Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible or NaNoWriMo.

A Note from the Authoress: Hey, everyone! Thanks for the reviews and the support, I really need it . . . I'm already behind! But I'll try to catch up this weekend. I'm glad everyone's enjoying it so far.

I would like to thank MrDrP for his help. There have been some changes made, but not fixed in the first chapter. First off, everyone is 35 now, not 25. A bit more realistic, and will probably help characterisation later on. Josh has also been promoted! He's the head of marketing now, so keep that in mind. Ummm . . . I think that's all for now, but if I forgot something, please remind me!

MrDrP: Thanks again. And yes, Mrs. Mankey is who we all think she is, and Ron will be going all CEO at random intervals from now on. And what will Kim have to say about Josh? It's going to be a bit interesting, for sure.
Harufu: This story is definitely going into some very odd places, and thank you for your kind review.
surforst: Yup, Mrs. Mankey, all right. :) And my view on Josh? Well, you'll just have to wait and find out, but I think it's a little different from most around here.
Kari: Thank you very much!
GargoyleSama: I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your support.
Doctor of Writing: Hold your horses:) She's coming, I promise.

Oh, and everyone, right now, go out and read MrDrP's Nacho Boy and Dragon Lady. It's one of the best stories out there.

And . . . on with the show!

Chapter Two

When one works for a Mexican fast food chain, particularly in the upper echelons of such a chain, one tends to veer away from such meals at dinnertime, no matter how dedicated one may be. The case was no different for Ron Stoppable and Josh Mankey. Presently, they were laughing over several little boxes of Chinese takeout, lounging in Ron's office. They 'snarfed' the noodles and rice down with great expertise, chopsticks moving in skilled rhythm.

Slurping a noodle from his chin, Ron wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Hey," he said between bites. "Did you catch TV Trash Heap last night?" He smacked a little and dove into his next container.

"TV Trash Heap?" he questioned, a disbelieving tone evident in his voice. He politely took a bite of his mandarin chicken, grimacing at his companion's stereotypically masculine eating habits.

"Well, yeah," Ron said, slowing down his pace.

Josh's nose wrinkled in disgust. "You actually watch that stuff? How?"

Ron shrugged, fixing his gaze on his seemingly hypnotic box of chicken. "I don't know. My dad and I used to watch it together all the time, when I was a teenager, that is." He took a big bite. "We didn't get cable until I was in high school," he mumbled around the mass of food. "But once we did, we were never away from that TV for long."

"So you didn't do any sports or anything in school?" He moved his food around in its container, spearing a couple pieces with his chopsticks.

For a moment, it seemed he would respond in the affirmative, but for some reason he decided against it. "Nah," Ron said, checking to make sure he'd gotten every last piece of food. "I was a bit of a slacker to be quite honest." An uncomfortable silence followed. Clearing his throat, he started, "What about you? Do anything interesting in high school?"

Josh shrugged, taking a sip from his soda. "A lot of art, some community murals and stuff . . . met my wife."

Ron's eyebrow instantly rose. "Met your wife in high school?"

"Yeah," Josh said a bit nervously, as if, were he younger, he'd be bright red. "We were high school sweethearts."

"Really?" Ron's self esteem instantly lowered, a sense of inadequacy overwhelming him. His expression visibly wilted.

"Mhm," Josh smiled, apparently no longer interested in his takeout. "She was the captain of the cheerleading squad." Ron couldn't help but think that was a bit odd to bring up.

"You must be very proud?" he couldn't help but phrase it as a question.

Josh just smiled more broadly. "What about you? Anything new in the romance department?"

Choking on his food, Ron nearly sprayed his friend with a grotesque mixture of Chinese sauces. "Yeah," he said, wiping at his mouth, regaining his composure. "Right."

"Do you even get out these days?" Josh said in an almost accusing tone. "You look like you need a break."

"I don't have time for a break," Ron said, taking on a more authoritative tone. He took a swig of his soda.

"Sure you do!" His eyes sparked with a sort of idea. "Aren't you taking one right now?"

He had a point. "Well, yes, but . . ."

"Exactly!" Ron just gave him a confused look. "Why don't you come over for dinner some time? Just the three of us."

Ron was about to protest when Josh cut him off, "My wife's been dying to meet you."

He wasn't sure how to deny him. After all, it was rather rude to decline such an invitation, and it was silly to have not met his best friend's family. He sighed, "All right. You win."

Josh smiled, "Thanks, man."

Yes, Josh Mankey was Ron Stoppable's best friend.

--

Ron rolled his eyes at the newspaper before him. There on the front page was a picture of the one and only Montgomery Fiske, a little brown monkey cradled in his arms. The article was some publicity stunt about the Lord's most recent studies on the cognitive development of some species of monkey.

It was bad enough that the man was trying to use his celebrity status against the Bueno Nacho Corporation, but he just had to be involved with monkeys. Monkeys! Of all the things he could study, he just had to choose monkeys. They always made Ron shiver, ever since that fateful summer at Camp Wannaweep (which had closed after Ron had sued them for health violations; even as a kid he knew there must be something illegal about making a camper bunk with the simian mascot). The study was something about a monkey's natural instinct to fight with a sort of martial arts influence . . . or rather that Tai Shing Pek Kwar was inspired by their natural combat styles, and that with proper instruction they can actually master Monkey Kung Fu.

So that's what he meant about his 'monkey ninjas'.

He crumpled the paper into a little ball and threw it towards the wastebasket, off of which it bounced and fell to the floor.

"Damn," he cursed.

There was a knock at the door. He looked up. "Yes?"

The door swung open to reveal Josh Mankey, a broad smile on his face. Over the past two weeks, the pair had gone back and forth on plans for their little get-together. Ron assured Josh (although it was one of those promises that friends make simply for the sake of friendship) that he still wanted to do it, and that he was just busy. He finally decided he'd just avoid it as long as possible, and then once it was over, it'd be over. It wasn't anything against Josh, of course, just that a happy marriage (particularly one resulting from a high school relationship) was the last thing he needed for his self esteem.

But at the moment, his guard was down.

"Hey, man, whatcha doing tonight?" Josh asked, getting straight to the point.

"Nothing," Ron grumbled, still considering the ongoing Fiske problem.

"Good, we'll be expecting you at about six."

Ron's eyes widened and his jaw stood agape. He'd really not been expecting that, not at all. He was so used to giving commands that receiving them was always a bit unexpected, especially when that was entirely the point. But this was something he could not deny Josh. This was not an order from employee to boss, which, naturally, he'd instantly deny and reprimand, but a request from one friend to another.

Josh really wasn't trying to be insistent after all, he was just trying to do his employer a favor, and, more importantly, he was concerned for his friend. In all honesty, despite his former popularity in school and now around the office, he didn't have many close friends; only his wife. He knew Ron's past, and he knew socializing was not his favorite thing, but something he needed. He was stressed and overworked, and wouldn't give himself a vacation. Even when they decided to grab some dinner after work, it was always takeout or pizza in Ron's office. He needed to get out of that building and have some healthy, home cooking. Not that his poor choice in meals was having a negative affect on his appearance; quite the contrary, it took Josh asking if he wanted something to get him to eat anything at all. The man was practically wasting away.

As of recently, Josh was convinced that should he look up 'workaholic' in the dictionary, it would read simply 'Ron Stoppable'.

Ron sighed in defeat. "All right, all right. Where do you live again?"

Josh grinned and started jotting down directions on a sticky note. "Anything in particular you'd like for dinner?"

"Well, what can your wife cook?" Ron asked, recalling his favorite dishes from childhood (which more often than not involved an excessive amount of cheese).

Josh looked up, chuckling. "Nothing. Nothing at all, but I can cook whatever you want." Ron couldn't help but laugh at the remark. From all of Josh's bragging about his wife, he thought she could do anything . . . but apparently anything did not involve cooking.

"Oh, whatever's fine, then."

After a bit of small talk, Josh left. Certain he was entirely alone, and that the various blinds were closed and the door locked; Ron slid a slender key into the lock of the bottom drawer of his desk. The key turned with little resistance, and he pulled gently on the handle. What he kept in this drawer was different from the antiquities that other wealthy businessmen collected, and not just because he kept it hidden from public view.

He reached inside and withdrew a little silk pouch, just larger than the palm of his hand. The embroidery was fine, and it still smelled like the little shop in which he'd bought it nearly twenty years ago. But more important than the superficial case was what it held. True, the silk brocade was old, but its contents were of ancient origin.

He pulled the drawstring loose and turned it upside down, a little fleck of silver no longer than three inches falling to his open palm. He cast the case aside, and, almost instantly, his eyes began to glow a light blue, and soon that same blue energy was coursing through his veins, pounding within him. It slipped up into his hand and began to encompass the silver twig. It shook, only slightly at first, but then growing in its fury as it began to expand and shift forms. In a mere matter of seconds, what had once been a needle became an ancient katana, the grip settled familiarly in his hand.

The blue fuzz still surrounding him, he stared past the lovely blade, and to the crumpled newspaper lying on the floor by the trashcan. Those eyes, so dark and full of lies, stared back at him from their crunched and torn medium, almost challenging him. "Stop trying to play me, Fiske," he seethed. "You're not getting away with anything. Not as long as I'm around . . . and believe me, I can stop you."

Please, tell me what you think!