Disclaimer: Disney owns Kim Possible and all associated characters except the story, its antagonist, and some minor characters.
Dedicated to my father who passed away in October. Well Pa, what can I say but love you and miss you. I'll never forget what you said when going through your ordeal. "There can be no victory without a cross." Congratulations, you have your victory.
Masterpiece
Drip… drip… drip.
Water droplets splash onto his pale white forehead right above his brow.
Drip… drip… drip.
This was all there existed for him, nothing but the steady beat of the droplets while restrained and confined in darkness.
Drip… drip… drip.
He had lost all sense of time. Slept never came for him.
Drip… drip… drip.
A manically laugh escapes him as the drops continue to fall. At least this is better than the pain. It only comes when the water stops and the lights come on. Darkness and dripping good. Light and no dripping bad.
Drip… drip… drip.
The flirtatious moon peaks out for a moment behind the clouds before shying away again. A cool breeze moves over the manicured baseball field of the Clarkson Cougars as it sleeps restlessly, excited that tomorrow it will host the St. Lawrence Crusaders, the hated arch rival of the Cougars. Just beyond the dugout, a rickety, old, and small tool shed stands by its lonesome.
Suddenly, a group of men decked in blue jumpsuits quietly approach it. The grass crunches beneath their matching black boots. All wear color coordinated helmets except for one, an olive skinned young man with black hair.
"Scan it," orders the olive skinned man.
"Scanning underway, sir," replies the man beside him holding a laptop. Through his helmet's visor, he sees a digital image of black and green develop on his laptop's screen. "Scanning complete, sir," he says as he examines the image for a second. "It appears that the shed holds an entrance to a large underground room, possibly a bunker."
The olive skinned man absorbs this information for a moment. "All right, we go in slow. We don't know what's down there." He looks into the eyes of every member of his team. "Follow my lead." He slowly creeps toward the shed. One by one his team members follow him. Closer and closer he comes to the shed until he reaches the door. Scanning it with a small device, he finds nothing out of the ordinary. Cautiously he reaches for the handle and grasps it firmly. With a mighty tug, the door opens wide. He waits for a moment before entering the shed as his eyes adjust to the dimness. "Ah," he says as the light bulb hanging from the ceiling smacks him in the forehead.
"Sir?" asks one of his group members in a whisper.
"Just a light bulb, agent," replies the man rubbing the marked spot on his forehead. He feels for the pull string and, after finding it, pulls it. The shed instantly illuminates revealing its contents: rakes, line chalk, push lawn mowers, and various small tools hanging from all the green walls. He looks around suspiciously, entering with caution. Upon reaching the far wall, he hits something with his foot. Looking down, he sees a large doormat with the word "welcome" inscribed in it.
Raising an eyebrow, he lifts up the doormat and finds a wooden trapdoor with a metal handle attached to it. Grasping the handle and pulling up, he opens the trapdoor to see a wooden staircase descending into darkness. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his small pocket flashlight. Taking a moment and a breath, he takes the lead and walks down the staircase. The men slowly follow him down after they each turn on their pocket flashlights.
Drip… drip… creak… drip.
What was that? The restrained man becomes apprehensive and nervous. Fear floods his veins. Oh-no! Please no! He holds his breath, listening for familiar footfalls descending from above.
Drip… drip… creak… drip… creak… drip… creak.
No! No! No! He struggles against his restraints but fails as the footfalls become louder and louder. Streams of light soon filter into the room. "Nooooooo!" he screams.
"Noah!" says the olive skinned man. He quickly descends the staircase and his feet hit concrete. The men behind him follow suit. They fan out and slowly break the darkness with their flashlights. Concrete surrounds them on all sides. Then they see him, strapped, ankles, wrists, and head, to an old dentist chair bolted to the floor. Just over his head, they see a metal tank hang from the ceiling releasing droplets of water rhythmically onto his pale white forehead. His blue jumpsuit shows wet spots under the arms and on his chest. Quickly, they rush to his side and begin to free him.
"No!" Noah screams. "I gave you the answer! I gave you the answer!" He twists and writhes as the men continue to free him.
"Noah," says the olive skinned man as he grasps Noah's head, trying to calm him, "it's me, Will."
"Will?" asks the man in a daze before erupting into hysteria. "No! You're not real! You're not real!"
Will reaffirms his grip on his friend's restrained head. "Noah! I'm here. I'm real."
Noah slowly relaxes and calms down, which facilitates his release from the chair. "Will," he asks as tears start to fall from his eyes.
"Yes, Noah, it's me," Will says smiling down on him.
Noah relaxes completely as he starts to realize that the truth. Thank you. His tears pour down.
Will Du undoes the leather straps across Noah's chin and the upper portion of his forehead. "Hang on, Noah," Will Du says as he and another man help a limp Noah out of the chair and onto his feet. "We're taking you home." He places Noah's left arm over his shoulder while the other man does the same with Noah's right arm and, together, they and the others make their way up the wooden staircase and up to the surface.
"How is he?" asks the slender brown haired woman in a blue jumpsuit as she watches Noah sleeping on a medical bed through the medical bay's observation window.
"Sedated," answers the dark skinned male doctor stepping next to her. He stares sadly at the sleeping agent. "Agent Ark has been through something I can only imagine. He has puncture marks localized around almost every joint, especially around his knuckles. His blood work shows a large amount of hallucinogenic agents. Physically, he'll recover. Mentally, he has a long road back to any form of normalcy."
"Just like the others," says the brown haired woman.
"Yes," replies the doctor. "Each has been subjected to different methods leading to the same result." He glances at Agent Ark. "A total mental breakdown induced by extreme distress."
"Torture," concludes the woman.
"Til they cracked," he replies as he reaches into his white lab coat pocket. "When we undressed Agent Ark, this was duct taped to his back." He pulls out a white envelope and holds it out to the brown haired woman, who takes it. "Looks like another message."
Looking down, she reads the inscription printed on the envelope. To whom it may concern. She quickly tears it open and pulls out a neatly folded piece of white paper. She unfolds it and reads the content printed on it. And yet another piece of art but my next will be my greatest, a masterpiece.