstation. The puffy, red hair blocked his view of the screen, coated with a layer of dust no thinner than a hair. There was a small wad of dead skin sitting in the corner, thicker than the rest, almost as if it had been packed down during a dusting like replanted earth. Millimeters below the wad were characters of a language, his people's language, emblazoned in red along with three letters of English in a circular pattern.
"VSA." he mouthed.
"Also known as the 'Victims' Separatist Army'." Kim looked at him generally. "But there are rumors going around the country that wasn't the original title of the faction."
"Well." he shrugged, "do have any idea?"
"Actually, quite a few people think it stands for 'Victims of the Smiling Ass'." She shook her head amusingly, gently, rolling her eyes all the while. "But I can see why they'd think that."
He nodded too, as the gnarled visage of the PA chairman flashed in this mind, crowned with that head garment he joked was a tea blanket. There was no way he could forget that smug, delirious grin that constantly crawled across his grizzled features after a bombing when they weren't bobbing incessantly.
"I hear that!" he smirked. "Amazing how the old coot's still alive too. after all he did."
"I'm not going to argue about that." She waved her hand passively. "We've got far more things to worry about."
"Like what?"
"Public relations, for one thing." She said. "According to these reports, the Israeli public sees Drazen as a hero, incredibly with bi-partisan support from the left and right. And they're not going to be happy when they find their 'hero' packed in a body bag. Even a few reports state how a sympathetic crowd turned on the police during a raid."
"That's a given." He folded his arms.
"It seems this wannabe junta had become a force to be reckoned with, over the last few weeks." She continued as windows flickered on and off the screen as she pleased. "So powerful, in fact, they can operate in broad daylight and police are powerless to stop them."
He blinked. "How can a ragtag army do that?"
"The reports have nothing on their power-plays." She shrugged. "But when the whole world's against you, you've got nothing to lose. And given the country's advanced nuclear arsenal."
"Right." He gave his forehead a good whap. "If my people go down, so does a good chunk of the Middle East."
"And we can't let that happen." The auburn mane shook side to side. "Tough, if your people can't stand the thought of Uzi's death. We're not letting World War Three start because of him."
"Amen to that." He nodded.
"You'd better leave now, Ron." She turned around. A smooth elbow popped over the back of the chair, wedging the top of the back underneath her armpit. "I'm going to be up here for a while, figuring this stuff out."
He rolled his eyes. "Like last time?"
"Just like last time," she nodded, tapping her crown with a finger thrice, "except our cover won't get blown. I hope. But I call you once something clicks upstairs."
"You really need to take a break sometimes, KP." He shook his head. "You're going to go crazy one of these days if you don't."
"Don't worry about me, Ron." She looked away. "Seriously. Go downstairs and watch TV or something. Isn't 'Steel Toe' supposed to be on tonight?"
He felt his heart jump at the wrestling title. "Oh--that's *right*!" he shook some sense back into his head. What was he thinking? Absolutely nothing got in the way of GWA "Night of a Hundred Bruises", and his little buddy was probably searching high and low for him. "I totally forgot about the little guy! If we missed the show, he'd be crushed."
"Uh." Kim, as usual, was speechless at his resolve. Kim, he'd never understand her. How could anyone not love the GWA, how skilled athletes go one-on-one in mortal combat for the ultimate prize?
*The mind boggles. * he thought.
"Do you want to watch with us?" he smiled excitedly. "STEEL TOE RULES!!"
His heart stopped its brawling-infatuated twitter completely, as a small frown pulled at the corners of the auburn's lips. A beaming kink was on her brow as she tapped at the screen.
"Planning.!" she crossed her legs.
"Your loss, KP." He shrugged as a foot went for the steps. "But someday, you're going to wish you had enjoyed the good life while it lasted!"
He spun on his heel smoothly--too soon, he quickly noticed, as he lost complete control of his body. The walls of the stairwell sped past him hurriedly, as did the dark steps beneath him--very *hard* steps his back crashed into on his cumbersome descent. Pain wrapped around his skull tightly just as he tumbled out of the second floor ceiling, and he stopped face first onto the plush carpet at the bottom of the ebony steps.
Hurried footsteps flooded his ears, patting toward him from everywhere imaginable. His fingers curled on one hand, and he lifted his arm high into the air above him as far as it could go, unfolding his index finger as the fist reached the zenith.
"I'm okay!" he called to no one, yet everyone.
***
*Suddenly, Middleton's bombing seems so irrelevant now.. * Kim's mind whispered.
Israel was at a dangerous crossroad in its short 50-plus years of existence, and she couldn't sit by idly while the crack that was Drazen's pride-and-joy threatened to tear the territory--the world apart. The later reports on her desktop computer were disgusting; invasion, refugee camps-- Uzi and his motley crew of thugs were systematically killing their way through the West Bank and Gaza. And her inquiry from Wade came back.. From all of it, it was only a matter of time before the punk's terrorist crusade spilt into the other countries.
The private jet sat in front of her, the steps to the region's future lowering at her feet while the pilots readied for take off. The jet's destination was Egypt; Israel was far too dangerous for her and the Ron right off the bat. The VSA would be scouring the airports, municipal and international alike. Instead, the Mossad decided it was better if they sneaked into the country from the Sinai and travel up to Tel Aviv along the coast; ironic since its where the VSA was most concentrated.
Her ears barely caught the sound of footsteps behind her, disjointed like two people walking close together. She looked over her shoulder, and Tara and Yune walked closer, smiling warmly at each other with arm and arm like true couple. They wouldn't be joining them in Cairo. Instead the couple will be at the hotel before them, warm and toasty while they sneak into the country like rats in the cold dead of night.
"Why do we get the short end of the stick?" Ron whined from the jet's steps, with black duffel bag in hand. "We're the VIPs on this mission!"
"Because the thugs won't be looking for us when we leave the airport." The Korean smirked as they passed her, taking their sweet time as they trotted up the steps together. "Easy does it, T."
"Right." the blonde smiled warmly back at him, as she hefted her bag up the steps.
From out of the doorway, popped out the blonde capped woman everyone came to know as the superior, Hershel. Simple business clothes adorned her curves like last time, brown business skirt with a matching jacket that flapped freely in the breeze over her button-down shirt. Fashionable work pumps lifted her heels off the ground no more than an inch.
"Everyone ready to depart?" the superior asked flatly.
"Ready and willing!" Tara's smile was wide, as if the whole thing was a game. Kim sympathized with the woman as both rolled their eyes.
"Right." the blonde sighed.
Kim bent at the knees, and she hoisted her own duffle bag up behind her shoulder. She placed a foot onto the bottom step as the lovebirds made it three-quarters of the way up.
"And where are you going, ma'am?" she didn't bother to hide her contempt.
"Tel-Aviv." Hershel replied. "Just like this happy couple."
She was halfway up the steps, grunting to keep the bag up as it wanted to dip lower than what her joints were capable. "Why." she breathed, "do you. get. to go. there?"
"Most of the VSA don't know me, but they sure as heck know you!" the woman nodded. "Most of the 'troops' think your dead. Let's not give them any reason to think different."
"Uh--!" she grunted. ".Right."
The couple turned the corner as their feet touched flatly down upon the hard carpet of the plane. She tossed her bag carelessly in through the skewed portal with a grunt, watching the black sack crumple and fall on the carpet flat. Her journey up the rest of the cramped flight never had been easier.
"Are you done, She-Hulk?" Hershel snidely remarked as she hoisted up her bag upon entry. Her eyes rolled disgustedly. "Anymore muscles you need to flex?"
Her lip twitched grudgingly at the blonde's smug grin.
"If you do," she chuckled, "could you be a Neanderthal, and hoist up those awfully heavy steps?"
Out her sneered lips came forth a disgusted growl as her eyes took another lap around their sockets.
"Don't worry about that, ma'am." She turned to see the co-pilot standing at the ready outside the cockpit's shifting curtain. A dark, tanned head capped the neatly pressed uniform as he yanked the folding stairs in. "They can be a pain sometimes. Kind of like dear Ariel over yonder."
"I'm very shocked at that, Tuvia!" The blonde in question said flatly, unimpressed. "After lunch, I think I'll faint!"
"We can only hope." the co-pilot shook his head dismissively as he turned for the curtain.
"I bet!" the woman yawned before she sat her body up straight. "All right, everyone settled? The plane's taking off in 10 minutes--!"
"15 minutes, since we have to taxi." A voice--a different voice called from behind the beige curtain, the pilot. Kim couldn't stifle a well-deserved chuckle as the blonde groaned.
She took to the nearest seat, jamming her heavy duffel into the overhead bin with a huff. The leather seat squelched under her bottom as she sat down, squeaking out a little more as she shifted for a comfortable spot.
Her arm touched the armrest--and she wrenched it back as if a snake had struck her. She had touched something firm-yet-soft and dry, like skin. She looked over--and Ron seemed to have taken the seat right next to her beforehand. His blond head laid flat against the headrest, and his boyish, freckled face showed nothing of surprise--or even expression for that matter. It's almost as if the lifeless heap of flesh next to her wasn't Ron at all, and Rufus had been exceptionally quiet all morning.
*Almost like he's thinking. *
"Ron?" she said quietly.
The head shifted towards her, the brown eyes moved toward her own.
"Yeah. KP?" he yawned.
"Anything on your mind, Ron?" she hunched forward as would a benched player.
"I'm going home, KP." He said emotionlessly, creepily. "I'm going home."
The head moved away as she felt something shift underfoot, and her gut moved in all directions as she saw the world outside scroll by over the whining of the engines. There was a pregnant silence between them--yet her ears twitched at the sound of something different, like flat music--organic music straight from someone next to her.
*Is Ron. humming? *
Kim's fingers absently ran over the threads on her cheek, the stitches she had to have sown in her flesh, like they were splinters. The whole process sucked. The doctor at Middleton General was a sadist, administering nothing to quell the pain as his fingers worked their magic the strings.
She couldn't complain much. At least she was back at home, zoning out to the mindless blather on the family's big screen. She chuckled weakly. She made international headlines with her little race around Prague, and thankfully no one had made the connection between her and the mysterious event. It was a strange thing about her really, because no one else announces her own presence with such a fanfare.
She frowned. *Uzi.! * The intelligibility was lost in her growl. He'd get his just desserts; she'd make sure of it.
Her neck gave out, and her head flopped onto her shoulder. From the angle, her mother clad in purple sat at attention in the high-backed, winged chair. In her spidery grasp, she fumbled with a small revolver-- probably the one she and her dad had purchased--carelessly like she never held it before. On the carpet near her pumps sat a black, plastic box no bigger than her forearm.
"Don't kill yourself now, mom." she smirked weakly as she let her body flop onto the rest of the couch. She bounced gently as the springs recoiled. "It'd be pretty ironic to find a top neurosurgeon with a GSW on her head."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Kimmie." The mother looked up from her careless work, blue eyes beaming the sarcasm.
"Isn't my fault you look like you're about to shoot yourself!" she laughed. "The way you fumble with it and all."
"I know what I'm doing." The gun made a *click* as she nudged the cylinder closed.
"Then why are you staring down the barrel then?" she smirked. "And why's your thumb resting on a hair trigger, hmm?"
The woman blinked as she dropped her gaze to her lap, and the gun went airborne for a moment before her mother grabbed it out of the air. She trained the snubbed muzzle to the carpet.
"Uh--right!" the mother nodded. "Thank you, Kimmie."
"No big." She shook her head. "That's why I've got that training under my belt."
"Indeed." The mother said. "But how's that guest of ours? Is she comfortable?"
"Who?" her body felt like it sank a few inches on the sofa as she sat up. "Hershel?"
"Yeah." The mother affirmed. "That tan blonde who walks like she owns the place. What's she doing?"
Ariel Hershel decided to crash her downtime, about an hour after she got home from the Middleton Airport. It had been about three hours since she strolled in the door, and she spent all of it yelling at the person on the other end of the phone lines when she wasn't drinking them out of the house. In fact, she could barely hear that accent of hers over the TV.
"Either screaming at her higher-ups or ordering something from the delicatessen very loudly." She chuckled.
The tanned woman strolled out of the kitchen doorway gracefully with her open jacket and business skirt, her skin a contrast to her beet red face as she screamed into her cell phone.
"I'm telling you for the last time!" the woman yelled, almost foaming at the mouth. "I want that corn beef on rye bread, not wheat!"
Kim rolled her eyes. "Called that one."
The cell phone closed, clicking shut just before it disappeared into her jacket pocket. Her heeled shoes wobbled a bit on the plush carpet as the woman strolled toward the couch. The blonde grabbed her by her ankles.
"What are you--?" Kim got her answer as the woman dropped them onto the floor, nearly taking the whole body with it. "Hey!"
"Hey what?" the rude Barbie doll shrugged. "Remember, I'm the guest now."
Her head rolled along with her eyes as she sighed. "Is everyone in the intelligence business as blunt as you?"
"It's a double edged sword really:" the Barbie doll tossed a large lock of wavy hair onto her back, with a whip of her head, "finesse means everything and nothing in this business. Kind of like your Sunday drive through Prague, if I remember right."
"The epitome of it all, right?" She groaned. "Just be grateful that no one got hurt."
"Got hurt?" the woman blinked. "Oh--you mean like those VSA members your boyfriend torched, right?"
The open shape of her eyes pressed into a thin slit just as her lips.
"No," the blonde continued, "they're not hurt. They're dead--but they're not hurt."
"How long are you going to keep this up!?" she spun onto her back, her abs crunching as she sat up.
"As long as it takes, Ms. Possible!" the woman stood up, as if to lord the power over her like the boss to a stuck up employee. "That little stunt drive you took nearly torched the city! The Czech government is up in arms over it--and the UN is having a fit with Israel over Syria! Do you really want to escalate that!?"
"No--I--!"
"Then you'll lay low as long as I see fit!" the woman crossed her arms firmly. "Your mission was reconnaissance--not shoot the place up like Beirut!"
She blinked. "But--I--!"
"Hershel's right, Kim." The voice of her mother joined the scolding. She didn't bother to look over. "I didn't think intelligence gathering involved the gun fight at the OK Corral."
Her head shook as she slid down the length of the couch, her hairs shaped like bobby pins as her arm draped over her eyes.
"It is when Uzi's in the mix." She said flatly.
The blonde dropped her arms. The limbs dangled at her sides as her the whites of her eyes grew.
"What?" the woman said quizzically.
"He's still alive." She said. "Mangled to hell, but alive nonetheless. He was receiving treatment at that hospital in Prague. It's probably the reason why Bonnet was hanging around the city, more or less."
"Damn it--this changes everything!" the woman cursed. A limb became useful again, as did its hand as she jabbed it into her pocket at tore out the cell phone. It flipped open with a flick of her wrist. The phone rang out in various, flat bleats as she thumbed the buttons. The receiver pressed against her ear, and she spoke in some kind of tongue.
The phone clicked shut like defective castanet, and it disappeared behind the flap of her jacket.
"Ugh." the woman buried her head into a hand, thick locks draping over the hand like the branches of a willow tree, "and if my superior wasn't thrilled enough."
"What?" she sat back up. "What's going on?"
"There's been a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv." The locks swayed gently as the head shook. "About 10 people have died and many more are injured."
Her heart felt as if it sank a few inches in her chest, the guilt swelling in the back of her mind like a tumor.
"Many of them are children."
Her heart sank as her guts twisted in knots.
"Oh my God!" her mother gasped. Something fell onto the carpet in the pregnant silence, hitting the plush textile with a *thud*. She flopped onto her belly, and her heart nearly broke as she gazed at those broken eyes, brimmed with tears.
The revolver sat on the carpet, sitting in its plush area as her mother took her leave, heels clacking as she moved into the tiled kitchen briskly.
"W--!" She couldn't speak. Her hands clenched into tight fists, trembling at the sudden anger that rushed through her system. "Who--Who did this!? Boy--are they going to get it!"
"That Uzi character." her mother cried with a broken voice. "How could he do such a thing!? To his OWN people!"
The blonde capped head looked up. "DID YOU HEAR A DAMN THING!?" the woman's accent was nowhere to be heard within the shout. "I said SUICIDE BOMBING!"
"Uzi or NOT!" she yelled in an anguished, uncontrollable rage as it burned throughout her body like a wildfire. "I'm still going to get them! I bet it was those terrorist groups!"
"You may be right." The accent returned in Ariel's voice. "But no one's claimed responsibility yet. Regardless, latest satellite footage shows VSA troops on the move toward the West Bank. Last I recall they weren't picky fighters."
"What are you saying?"
"Take Milosevic, and times him by 10!" the blonde said strongly. "The VSA hates Muslims and hates the US even more!"
"But--what'd we do?" she growled.
"Given how your government is constantly restraining Israel from taking retaliatory action for every bombing, they have a lot of reason for hating you." The woman explained as she took a seat on the couch. "Plus this Road Map the current administration is backing doesn't help the case either."
"But you guys need it--!"
"Let me make this clear--" the woman frowned grudgingly. "ISRAEL IS SOVERIGN!! We will do whatever we see fit to protect ourselves--and by God- -we will NOT LET YOU TAKE IT FROM US!!"
--Kim found herself at the corner of the couch, huddled with her knees pressing into her breasts, shivering like that neurotic Pepe dog. The locks of blonde hair whipped around as the woman shook her head, seemingly shaking the anger off like flecks of water. Her hands disappeared into her briefcase that lay on the coffee table.
"The smart people's opinions aside:" the blonde said coolly, "you're still under contract with the Israeli government, and we'd like you to prepare for your next assignment."
"What is it?" her breathing eased. A quizzical frown tugged her lips as the agent--her superior--withdrew a book from the chocolate briefcase. And she rolled her eyes just after they caught the black, sans serif title printed on the cover, as if she knew it all along:
The Idiot's Guide to the Middle East Conflict.
"Welcome to Israel, Ms. Possible." The woman stated.
***
*BAM! * The CAR-15 shouted out the spilt second after Tara had pulled the trigger. A blood red stripe raced for the target stand, ringing out with a *TANG* and ricocheting up into the air from the pockmarked plate a good 100+ yards downrange.
The eyepieces of Yune's binoculars pressed into his eyes--and right off the bat, the bullet had hit the steel plate dead center. There was a hole on the target paper that was tapped to the plate; the globular tear brimmed with black a few mere millimeters away from the bull's-eye.
"Did I hit anything?" the girl asked. The binoculars swung to his chest by the tether, bouncing on his sternum once. Tara had his pre-ban Bushmaster carefully in her small grasp, the flash-suppressed barrel trained downrange and the bolt clanged as she easily slapped in another nine-round magazine.
"You bet!" he nodded. "Almost dead center on your first magazine, with the iron sights too."
The blonde's eyes beamed pure delight. "Really?" her smile was wide and full of giddy.
"Now would I lie to you?" he chuckled.
"Do you got a reason to?" her head tilted curiously.
"Nope." His good hand cupped onto his bad shoulder, massaging the muscle gently before it flopped back at his side. "Sure don't."
"Glad to hear it." She nodded as she took up her shooting stance again; the collapsible stock of the rifle square against her tiny shoulder. "But is there anything I could work on?"
"One." He smirked teasingly.
Tara's open eye gazed at him. "And that would be?"
"Yeah." He shook his head. "You should dress for the occasion. Do you always have to wear that every time we're out?"
The stock dropped from her shoulder as she looked over her trademark ensemble. Her head whipped back up upon her shoulders, her face confounded.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked.
"I told you should dress down for a time at the range." He shook his head. "Yet here you are in the same thing you wore last time."
"It's so NOT the same thing!" she frowned.
"Is too." He smirked.
"IS NOT!" the rifle made a clunk as she gently--more or less--set the gun down on the table. "The last outfit came from Club Banana! These ones came from Smarty Mart!"
"I fail to see the difference--"
"There's a HUGE difference!" her makeshift clog kicked up a tiny whiff of dirt as she stamped her foot boldly.
"Last I've heard, both outlet chains are owned by the same company." He noted from an earlier conversation with Ron. "Same company, same merchandise the way I see it."
"Ugh!" she rolled her eyes. "Syllogism noted!"
"Oh!" he chuckled. "T's angry! She's using really big words now!"
"Remind me to hand you your soul the next time we spar!" she growled.
"Is it a blue-light special?" he pressed jokingly. "Bin-Mok's soul, aisle 5!"
She threw up her hands in disgust. "UGH--!" she yelled hoarsely. "MEN!!"
"Can't live with them, can't live without them!" he noted playfully again.
His brow perked as something bleated out from his hip; his phone bleating out Fur Elise like a manic-depressive instrument. The light danced across the plastic case in the midday sun, the belt clip snapped quietly as he relieved the phone from its catch in the fifth pocket. The whinny tune ceased as he thumbed the blue lined button.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Yune?" called out the voice of that redheaded freelancer. "It's Kim."
"I know." He nodded, speaking rather loudly over T's quick staccato of shots. "I saw the number read-out on my phone."
"What's going on over there?" her voice was overrun by the gunfire. "Sounds like war."
"In a manner of speaking." He chuckled under his breath. "If you call T's time at the range that."
"I heard that!" he looked over, quickly eyeing the blonde's solid frown.
"Besides our day on the prairie, what's going on at the Possible household?" he asked. "Is that blonde over there giving you shit over your driving skills?"
"Well--duh, Yune!" the auburn exclaimed. "Given how the networks had a field day with it. I'm lucky that my house isn't swarmed with paparazzi!"
"Thanks to a little disinformation from the Czech government, right?"
"Exactly."
"So what's up?" A kink rose from his sinking brow. "You don't need me for anything, do you?"
"Actually, we do." The freelancer replied.
"Who's we?" his lips pulled into a corner.
"Ron and I, Yune!" she exclaimed. "Don't play dumb. It was Ron and I last time and before, and it's the same this time around."
"So what?" he rolled his eyes. "You could have recruited another person after we got back home, like dropping a rock."
".Uh.what?"
"Past experience tells you when you drop a rock, gravity pulls it down towards its center. Yet the next time you release it, it could either drop accordingly or float up to the ceiling."
"And. what's your point?" his junior asked.
"The past can never determine the future." He concluded, nodding as if to assert it.
"You're being paranoid." There was a long-winded sigh after the last word.
"Maybe," he pressed, "maybe not. You never know till it's too late."
"Ugh!" the girl sighed gruffly. "Do you want to help us or not!?"
*Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to get that afternoon nap I deserve.? * His mind egged him.
"My arm's still in a sling." He said. "So wherever you're going, or whatever you want me to do, Tara has to come too."
"This is a pretty chaotic region were traveling too." The girl pointed out. "It's too dangerous for her. But the Mossad will provide you with all the medical support you need."
"Where are we going then?" he asked.
".Israel." She said flatly.
He laughed.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
"All that drama for that little place?" he blinked hysterically. "Please!"
"But the suicide bombings--!"
"Trust me on this," he stated, "the country, Jerusalem in particular, has a lower murder rate than Denver. With only 5 murders in the past year, three of them related to terrorism."
"But--!"
"Tara will be safe, don't worry." He assured.
"But--!"
"Either Tara goes, or I don't go." He frowned. "I don't trust anyone else but her."
"But. oh--fine!" the girl gave up. "Have it your way! But you have to keep an eye on her!"
"That's fine with me." He nodded.
"Then get packing." Kim said. "Our flight leaves tomorrow morning."
"Rodger." He thumbed the line button, feeling it click beneath the pad of his thumb. The clip of the phone met the lip of his fifth pocket once more.
The blonde set his pre-ban carbine down gently upon the wood table, her eyes beaming just like her wide smile.
"So. where are we going to now, Yune?" she grinned. "Paris, Berlin, Seoul?"
"Well." he looked up into the clear, baby-blue sky in thought. "How does a trip to the Middle East sound?"
***
Everything seemed so distant, so detached as if he was in a dream. Ron couldn't believe his ears when Kimberly told him the news. It had been well over 10 years since he left the promised land, as did a certain. *completeness* when his shoes touched off of the pledged ground when he boarded the departing flight.
A chill ran up his spine, spreading its frosty tingle throughout his body.
He was going back home.
With the permission of his parents, he decided to spend the night over at Kim's house since the trip to Middleton International was shorter than from his place. He gazed blankly up at the ceiling. The heel of his foot tapped his duffel bag as he carelessly moved his leg; the pile of fabricated cloth merely ruffled indifferently.
The bottom of his jaw pressed flatly against the top of his chest as he glanced at the diligent auburn at her workstation. The screen of her desktop flickered in a Technicolor lightshow, typically of whites, blues, and few varying colors in between. That Mossad agent, Hershel, gave Kim some information about her latest endeavor via email through a secure line. Hershel made sure of that before she left.
"Um. what exactly are you looking at, Kim?" his butt sank a few inches in the mattress as he sat up.
The redhead glanced over her shoulder briefly, only to just acknowledge his presence.
"Oh--it's nothing that we haven't seen already, Ron." She explained. "You know: maps, profiles, communication transcripts, GPS, etcetera, and etcetera."
"Pf.!" he scoffed. "Just that? Heck--Wade does that stuff already."
"Too true," that puffy, reddened mane bobbed, "but we can't use him with the government breathing down our necks."
"But his transmissions are highly encrypted, with only the Kimmunicator satellite playing middleman." He argued. "Not even the NSA can crack the cipher!"
"But they'll shut us down if they even suspect we're exchanging sensitive material."
"Bah!" he chuckled. "They can't even find Saddam Hussein!"
"But there's always the 'yet'." She noted distantly, the voice drowned under the humming drone of her desktop.
The bedsprings squeaked as he pushed himself off the bed, the carpet scraping against the soles of his feet as he shuffled over to the workstation. The puffy, red hair blocked his view of the screen, coated with a layer of dust no thinner than a hair. There was a small wad of dead skin sitting in the corner, thicker than the rest, almost as if it had been packed down during a dusting like replanted earth. Millimeters below the wad were characters of a language, his people's language, emblazoned in red along with three letters of English in a circular pattern.
"VSA." he mouthed.
"Also known as the 'Victims' Separatist Army'." Kim looked at him generally. "But there are rumors going around the country that wasn't the original title of the faction."
"Well." he shrugged, "do have any idea?"
"Actually, quite a few people think it stands for 'Victims of the Smiling Ass'." She shook her head amusingly, gently, rolling her eyes all the while. "But I can see why they'd think that."
He nodded too, as the gnarled visage of the PA chairman flashed in this mind, crowned with that head garment he joked was a tea blanket. There was no way he could forget that smug, delirious grin that constantly crawled across his grizzled features after a bombing when they weren't bobbing incessantly.
"I hear that!" he smirked. "Amazing how the old coot's still alive too. after all he did."
"I'm not going to argue about that." She waved her hand passively. "We've got far more things to worry about."
"Like what?"
"Public relations, for one thing." She said. "According to these reports, the Israeli public sees Drazen as a hero, incredibly with bi-partisan support from the left and right. And they're not going to be happy when they find their 'hero' packed in a body bag. Even a few reports state how a sympathetic crowd turned on the police during a raid."
"That's a given." He folded his arms.
"It seems this wannabe junta had become a force to be reckoned with, over the last few weeks." She continued as windows flickered on and off the screen as she pleased. "So powerful, in fact, they can operate in broad daylight and police are powerless to stop them."
He blinked. "How can a ragtag army do that?"
"The reports have nothing on their power-plays." She shrugged. "But when the whole world's against you, you've got nothing to lose. And given the country's advanced nuclear arsenal."
"Right." He gave his forehead a good whap. "If my people go down, so does a good chunk of the Middle East."
"And we can't let that happen." The auburn mane shook side to side. "Tough, if your people can't stand the thought of Uzi's death. We're not letting World War Three start because of him."
"Amen to that." He nodded.
"You'd better leave now, Ron." She turned around. A smooth elbow popped over the back of the chair, wedging the top of the back underneath her armpit. "I'm going to be up here for a while, figuring this stuff out."
He rolled his eyes. "Like last time?"
"Just like last time," she nodded, tapping her crown with a finger thrice, "except our cover won't get blown. I hope. But I call you once something clicks upstairs."
"You really need to take a break sometimes, KP." He shook his head. "You're going to go crazy one of these days if you don't."
"Don't worry about me, Ron." She looked away. "Seriously. Go downstairs and watch TV or something. Isn't 'Steel Toe' supposed to be on tonight?"
He felt his heart jump at the wrestling title. "Oh--that's *right*!" he shook some sense back into his head. What was he thinking? Absolutely nothing got in the way of GWA "Night of a Hundred Bruises", and his little buddy was probably searching high and low for him. "I totally forgot about the little guy! If we missed the show, he'd be crushed."
"Uh." Kim, as usual, was speechless at his resolve. Kim, he'd never understand her. How could anyone not love the GWA, how skilled athletes go one-on-one in mortal combat for the ultimate prize?
*The mind boggles. * he thought.
"Do you want to watch with us?" he smiled excitedly. "STEEL TOE RULES!!"
His heart stopped its brawling-infatuated twitter completely, as a small frown pulled at the corners of the auburn's lips. A beaming kink was on her brow as she tapped at the screen.
"Planning.!" she crossed her legs.
"Your loss, KP." He shrugged as a foot went for the steps. "But someday, you're going to wish you had enjoyed the good life while it lasted!"
He spun on his heel smoothly--too soon, he quickly noticed, as he lost complete control of his body. The walls of the stairwell sped past him hurriedly, as did the dark steps beneath him--very *hard* steps his back crashed into on his cumbersome descent. Pain wrapped around his skull tightly just as he tumbled out of the second floor ceiling, and he stopped face first onto the plush carpet at the bottom of the ebony steps.
Hurried footsteps flooded his ears, patting toward him from everywhere imaginable. His fingers curled on one hand, and he lifted his arm high into the air above him as far as it could go, unfolding his index finger as the fist reached the zenith.
"I'm okay!" he called to no one, yet everyone.
***
*Suddenly, Middleton's bombing seems so irrelevant now.. * Kim's mind whispered.
Israel was at a dangerous crossroad in its short 50-plus years of existence, and she couldn't sit by idly while the crack that was Drazen's pride-and-joy threatened to tear the territory--the world apart. The later reports on her desktop computer were disgusting; invasion, refugee camps-- Uzi and his motley crew of thugs were systematically killing their way through the West Bank and Gaza. And her inquiry from Wade came back.. From all of it, it was only a matter of time before the punk's terrorist crusade spilt into the other countries.
The private jet sat in front of her, the steps to the region's future lowering at her feet while the pilots readied for take off. The jet's destination was Egypt; Israel was far too dangerous for her and the Ron right off the bat. The VSA would be scouring the airports, municipal and international alike. Instead, the Mossad decided it was better if they sneaked into the country from the Sinai and travel up to Tel Aviv along the coast; ironic since its where the VSA was most concentrated.
Her ears barely caught the sound of footsteps behind her, disjointed like two people walking close together. She looked over her shoulder, and Tara and Yune walked closer, smiling warmly at each other with arm and arm like true couple. They wouldn't be joining them in Cairo. Instead the couple will be at the hotel before them, warm and toasty while they sneak into the country like rats in the cold dead of night.
"Why do we get the short end of the stick?" Ron whined from the jet's steps, with black duffel bag in hand. "We're the VIPs on this mission!"
"Because the thugs won't be looking for us when we leave the airport." The Korean smirked as they passed her, taking their sweet time as they trotted up the steps together. "Easy does it, T."
"Right." the blonde smiled warmly back at him, as she hefted her bag up the steps.
From out of the doorway, popped out the blonde capped woman everyone came to know as the superior, Hershel. Simple business clothes adorned her curves like last time, brown business skirt with a matching jacket that flapped freely in the breeze over her button-down shirt. Fashionable work pumps lifted her heels off the ground no more than an inch.
"Everyone ready to depart?" the superior asked flatly.
"Ready and willing!" Tara's smile was wide, as if the whole thing was a game. Kim sympathized with the woman as both rolled their eyes.
"Right." the blonde sighed.
Kim bent at the knees, and she hoisted her own duffle bag up behind her shoulder. She placed a foot onto the bottom step as the lovebirds made it three-quarters of the way up.
"And where are you going, ma'am?" she didn't bother to hide her contempt.
"Tel-Aviv." Hershel replied. "Just like this happy couple."
She was halfway up the steps, grunting to keep the bag up as it wanted to dip lower than what her joints were capable. "Why." she breathed, "do you. get. to go. there?"
"Most of the VSA don't know me, but they sure as heck know you!" the woman nodded. "Most of the 'troops' think your dead. Let's not give them any reason to think different."
"Uh--!" she grunted. ".Right."
The couple turned the corner as their feet touched flatly down upon the hard carpet of the plane. She tossed her bag carelessly in through the skewed portal with a grunt, watching the black sack crumple and fall on the carpet flat. Her journey up the rest of the cramped flight never had been easier.
"Are you done, She-Hulk?" Hershel snidely remarked as she hoisted up her bag upon entry. Her eyes rolled disgustedly. "Anymore muscles you need to flex?"
Her lip twitched grudgingly at the blonde's smug grin.
"If you do," she chuckled, "could you be a Neanderthal, and hoist up those awfully heavy steps?"
Out her sneered lips came forth a disgusted growl as her eyes took another lap around their sockets.
"Don't worry about that, ma'am." She turned to see the co-pilot standing at the ready outside the cockpit's shifting curtain. A dark, tanned head capped the neatly pressed uniform as he yanked the folding stairs in. "They can be a pain sometimes. Kind of like dear Ariel over yonder."
"I'm very shocked at that, Tuvia!" The blonde in question said flatly, unimpressed. "After lunch, I think I'll faint!"
"We can only hope." the co-pilot shook his head dismissively as he turned for the curtain.
"I bet!" the woman yawned before she sat her body up straight. "All right, everyone settled? The plane's taking off in 10 minutes--!"
"15 minutes, since we have to taxi." A voice--a different voice called from behind the beige curtain, the pilot. Kim couldn't stifle a well-deserved chuckle as the blonde groaned.
She took to the nearest seat, jamming her heavy duffel into the overhead bin with a huff. The leather seat squelched under her bottom as she sat down, squeaking out a little more as she shifted for a comfortable spot.
Her arm touched the armrest--and she wrenched it back as if a snake had struck her. She had touched something firm-yet-soft and dry, like skin. She looked over--and Ron seemed to have taken the seat right next to her beforehand. His blond head laid flat against the headrest, and his boyish, freckled face showed nothing of surprise--or even expression for that matter. It's almost as if the lifeless heap of flesh next to her wasn't Ron at all, and Rufus had been exceptionally quiet all morning.
*Almost like he's thinking. *
"Ron?" she said quietly.
The head shifted towards her, the brown eyes moved toward her own.
"Yeah. KP?" he yawned.
"Anything on your mind, Ron?" she hunched forward as would a benched player.
"I'm going home, KP." He said emotionlessly, creepily. "I'm going home."
The head moved away as she felt something shift underfoot, and her gut moved in all directions as she saw the world outside scroll by over the whining of the engines. There was a pregnant silence between them--yet her ears twitched at the sound of something different, like flat music--organic music straight from someone next to her.
*Is Ron. humming? *