Disclaimer: if it was on TV, it's not mine. Otherwise, yeah, I own it. Soundtrack for this chapter: The Kiss and Other Movements and The Piano Concerto/MGV by Michael Nyman.
"We got one," the green woman announced. "The Dishonor House theft. They're willing to pay big to get that shipment back. Real big."
Drakken answered without looking away from the computer screen. "Shego, do you remember Team Impossible?"
"Was that one of your cloning disasters?"
"They were a superhero team. Had a great theme song."
"Never heard of them."
"Kim Possible put them out of business. Because they were mercenary."
"I didn't ask. They offered." She omitted the bantering that had settled the price. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
"Well, if they offered."
She went into the master bedroom to change into something more comfortable. The costume was only for business. She had considered redesigning it when she decided to return to heroics, but changed her mind. "Guy that runs the place is a nut, but he has money. Dishonor House has been around since, what, Colonial times? 'Thou hast truly surprised me with thy snake-in-a-can. How very droll, O my brother.' " Her laugh was like clear water in a brook. "We're looking at seventy thousand berries."
There was silence.
"Dr. D!" She came back into the lab, clad in shorts and a Slipknot t-shirt. "Did you hear anything I said?"
The doctor was engrossed in reading something on the monitor, completely oblivious to anything around him. His lips moved slightly as he read. "Huh? Oh. Have you ever heard of Fanfix dot com?"
"I have a life. I fight crime, you know? I don't sit in front of a computer watching Fearless Ferret videos."
"These are stories. People write stories about other people's characters."
"And then get sued?"
"Who knows? Anyway, they write about characters they idolize. I think it's called 'shipping.'" He was wrong, but neither of them knew that. "They even write about real people. There are stories about us on this site."
"About us?" Immediately she was interested, leaning over his shoulder to read, making it a lot harder for him to concentrate. "Let me see."
She was so beautiful. He was so fortunate. He'd almost lost her some years ago, in a way that summed up the old saw 'a fate worse than death.' But all that was behind them now. Now they were slowly making a new name for themselves as sleuths. Adventurers. World-savers. Even if the only big thing they'd accomplished so far was bringing in those insane twins Phobos and Deimos. A real pain in the neck, those two, even without their Zodiac Gas.
Sometimes he wondered if that was how Kim Possible and the guy she'd married felt about Shego and himself, back in the bad old days. Nuisances. Not world-threatening supervillains. Just annoyances.
Sometimes he upset himself with thoughts like that.
Shego chose a story at random, clicked on its link. Reading the monitor's contents, her beautiful face registered confusion, then something very close to anger. "This is outrageous!"
"That word doesn't fit your mouth."
"I have some other words I could use, if you'd like."
"Pass."
"Who wrote this?"
"It doesn't matter. They all use pseudonyms. Nom-de-plumes, as it were."
"Dementor and Electronique, partners? That's a nightmare."
"It gets worse. You might want to read a different one."
She ignored his advice and continued to read. "I thought you said they idolized us." Someone was entirely too interested in gruesome details. "Oh, come on. I got half my face blown off? With my own power?" Which I don't have any more, she thought, and slumped a little. Not many people knew that. The plasma-generating gloves her husband had invented covered the loss well. But they couldn't duplicate the feeling the power had given her, coursing through her body.
She knew now that both the power and its sensations had been engineered in another dimension by malevolent alien minds. It had killed her brothers. Forced her to obey the monsters that created it. Almost destroyed the world, maybe even the universe.
And yet she still missed it.
Drakken was almost apologetic. "Maybe they idolized Dementor. He does have his fans. Buncha lunatics," he snarled without thinking and bit his lip, afraid he might have offended her. Sometimes she was touchy about terms like that, since her own breakdown. Or whatever it had been.
She hadn't heard him; the fanfic had her in its clutches. "They couldn't do that to Kimmie. Or to me. And what happens to you? Do you ever shake off the hypnotism?"
"No. I get killed. We both get killed. The whole world gets destroyed. Experiment run amok."
"And we're reading this – why?"
"It's interesting. And I did tell you to read another one. There's a very cute series by Pinky Jo –"
She turned away with a sigh. "You should be looking for a lead to the stolen gazuntite."
He looked puzzled. "Gesundheit?"
She realized she hadn't explained the case to him yet. "G-a-z –"
"Have you seen my wrist Kimmunicator?" She came through the hallway wearing the Battlesuit, the legendary grappling hook/hair dryer in her hand. "We can't get started until I find it."
"Yeah, well, we need to talk before we get started."
"Help me find the Kimmunicator first."
He didn't move from his perch on the side of the bed. "No. I mean it. We need to talk."
She stood before him, exasperation on her face. "What is it?"
"Sit down."
She obviously considered defying him, but changed her mind and flounced down on the mattress. "Why are you so wound up about this? It's just one mission. A clandestine mission. No one will know."
"About a year ago we swore we wouldn't do this anymore. At least not until Cinnabar was older."
"It –" She trailed off, unsure of what her next words should be. "Global Justice recruited us, remember? It wasn't my fault."
"Who said anything about fault?"
Her expression softened. "So… what's the sitch?"
"Our daughter's at my folks' house. They're fine with that. But she's got my powers and your personality. What happens when she decides not to listen to Mamaw and Popaw Stoppable? What happens when she and Hana start rough-housing?"
"That won't happen. Cini loves her grandparents, and Hana's old enough to know better. In fact, maybe she can teach her not to use the MMP to play."
Ron continued, undeterred. "When we were on that last mission, we were both scared to death."
"Hello? We were fighting monsters. We got pulled into another dimension. Who wouldn't be scared?"
"You know that wasn't the reason. We've been through way worse than that. We were afraid we'd lose each other. Afraid we wouldn't get back home. We agreed to end it. Now look at you. It's been forever since you've been this worked up about anything."
"Shego and Drakken need some help. Did you see them on TV, struggling against Phobos and Deimos? We could have handled those two with our hands tied behind our backs."
He said nothing.
"I miss it, Ron. Don't you miss it? I mean, I thought it would be easy to give it up. We have a life besides crimefighting. And we have Cini."
He frowned, just a little. He'd chosen his daughter's name, and he didn't like the diminutive that everyone was beginning to use. Especially since both his parents and MrsDrP had warned him that would happen. But he held his tongue. His wife was still pouring out her heart.
"Whenever I saw something on the news, some disaster, some crime, some supervillain attack, I knew we should be out there handling it. I've felt that way since we quit."
"It's not our destiny. We volunteered for it. We chose to do it. We chose to stop."
"Maybe we made the wrong choice."
He reached under the bed, retrieved the Kimmunicator. "Here."
She looked at him with mock anger, grabbed the device from his hand, put it on. "Oh, you –"
"Just this once. No more." He kissed her. "We've got to show the new crew how it's done."
She jumped off the bed, continued gathering her things, a smile on her lips.
It's like she's getting ready for spring break, he thought. Like we were in school again.
And suddenly some things came clear. A lot of things came clear.
Unexpectedly the Kimmunicator beeped its alert. "Sitch, Wade?"
"Wade's not here, cuz," said Joss Possible. "Out gettin' pizza." Kim would have never have suspected that they would hit it off, but the teenage supergenius and the cowgirl seemed destined for a future together. "He asked me to get in touch with you, let you know where we stand on the current situation."
"So where do we stand?"
"Nuthin' on the gazuntite. But there is something strange going on in the Kleenex plantations. Someone's buyin' them up. Wade thinks it might have sumthin' t'do with the robbery."
"Do we know who?"
"Holding company. Chechon, Ltd."
"Spell that."
"C-h-e-c-h-o-n –"
She wrote the letters on a post-it note. It only took a second to decode it.
"HenchCo!"
"Never heard of it," said Joss.
Ron glanced at the post-it note, nodded appreciatively. "An acronym."
There was determination, direction, in Kim's eyes. Against his better judgment, Ron was impressed, even moved. This was the woman he had fallen in love with. Maybe he'd have to rethink the whole mission situation.
She spoke, and her voice rang with authority. "It's time to pay a visit to Jack Hench."
"Wonder if we're still in the running for that tank?"
"Come on."
In a hotel room somewhere in Upperton, two young women stood defiantly before the criminal mastermind who had engineered their escape from the Asylum for Super Lunatics. Tall, slim, blonde, tomboyish, they could have been Olympic gymnasts or Disney pop starlets.
They weren't. They were something else entirely.
From the right side of Deimos' head a silvery parabolic antenna on a swivel joint protruded through her long golden hair; Phobos' left eye was a lens and shutter aperture construction the size of a doorknob, filled with a deep crimson glow. The video of their origin had been immediately banned on EweTube, but it had already gone viral:
The twin girls smiled into the webcam. "I'm Phoebe Marrs," said one. "And I'm Debbie Marrs," said the other. In unison, they happily chanted "And we're going to be — SUPERCRIMINALS!"
Phoebe stepped forward, a paring knife in one hand, a book in the other. She held out the book for the world to see: Brain Surgery for Dummies.
It was upside down.
"I'm going to modify the instructions in this book," Phoebe giggled, "and attach a subsonic disruptor to my sister's cerebellum." She held the device up, wires hanging from its underside, a parabolic antenna limply dangling from its top. "We stole it from the Middleton Cybernetic Institute, on a school field trip. It's very dangerous and untested!"
"If that works," said Debbie as her sister began shaving her head, "tomorrow I'm going to implant a high-resolution cyberlaser attachment in Phoebe's eyesocket. And we're going to wirelessly interconnect our cerebral processes, too."
"We thought about waiting till we could get some anaesthetic," Phoebe grinned, "but Debbie thinks she can handle it."
"I know I can," added the now bald girl. "Wikipedia says the brain can't feel pain. So this can't be too bad."
Phoebe poured some rubbing alcohol over the paring knife, propped the book up with a large vase of Crazy Daisies, and went to work. She had some other tools, too: needlenose pliers, a set of salad tongs, an egg beater, a stapler, a soldering gun. There had followed three minutes that appalled the world.
After a crude segue of CGI flowers covering the screen, spelling out the words "Edited for Time," the image returned.
Phoebe stepped back, her face pale and haggard, strands of hair pasted to her sweaty brow. The window behind her that had opened on a cheery, sunlit front yard was now filled with night. "OK, Debbie. OK, it's in."
"Is it in?" came the quavering, unsure response. The girl had fallen out of camera range.
"It's in. You can relax. You did real good. You really did."
"I – I don't feel good, Phoebe. I feel sick. Is it in? Am I all right?"
"You're great. Show the world what you can do."
Debbie Marrs slowly weaved into view, the antenna jutting out just above her temple, her lopsided scalp riddled with staples. She smiled wanly, almost fainted, shook it off. The antenna whirred, directed itself toward the vase on the table.
There was a colossal thrum and the vase exploded into shredded flowers, splattered water and shimmering dust.
"It works," the girl said, and managed a feeble giggle. Before she collapsed.
Phoebe was left staring down at her sister. "Debbie?"
There had never been a sequel.
"I brought you here," the fat man in black intoned, "because I need a diversion. My men will be doing some work at the Middleton Space Center tomorrow at 3 am. I need to make sure Shego doesn't show up there."
Phobos grimaced. "We-"
Deimos completed the sentence. "-hate Shego. And –"
Phobos spoke up. " –her hubby Drakken. They spoiled-"
"- all our fun," Deimos finished.
"Don't do that," ordered the man, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his strange two-pointed hat.
"Why –"
"-not?"
"It is completely unprofessional for supervillains to talk in ping-pong stereo. Even if they can. Especially if they can."
"Is that your -"
"-real nose? It looks –"
"-like a Frisbee!"
They laughed.
The ominous figure's face turned beet-red. "Never mind that!" A thick finger pointed at Deimos. "You talk. Phobos listens. I mean it. No more stereo. Or I'll have you back in the nuthouse before you say another word."
The girls pouted, but complied. "We like to do that. It annoys our enemies."
"I can believe it."
"And it's not stereo. It's Panor-Ambiophonic 4.1."
"We can read each other's minds," Phobos unexpectedly added. "I know what she did at Tommy Morrison's in seventh grade. Homework. Biology homework." A giggle.
Instantly Deimos was on the defensive, her fists clenched. "You keep quiet, Phoebe! That's none of your business. Or do you want me to tell him about what happened in that art museum on the field trip? John Englund, remember?"
"That wasn't me. That was you."
"It was?"
"I think. Sometimes it's hard to tell –"
"Stop!" They were silenced by the rage in that voice. "I don't care about any of that. I don't care what you do tomorrow, as long as it's big enough and bad enough to keep Shego busy for an hour or more. I want you to live up to your mythological namesakes." A diabolical snicker.
"Our what?" The twins looked confusedly at each other, at their sinister benefactor.
"Oh, for the luvva – Phobos and Deimos! Fear and Panic! The minions of the God of War!"
Their expressions didn't change.
"You do know that those names mean 'fear' and 'panic,' don't you? They're Greek."
"We got them from Wikipedia," said Phobos.
Deimos' antenna spun slowly around its axis. "Our last name was Marrs, two r's, and we looked up Mars, one r, and it had two moons. Isn't that silly? We get along fine with just one –"
Phobos interrupted her sister's musings. "Do Martians speak Greek?" she asked the man.
"Yes. Yes, they do." He gestured toward something in the corner of the room. "I also had my agents retrieve these. Knowing how much you enjoy them."
The twins ran toward the shiny cylinders, their eyes filled with magic, like children on Christmas morning. "Our Zodiac Gas!" They strapped on the cylinder harnesses, fastened the nozzles to their wrists, speaking in unison. "We invented this. Because we like horoscopes. Better than Animalogy. This is great."
"3 A.M." he sternly reminded them. "Tomorrow."
They nodded.
"Anywhere but the Middleton Space Center."
"Who are you, mister?"
"My name isn't important. Yet." More evil laughter.
"Well, let us know-"began Deimos, as they headed for the door.
"-and we'll-"
"-put you on-"
"-our-"
"- holiday card list."
"The whole world will know who I am soon enough," he said.
The door closed behind them. A few minutes later there was a blast of car horns outside, a flash of searing red light, an explosion. A subsonic wave that shattered windows for a block.
The sound of two girls laughing. Having fun.
The man in black stepped into the closet, pushed a concealed button, and descended from sight.
His nose caught the edge of the secret elevator; a curse floated up from the depths.