Disclaimer: Do not own KP or any of Disney's intellectual property.
Alright, we start with Shego in this chapter. The poor woman has dealt with alot so far, no? Granted it was of her own hand, but we are going to see a little hope start to grow here, from an unlikely (but not so unlikely) source. Part II of the helicopter ride for the hero's, once again they get the more lighthearted part. And finally, there is a peak at some info on the unnamed soldier who started this whole thing. Just a little slice of technobable, but it turned out alright i think.
Thanks again to those who reviewed, and keep them coming.
Chapter 5: Night of Impossible Possibilities
Shego didn't bother to clean herself up. Somehow, it didn't seem right that she should look presentable on the outside when on the inside she felt as if she was a subject of Japanese water torture just a few drops short of submersion. So, her cheeks a-streak with mascara runs, eyes red and puffy, nose running, and still holding Drakken's lone laboratory gauntlet like a safety blanket, Shego climbed back into her hovercar, and took off towards no-where in particular. She flew aimlessly into the night for several long minutes blank-minded. It was only after, by some minor imbalance in the hover car's yaw control, she was brought back to the scene of the explosion in a large circle, did she begin to consider where she should go. It was not a matter of simply a roof overhead; she had numerous safe houses around the country, and if worse came to worse she could always check into another skuzy motel. No, it was her need for some, any form of human company.
If anyone had ever told the brash young woman that existed just hours before that she would one day be so completely devastated that she would not just want, but actually need another person to comfort her, she would have laughed in their face before beating them senseless. She was Shego, the elite of the elite in the world of mercenaries and bounty hunters. A woman who had stared down crocodiles, genetically altered dinosaurs, and a multitude of other natural animals and mutant hybrids that could tear limb from limb without hesitation. A woman who had evaded capture by the FBI, NSA, CIA, Navy SEALs, Delta force, INTERPOL, the RCMP, JTF2, Scotland Yard, the SAS, the reformed KGB, and countless other national and private security forces, several of which were so secret that they didn't really answer to anyone, and therefore did not have to explain when they uses tactics that didn't abide by the Geneva Conventions. But here she was, readily submitting to, hell, even accepting the fact that she would need someone to talk to tonight, someone to listen, someone to hold her hand and be there for her while she slept. She was fairly certain her dreams would not be pleasant.
Obviously, she had made scant provision for this eventual requirement for an emotional support network, and even if she had been so inclined, the criminal underworld was not renowned for having upstanding citizens willing to console someone simply from the goodness of their own hearts. Beyond the fact that they were evil, they were also immature, short sighted, and expressively stunted, not exactly ideal candidates for emotional damage control. This much was obvious, considering the fact that they were in the business as a result of their own emotional failings.
The realisation that in her relentless quest for independence and freedom would sooner or later lead to her completely isolating herself was an eventuality that had never bothered the olive skinned villainess in the slightest before tonight, but never before had that prospect ever become reality. And now she had no one. Her family was just as emotionally juvenile as the villains she worked with, the Wego's actually still just children, Mego unable to tear himself away from the mirror, and Hego so dedicated to comic book style heroism that she would hardly get "I killed" out before she would find herself booked at Global Justice Headquarters. She had no friendly relations to speak of, other than a passing master-apprentice affiliation with Senior Senior Junior. In fact, now that she thought about it, the majority of her closest associations were hostile ones.
A lot of good those will do me. I can just see the Princess now. Shego thought bitterly. Right now, she hated her long-time rival even more, and at the same time allowed herself the humility to envy her.Perfect life, perfect family, enough friend's to get her around the world a hundred times without paying a cent, faithful, selfless boyfriend who always has her back...
Just then a solution struck her. An insane, foolhardy and more than likely conceptually flawed solution to be sure, but in times where the rational world seemed to be non-existent, idea's which would have been tossed aside immediately in other conditions carried more validity, and could in fact succeed where conservative routes would fail. She set her co-ordinates into the guidance computer, and settled back for the short trip, thinking about just how in God's name she could make this work without ending up as broken physically as she was emotionally.
(-) (-) (-)
The teen hero's long-fought slumber was maliciously short lived; far too soon the couple was disturbed by the jarring action of the landing skids against the rain-soaked pavement outside of Kim's home. Both youths' subconsciously tried to claw their way back into the realm of their dreams, as one does when being forced into consciousness against one's will. In a motion that had become second nature, Ron moved his free hand to cover his eyes in anticipation of the blast of light that would usually accompany this interruption, as his mother would turn on the lights every morning while rousing him for school. Kimberly grumbled inaudibly, straining her eyes closed and tightening her grip on Ron's arm as she would her Pandaroo when James Possible called her down from her loft for breakfast. In actuality, the distinction between Ron's bicep and her plush sleeping partner had begun to degrade in recent months. However, on nights where Ron's arm replaced the stuffed animal, her father was assuredly not present to awaken his daughter; Ron would flat out refuse to even consider entry into such a situation should it be otherwise. The threat of being sent into a black hole by a certified rocket scientist, for something even as simple as a drawn out kiss in his presence, was simply too great, no matter the allure of the proposition or beauty of the temptress. Unfortunately, the reactionary measures were to no avail, as the pilot slid the side door open and gently nudged his sleeping passengers to alertness.
"Miss Possible, Mr Stoppable, we've arrived at our destination." He said hesitantly, not wishing to disturb them but knowing they would prefer to sleep in the comfort and privacy of actual bed rooms, or bed room as he suspected might be the case. Groaning, the pair began to move to exit the aircraft, but as Kim tried to slide her head out from under Ron's, she found that the sap had dried and now worked as a natural but effective bonding agent between their respective patches' of hair. Ron, not as quick on the up-take on these cues of reality after waking, was not so perceptive in his assessment. Stretching, he moved his own head away without hesitation just as the words of warning were forming in Kim's throat. It was not in a violent gesture but had enough un-damped force to cause the red head to have a second flashback to early elementary school tussles.
"Ron, our hair is..." she began, before the sharp tugging action against her scalp elicited a controlled scream. Surprised both by Kim's cry and the unexplained pricks of pain across his own skull, the essential Ron-ness again showed one of its less admirable qualities as he clumsily dropped out of his seat again, Kim being encouraged by pain and the desire to not have a strip of hair torn away to follow him. And, in a most unceremonious fashion, the world saving team found themselves lying in a heap on the hard aluminum plates of the chopper's floor. Kim may very well have been tweaked, if not for the irony she discovered thinking back to the taunt that had come to her mind when Shego was buried under a pile of pseudo-males. Instead, she couldn't help but laugh that she now found herself in a similar situation, albeit the sexual implications of the position could have been true in her case. Not willing to risk an unintentional scalping, Ron remained motionless, calling out to the stunned whirly bird driver.
"Ummm... little help sir?"
The man was understandably surprised to have witnessed the duo that so frequently saved the world from super-villain conquest, some of whom were no armatures when it came to hand to hand combat, turn out to be so... adolescently clumsy and easily entertained. But he quickly realised they were indeed just adolescents, although ones prone extreme acts of heroism, and it was certainly not unheard of to find people who often put themselves at such extraordinary risks to have hair trigger joviality. At the young man's request, he climbed into the roughly rectangular passenger cabin. He squatted down beside the twosome, examining their intermingling mops of hair. He prodded the dried sap with curiosity.
"What is this stuff?" He asked honestly.
"Its tree sap. I got it in my hair, and it looks like it dried when we fell asleep." Kim explained, omitting their amorous mêlée, but a light touch of embarrassment still coloring her words. The pilot rocked back onto his heels, stroking his stubble for a moment before he snapped his fingers.
"Hold on, I have just the thing." The man, reached up into a cubby hole along the roof console, and withdrew a clear bottle containing a brackish liquid substance. He turned back to the teens, and said.
"You might want to plug your noses, this stuff is pretty putrid." Kim and Ron complied, and, taking his own nose with one hand, the airman popped the cap off the container. Despite their precautions, the smell that assaulted their olfactory senses was enough to make a coroner gag. Poor Rufus, asleep in Ron's pocket, could not heed the warning, and his superior animal sense of smell forced him to do quite a bit more than simply heave. He emerged a semi-digested nacho cheese mess, grasping his snout with both paws, his tongue flailing madly. He cast dagger eyes at the offending member of the Homo Saipan species, but dove back into his vomit soaked refuge when the pilot made his second warning.
"Now, close your eyes. I'm gunna pour this over that mess. It should dissolve it almost as fast as it touches it." He began to tilt it, but then pulled back for one final question.
"Neither of you dye your hair, right? Because I'm pretty sure this will leach out the color if it is unnatural." Both teens shook their heads gingerly, careful not to over stretch the strained bonds in their hair. Nodding with their conformation, he dumped the disgusting smelling solvent on their heads. True to his word, the sap liquefied on contact, and they were almost instantly freed. Then their driver took a canteen and repeated the procedure, washing most of the pungent odour away. Team Possible followed his lead when he relinquished his grasp on his nostrils, Kim running her hands through her now restored, if slightly redolent tresses.
"What is that stuff? Some kind of acid?" Ron asked, revealing the reason why he had barely scraped an acceptable average in Junior Chemistry (although if the demonstrations were as interesting and obviously useful in real life situations as what he had just taken part in, he might have been more successful). The pilot snorted.
"Heck no, that's jungle issue bug repellent. This bird was just rotated back home from Central America, and it hasn't quite had its kit returned to standard just yet. The mechanics have been using this stuff to clean grease off of bearings. The mosquitoes down there must be some big sons-a-bitches." He smirked, before jumping back out of the cabin into the pelting rain. "It's not toxic, but its itches like hell after a while and as you can probably guess, it's not exactly French perfume, so I'd recommend taking a shower before you bed down tonight." The teens followed him outside, hesitating only long enough to say good-bye to the airman
"It was a pleasure, Miss Possible, Mr Stoppable." He said, saluting before extending his hand to both of them.
"Likewise, Lt. Ripley." Kim replied reading his nametag as she took his hand and returning his solid shake.
"Call me Ryan." He said, climbing back into the cockpit. "If you ever need a ride, just ask for Rook. It's my call sign."
"What, like a rookie?" Ron asked feeling some pity for the man, his own experience with that term stemming from the universal rituals of High School Football membership. However, before he brought the rotors up to the lifting threshold, Ryan laughed once again.
"No, for the Chess piece, Ron." And with that, he took off into the stormy night. The pair, once out of the rotor wash, sprinted to under the overhang of Kim's front door to escape the rain. After disengaging the dead-bolt, they hurried into the warm confines of the building, shaking off the accumulated moisture before venturing into the kitchen. The lights had been left on, as they were for all of Kim's late night missions, but the house was had that aura of being empty. Kim's father was away doing work with the Russian Space Agency, but her brother's and mother should have been home. Concern was short lived, though, as Kim noticed a note written in her mother's script.
Kimmie:
Got brought in for a multiple car accident, I was on emergency call. Might not be home till morning. The twins are at the Stoppable's, dinner for you and Ron is in the microwave, I left some of James' clothing for Ron to change into on your bed. Please keep it 14-A. I know your father's not around to threaten Ron into submission, and your both mature young adults but it's still not kosher for you two to be doing those sorts of things at home. And remember, you can never be sure if we have taken care of all the twin's recording devices. Have a good night dear, good night Ron.
Love Mom
"Mom, that's just sick and wrong." Kim said to the note, still not comfortable with either of her parents discussing her romantic life, equally in her father's refusal to acknowledge that she was not just his Kimmie-Cub anymore, and in her mother's disconcerting acceptance and support of her daughter's blooming womanhood. It was just alk-weird to discuss it at all with those who had raised her.
Then again, the teen thought, 14-A isn't exactly what it used to be... She turned, hoping to be able to lay a slightly suggestive glace on her blonde boy toy who had been reading the note over her shoulder. To her dismay, she did not find him considering the same breach to Anne Possible's dictate that she was, but had instead fixated on another line of the message, and now had his head inside the microwave, surveying the food left behind by her mother. Some things never change. She thought with a mental sigh. While Ron was no longer the trance-prone mess when it came to sexual innuendo and intonations that were directed at him, he was still just as oblivious as he always had been when such things were being implied in any way other than the most blatant manner.
"Rufus! We have brain-loaf!" He called excitedly to his rodent counterpart, who was currently soaking himself in a makeshift warm water bath in the kitchen sink. While he had looked intensely relaxed, the mention of food brought the border-line gluttonous naked mole rat from his closed eyed reprieve. He pulled his shoulders to the edge of the counter and popped his human the thumbs up while squeaking.
"Hck Boo yah. Hck." After which, he slipped and landed back in the pool of water with a splash. Remembering how she smelled and the fear she had for her hair, despite Ryan's assurance that as long it was naturally coloured it would be fine, she decided Rufus had the right idea.
One, the heroine thought mischievously, that I can build on.
"Ron... Can we shower first? I need to get out of these mission clothes." She cooed, leaning coyly along the cupboard beside him and placing particular emphasis on weandneed. However, as true to form as atomic line spectra, Ron missed even these less than subtle hints. He didn't so much as bat an eyelid.
"Good call KP. This stuff smells disgusting. You can have first dibs; me and Rufus will just hang out down here." Even with her more than a decade of intimate knowledge of Ron's personality and aptitudes, Kim was still somewhat shocked at just how unaware her boyfriend could be at times, and couldn't help but groan as she slid off the wall and headed upstairs. Halfway between floors, though, it seemed that a miracle occurred, as Ron called up after her.
"Hey KP..." He began shyly, the way a person who was about to suggest something that might deeply offend someone's moral code in the asking spoke. Kim halted mid step, and turned to look down towards him.
"Yes, Ron?" She replied with both surprise and anticipation leaking into her tone.
"Well, would you... I dunno... save some warm water for me?" he asked, looking down and fidgeting his foot as if this request brought him great shame. Her hopes of a new, more in-tune boyfriend cruelly dashed, Kim scowled and threw her Kimmunicator at the un-relentingly obtuse male. Growling, she stomped up the final few stairs and slammed the door of the bathroom.
Ron, who had dived to the floor to avoid the magenta projectile, sighed as he ran his hand through his messy blonde locks.
"All you had to say was no." He called up to the closed door.
Wow, never thought someone could get so tweaked about a few minutes of warm water. He thought. Kim always managed to unintentionally use up all the heated water after missions, and Ron had never complained before (and technically, still had not complained about it, per-say) but he thought that maybe their relationship had reached that critical point where they could discuss hygienic idiosyncrasies like leaving the seat up, what way to mount the toilet paper, and even shower time.Women. He walked back into the kitchen, where Rufus was drying himself off with a dish towel.
"You have any idea what that was about, buddy?" He asked rhetorically. As such, he was surprised when his diminutive friend nodded smugly. He began to pantomime, first batting his eyelashes dreamily, then increasingly embellished smoochy faces and for his finale, bent himself over backwards like he was the recipient of one of those Golden Era Hollywood show-stopper kisses. Ron raised his eyebrow in confusion.
"Why would Kim think I was kissing you? It only happened once!"
Rufus stared at his human, mouth open, left eyelid twitching, before he grabbed a nearby spoon and heaved it towards his thick headed master, and for the second time in as many minutes, Ron found himself dodging an object pitched at him by one of his two best friends. Twisting out of the room around the doorframe, Ron hid behind the wall that divided the entrance from the kitchen as the utensil flew by.
Mole Rats! He mentally yelled, preparing to re-enter the kitchen. He may have been an easy going guy, but he was not about to let a 12 ounce quadrupedal nudist muscle him around. Before he left the entry way though, he noticed a shadow against the clouded glass window of the Possible's new door (for once, one of the twin's rockets had not flown through the roof) from the corner of his eye. Thinking it was Mrs. Dr. Possible, Ron decided to forgo his thoughts of good natured revenge for a moment and opened the door. Once the translucent screen was removed however, Ron began to cry for help, but in the split second that he drew breathe, all conventional principles of physics seemed to be thrown out the window, and he instead found himself stifling an all out, glass shattering scream.
(-) (-) (-)
Stepping from the lift onto sublevel 12-A, Dr. Director had one prevailing thought.
I'm going to fire who ever chose that elevator music. In any other occupation, the person in question would not lose a second of sleep if he or she been privy to their boss' thoughts, even if she had been serious. After all, in an organization with agent's and support staff numbering the thousands, what right did the management have to keep a detail like that on record? But this was not just any couple odd thousand employee operation, it was Global Justice. And if its lady commander could manage to keep all her subordinates names to memory along with a short biopic, one could imagine the immaculate exposition of perfection her written records took on. If she so chose, she could have their name called up, and issue a pink slip within the hour. However, Betty was not a vindictive woman, and would hardly be able to let someone go for something as trivial of their music selection causing her some mild discomfort. Besides, she had ensured her agents had an able union, and even she could not violate employment standards so flagrantly.
Her irritation came from the fact that she had been forced to endure the exasperating tones for over 10 minutes. The office lifts to the lower levels did not have the sound-barrier defying speed that the field pods did, an unfortunate concession made for weak stomached politicians. Government officials, usually part of some opposition probe looking for frivolous spending to turn on the ruling party, (she was proud to say she had yet to give them any ammunition for Congress) did regularly visit the Global Justice Headquarters, some with the clearance to see the operations floors. However, it did not matter how high their authorization was, their critical attendance to Capitol Hill Tupperware parties and lazy days behind large oak desks left them in sorry condition for the g-forces the high velocity bullet elevators created, and after the second entourage of senator's collectively lost their lunch between the administrative level and the uppermost basement floor (dug some 150 meters down into the bedrock), Betty decided to renovate for the sake of sanitation. Why she opted to use the standard lifts was beyond the woman at this point, something about not wanting to hold up the faster transit if it was needed while she was on a trek that was primarily meant to stretch her legs.
Now that she was on the Research and Development level, she first went to that level's employee lounge, seeking that near-sludge coffee-like substance the workaholic scientists produced here. It was defiantly an acquired distasted, but if you managed to muscle your way past the gag reflex, it was like a shot of pure nitrous oxide to a struggling engine. And the doctor was defiantly had a few cylinders missing. Oddly enough, she did not notice any personnel on her walk between the elevator lobby and the lounge. Even more curious was to find it too was empty. This level literally never slept; there was always at least a skeleton crew on staff here and the fact that she did not see so much as a tech napping on the couches of the break room unsettled her slightly. One way or another, this had something to do with the gear Possible's mystery soldier had on him, this much Betty was sure of. And, after she poured herself a large cup of the mud residing in the coffee maker, she headed directly to Mason's lab.
This time her prediction was proven to have correct foresight, as when she approached the whitewashed door she could hear the hustle and bustle of frenzied lab-junkies permeating the walls. When the automatic doors slid aside to permit her entry, she was not surprised, and more than a little irked, to see the entire R&D staff, some of whom should have long gone home, tinkering away with abandon that belied the long hours they had been working. She glanced down at her as of yet un-sampled beverage, seriously wondering if it had been spiked with some type of methamphetamine. Before that thought could initiate concern, however, she noted a row of mugs sitting on a desk near to her, all full of now cold (and horrifically solid looking) coffee. She now looked out across the room with a renewed appreciation for what Arnold had suggested. The scraps of ragged armour and few pockets full of equipment contained secrets that were astounding enough to keep all these cutting edge minds bolted to their desks in wonder, effectively laying waste to any thoughts of sleep. That being said, it did not excuse the fact that nothing else was being accomplished on a level that had multiple tasks. She caught sight of Captain Mason, who was hunched over a tablet drafting table with another scientist, gesturing wildly at whatever was displayed on the screen, and approached him. The director caught a trailing edge of their conversation as she entered ear-shot.
"...Okay, let's put aside the fracturing for now. What on god's green earth could have eaten this stuff away like that? Did you try the fluoroantimonic Brønsted-Lewis electrophile complex?"
"Hardly etched the surface. I'm telling you Arnold, there's no amphiprotic series in our science that could react that violently with this alloy."
"That's unbelievable Joseph."
"And you have been working on it for the last 3 hours. Imagine my confusion." Betty cut in. Both men stood abruptly, trying feverishly to make themselves look presentable in the presence of their boss. Arnold turned to Joseph Amur, a metallurgical expert, unless the director was mistaken.
"Keep trying Joe, we know that plate isn't impregnable. Find out what managed to mangle it." The east-Indian man nodded curtly, both to his fellow scientist and his employer, before hurrying off. Betty raised an eyebrow towards the broad-shouldered soldier, who looked slightly out of place in a white lab coat.
"I believe you asked if you could stay." Betty grilled, her displeasure shining through, "I don't recall giving you permission to use the entire staff and keep them on overnight. Half of the men and women here have other responsibilities to abide to, Captain. How do you explain this?"
"I'm sorry ma'am, word spreads like the plague down here." He said with a sign, massaging the back of his neck. "I didn't let anyone assist unless they guaranteed that their assigned projects were complete, and they had your blessing. Part one checked out, all the night's priority tasks are over there on the cabinet. I double checked." The man explained. He glared around the room, noting that no one was able to meet his eyes, before continuing. "But I'm guessing everyone wasn't so forthcoming about getting your permission. I'll take responsibility for not ensuring they had consent, director, but I assure you they came of their own free will."
"All of the priority tasks?" She questioned sceptically. "And the results are sound? They are of no good to me if the work is flawed."
"The first person to come by tried that. Rushed, had basic mathematical errors. I sent him back, and disallowed him from participating here. I believe the rest took the hint, but then again, they duped me into believing they had asked you to be here, so I suppose my judgement is suspect." The captain halted, took a breath and locked eyes with his superior. "If you have to fire me, fire me. But, please... let me finish here first. I'll lose my mind if I don't figure out what the hell this armour is made of."
"Well, nothing we can do now, I suppose Mr. Mason." The brunette said after considering him for a several long seconds, softening her tone. The man, a field proven infantry soldier, was begging. And not for his job, but to see the project through. He had taken action to ensure that the general proceedings of his section were not disrupted; to hold him (or any of the men and women working feverously in the lab) accountable would be punishing hard work and team cooperation. And, judging by the pace and focus they showed, like stealing the cure for cancer from a paediatric oncologist. As long as the workmanship of the other investigations did not suffer, it really wasn't that big of a deal. "I'll hold off the court martial till next week, alright? Now, please show me what has my R&D division acting like a gang of underage teens at a frat party."
Arnold nodded, subtly relaxing, and gestured towards the table-sized pallet computer screen. The man's fingers danced over the touch sensitive screen, bringing up a multi-coloured image of some strange shape. Its surface looked like a plane of identically sized, uniformly distributed mountains and valleys, the colours corresponding to the height on the peaks.
"This... is an image of the surface of a slice of titanium taken by a scanning tunnelling microscope. This is the limit of our ability to visualize matter; anything below it is still theoretical. Each ridge represents a single nucleus of titanium, and the surrounding depression is the electron cloud. As you can see, they are densely packed together. If I wanted to, I could actually pick up a single atom with the STM probe and move it somewhere else. A whole field of computer research is dedicated to using this capability to construct microscopic computers, and while there are still significant hurdles to overcome, the goal is to make a processing unit as powerful as a full sized desk-top and shrink it down to the size of a grain of sand." Betty nodded.
"I've heard of this. Didn't IBM spell their acronym out in atoms in the 80's?"
"That's correct. I believe it's the smallest human artefact in existence."
"I understand this is cutting edge stuff, captain, but I don't see how this is unbelievable."
"Patience, mein direktor. Now, titanium is a pretty versatile material. Strong, yet light. But not the strongest, or the lightest. Kind of the middle-ground. This," Arnold elaborated, bringing up another image, this one with much larger 'mountain peaks' "is high carbon steel. Incredibly strong, but also very, very heavy. Larger nuclei, more massive, basic atomic chemistry. What you might notice though, is that despite the differences, these materials' structures are basically the same. Now, here's an image of the armour our guest was wearing." Tapping the table, his hand actually quivering with excitement, Mason produced a third atomic scan. This one, however, was worlds different from the first pair. Instead of the surface being more or less a solid slab of atoms, this sample had a complex triangular structure to it. In the place of a concentrated grouping of individual nuclei, the majority of the material was open space.
"What is that...?"
"I would describe it as picoscopic structuralization. It's a well known engineering fact that a triangle is a much more efficient load-bearing design than a solid mass. It's lighter, and just as strong, if not stronger. This alloy has been designed and constructed, atom by atom, with that in mind. The breast plate is lighter than aluminum of comparable volume, but has more strength than spent uranium armour over 3 times its thickness."
"Who could have built this? Dementor? Dr. Drakken?"
"Ma'am..." The scientist slowly said, as if was still difficult for him to believe himself. "No one on the planet could have created this armour." He held up his hand before Betty could mention any one of their nefarious opponent's history of using technologically advanced devices, stolen or otherwise. "It's not a matter of process. As you know we already have the capacity to handle individual atoms. It's time. We are talking about trillions upon trillion's of individual components within a square inch of the alloy. It would be like trying to take all the sand in Malibu and using it to write out Hamlet using a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass. With today's technology, it would take well over 50 years of non-stop work to produce less than a 20th of the surface area of the armour. In terms of a metallic alloy, a few hundred pounds of this would easily out-value all of the confirmed and projected gold reserves planet wide. And this plate has a 7 digit serial number etched into it, worn by a general infantry Private. That means it was mass produced. As mind blowing as that is, it's just the bare bones of the mysteries the composite holds, without even delving into the more complex devices he was carrying."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, how much of mine and Joseph's conversation did you overhear?"
"All after 'putting aside the fracturing.'"
"Alright. I submitted the armour to a whole myriad of strength tests once I had a clue as to its underlying composition. All the standard trials managed to tell me was that our analytical devices aren't built strong enough." He halted, as if catching himself. "Which reminds me... you might have to budget for a new tension-compression stress tower. Apparently it wasn't rated over 20'000 psi." Before the befuddled woman could reply, he continued. "The alloy resisted over 4000 Kelvin in the kiln, which is the point when it shut down because it melted its own heating elements. Might have to get a new one of those too... Anyway, like I said, laboratory style tests weren't telling me anything, so I decided to do some simulated field testing. Went through all of NATO and former Warsaw Pact small-arms, full metal jacket and Teflon armour piercing rounds, then on to .50 calibre varieties. After they didn't do the trick I got fancy. Uranium tipped anti-tank rounds." He paused again, smirking slightly "I have to ask, why do we have an A-10 Thunderbolt nose cannon down here?"
"I'd rather have it than not if another Tyrannosaurus Rex decides to drop by."
"Wait... DNAmy's giant reptiles?" Mason thought aloud. "Touché... In any event, the burp gun finally managed to punch through, but other than that I haven't been able to so much as dent the thing. That kind of strength and durability goes beyond the structualization, it requires a composite element that isn't even on the periodic table."
"What was that about amphiprotic series?"
"That's another thing about this alloy. It's completely inert. The fluoroantimonic complex is the most powerful acid known to chemistry. In general, the pH scale is between 0 and 14, the lower number, the more acidic, each integer down representing an increase of 10 times the acidity of the last value. Most Sulphuric acid is at best 0.5. Fluoro-antimonia is -24. There is hardly a metallic compound I could find that wouldn't begin to dissolve within minutes of emersion, but you heard Joe, it didn't even tickle that breast plate. I'd almost compare it to a solid noble gas, except whatever this element is, it makes the noble's look like the halogen series."
"So what you're telling me is this armour not only shouldn't exist, but as far as you know, couldn't exist?"
"Ma'am, I'm a firm believer in the concept that no theory is fact... but if I had to give an estimate, I'd say that that armour is a full 200 years of principle revolutions in the chemical and physical sciences beyond any meaningful understanding."
"You know what, Arnold? You were right. If I didn't see this for myself, I wouldn't have believed you."
"I'm not quite finished Director. I've convinced you how tough this alloy is, yes?"
"Most defiantly."
"Well, here's the biggest mystery of all. With this metal defying almost all my attempts at even chipping it's paint job, you really have to wonder what that man was facing that could rip through it like tissue paper and melt it like butter on popcorn."
The statement hung in the air for a few moments, before Dr. Director nodded, placing her own un-sipped coffee down as she sat on a nearby lab stool. After being given the general rundown, she found that, like everyone else in the room, she no longer needed its boost. But while the scientists were brought to this insomniac state from the excitement of having a peek at technology and theoretical applications that were centuries ahead of anything they had ever dreamed of, Betty found her mind churning at the magnitude of the threat whom or whatever damaged the armour posed to the world.
"Mr. Mason, consider yourself to have a permanent night pass. Utilize any and all resources you deem necessary to gain a full understanding of this technology." In response, Arnold nodded hesitantly, scratching his chin.
"Dr. Director... I appreciate the extra assets, but it'll take years, decades even, to reverse engineer any of this down to a point where we can reproduce it. At this stage, the only way to expedite the process lies in the man who came in wearing this stuff. Being an enlistee, he probably didn't go through post secondary, but in all likely-hood what he learned in high school will have our PhDs over-barrel. At the very least, he will be able to tell us what did this to him."
"I'll keep that in mind captain. Unfortunately, he's comatose for now, and the surgeon's aren't sure when or if he will wake up. The best I can do, until that condition changes, is forward you a copy of Team Possible's report." Looks like I'm going to have to call Mr. Load and take back my lenient schedule.
"That will be a starting point. Just finding out where this guy appeared from could help us along."
"Keep me posted, Mr. Mason. Unless there's anything else?"
"Oh, yeah one more thing." The scientist said, turning and retrieving a manila file folder. "Here's the complete report on what we've managed to glean off of the other devices he had on him. Also, I've printed out as much Intel I could gather off of our man from documents on his person. It's not much, but it might help you find out more about him. I'll try to have a preliminary equipment and personnel requisition ready by tomorrow morning." He handed it to the brunette. She flipped it open, looking over the photos of half-dissolved dog tags and ID cards.
"So John Doe is now William Doe." She said idly as she stood, mind growing heavier the more she thought of the possible outcomes. "Thank you captain. I'll let you get back to work." She would be taking the turbo lift back to her office. Her instincts, fully aflame, would allow her act in no manner other than full alert until she had an explanation from Kimberly Anne. Her first order of business was thusly to rouse the young Load from sleep and have him contact his team-mates. Convenience had just bowed to urgency.
So what do you think? Should they be worried? If you are familiar with the other crossover series, this chapter is full of references to it. Some are blatent, and some are more subtle. But they are there. For any reviewers, a direct question. How am I doing keeping the time line in the story straight? This chapter didn't have many perspective shifts, but I wonder about how clear and easy to follow the progression of time is so far.