All-Purpose Disclaimer

Kim Possible contains seven essential vitamins and minerals, and is part of this complete breakfast.

Six years' worth of life flashed before Kimmie Possible's eyes as she grasped the tree branch with all her might. Her tiny knuckles blanched with the effort. Bark bit into the soft flesh of her palms. "Ron, I don't think I can go any higher," she called out. Once her eyes had cleared of memory, she cast a look down. A carpet of grass and roots waited for her a million miles below, spinning just to make her dizzy. Kimmie yelped and clung tighter still to her branch, feeling the thick bough beneath her feet sway with her trembling.

Further up the tree, Ronnie Stoppable called back, "C'mon, KP. Don't be such a scaredy-cat now. We're almost at the top." His sandals scraped against branches, which he used like rungs to scale the old tree in their pre-school playground.

Bark rained down on Kimmie's face when she looked up after him, blinding her and making her more afraid. She clamped herself at the halfway point of the tree and could go no further, no matter how much Ronnie's taunting stung. "I'm not a'scared," she lied loudly. "I just don' wanna, that's all."

Wind rustled through the springtime blossoms all around them. To Kimmie's terrified ears, it sounded like the tree laughed at her, just like Ronnie did now. "Okay," he shouted, now nearing the top. "I guess I'm gonna get to see all Middleton, and you just get to see a buncha dumb flowers." He laughed again. So did the winded blossoms.

"I like flowers," Kimmie retorted in a squeaking voice. A strong gust came and brushed her bough balcony, causing her to cry in alarm and hug the trunk of the tree. Ronnie's laughter continued to recede upward as bristling bark scraped her cheek raw. Eyes squeezed shut, she wished she could be brave, like Ronnie. He was always climbing trees, or jumping off the slide, or catching bullfrogs in the pond, or lots of other cool stuff. But Kimmie just wasn't like that. She couldn't—

Ronnie's cry tore Kimmie's eyes open. Her green fear flew up to where he perched near the apex of the tree. There, the branches weren't as strong; his foothold gave way with a loud crack, and Ronnie fell.

The world blurred around Kimmie as she felt herself move. Greens, blues, and pinks ran together in the background, but her eyes stayed with Ronnie as he fell. She felt herself fly along the bough beneath him and watched her hand spear out and snatch his wrist. Ronnie's weight jerked her off the bough, but her other hand caught her former foothold. Her arms disagreed mightily in which direction to go, but she kept them both at bay with a grunt. Each of her grasps screamed violent protest, but she paid them no mind.

The two children hung there a moment, bobbing up and down on the bough, staring at each other. Ronnie's screams died, becoming stunned awe instead. Finally, he found sense enough to grab a nearby branch and relieve Kimmie of his weight. Kimmie and he climbed back onto the bough, still silent, both breathing hard.

"You…" Ronnie spoke after a spell. "You…saved me. I…"

Kimmie remained speechless. Her heart still thundered with its previous fright, but also with new thrill. She had saved Ronnie. She had soared through the tree, heedless of falling. Kimmie looked down at the ground again, and saw it much closer now, and without its former spin. The branch they sat on felt wide as a sidewalk. Kimmie looked up at the top of the tree, now only a few leaps and bounds away. It called to her in a voice she could hear as clear as her own now.

"Hey, KP?" intoned Ronnie, as Kimmie already began plotting her course up the tree. "Can we, y'know, not tell my mom about this?"

Kim Possible
The Power of Friendship

by Cyberwraith9

Shards of glass crunched beneath their former home, a broken skylight mounted high overhead in the Middleton Art Gallery. Blackened boots crushed the shards into the carpet, creating a glimmering blanket upon which to carry out their misdeeds. They that wore the boots spread through the gallery's interior like a disease. Their eyes skimmed the walls for their prize, while their leader stood watch over the building's only two occupants, now turned hostages with black bags fitted over their heads and ropes binding their limbs.

"Holy crap," groaned the green-clad captor, folding her arms. "These places are even boring to rob." Her pallid, pleasing features dipped in a scowl at the portlier of her hostages. She snatched the drawstring bag from his head, revealing piggish eyes sunk into a piggish face that darted to meet her gaze. "Can you believe this?" she asked the gallery's manager. "I'm a serious professional. Pulling a heist like this seems so…so…cliché."

The manager gasped breaths of freedom and looked up at her with wild panic. "Take what you want," he sobbed. "Just don't hurt me."

"No!" the second hostage shouted from inside his bag. "Leave my work alone. I don't know what you want, but don't you dare touch my work!" He struggled against his bonds, flexing wiry, sculpted muscle beneath New York designer fashion.

Shego didn't hear a word. "Hey, why are art galleries closed on Mondays? Is it because artists are always hung over from the weekend before?"

The tiny gallery's doors burst open, their locks shattered and hinges knocked free. Two silhouettes filled the frame in their stead. The setting sun dipped behind them, masking their features in comparative dark until they entered the room. "Ever heard the phrase, 'Look, don't touch,' Shego?" snapped Kim Possible.

Even clad a pink, hearted crop top and capris, Kim's presence imposed fear over the henchmen. But Shego smiled at the intervention. "I was hoping things would get interesting," she muttered. Green flames engulfed her fists as she shouted to her helpers, "Keep working. I'll entertain the Princess."

Kim didn't waste a single glance in Ron's direction. She knew he was ready. "I'll handle Shego," she began.

"And I'll take the flunkies," Ron finished, punctuating with a sigh. "How come you never let me fight Shego," he whined to her disappearing back, which charged into battle with the villain. The two women became a localized hurricane before Ron could muster another sigh. "I always wind up with the numbers," he muttered to himself. Gunshots belted from his knuckles as he rolled them against his palm. He offered the thunderstruck henchmen a grin, and said, "So, who's first? Takes me a minute to warm up, so I promise that the first one won't hurt as bad as the rest of you will."

Shego ducked Kim's predictable flying kick and rolled to catch the heroine on her landing. A sweep of leg knocked Kim to the floor. With an intimate knowledge of Kim Possible's fighting style, borne on a half-decade of bruised memories, Shego could tell that she was far from her peak performance. "You seem a little slow today, Kimmie," sang Shego, putting a claw into the floor where Kim's face had been. The redhead rolled too slow to miss the strike completely, and lost a good chunk of hair to the green flames. "Should I put the kid gloves on?"

"What's the game, Shego?" asked Kim from the floor. She swung her legs up and caught Shego beneath the chin. The kick didn't feel properly solid, as Shego flipped with the momentum and landed on all fours several feet away. A windmill kick brought Kim back to her feet in time to square off with Shego once more. Exhaustion lurked in Kim's manner where she couldn't banish it—in the subtle bags beneath her eyes, or the quake in her steady fists. The aches and fatigue of her late-night mission made her second-guess her haste in taking on this rescue, but she couldn't afford to indulge those thoughts now. "Museums are for people with taste. Why are you here?" she demanded, breathing hard.

Blood trickled from Shego's lips. She licked them clean with a sick grin. "Come here," she entreated Kim with a waggle of her fingers, "And I'll whisper it in your ear."

Kim shook her head. "Don't think so," she scoffed.

Meanwhile, Ron barreled at the array of henchmen atop cumbersome legs. Though boisterous in shout, his mind remained cool and calculating. The game plan of kicks and punches to come lay before his mind's eye, guaranteed to topple the henchmen like dominoes. "Comin' through!" he shouted, and leapt into the air. The henchmen astonished him by rushing in every direction but his. As he landed atop empty floor, they took flight through the confines of the single-roomed gallery. Their wall-ward scrutiny suggested that it was art, and not a fight, they sought. "Hey. Hey!" Ron stamped his foot before giving chase. "This is bass ackwards, guys. You chase me, remember?"

Kim and Shego carried their battle across the middle of the room while their respective boys ran about its edge. Fists billowing with deadly energy darted to either side of Kim's head as she traded blows with Shego. The smell of burning hair lingered behind her, reminding her of the price for a single mistake. Shego grew more confident with each punch. With sinking heart, Kim realized that Shego also detected the progressive weakening of Kim's efforts.

"It's been ages, Kimmie," grunted Shego.

"That it has," Kim grunted back. She launched a roundhouse kick that Shego had no problem ducking. "Been, what? Six months?"

"Eight," growled Shego. "And I've been dying for some payback, Princess. Haven't thought of anything else."

Kim threw a few jabs that the villainess blocked. So far there had been no break in Shego's form, no opportunity for Kim to strike back. "See, that's funny," said Kim, masking her concern. "I almost forgot about you."

A gout of flame leapt from Shego's hand, forcing Kim back with a cry. "Then let me refresh your memory," said Shego with a smirk.

"Try it now, Scotsman."

Killigan grunted a response to the legs protruding from beneath the array of screens and controls in Dementor's sanctum. Those screens still undamaged remained dead, and Killigan and Monkey Fist were tasked with bringing them back to life. Thus far their fruitless efforts had been fraught with snide bickering, and showed no signs of improving.

Killigan thumbed the power button on the remote he had scavenged. Nothing happened. "I's no' working, Fist," said Killigan. "Are ye sure you're doing it properly?"

The legs underneath the array twitched with irritation. "I'm doing my best. If you think you can do better, be my guest," snapped Fist.

"Ach, i's no' hard, ye noodle-armed zoonatic," Killigan said with a snort. "I thought you were a smart."

Monkey Fist's furrowed brow peeked up at Killigan from the array's edge. "Oh, yes. I must have skipped the part of my Tai Shing Pek Quar training that dealt with electrical repair and engineering. How foolish of me."

The disgruntled fist rose from the floor and brushed his robes clean of the clinging marble dust. Killigan cocked a brow at him and said, "I'm just sayin'. Sheesh, but you're awful whiny for a ninja."

"It's now or its nothing," snapped Fist. He snatched the control from Killigan's pudgy fingers and jabbed it at the array. The screens defied him at first, but one by one they yielded to Fist's efforts, and came alive with electrical blizzard. Triumphant, the two men shared commending looks until they recalled their mutual distaste, and glowered. Then they journeyed the short way to a table that Dementor and Drakken had salvaged from the wreckage.

The last of the places were set with chairs around the circular table, and then each villain sat. Scowls rounded the table's edge, but Dementor's out-glowered them all. His mistrust mingled between the three men in front of him. Dementor would no sooner trust what little he had left to these three men then he would that fool, Hench (who should consider himself lucky that Dementor let him escape with his life).

But desperate times called upon Dementor to accept these desperate measures. "You want me to join you in a plan for world conquest," said Dementor.

"Exactly," Drakken said, and nodded. "Become a member of LoVE, and the world will be ours."

Dementor's suspicion did not waver. "There are three problems I have with your proposal, Doctor Drakken," he announced.

"Is one of them the idiotic name of our group?" Monkey Fist mumbled into the hairy back of his hand.

"Four problems," Dementor corrected himself. "Secondly being, I see no possible benefit to bringing me aboard your little plan, whatever it may be. I have nothing remaining in the way of resources. Third, I doubt I will like what you ask of me. And finally," and he spoke with sober sincerity, "I cannot stand the very sight of you, and thus am not enamored in the least at the thought of working with you." He glanced to either side of Drakken and said, "No offense to either of you, gentlemen."

Monkey Fist shrugged the affront aside. "I understand completely," he assured Dementor.

"Aye," agreed Killigan, giving Drakken the eye. "Th' blueberry is a wee on th' unbearable side."

"Don't call me--!" Drakken's eyes bulged as he made strangling motions at Killigan. He gagged on his own rage, and had to sit back and force his airway clear. "Yes," he said, still glaring hatefully, "Well, those are all valid points. But let me be equally blunt. You bring to the table an important part of our plan."

Drakken snatched the remote from Killigan's hand and aimed it at the array. With the press of a button, the screens came about into asynchronous agreement, each displaying the image of an alienesque weapon the size of a motor home. Its thick, squat barrel sat on a platform made mobile by four tiny wheels, and featured a gunnery chair at its lowered end. The weapon tapered off from there into an elongated barrel of polished, silvery metal. Concentric rings lined the barrel's circumference, growing smaller toward its end, an enormous bulb of pure red.

Shock tore Dementor's scowl wide open. He flew from his seat and pounded on the table, crying, "Impossible! How did you know about this?"

"I have my methods," Drakken said. "Regardless, I also know this. Your Entropy Cannon," and he gave the pictured weapon a nod, "Possesses power enough to annihilate a city block on its lowest setting. It's the perfect means with which to hold the world hostage." Before Dementor could object, Drakken said, "I also know it isn't finished yet. You've got it in a secret laboratory below, no?" A pointed, glaring silence answered Drakken, broadening his smile. "And given the state of things, it's likely to stay unfinished…unless you accept our help." His self-satisfaction became a fearsome look as he said, "Which brings me to your last objection; I don't care. Your feelings mean about as much to me as personal grooming does to Duff here."

"Hey!"

"You give us the cannon," Drakken commanded in a low tone. "We finish it together. We use it to blackmail our way into enough resources to mount it in a high orbit. We vaporize every major capitol on the planet, and seize power amidst the chaos." He made a dramatic pause, leveling his eyes with Dementor's. "Interested?"

Dementor stared long and hard at Drakken. One question hung unspoken between all of them, until the slight scientist gave it voice; "What about Kim Possible?" he asked.

A frog's leap carried Ron up and out of danger as two henchmen tired of the chase, and bull rushed him. He sailed over their heads, looking back with satisfaction as they plowed into a plaster sculpture of what Ron could only assume was a man sitting atop a cow with quills like a porcupine. "C'mon guys," he said to the two henchmen disappearing into a cloud of crumbling white dust, "I know it sucks, but what else do you expect from Po-Mo?"

Shego put her foot through a wall trying to kick Kim. She blocked a retaliatory strike and grunted, "He still jabbers on and on, does he?"

Kim cross-blocked the fist. The floor squealed as she slid back with the force of the blow. "He's incorrigible," she replied betwixt her teeth.

Green fire drove Kim back and disintegrated the drywall clutching Shego's foot. She pulled herself free from the wall and cartwheeled backwards. "Nice to know some idiots will never change."

As Shego landed, Kim spotted what might become her only chance; she didn't have the energy to keep taking Shego head-to-head. She would have to be smart about it. "On the contrary," she said, sprinting forward. "He's gotten pretty quick."

Kim feinted another leap kick. When Shego raised her arms to block, Kim went low, falling into a skid that brought her between green knees. Kim flexed her abs and swung her feet up, behind, and around Shego's waist, linking her ankles at the villain's navel. Then she rolled forward, slamming Shego to the floor as she sat up. Kim's legs flew out as her foe landed hard. Her hands pushed off the floor, springing her forward onto Shego's groaning form.

"And you'd be surprised what he can teach you," Kim said into Shego's face. Her fists cocked back in preparation. "Now, about why you're here…"

"Go screw," snarled Shego.

Emerald jets ignited beneath Kim, engulfing her chest. The heroine felt her ribcage compress as she flew up and off of Shego. A wooden bench waited ten paces back, and caught her in a rough embrace. Bereft of breath and consumed with pain, Kim lay stunned a moment, cursing her own stupidity for falling prey to Shego's powers so easily.

A cry of 'KP!' warned Shego in time to duck a calloused fist from behind her. She pedaled back against the tide of kicks and punches pressed upon her, spying their source between blocks. Ron moved like lightning as he drove Shego back across the floor and away from Kim. "'S'not enough that you blow my lunch break, is it?" he snapped through the maelstrom. "Now you're stealing this and blasting that. Leave this and that alone!"

"Tell me," Shego taunted, launching her counterattack, "Do you work at being a walking joke, or does it come naturally? I bet you get plenty of practice, chasing the Princess around like some lost little puppy."

Shego delighted as Ron pressed harder. He was good, but angry now, too, and possessed of the same fatigue that made Kim such easy prey. That made for sloppy fighting. She picked her moment with care, waiting until he overextended himself on a punch. A quick sidestep brought her around his fist, where she had all the time in the world to plant her knee deep into his solar plexus. Ron collapsed against her, unable to breath, unable to fight the flaming grasp that burned at his arms.

"So," she whispered into his ear, "What do you say now?"

"I'd say," he wheezed, "Go for the eyes."

She squinted at the odd last words. "Go for the…" was all she could say before a wave of pink leapt from Ron's pocket and enveloped her face with a 'yearg!' It pressed into her eyes and squeezed her nostrils shut and clamped her mouth closed and slurped across her skin, smelling of sawdust and beans. Shego lashed out blindly and struck Ron in the chest, knocking him back while she danced about in her choking pink veil.

"Miz Shego, Miz Shego!" one of the henchmen called, "We found it!"

Shego summoned fire to her fingertips and scorched the edge of the pink. It shrieked and peeled away, snapping into a rodent's shape in her grasp. She watched the disgusting creature dangle and wave nervously between her thumb and forefinger. Then she threw it against the wall as hard as she could. It splattered against the wall, a gooey pink mess with a set of dazed eyes and buck teeth drifting in the middle.

"Fine," she said, and watched the henchmen gather around their comrade and his prize: a single frame torn from the wall, cradled beneath his arm. They ran back toward the ropes dangling from the skylight. Shego hoped for Drakken's sake that the painting, whatever it was, was worth the headache. She twisted her arm around one of the ropes and gave it a tug, signaling its wench up on the roof to pull her skyward. "Later, losers!" she called, disappearing upward.

"You concentrate on the Entropy Cannon," Drakken told Dementor in an icy tone. "I will deal with Kim Possible."

Dementor to his condescension with poor humor. "And what of our comrades here?" he asked with a nod to Fist and Killigan. "Or is that none of my concern as well?"

The mocking question purpled the scar on Drakken's cheek. "They are here to procure whatever we need to complete the cannon. I'm certain you won't have much purchasing power to buy the parts you need anymore. And unless you plan on stealing them all by yourself…"

Monkey Fist hunched over the table, nursing a grimace. "To be reduced to a gofer," he lamented in a mutter.

"This is the only gofer job in history that pays in nations, simian," Drakken snapped. He slammed his palms on the tabletop and stood, looming over the other villains. "We're going for the brass ring, Dementor. The world will be ours. You need to decide, right now, if you're in or out."

Dementor examined each of them with cold eyes. He plumbed their faces for any sign of betrayal or trickery, and found none. Earnestness lurked in every wrinkle, every follicle, in the devious spark burning across their collective gaze. Whether they could or could not, they believed themselves capable of this boast. If they could put forth such certainty, why not he? "I am in," he told Drakken.

A smile replaced Drakken's glare. The color in his scar faded back to blue as he said, "Excellent. Gentlemen, I give you the new, the victorious, Legion of Villainous Evil." He struck his hand in the circle. When no one moved to place theirs atop it, he pulled it out and swept it across his hair. "Come. Let us inspect our little bundle of doomsday, shall we?"

The table's occupants shuffled back and up. "Drakken," called Dementor, "I would speak with you a moment more." All three men turned to look, and so he added, "Alone. You gentlemen may avail yourselves of my home in the meantime."

A snort erupted from Monkey Fist's broad nostrils. "Wonderful," he grunted, giving the ruins a critical eye. "And such a lovely home it is. What a treat. Come, golfer," he said, and beckoned to his cohort as his mutated feet slapped a path through scattered, scorched wreckage. "Perhaps we can find you a set of earrings that will compliment your skirt."

Killigan followed after in a huff. "Cork it with a banana, y' tree-climbing, vine-swinging…"

Their argument receded down the hall, leaving Drakken and Dementor alone. The sky-hued scientist spied a look of contemptuous skepticism from his newest teammate's helmet. "They really are devoted to our cause," he said. "I've never seen two men act more like an old, married couple than they do, but…"

"So long as they do as they are told, I do not care how they treat each other," Dementor said. His skeptical gaze shifted from the hallway to rest upon Drakken. "They are, in the end, only hired muscle, correct? Somehow, I do not see you sharing the world with a primate or his leisure sport counterpart."

Soft chuckling slipped between the clap of Drakken's steps as he approached Dementor. "Quite correct. I should have known you would be too smart not to see it." With a wave, he continued, "Yes. As a matter of fact, I'd planned on dumping these two like a Christmas tree in March just as soon as they've outlived their usefulness."

"Then why the pretense?" challenged Dementor. "Why reconstruct your abortive legion?"

"Why not take over the world by myself?" asked Drakken, continuing his slow approach. He gestured about the room. "Why haven't I succeeded yet? Why haven't you?" His gloves rose, raising fingers as his count changed: "One girl; two words; five sidekicks…and one weasel thing," he added, raising a sixth finger. Then his hands dropped. So too did his voice. "Infinite problems."

Dementor grunted. "Kim Possible."

"If we're to beat her and conquer the world," continued Drakken, "We need to present a united front. Each of us has failed alone in the past. Together, we can combine our strengths and succeed."

An impassive look stayed fast on Dementor's face as Drakken stopped before him. The air between them hung heavy with mistrust. "But why come to me?" he asked plainly. "Or do you intend to betray me as well?"

Drakken stared at his diminutive host for a long pause. Neither man blinked in the other's presence, nor shrank from the other's naked scrutiny. Stature aside, they stood together as equals. "I don't like you, Demens," Drakken said at last.

"Nor I, you, Lipsky," agreed Dementor.

"But," continued Drakken, "That doesn't mean that I don't see you for what you are; pure brilliance, with an evil that rivals my own." The two villains continued to stare at one another. "When the dust settles, we split the world fifty-fifty—"

"And rule our respective kingdoms in peace?" Dementor laughed. "Come, Drakken…"

Drakken frowned. "You and I will duke it out when the time comes, Dementor, I don't doubt that. But we have to have the world before we can fight over it."

Dementor felt a tremor of shock arc through his body as Drakken extended a hand to him, still stone-faced. He didn't trust Drakken in the least. Nor did he like allowing this rag-tag gang access to his home. But given the state of his empire, what choice did he have? Besides, Professor Dementor would sooner aid his worst enemy than give up any chance at reclaiming what was rightfully his: the world.

"Whether one or many," Dementor said, and took Drakken's hand.

Drakken's sick smile banished his scowl as he pumped their handshake. "We are Legion," he finished.

Many minutes after Shego's escape, Kim sat up from the wreckage of the bench. Her movements were slow and numbed, courtesy of the army of pain marching throughout her body. She checked her extremities and delicate vitals for breakage before standing up. A long groan fled her lips. "Okay, that was seriously annoying," she said. When no joke came in response, she began to search about. "Ron? Where are you?"

"Over here," a strangled voice called back. The cry guided her eyes to a sculpture set in the middle of the room, an interlocking nightmare of white piping crossing in and out of itself to roughly approximate a sphere. Ron hung at its center. His limbs twisted between the pipes at impossible angles. His face twisted with according pain. "I got caught up in a piece of art."

Kim strode toward his post-modern trap, raining pieces of bench as she went. She stopped along the way to scrape a puddle of pink off the wall and squish it back into its former shape. "Are you okay?" she asked, placing a groaning Rufus on her shoulder as she joined Ron. She reached into the sculpture and tugged at his jersey.

"Ducky," Ron said. He relaxed his limbs, trusting Kim to disentangle his limbs from their predicament more than himself. "How about you? 'Cause you look mad."

"I'm not mad," she growled.

"Well, you seem mad," he said. Kim hoisted him out by the shoulders, rolling his back across a pipe. He yelped as she dumped him onto the ground. "Yep. You're mad." Rufus hopped down from Kim with a squeak when the redhead whirled around. Ron caught and cradled his little buddy, exchanging curious looks with Rufus. Kim's tennis shoes clomped away from his head, carrying ears that were deaf to his whines for help. "Hey, what's the deal?" he called.

She kept walking. Her shoulders hunched to keep her head locked forward as she snapped, "I don't like losing, Ron."

He scrambled after her. "Well, yeah. But that's what happens when you pull an all-hero all-nighter. How do you think I feel?" He flexed his arms into heroic poses. Rufus mimicked him from his shoulder. "Hello? Ninja. She cold-cocked me but good, but I'm still whistlin' Dixie."

"Good for you!"

A hand snared Kim's shoulder and dragged her back, heedless of the dangerous look she gave it in response. Ron had braved things far worse than her anger…but not by much. "You're tired," he said again. "Cut yourself some slack." More quietly, he added, "You always cut me plenty."

Kim sighed and rubbed at her eyes. Her expression softened into fatalistic glum, worsening the fatigue in her face. "You're right," she said.

"As if there could be a doubt." Ron beamed.

Kim spared him a sardonic look before saying, "The important thing is that nobody got hurt, and that they only made off with one painting." Then her eyes darkened. "The really important thing will be tracking Shego down for a rematch."

"Excuse me?" A muffled voice called out from across the floor, "Are…are we safe? Is my art okay?"

Kim's head whipped around, shooting a chagrined look at the pair bound on the floor. "Oh my gosh," she cried, and rushed to help them. Ron moseyed after, unconcerned as Kim slid in and assessed the pair. The gallery manager had fainted away during the fight. His head lay in a pool of his fat cheek. His breathing was shallow, but steady. The other one, much younger in girth and voice, sat up. The bag over his head twisted to and fro as he looked about in vain. "I'm so sorry, sir," Kim professed as she worked at the sitting man's bonds. "There was a big battle, and…"

"It's all right, Officer," the bagged man assured her. He leaned forward to allow her better access to the ropes around his wrists. "If you and your partner hadn't come, I might have lost everything…I didn't lose everything, did I? Should I wait until the bag comes off to say these things?"

Ron sauntered in. "No worries, dude," he scoffed as he toed the insensate gallery manager's leg. "The worst is over."

He didn't so much as blink as Kim swooped up and snatched Rufus from his shoulder. Kim proffered the mole rat to the young man's bindings. Tired and dazed though he was, Rufus had no problems chewing through them. "And we aren't officers," added Kim in a forcefully friendly voice. She pulled his bindings free and helped him take the bag off of his head. "I'm…"

A memory gaped back at Kim as she lapsed into silence. His sculpted cheekbones drew his face into a smile. Frosted locks quaked atop his head as he trembled. Bright, thoughtful eyes caressed her features with a lover's care. "Kim Possible?" he breathed in amazement.

Kim Possible gasped. "Josh? Josh Mankey?"

Glaciers rolled through Ron's innards. He felt the ice spread through his veins as he watched his best friend and her ex gaze at one another in speechlessness. "Spoke too soon," he mumbled.

To Be Continued