Notes: The opening part of another potential story. Blame shkspr 1048 for this one; we were trading story ideas back and forth, and this one struck a chord. It will eventually stray pretty far afield from the basic premise "Kim made evil by the Attitudinator," but it sprouts from it.
I've got too many works in progress as is, but I couldn't resist writing this as a bit of a break from the next part of "The Shadow Over Middleton" - the last couple chapters have run 10k+ words each, and the next one is on track for the same or more. Since this one's not really a departure for me - it sort of parallels 2 or 3 other story ideas I have - it largely sprang wholly formed as I thought about the basic idea. So I went where the muse was pointing.
Summary: Alternate universe story spun off from the episode "Bad Boy." What if, instead of Ron gaining Drakken's evil, it had gone into Kim?
Things are kind of dark, but don't expect things to be quite as you'd expect; things may actually be as they appear, but events in my stories are rarely one-dimensional.
Enjoy, and R&R!
Dr. Director was irritated; a simple statement, but one laden with a great deal of meaning. It held much the same understated truth that could be found in a description of the heart of a star as being "warm," or an ocean as being "damp."
In a less controlled person, anger of such intensity would have manifested itself in screaming, destruction of property, and, most likely, grievous bodily harm inflicted upon the source of the irritation. But in Dr. Betty Director, the head of the clandestine law enforcement organization Global Justice, it made itself apparent only via a subtle undertone of heat pinking her cheeks, a bit of tension in the muscles of her jaw, and a certain narrowing of her eye.
Any one of these warning signs would have been sufficient to heighten the fear of her subordinates. Taken in total, they all but screamed the need to tread cautiously. Not even her oft-reviled brother had ever managed to rouse her to such heights of anger, and her subordinates visibly cringed as she turned away from her desk to address the meeting once more.
"In less than a month," she began, the iciness of her words more biting than even the heat of her anger, "I have to face both the Senate intelligence committee and a House appropriations committee in an attempt to justify our continued existence as an organization.
"And what will I tell them?" she asked rhetorically. "I will tell them that since a teenaged cheerleader and her equally teenaged sidekick - one who still doesn't even need to shave - went on vacation, we have been utterly and completely ineffective."
She picked up a stack of manilla folders from atop her desk and slowly stalked around the conference table, pausing behind each seated figure to throw some of the files onto the table in front of them. The files themselves were little more than reference materials for the corresponding electronic reports, but it still made for highly effective theater.
"Piracy on the high seas..." Thwack. "Top secret labs raided..." Thwack. "Scientists kidnapped..." Thwack. "Villains disappearing without a trace..." Thwack. "Data stores looted..." Thwack. "Stolen weapons..." Thwack. "And of course, the missing hoverjets and equipment... that vanished from our very own arsenals."
The final "thwack" as a pair of folders landed in front of Agent Will Du caused him to wince even as he sank lower into his chair. He held his tongue, not eager to draw her wrath more specifically onto himself; although young, he already had years of experience with the GJ hierarchy and what not to do if you wanted to get ahead and remain a top agent.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dr. Director paused, her face averted from her subordinates. "I am thoroughly dismayed. Global Justice employs a large number of people, and our budget is, to say the least, substantial. So why is it," she asked, pausing dramatically while her tone dripped with both scorn and sarcasm, "that we collectively can't seem to manage to wipe our own backsides without a pair of unpaid, part-time volunteers and a rodent to hold our hands?"
She spun back to face the assemblage, and her eye burned with emotion. "Tell me," she began, but fell silent as the door to her office tentatively creaked open.
"Dr. Director? Ma'am?" a hesitant voice came from the hallway.
"I'm in a conference. I asked not to be disturbed," she barked.
"Um... We've picked up a signal in the monitoring room. We think you should come see this."
Agent Du winced once again, in sympathy this time. The use of the collective "we" to verbally evade personal responsibility when delivering a report was one of Dr. Director's peeves - and she was clearly not in a forgiving mood.
"Well," Dr. Director straightened. "Perhaps I should," the not-so-subtle emphasis she used was lost on no one. Her scowl raked across her cringing subordinates. "In the meantime, feel free to try to think of a solution for our ineffectiveness - one that will satisfy not only me, but also the people who pay us to be so... useless." Without another word, she stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.
The small sigh of relief that erupted in the sudden silence was both universal and heartfelt. But as the GJ operatives looked at each other, the silence only lengthened as an answer proved not to be forthcoming.
"What is it I need to see?" Dr. Director demanded as she strode into the operations room, still irritated both by recent events, and the interruption.
A white-haired scientist stepped forward, and the tiny, circular lenses of his glasses flashed as they reflected the overhead lights. "We're picking up a transmission," he answered, gesturing to the large monitor that was the focal point for the ranks of workstations filling the room.
"What's the origin?" Dr. Director asked, swallowing her ire as she focused on the task at hand.
"Unknown. Or rather, too many to pinpoint. It's being sent on all channels, all frequencies, and is being rebroadcast from multiple transmission loci."
"Like the Adrena Lynn broadcast?" Dr. Director blinked in surprise. "Didn't we fix it so that couldn't happen again?"
"We did. Or rather, we thought we had fixed it," the scientist admitted. "So far we haven't been able to crack the method being used this time, let alone devise a counter for it."
"Hmm," Dr. Director scowled, and focused on the screen. "We're recording this?"
"Naturally."
She nodded as she studied the broadcast transmission. A room was displayed in the image; barren, shadowed, and dark. The walls and floor were undecorated, polished stone, while in the background, a throne carved of a darker, coarser-grained stone peeked from a pool of shadow.
Dr. Director's eye narrowed as she tried to pierce the darkness, but booted feet and clawed gloves were the only real attributes that were apparent; even what little she could see of the limbs they were connected to were sheathed in dark colored clothing, blending into the darkness and hiding any further detail. "The figure on the throne. Identity?"
"Unknown," a largely bald scientist asserted as he handed her a clipboard. "We haven't been able to enhance the image to reveal him - or her. We don't have a point of reference to estimate height, but based on extrapolations for human norms, the body type and shape do not conform to any known villain."
Her focus returning to the gloves, Dr. Director asked, "Shego?" She glanced down to skim through the report on the clipboard as the transmission remained unenlightening.
"She's confirmed as being in the Caribbean," the first scientist answered. "We have a positive visual identification at a resort as of the last fifteen minutes - well after the transmission started. Which doesn't preclude this being a pre- recorded message, but in conjunction with a computer analysis indicating the figure wears a different boot size..." he trailed off, and Dr. Director nodded her acceptance of the information as a monitor lit up with a side-by-side comparison of the figure's boot with a green and black boot, illustrating the differences in size and configuration.
"Has the transmission been entirely like this, Dr. Baker?" Dr. Director wondered aloud, setting aside the clipboard and turning back to the screen. "No demands? No gloating?"
"None," the white-haired scientist confirmed. "And no activity, beyond small movements from the figure on the throne."
After a brief pause, he added, "The preliminary report from the mineralogists has tentatively identified the stone as granite, but is a relatively common variety. And since the room has clearly been shaped, it is of little help in narrowing down the broadcast's source."
"I don't like this," Dr. Director muttered to herself. "Not one bit."
"We have movement!" a voice called from somewhere in the room.
Looking up at the monitor, Dr. Director watched a shirtless male figure walk into camera range from the side. The angle of the camera was ill-suited to show him as he approached - possibly deliberately so - and the man's face was hidden behind the wild thatch of his blonde hair. In conjunction with the lack of a known referent to estimate height, his obscured features prevented easy identification.
Even with what little could be seen of him in profile, the man appeared half-starved. His body was like that of a whippet, or a greyhound in perfect racing form - his skin taut over muscle and bone, with no excess flesh to obscure the outlines of his anatomical features.
A pattern of welts and a tracery of cuts in varying stages of healing covered what could be seen of his shoulder and upper back. Dr. Director hissed between her teeth as she noted the presence of a narrow studded black leather collar around his neck - which underlined the canine comparison his appearance had brought to mind. "We're definitely dealing with a villain," she noted, unsurprised by the confirmation of her suspicions.
The male knelt by the throne, and offered a matte grey metallic ring up to the seated figure in the cradle of his palms. In response, one gloved hand languidly lifted from the arm of the throne and stretched out.
Reverently, the male slipped the ring over the outstretched hand and onto the seated figure's wrist, then leaned back on his heels. After a brief hesitation, the ring appeared to shiver, before resizing itself to fit snugly to the seated figure's forearm.
Cursing, Dr. Director turned to a nearby subordinate. "Get in touch with the FBI; find out if the Centurion Project has lost another prototype," she ordered.
Dr. Director turned as a sudden gasp escaped from a nearby scientist. "What is it?" she demanded.
"That's Ron Stoppable," the man replied, his eyes wide as he pointed to the kneeling figure.
"Impossible," Dr. Director insisted.
"I worked on the Ron Factor project; believe me, it's him."
The monitor showing the boot comparison cleared, then began to display a picture of the teen's smiling face as bright blue lines were drawn between various points, measuring angles, distances, and points of commonality.
On screen, the kneeling figure turned, and an image of the gaunt man's briefly revealed features was captured and displayed beside Ron's archival image. Blue lines appeared on the new image, repeating the measurement process on the new image.
Despite the fact that the faces looked quite different in appearance - albeit similar, the measurements and ratios were identical. Almost instantly, a text message was superimposed over both faces, "Identity confirmed. Subject: Ron Stoppable."
"Confirmed!" a voice called out.
"But he's so thin," Dr. Director muttered quietly, greatly disturbed by the changes to his appearance.
The shadowy figure on the throne ran a clawed finger across the kneeling man's shoulder, sending a thin tracery of blood trickling down his shoulder blade from a short, thin cut. Chillingly, neither figure showed a reaction to either the injury or its infliction.
The outstretched gloved hand lightly stroked the kneeling figures head, the touch appearing to be halfway between a simple ruffling of the hair and a caress bestowed upon a beloved pet. As he leaned into the touch, his neck arched, revealing a thick, broad scar on his back where his neck met his shoulders - and where GJ typically installed tracking implants.
Following a gentle touch to the side of his neck, the kneeling figure rose without a word to step aside. The gloved hand trailed lingeringly across his back as he stood, but despite the way the claws glittered in the light, they didn't leave another mark on his already plentifully scarred back.
Dr. Director scowled as the man's other shoulder was revealed as he stepped away. Branded onto the back of his shoulder, the scarified and still raw burn marks visibly raised on his skin, were the letters "K P".
Dr. Director shook her head in disbelief. "No, it can't be."
The man knelt beside the shadowed throne, his form melting into the shadows. Although his body was hidden, his face remained visible - but it was also rigidly composed and carefully blank of expression.
From that blank, impassive canvas, his brown eyes smoldered. Despite how scarred, starved, and blank he might have appeared, a fire still lived somewhere inside Ron Stoppable.
"He looks so different," Dr. Director shook her head in shock and dismay. "It seems incredible, but if that's Ron, then..." she trailed off, then shook her head more forcefully, "No, I refuse to believe it. It just can't be Possible."
"For years," a female voice echoed from a speaker as the enthroned figure on the screen moved within the cloaking shadows, breaking the transmission's silence. "The world has come to me. People. Companies. Agencies. NGO's. Governments. All of them seeking help. Seeking answers. Seeking guidance. Seeking resolution for problems both petty and profound. Seeking salvation.
"The time has finally come. The answer to the world's problems is now at hand.
"Reluctantly, I have been forced to concede that the world needs my guiding hand to operate. And it requires my control to realize the true potential it holds.
"But though the planet and its population cries out for the governance that only I can provide, I am benevolent. I am aware of the difficulties a change of this magnitude will create, and I am prepared to make the transition as easy as possible. Consequently, I am issuing this formal announcement as official notification, and in one month's time, at the stroke of midnight, Greenwich time, I will assume complete and absolute authority over this planet and every living being upon it."
The enthroned figure stood, and Dr. Director's lip curled in distaste as the teen stepped into the light. Kim Possible wore a black bodysuit - a dark mockery of Dr. Director's own uniform; aside from the clawed gloves and the color, it was a perfect replica of those issued by Global Justice.
Kim's fiery mane was drawn tightly back and gathered into a pony tail, with the rest of her hair compressed against her skull in a slick helmet vaguely reminiscent of Dr. Director's own coiffure. Although it may have been a trick of the shadows, or possibly an effect of the gel that locked the style in place, her hair also appeared to have darkened several shades.
But it was none of these things that sent the wave of distress racing through the Global Justice operations center as Kim revealed herself to the camera - and to the world. What caused outcries of consternation was the fact that Kim's skin was now a deep, rich blue; the blue of a summer sky - or of a certain mad scientist's skin.
"While it's true," the smiling, blue-skinned teen continued, "this could be considered surrendering to the inevitable, or even possibly as 'conquest' if one is sufficiently negative. But don't think of it that way," she chided, even as she smiled politely. "Instead, think of this as a beginning. The dawning of a new golden age for the world.
"You have one month to ready yourselves for the new world order," she smiled, and the white of her teeth was shockingly brilliant against the dark blue of her lips, and the still darker blue of her gums. "Welcome to my world."
As the screen went dark, Dr. Director scowled.
"We have confirmation from the FBI; the Centurion Project Mark VII has been stolen," a harried looking operative informed her. "They have formally requested our assistance in recovering the missing device."
Dr. Director simply nodded, and continued to stare at the pair of still frames displayed on the giant monitor: the blue-skinned Kim Possible, and the blank-faced Ron Stoppable. "What does the telemetry on Team Possible's implants say?"
"They still register as being in the south of France," a technician noted.
Turning to a subordinate, Dr. Director ordered, "Have the London and Paris branches coordinate on a mission. The readings are probably spoofed - you saw that scar, too, correct? - but have their location verified anyway, and gather whatever intelligence they can - maybe we can identify when things started to go wrong."
Nodding, the subordinate ran off to pass along Dr. Director's orders.
"How could something like this happen? How could we have missed something so... calamitous?" she wondered aloud. "This goes so far beyond mere... ineffectiveness."
Shaking off her moment of confusion, she seized a microphone from a nearby stand and thumbed it to life. "This is Dr. Director," she announced, and her words were broadcast throughout the underground base. "Effective immediately, all leave and vacations are cancelled, all personnel are required to work mandatory overtime as needed, and all of Global Justice is to be considered to be in a class A state of hostilities until further notice.
"Before the end of today, I want Drakken and Shego standing in front of me," she ordered. "I want a complete analysis on how the global communications network was subverted - again - and most of all, I want an answer to this question: What happened to Team Possible?"
She paused, then barked, "Let's move people. We're working against a deadline!"