All-Purpose Disclaimer

Bitten by a radioactive author at a book signing, mild mannered Clarence Ninesville underwent a startling transformation: he gained the uncanny ability to form cogent metaphors, to type into the wee hours of the morning, and finally understood what the word "cogent" meant. Donning a disguise and diving into the internet, he vowed to bring to his newfound audience the very best in mediocre fanfiction. He is Cyberwraith Nine, and he works alone, without profit, to bring you these adventures of Kim Possible. This is his story.

A tray of the most unappetizing food Kim had ever laid eyes on rattle in her hands as she ascended the stark, white stairwell. She kept the tray a safe distance from her nose, preferring the sterile smell of the hospital to what its cafeteria passed off as corned beef and mashed potatoes. More of the same pseudo-sustenance sat in her stomach like a brick. She would have left the hospital for food, but had been unwilling to leave so long as Ron could not come with her.

Kim backed through the stairwell door and skipped down the hall, greeting doctors, nurses, and patients along the way, whether she knew them or not. Since the night before, it felt as though a great weight had at last been lifted from her heart, just as the blinders had been lifted from her eyes. Now it felt as though she truly could do anything.

She spotted Uncle Don stepping out of the room, tugging his fisherman's cap low across his brow. His bushy mustache curled at the sight of Kim. "Well, well, if it isn't the prettiest Candy Striper since Florence Nightingale," he said.

"Florence Nightingale was an inspiration to women everywhere, and not a Candy Striper, you chauvinist tightwad," she said lightly, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. "Hello, by the way."

"Hello yourself," he replied, pretending to swoon at her kiss. "Is that my new indentured servant's last supper?" Don tried to snatch the tile-like apple crumble from the tray, only to be slapped off by Kim. "Humph. Doesn't look appetizing anyway."

She spared him a humorous, irritated glance before becoming serious. "Listen," she said, "I hope you aren't going to be too hard on Ron. It's not his fault, and he's…well, he's had a really rough week. Mostly because of me," she added in a shrinking voice.

A great guffaw shook his belly, jiggling the strained buttons of his shirt. "So all these years, you've been one of those costumed ne'er-do-wells, too? Glory be, girl, the rest of us couldn't handle your double life, let alone another one spent blowing up buildings and lazy teenagers." At her confusion, he patted her on the back, and said, "You didn't burn out your apartment any more than Ronald did. I'm just exercising my right as his uncle to give him crap. Don't worry, though. I'm not about to steal your sidekick from you."

A dead chuckle rattled Kim's throat. "Yeah," she grunted to her feet. Hesitating a moment more, she added, "I guess I never really thought about how much trouble being my friend can be for Ron…or the rest of you."

The smile dropped from Don's face like a stone. He cupped her dour chin with a father's gentleness, lifting it from her chest and pulling her eyes to his. "Now you listen to me, Kimberly," he said. "Don't you go feeling sorry for any of us, least of all this old codger. There isn't a young person out there that doesn't put gray hairs on their family every now and then. Even the great Kim Possible is no exception, y'hear? And don't think for one minute that it ever makes those old coots love their troublemakers any less."

Kim watched Don's round, stern face blur. She broke his gaze with a laugh to hide her tears until she could quell them. "And that includes cranky landlords and their fiery tenants," she asked with shaky sarcasm.

"No," he said. "That goes for uncles and their nieces." Don's face and voice softened. "I know I can speak for John and Yvonne," he murmured, and placed a hand on her shoulder, "When I say that all of us are glad for the day Ron brought you into our family." One insistent drop spilled out of Kim's eye as she looked back up. It tickled its way down her smile, until Don's coarse thumb swiped it away. "There now," he said, "That's the kind of face I like to see."

"Thanks, Uncle Don," she said. Balancing Ron's tray in one hand, she gave Don a one-armed hug, which he returned twofold. "I've been a little turned around lately."

"Keep turning," he whispered in her ear. "You'll face forward eventually." They split apart. Don gave her a theatrical bow, and then toddled off, biting into an apple crumble with the consistency of hard tack.

Kim glanced down at the tray's empty partition and shook her head. Despite his thievery of the dessert, Don's words would keep the smile on her face long after she backed into the hospital room, through her best friend's protests of the food's quality, past the discussion of what must be done, and all the way up until Ron broke the news to her of the other person that had been caught in their apartment during Monkey Fist's attack…a person that they couldn't account for yet.

Kim Possible
The Power of Friendship

by Cyberwraith9

"Kim? Kim, are you still there?"

The passenger hold of their GJ hover jet rattled around them with the force of supersonic flight. Normally whisper-quiet, the craft's design strained against the speed its own engines demanded of it, propelling them high over the crystal waters of the Pacific faster than any human ever had before. But nothing could be fast enough for Kim Possible, who shook herself from her reverie to answer the insistent voice from her Kimmunicator. "Sorry, Wade," she said, tossing the hair from her face. "You said thirty-eight percent?"

Wade nodded within the confines of his palmtop screen. "Thereabouts." Clacking keys split the screen at his command, bringing up a satellite photo of Dementor's island stronghold. The image then darkened into a negative of itself, with pale ghosts of light strung across its interior. "His power centers are still shot to hell, and I'm picking up minor radiation leaks from all over the complex. Best guess is he'll have less than thirty-eight percent of his weapons and defenses still running."

Kim nodded. "Makes sense. We beat him down bad last time. What about our missing Inducer?"

At that, Wade shook his head and made a face. "Nothing more since my last reading fifteen hours ago. But that doesn't mean anything. They could have masked the signature, or taken it underground, or something else."

Her slinky stealth suit creaked as she leaned back to examine its matte-black surface. "What about these?" she asked. "I know you haven't had a lot of time to run maintenance on them. Will they do the job?"

"The Inelastic Generators should have enough left for one more drop." Checking the readout on his tertiary monitor, he added, "Stealth capability appears to be intact. They won't see you coming through infrared unless you stand right in front of them."

"Got it," she said. "Thanks, Wade. You rock." Kim stowed the device in a compartment on her belt, and then leaned back with a deep breath. While she exhaled, she noticed a pensive look on the compartment's only other occupant. His brow furrowed with uncharacteristic thought, whereas his voice remained oddly absent in the small space. The lack of his banter made her uneasy, so she said, "Penny for your thoughts."

Ron sat on the bench opposite Kim with his legs gathered up to his chest, wrapped in place by his arms. Soft snoring drifted out of a pouch on his belt, eliciting a giggle from Kim that she managed to keep internalized. "Might not be a wise investment," he warned her. His eyes remained on the floor. "I'm just still a little fuzzy on how you knew to look for Drakken's bunch at Dementor's place."

"Simple," said Kim. She unclasped her equipment belt and began checking each device it held. Given that she had done this twice before, it seemed unnecessary, but it kept her hands busy and her eyes away from Ron, lest the twinkle in them give away more than she was ready to. "Back at the heist they pulled on the Evidence Locker, they made sure to do as much damage as possible to the stuff they didn't plan on taking. Fires, explosions…"

"Giant Japanese robots," said Ron.

Kim nodded. "Right. At first, I thought this was just Villain One-Oh-One; take what you want, smash the rest. It hit me when we started compiling the losses at the Locker: they torched everything so we couldn't separate what they took, and what they crispy-fried."

Ron bit his lip. "Okay," he said. "I'll buy that. But I'm still a few steps short from the tie-in with Doctor Dwarfenstein."

"But that's just it," Kim insisted. "They gave us the connection when they torched the place." When his confusion didn't budge, she asked, "When we took back the Pan Dimensional Vortex Inducer and handed it over to Global Justice, where do you suppose it went?"

"The Locker," said Ron. "So?"

Impatient breath whistled out her nose. "So," she said, "When the Inducer is activated or breached, it created a reality-annihilating vortex the size of Nevada. GJ didn't find it in the Locker, which means it didn't survive the fire."

His knobby mental fingers began to grasp Kim's line of thought. "Except Middleton isn't Ground Zero, which means it wasn't there to survive the fire," he said.

Kim checked over her grapnel gun. She sighted Ron's apathetic understanding along the gun's black barrel before holstering it back into her belt. "Now, regardless of Drakken's recent brush with cleverness, we know he's a lousy scientist," Kim reminded him. "This means he probably hasn't built anything that can use the Inducer yet. Not enough time since his 'early parole.' And we would have heard about him stealing anything Inducer-ready."

"So we'd be looking for someone who already had plans for the Inducer," said Ron, drawing the last line in their puzzle. "Someone with a history with Drakken."

"Or someone desperate enough to take him in. Remember what Mister Voice said the night of the heist? 'Your actions at Dementor's lair have forced their hand.'"

"Which means that LoVE has a definite link with our favorite midget lunatic," said Ron. "Clever." He grunted, and resumed his examination of the deck plating.

Her belt snapped back into place, sliding comfortably onto either side of her hips. "That's it in a nutshell," she agreed, wriggling her hips to settle the belt. "But that wasn't really what you were thinking." She plucked some lint from her collar to avoid his mild surprise, or the sight of it would release the smile she fought so hard to hold back. "So," said Kim, sitting back down on her bench, "Now that we've danced around the issue, why don't you tell me what's got you so down."

"I..." Ron squirmed beneath her placid gaze. He looked about, desperate for something, anything, in which to escape, but her entreating emeralds took over the compartment. They were everywhere, and they drained all deception from his body. "Well," he said miserably, "I was thinking about you."

Coy mirth curled her lips. Her hand fluttered to her breast as she said, "Really? How flattering!"

"—and Josh," he added too quickly. Humiliation pooled in his cheeks and crept up his neck. "I just…I think it's great that you found someone. I really do."

"Mm-hmm," Kim hummed.

"I know there's been a lot of static between us," said Ron. "And I know you must be worried, wondering if Josh is okay or not. But I know we'll find him. And…" He hesitated again, becoming redder in the interim. "And I think that, after this is finished, and we have him back, I…I'm gonna step back. Take some time away."

Kim arched an eyebrow at him. She reached into her belt and drew forth a long, thin strip of cloth. "How long?" she asked.

The question startled Ron: Not 'Why' or 'how could you,' but 'how long?' He watched her gather her hair into a ponytail and tie it off with the black sash. Locks of red swept across her forehead, curtaining her eyes. He felt them pierce through the veil, bringing back that old ache. "I, uh…I dunno."

"Where?"

Another unexpected question. "I, uh, hadn't thought of that, either," he said.

Finished, she tossed her hair behind her and swept the bangs from her face. Her sultry look made him balk. "Back to Japan, maybe?" Kim asked without inflection. She rose from the bench, and suddenly Ron couldn't help but notice every curve of her body kept prisoner in the tight stealth suit. "Yori would be glad to see you, I'm sure," she said.

"Huh?" Yori wasn't anywhere near his thoughts. He jerked his eyes to Kim's face, which began to crack with disappointment. "Yeah, I dunno," he said lamely.

Kim paced to the end of the compartment with ponderous steps. Ron watched the way she moved, entranced by her fluidity, terrified by what she might say. But whatever his expectations, they shattered as she turned and flashed him a smile. "Okay," she said.

"Oh…Okay?" echoed Ron.

She nodded. "Okay." With a light chuckle, she said, "Why? What am I supposed to do? Pitch a fit? Yell at you, or something?"

He frowned. "Yes?"

"Oh, Ron." Kim sauntered forward with a knowing look. "Do you really think I don't notice how unhappy you are? You're my best friend, and I hate to see you like this." She sat down next to him and placed a hand on his stealth-clad leg. He jolted, but she just kept her smile in place and held him in his seat. "I want you to be happy, Ron." Her smile broke as she added, "And if that means you can't be here with me and be happy…then something has to change, doesn't it?"

"I…don't know what to say," he admitted.

"Then don't say anything," she told him. "Right now, I need your help, and I need you focused. After this is over, I promise you," and she leveled her gaze into his, and spoke in a solemn voice, "Whatever you want, whatever you need, I'll do everything in my power to help you. If you need to go halfway around the world, or to some little monastery and your sexy ninja girlfriend, I'll call in every favor I have to get you there."

Ron looked into everything he could ever want. He swallowed the truth, and lied; "What if I don't know?"

Her smile returned. She pressed a hand to his face to keep him from looking away. "Then we'll figure that out together. But after this mission. And," she added, "On the condition that I get five minutes to talk to you before you go anywhere." Tender fingers brushed the hair from his lofted eyebrows. "Promise?"

Before Ron could answer, Doctor Director's voice piped in through the compartment's loudspeaker: "T-minus five to the drop zone," she relayed.

Kim tucked her hair into the back of her suit. "Remember the plan," she said, fitting a micro-transceiver into her ear. "Nothing fancy. We take point, and go in as quick as we can."

An identical device fit into Ron's ear while he rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said, "And trip every trap along the way so the GJ boys can have a clear path behind us."

She pulled the hood of her suit over her head. Only her eyes remained outside of the matte black. "Probably," she said. "But it's the fastest way into the compound, which is important. We've got a potential hostage situation."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, fitting his own hood onto his head. "Like this is my first hostage situation."

A hand rested on his shoulder. "I'm serious," Kim said. "I need you focused." Her fingers connected their gaze. "We do this like professionals, Ron. Professionals keep frosty, no matter how hot it gets." A wry twist entered her voice as she added, "That means keeping feelings in check."

His eyes crinkled inside of the mask. "Professionals also get paid," he said.

Kim lowered a set of scanner goggles over her eyes, completing the transformation. The voice that escaped the lower half of her mask came in a smart, businesslike clip: "Don't get technical on me," she said.

The door creaked open, allowing a tired, smiling Missus Possible into her home. Cool, conditioned air poured into her as she closed the door behind her, easing the fatigue that creaked in her joints. The twilight behind her set her ginger hair ablaze through the door's window as she said, "Hi, honey."

Her husband stood watch over the simmering pots on the stove. He traded kisses with her before she tossed her jacket across the table and collapsed into a chair. "Kids all right?" he asked her, stirring a pot of red sauce.

"Fine," she said, rubbing her eyes, "Aside from your typical case of teenage drama." Her chair creaked in tune with her joints as she leaned back and groaned. "What I wouldn't give for a cure for that. What a day."

A smirk lit Mister Possible's face, and then soured as he tasted his marinara. "How long did it take them to sneak out of the hospital?" he asked.

"There weren't gone until late this afternoon. They're probably halfway around the globe by now, doing God knows what." She chortled. "Does it make us good parents or bad parents that we can predict her spurts of insanity?"

Mister Possible wiped his hands, then his tongue, on his apron. "You know that daughter of yours," he said, untying the apron and tossing it aside. He took the seat behind his wife. "Heaven forbid that she or Ron stay in the hospital until they're healthy enough to leave." Moans of content answered him as he worked the kinks from her shoulders with strong hands. "She won't be happy until she's run herself into an early grave, or turned us both gray."

Missus Possible turned in her seat with brow ascended. "That daughter of 'mine?'" she asked.

He nodded. "When she's stubborn or crazy, absolutely. She gets that from your side, you know. I swear I get a new wrinkle every time she changes continents." Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on her neck, and murmured, "Still, I suppose it's part of why I love you both so much."

"Well, aren't you the most backhanded sweet-talker." She smirked, turning her head to kiss him in earnest.

Mister Possible gave her hand a squeeze as it brushed his cheek. "Help me with the sauce?" he pleaded. "I think it's well on its way to becoming a total disaster."

"Sure."

He dove into the newspaper while his wife rummaged through their spice rack to save his wreck of a sauce. The sports page masked his worry as he asked in his best, casual tone, "So, where did Kimmie jet off to this time?"

"Adventure and excitement," groused a voice from the kitchen door as it pushed open, allowing Tim through.

"Without us," added Jim, a step behind Tim, and with identical misery hung on his face. The twins hunkered up to the table slowly, weighed down by the same unforgivable hurt. Jim folded his arms onto the tabletop and buried his chin in them. "It's not fair," he said. "We're part of the team now, too."

Tim barked an embittered laugh and laid his head next to his brother's. "Not to Little Miss Perfect," he said. "She treats us like we're a couple of kids. We're fifteen years old."

"In two months," their mother pointed out.

"Whatever," they harmonized.

Jim pulled a sleek, black device from his pocket and ran it through his hands. "We didn't find out they were gone until we tried visiting them at the hospital. Turns out, they were already halfway over the Pacific without so much as a 'hey, guys.'" Then he tossed the device onto the table with a snort. "Some team."

The Timmunicator soon joined its twin on the table, tossed by an indifferent Tim. "She probably just had Wade whip these up to keep us quiet," he grumbled. "A consolation prize for her bitty baby brothers for saving the day, like, four times."

"Well, maybe you boys can help your mother put a fruit salad together instead," their father suggested from behind his paper. "I see you already have plenty of sour grapes. See what else you can dig out of the fridge."

"Daaad!"

Missus Possible scoffed. "He's only teasing, boys," she assured them, dumping a teaspoon of rosemary into the marinara. "And I'm sure Kim just doesn't want you getting hurt. That happens to be something I agree with." She prepared herself for her sons' rebuttal, but never got the chance, for a knock at the door paused them in mid-argument. "Who could that be?" she murmured, shuffling to the door.

As she opened the door, she started back, surprised to see the handsome face standing on their stoop. "Good evening, Missus Possible," the young caller said. He gave her a square-jawed smile, and said, "You might not remember me. It's been a few years now."

"Why, Erik," said Missus Possible, hastily adopting a grin of her own, "Of course I remember you. Won't you come in?"

She stepped aside, disappearing behind the door. Erik's grin doubled as he followed. "I'd love to," he said.

Two shadows descended in gravity's arms, streaking in tandem from the midday sun into a Romanesque cradle dotting the vast Pacific. Cracked marble archways flew past, their gilded linings flaked and peeling. The air around them howled with speed, but their ears turned deaf to the warning, and their goggled eyes, blind to all but the flat expanse of shattered tile and cobbling that rushed up at them.

This time, no floating sentries lurked in the air to oppose them. The droids all lay shattered on the ground below, mixed into the scattered remains of their companion cannons, and the architecture they had devastated. No roaming patrols of red-clad guards circled the bases of the broken buildings below. No sensors remained to detect them, and even if they did, no sensors existed to pierce the veil of the complex technology wrapped tight around their athletic forms.

They touched down lightly, landing in a crouch. Kim could feel the ground beneath them ripple as the suit dissipated her landing's force beneath her. The HUD inside her goggles flickered and then flashed red with an error message: the Inelastic Generator would not work again, and had fried many of the stealth systems connected to it. Kim glanced over, seeing that Ron had landed safely as well, and gave thanks that the suit's technology had held out this long.

Praying for more luck, and knowing full well they'd used it all up long ago, she joined Ron in a flat sprint for the central tower of Dementor's fortress. A familiar stretch of tile loomed in front of them. Kim's goggles flashed again, painting the grid of sensors hidden underground into neon green lines. 'Not enough circuitry for Vaporization Plates,' she thought, examining the criss-crossed lines while she sprinted. 'Can't avoid them, or GJ might trip them. Their leads are going off into those bushes…'

She eyed the burnt shrubbery lining their path on either side. Her gut, and the scanner goggles, told her that the trouble lay there. "Watch the foliage," she shouted as they reached the edge of the sensor field.

Ron tossed a look to his side, watching her begin to zigzag across the cobblestone. "What the hell is foliage?" he shouted back.

The scorched shrubs rose from the ground, revealing a line of thick, squat auto-cannons tangled in their roots. Red shrapnel filled the air, belched forth by the unveiled cannons. Each angry cough brought with it a new, deadly wave that cracked and burnt the landscape at the frantic teens' feet.

Flips and jumps kept Kim a hair's breadth ahead of the superheated shrapnel. The rough ground cut into her palms as she cartwheeled around another burst and watched Ron dance his way through the barrage. After his initial yelp, he flew into a gymnastic blur, moving with such grace as to take Kim's breath away. She followed suit, tucking and twisting and folding her way across the battlefield. Their movements synchronized as they came alongside each other. They flipped in time to the cannons' thunder, each wearing a smile the other couldn't see.

Kim and Ron reached the end of the sensor field in unison. She landed in a crouch, ready for a new threat as the cannons retracted back into the ground, now robbed of their targets. Ron stuck his landing and raised his arms to an unseen crowd. Breath whispered from his mouth in imitation of cheers.

She rolled her eyes, and then unrolled them just as quickly as she caught sight of a metal blast door lowering itself over the sanctum's broken doors. Her hands shot out and snagged Ron's wrist, jerking him along in a mad dash for the waning space beneath the blast door. Yards became feet became inches as she pounded across broken stone with Ron in tow. She hurdled over a fallen strut of stone the size of a Volkswagen and slid underneath the door. Ron fluttered behind her like a human ribbon, and yelped as the blast door clanged shut barely an inch from his skirting toes.

Ron flopped to the ground, relinquished by Kim so she could scan the sanctum's dank, dilapidated interior through her goggles. A ragged breath puffed the dusty air next to his masked mouth. "Whew," he sighed. "This is a lot easier done sneakily. And at night."

"Don't celebrate yet," Kim said, taking tentative steps into the grand, high-ceilinged hall. "We still need to find Dementor, Drakken, and the rest of them. Wade said this was the hottest spot on satellite thermographics, so they're bound to be in here."

Their whispered voices echoed in the giant space, chasing their shadows across the murky, crumbling walls. The distant drip of a broken pipe timed Kim's steps down the hall, masking her approach to the inner sanctum doors at the end of the long hall. Ron, on the other hand, laced his fingers behind his cowl and skipped after her as noisily as he could.

"Quietly," she hissed, diving into the shadows.

"Like they don't know we're here," he scoffed loudly. A chunk of stone flew down the corridor ahead of them, propelled by his lazy kick. "Don't get in a tizzy. We'll get your boyfriend back."

Her churlish glare lanced through him, despite their goggles and masks. "I am not in a tizzy," she said before turning back to their cautious advance. "Now be quiet."

Scraping, shuffling steps carried Ron after her. She could almost feel the chip balanced on his shoulder as he called out, "I don't even see what the big deal is. S'not like Red Dwarf has much left in the way of security. What was there?" He began ticking his fingers: "The sky guns; gone. Pressure sensors; trounced. Door; Indiana Jones'ed." He shrugged, and set his goggled glare on the door ahead of them, daring it to open. "What's left?"

A thick metal stalk pounded the floor next to him, stopping them in their tracks. Another just like it struck at his other side, pulverizing what remained of the tile, and kicking up a cloud of dust. Two more followed it, shredding the floor behind them.

Ron looked up as his stomach sank, and stared up through the rising cloud of dust. The cold, fractal eyes of a Kill-Bot painted the cloud red. Its mandibles clicked at him with strength enough to crush a car. Beyond the bot looming over him, two more of the insect-like robots lurked high above. They screeched at the intruders, raining bits of ceiling down on Kim and Ron as they prepared to attack.

"Oh yeah," muttered Ron, backing away alongside Kim. "The ant robot things. It's all coming back to me now."

The sanctum wall burst inward. Stone and plaster rained across the shattered floor, covering untouched debris in a thick layer of flotsam. An insectoid shape pierced the white cloud of dust, squealing atop thrusters lit with blue fire, shrieking as a pair of hands yanked its antenna.

Tile flew up on either side as the Kill-Bot plowed into the floor. The robot's angular head crumpled under the pressure of its own thrust, digging a furrow to the room's lone chair set on the far end. Its two riders clung to their antenna reins and rattled with the unwilling steed as it grinded to a halt just a few feet from the marble throne's featureless back.

Gritting her teeth, Kim gathered her legs underneath her and leapt at the Kill-Bot's electronic death-rattle. The momentum of their dying steed carried her up and over the marble throne. She corkscrewed in midair, pulling her grapnel gun from its holster. She didn't need to look to know that Ron was right behind her, already landing next to her to cover any avenues of escape she missed.

Her grapnel gun's point rested square in the throne's center as she touched down. Ron crouched at her side, pointing a sleepy mole rat at the seat's occupant. "Hold it right there, De…mentor?" She tore the hood and goggles from her head, disbelieving the sight she saw through them.

Professor Dementor was in the chair, just as she had predicted. However, she hadn't foreseen the rope coiled tightly around his thick torso, nor the length of tape splayed across his lips. Rather than controlling his remaining defenses, the tiny dictator squirmed against his bonds, a prisoner of his own chair. The rope encompassed him from shoulders to legs. A wild look entered his eyes at the teens' entrance. His squirming doubled, and muffled cries escaped the duct tape muzzle.

Ron frowned and stepped back, removing his own masking. He unconsciously used Rufus' teeth to scratch his head while he pondered the odd situation. "Now, stop me if I'm wrong," he said, oblivious to his little buddy spitting out strands of blond, "But aren't they supposed to look like this after we've been here, and not before?"

Kim ignored his confusion, and holstered her grapnel gun. "Okay, Professor," she snapped, striding forward, "Why don't you tell us what's going on?" Her callous hand tore the tape from his mouth, heedless of the agonized howl it drew from Dementor. "Where are the rest of your comrades?"

"Do not dare to associate those, those, worthless bacteria with me any longer!" the diminutive scientist roared. Humiliation watered in his eyes as he tore his gaze away, gritting his teeth. "I cannot believe I was betrayed and disgraced by that blue buffoon and his mutant helpers."

Rufus leapt from Ron's grasp and gnawed at the rope binding him to the throne. Ron, in the meantime, touched a finger to his chin in thought. "A double-cross, huh? Well, that's a little…expected."

A pleading look escaped Dementor's helmet, surprising Kim. "Am I to suffer the indignity of your sidekick's mockery as well? We are adversaries, Miss Possible. Opposite sides of a noble sport. Surely you, of all people, can respect that."

The ropes relinquished Dementor, sundered by Rufus's sharp teeth. But when Dementor tried rising, Kim planted a boot in his chest and shoved him back into his chair. Fire burned in her eyes, scorching the indignation off of Dementor's face. "People have died because of you and Drakken," she growled, "So don't talk to me about the rules of our little game. It's game over for you and your little friends. Now, where are they?"

Her boot cut into his sternum, crushing the fight out of him. Dementor stared into her emerald flames, and stammered, "They…Middleton. They are in Middleton. Drakken betrayed me, and took my Entropy Cannon."

"Middleton?" muttered Ron. "Huh. We're looking for LoVE in all the wrong places." Kim cast him a withering glance. "Sorry," he replied sheepishly. "I don't mean to be funny. It just sort of happens."

Turning back, Kim demanded, "What is the Entropy Cannon? How does Drakken plan on using it?"

"I…do not know," grunted Dementor, losing breath to the pressure of Kim's boot. He squirmed, but could not escape. "He has a facility already prepared there…the others are helping him as we speak."

Before he could say more, Kim's pocket sang a four-note tune. Her hand answered the call, drawing the Kimmunicator forth and thumbing its button. Wade popped onto the screen and began speaking in a panic; "Kim, it's a trick!" he cried. "The Legion is—"

"Already gone, we know," she said. Tossing Dementor a disgusted glare, she added, "Another wild goose chase courtesy of Drakken. Start—"

"No!" he insisted, cutting her short. "You don't understand. I just received a transmission from our informant. Here, listen."

Wade's image vanished, replaced by a dancing green line. "Kim Possible," the mechanical voice of their mysterious informant said, "You are in grave danger. Doctor Drakken has established a fortification in Middleton."

"Well, that sure doesn't sound good," said Ron, earning him a glare from Kim.

"To ensure your cooperation, he intends to ransom that which you hold most dear. The coordinates of his facility are—"

When Wade popped back onto the Kimmunicator screen, Kim looked at him expectantly. "Well? Where's this base?" she demanded.

"I don't know," said Wade, typing furiously on two different keyboards at once. "The message cuts out after that. I can't…wait a minute." He scowled at his monitors.

"What is it?" asked Kim. She could feel Ron's eyes burning a path over her shoulder. Rufus's eyes joined in from Ron's shoulder. Even Dementor leaned in to gain a glimpse at the screen. "Wade, what's going on?"

"Someone's trying to hack into my data stream. It's—"

The Kimmunicator's screen split, shoving Wade's image into the lower half. Its upper half came aglow with a smug, insidious grin the color of strained blueberries, with a wicked glare glimmering above the yellowed teeth. "Hello, Kim Possible…and sidekick," Drakken added, with a nod to Ron. Shifting his beady little eyes, he spied a helmet peering in at the edge of the tiny device's camera field. "Why, Professor. Good to see you up and about. I hope my little change in our plans hasn't tied up too much of your time."

"You miserable—!" Dementor yowled, but was shoved aside by Kim.

"Hope you don't mind me calling unexpectedly," continued Drakken. "But I just couldn't wait to tell you the good news. You see, I'm about to take over the world, and I wanted you to be the first to know."

Wade glared into his monitor. His hands were already at work on his keyboards, clacking out a solution to their hacker problem. "Just try it, pal," he snapped. "I'm already halfway into your system."

Drakken yawned. "And I'm about to take care of yours." He raised a hand into the image field, poignantly pointing his finger before he brought it down out of view again. "Boop!" he sang.

The baleful look on Wade's round face became one of horror. His fingers doubled their efforts. "What the…no. No, you can't!" Wade cried. Through the tiny image, Kim could see smoke pouring from the seams in his monitors. His picture began to de-resolve, becoming pixilated and choppy. "Kim, I can't—" said Wade, before he disappeared entirely in a storm of static.

"Wade? Wade!"

"There now," said Drakken, as his image expanded to fill the entire screen. "Isn't that better? Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Rule the world."

Kim's teeth gnashed together, biting back a dozen choice words. "What do you want, Drakken?"

His smug smile spread. "I can't give everything away all at once, can I?" he said. "But I'm sure if you and your Global Justice friends hurry back to Middleton, you'll make it in time to see my announcement to the world. I just thought I'd give you a heads-up so you wouldn't miss it."

"I'll be there," she growled. "Count on it."

"Oh," he said, unfazed, "That reminds me."

The camera that captured his image flipped around, swirling the picture a moment. When the image coalesced again, it was one of a haggard figure spread eagle against a wall via four metal bonds. An angelic portrait hung beside him on the drab, otherwise-featureless wall, but Kim paid neither the wall nor the painting any mind. Instead, her eyes flew to the face of the man held prisoner. "Josh," she breathed, glad that he was still alive, and worried about what might happen to him to change that.

Drakken stepped back into frame. He pinched the cheek of his dizzy captive, tut-tutting the garbled moans that escaped Josh's lips. "Not very responsive," he lamented, and then tugged at the tie dangling from the artist's neck. "But certainly the best dressed hostage I've ever taken." With a laugh, he tossed the tie back in Josh's face. "But don't you worry. Just to make sure he's all right, I'm bringing in a doctor to take a look at him. And a rocket scientist," he added with a malevolent twinkle in his eye. Then his face hardened. "So keep your big nose out of my business, and everything will be fine."

The screen went blank, and fell from Kim's limp grasp. Ron's lightning reflexes guided his hand to the falling Kimmunicator and saved it from smashing against the floor. He exchanged confused glances with Rufus. "Okay, the doctor I get," he said. "But why would you need a rocket scientist." Looking for answers, he guided his gaze back to Kim, asking, "What do you think, KP? KP?"

Silent shock swam in her beauty. It startled Ron, until the magnitude of her fright connected the remaining dots inside his mind. He sucked in a startled gasp of understanding even as Kim blew hers out. She shoved Dementor aside and broke into a run for the door, touching a hand to her ear. "Doctor Director, we need an emergency evac," she shouted.

"What is it?" Doctor Director's voice buzzed back in her ear. "Is Dementor—"

"A decoy," snapped Kim. "We need to get back to Middleton, fast."

She ignored the indignant shouts Dementor belted at her from behind, as well as the GJ activity buzzing in her ear now that radio silence had been broken. Ron's echoing footfalls reached her distantly, second to the booming words of Mister Voice as his warning resurfaced from her memory.

'…he intends to ransom that which you hold most dear…'

'…that which you hold most dear…'

"Mom," she whispered. "Dad."

Erik walked through the door wearing a grin thick with malice. That grin didn't weather the blunt end of a frying pan as it swung around the far side of the door and struck him square in the face, smashing his nose back into his head and slamming him onto the ground, halfway in and out of the door.

Missus Possible stepped around the door's edge. The pan she held smacked into her open palm, resonating through the stunned silence of the kitchen as her men flew from their seats to stand behind her. A viscous green fluid dripped from the pan's face, staining the immaculate floor. "Did you really think Kim wouldn't have told us about you, Erik?" she asked sweetly, keeping her pan at the ready.

A slurping noise accompanied his nose as it ejected from the interior of his face, resuming its former position. His eyes danced independently until he managed to unite them once more, and locked them on the matron's hateful glare. He touched at his nose, dabbing at the thin stream of limey liquid, even as he felt his leak inside his nose seal itself. The smile returned to his face. "I had hoped," he admitted cheerfully.

Mister Possible reached out, grabbing a knife from its holder on the kitchen counter. "I don't know how you came back or why you're here," he said, "And frankly, I don't care. This is our house, and you aren't welcome."

Erik's feet planted themselves on the kitchen floor. He lifted himself without the aid of his arms, rolling up with an impossible bend of his back until he stood before them. The trench coat seated on his broad shoulders shimmered and vanished, replaced at once by a red and black jumpsuit with the numbers 'Nine-Zero-One' emblazoned at its breast. "Oh, c'mon, Doctors P-Squared," he said with open hands. "Surely Kim's old beau can stop by for a little visit."

"Only one boy is allowed to call us that," snapped Missus Possible.

"And buster," added her husband, "Are you not him."

"You're right," said Erik, shrugging. "I'm much better."

Erik's arms shot forward, stretching the distance between him and the two doctors in no time at all. Impossible strength knocked the weapons from their hands and then brushed them aside as though they weighed nothing. Mister Possible flew back and landed in the table, crashing through the stained wood and landing amidst its splintery wreckage. His wife crashed into the cabinetry above the counter, and fell. Cans and jars fell from the broken cabinets, raining down on her body as she fell unconscious against the floor.

The syntho-drone nodded in satisfaction. Then his smile flew back as a chair broke over his face, knocking him through the open door and back into the yard. He flipped with the force of the blow, landing on all fours as his face reordered itself. Once back in place, his eyes shot to the open door.

Two lanky guardians filled the door frame, wearing one look of rage that challenged him to try for the door again. "You've got some lousy timing," Jim called to him, folding his arms. "Kim's not here right now."

"Yeah," Tim added, crossing his own arms. "But we'd be happy to show you what the rest of Team Possible can do to one pretty boy."

Erik wiped a ribbon of green from his chin. His smile grew. "So the little brothers are all grown up," he called. "Okay, toddlers. Show me."

The syntho-drone charged the door, still wearing his enigmatic smile. His fists leapt forward, propelled once more by arms that stretched to impossible lengths. This time the twins were ready for such tactics; they ducked the punches and grabbed hold of Erik's elongated wrists, swinging his arms over their shoulders. Erik flew past them as they knelt down, flying on the force of his own strength into the opposite wall of the kitchen.

Jim and Tim released his flopping arms, watching the drone disappear through a hole in the wall. Drywall and two-by-four fell after him through the collapsing breach in the wall. "Hicka bicka boo!" crowed Tim, trading high-fives with his brother.

"Hoo sha!" Jim replied.

A gloved hand stretched from the hole with lightning speed, shaping itself into a sharpened point that shot between the twins. It knocked Jim aside like a rag doll, and then whipped into Tim's face. A long gash opened beneath its point, eliciting a howl from the teen before a second hand emerged from the hole to shove him back against the sink.

Erik climbed through the hole on his knees while his distant hands held Tim in place against the counter. He marched toward his opponent, grinning while his arms slurped and compacted back into their normal length. The deadly point of his hand dug into Tim's chin while the teen whimpered. Blood dribbled from his cheek into the sink below.

"Look at this," said Erik. He thumbed the nasty cut on Tim's cheek, renewing the boy's sobs. With a nasty smile, he leaned into Tim's face and said, "I guess you aren't twins anymore."

Grabbing Tim by the face, Erik twisted around and flung the boy into his brother, who was only now rising to help. The twins crashed into a heap on the floor, falling unconscious in a tangle of limbs against the far wall.

Erik sighed in satisfaction, reverting his extremities to their normal proportions. He brushed his hands clean of dust, and then strode about the kitchen, gathering up the fallen Mister and Missus Possible and slinging them under his arms. The jumpsuit stretched across his brawny frame sparkled and became a trench coat once more. Taking one last look around, Erik remarked, "I love what you've done with the place, Missus P. Very chic. Shall we?" And he strode out the door with a tiny chuckle, paying the moaning heap behind him no mind.

To Be Continued