The apartment was not quite what Kim expected—at least she found herself in mild surprise as she followed Shego from the limo and through a medieval gate into an immaculate garden in front of an apartment building looking as demure and expensive as any snooty artist could wish. She didn't know. Maybe she had expected something more dungeon-esque in the Shego sense of the word. Or maybe it was the fact that the building was beyond a glass imitation of life and entering into a world that saw the sky. It was night, a light-polluted starless sky falling on a horror-movie garden of shadows. Still, nice to look at. Maybe nicer in the daylight.
She still held the second Coke bottle in her hand. It was mostly empty, and her head now buzzed from the caffeinated bubbles. She had never minded Coca-Cola, and it was a nicer companion of five hours than Shego. Shego, the whiney, rambling voice that failed to shut up before forty-five minutes.
Was she supposed to be grateful? Sure, she was grateful. Why wouldn't she be grateful, madly, crazily, unbelievably grateful? Maybe that feeling was so powerful it crushed itself into a cold stone.
The lobby was nice enough, as was the elevator. Shego had finally taken the message to not speak. She just stood in the elevator, humming softly to herself, as if this were all completely normal.
It was a trap, Kim decided. This had to be a trap because people like Shego did not rescue other people out of the goodness of their black hearts or because they needed a personal favor.
Maybe she should make a run for it. She could take Shego, she had many times before. It was musing, a mildly interesting thought. The fantasy was certainly entertaining. The elevator opened, and she followed Shego out. Apartment 37E. Shego stabbed her key into the lock and twisted.
The apartment was done in various shades of green. Elegant, Kim supposed. She stood in the living room, waiting and studying the apartment. A sofa, a chair, a coffee table. Random abstract art. A hell of a lot better than that cage of Garrison Wiles'.
Shego gestured down a hallway. "The guest room's at the very end on your right. Bathroom is attached, and there should be fresh towels and all that junk."
Big whoop. Garrison Wiles had also provided a bathroom and fresh towels. At least it was a change of some stature. Yes, she was grateful. " Thanks," she murmured. She felt gross from the car ride. A bath would be nice.
"I'm going to bed," Shego continued, pushing open another door. "Get some rest, get anything you want out of the fridge, and we'll talk more in the morning."
Kim wondered if she should say goodnight or something friendly like that. No, no bother. This was Shego with whom she was dealing. Shego who had freed her. Shego who had done nothing more interesting than blandly give her room and board.
So weird.
Shego in a fancy apartment all by herself. Huh. What else had changed?
The guest bedroom, thank heaven, was not green. A nice cream-and-blue theme. A little girly, but oh well. Kim stood before the bed, bare toes curling into the lush carpet. Garrison Wiles had not been a carpet person. She took a deep breath, then stripped down to nothing. The clothes Garrison Wiles had given were decent—no tacky jumpsuits—but still lacked a basic understanding of good fashion. She sighed, flexed her arms, and headed into the connected bathroom. Lovely. A forest stream theme. Enchanted forest. At least there was a Jacuzzi. Garrison Wiles had never allowed her that much. She twisted the knobs that sent steaming water into the tub in a thunderous echo.
The mirror was full-length, framed in wooden vines. While the tub filled Kim stared at her reflection. When was the last time she had bothered with a mirror? Garrison Wiles had purchased her make-up, in the beginning, but she had never bothered to wear it. To do so would have been creepy, a twisted Beauty and the Beast without the goodness of heart. Her hair was longer, much longer, and limp like something dead. Her face was thin, deathly pale. A lot of death about this reflection. Her body, on the other hand… slim, muscular, a little skinnier than she would have liked. But alive. She did not look like the person she remembered. Gosh, she was nearly twenty-four now. That was so... old. What had happened to the rest? She frowned at the girl in the mirror, then slipped into the tub.
It was nice, really nice. She closed her eyes. It was not the tub back in the cell. She had not liked that cell. Yeah, she had been given quite a bit of privacy, especially after the first year, once the guards had decided that she had learned she could not escape. That had been worse. A glass cell in a dungeon, as isolated as the moon. She sunk beneath the surface; she liked the way the water felt against her face.
It had been just another mission, another activity in the sparkles of post-graduating life. Another brilliant scientist, a geologist, had been kidnapped and was supposedly held in eastern Washington state.
"What is it with these scientists?" Ron had asked. "If they are as smart as everyone thinks they are, why don't they hire a decent bodyguard or something? I mean, if I ever made an important discovery…."
Except she had never made it to Washington. Her four-wheeler had stalled outside a small Idahoan town, and she had hopped off to see what was wrong. She had awoken in Garrison Wiles' office. She had dealt with him only a week before. Something involving… heck, she didn't even remember. But it couldn't have been as big a deal as six damn years.
She wasn't there anymore. She was free. Absolutely free.
It was a different idea. Very different.
Her heart began pounding.
Now what was she supposed to do?
There was that earlier idea of dramatic escape, but instead she let herself doze until the water chilled. She climbed drowsily from the water, wrapped herself in a towel, and returned to the guest room where she collapsed, already asleep, into the bed.
It was still dark when she awoke. Not surprising. Night and day were still utterly meaningless—indoor cells did that to a person. She had not bothered with covers, and the top quilt was slightly damp from the towel and her hair. She tossed the towel to the floor and sat up. She needed clothes, and not those awful things from the cell.
She was free. What an odd thought.
The closet had clothes, basic shirts and pants that were thankfully not green. Her size, more or less. New underwear, still with tags, were in the dresser. How thoughtful of Shego. She pulled some things on, an outfit that matched well enough, and slipped back into the hall. It was dark. No Shego around yet.
The fridge was all right—staples, plus some yogurt cups and a few containers of left-overs. She wound up heating a container of Mongolian stir-fry in the microwave.
Shego had said they had all thought she was dead. Her throat went empty, and a cramp burst her through her stomach that somehow made her want the stir-fry all the more. Six years. She hadn't thought of the whole death thing. Ron, her parents, none of them would have given up. Unless, unless they really thought she was dead.
Should she not feel more excitement than this? She felt like a zombie. Zombie. Almost worthy a laugh. Almost.
The microwave beeped, and she ripped out the container. It wasn't too hot that she couldn't scoop out a few noodles with her fingers.
Garrison Wiles had taken six years of her life.
She opened a few drawers before finding a pair of plastic chopsticks, which she stuck into the stir-fry before plopping herself down onto the couch and taking several feverish bites.
The coffee table wasn't bare. A few magazines—National Geographic, Cosmopolitan, Modern Villainess. A miniature photo album. Curiously Kim opened it. There were less than a dozen photos, all average prints crammed into the front. The subject of all of them was the same: a brown-haired, green-eyed boy, ages ranging from infancy to about four years.
Interesting for Shego. Shego hadn't… It wasn't any of Kim's business, and she honestly did not care.
The digital clock on the microwave read 5:49.
She placed the album down. Her heart was pounding again, more feverish than before. Who cared about Shego? She was free. She didn't have to stay here and wait for morning.
She wanted to see the look on Ron's face more than anything.
Kim could still pick a lock. The escape idea was becoming more and more interesting.
She had spent six years thinking about everyone. If they all thought she was dead, she had to get back to Middleton.
Someone had suggested the brilliant idea of 2-liter pop bottle book reports; Monique did not remember who, but sooner or later that snatch of information would return to her head and then that evil super-teacher would be dead. Those obnoxious janitor kids from the high school were already roaming the halls with noisy vacuums and giant rolling garbage cans. In another fifteen minutes they would be chasing each other around with bottles of acidic cleaner, and Monique had learned the hard way that it was best to be long gone by that point in time. But no! Not today! Today she was stuck in an already-cluttered classroom with twenty-seven hideous pop bottles detailing the adventures of Harry Potter and the occasional self-obsessed angsty teenage narrator. Monique had suffered through student-teaching with two clutter-brained cooperating teachers, and had sworn that she would never be that sort of person. Now she was trapped in a butcher-paper classroom covered in art projects, world maps, and cutesy posters that supposedly assisted in math skills. Oh, and she had a bookshelf filled with Harry Potter and novels narrated by self-obsessed angsty teens that had somehow appealed to the American Library Association. So not age appropriate. The things she went through to attract sixth graders.
She shoved another pop bottle from her desk and hit what she hoped were the number keys on her keyboard. Good enough, good enough. She was tired and had forgotten to restock her energy drinks in the faculty fridge. After the history papers and the spelling tests from last week, she was still looking at another hour or so of grading.
Laughter was coming from the halls. They were going for the spray bottles early today.
That was it. No more creative book reports.
She yanked a sucker from her candy jar. All the educational experts who said it was wrong to use external rewards for student behavior were idiots. Besides, she needed the candy as much as anyone, the small amount of sugar it provided. Maybe she could bribe the janitor kids to stay away from her classroom.
A crash sounded from the direction of the fifth grade rooms. Why didn't Steve do something about them?
She picked up another bottle. Sarah Rudell's report on Gone with the Wind. That girl was freakishly smart. What sort of eleven-year old read Gone with the Wind? Teacher's pet aimer. Eh, why not? The girl wasn't bratty about it. Full points.
Her cell phone went off, some wrestler's theme; she didn't actually remember who, just that the song was cool. And it was coming from under the geometry art projects. Maybe. She shoved a few papers to the floor in time to grab the phone. "Yo."
"Are you still at school?"
She stared around the disaster area and sighed. "How did you guess?"
"Psychic Ron-powers. I passed that test!"
"Which test?" She grabbed another bottle. "Y'know what, Ron, I don't care. I have learned an important lesson about the negatives of letting a preteen express his creative side."
"Then you definitely don't want to hear about the test." Ron didn't sound offended, just too proud to care what she thought. As long as he thought it was humorous.
"Master's programs are psychotic, boy. You should know that by now." Janitors raced by with vacuums. "Y'know, you don't need to bother coming from Upperton tonight—"
"It's all good, all good. I have a lot of studying to do. How about I see you this weekend?"
She smiled like a little girl. "That'll give me something to look forward to."
The vacuum was off, and now three of those creatures were gathered in her doorway. Smirking. Oh, how she hated the smirks!
"Are you talking to your fiancé, Miss Baxter?" one of them cooed. Monique thought his name was Chad, or something like that.
A girl giggled. "Can I see your ring again?"
Oh, good grief. "Ron, those janitor kids are back." She held up her left hand so they could all go gaga over the ring. Her students, at least the boys, had stopped carrying on after two days. Teenagers. Had she been this bad?
"Dude, Monique, they rock! Nothing more respectable than janitorial labor. I mean, for other people, because janitors do a lot of stuff that is just wrong. But these kids rock."
"No, they don't. They won't even take out my trash." She pointed at her trash can and glared at the kids, who giggled again before going to work. "Look, I have stuff to correct, so I'll call you tonight. Kisses."
More laughter. Ah, well.
"All right. Till then! Love ya." Ron hung up.
Plenty of book reports and some poetry attempts left. Monique sighed, then held out her hand and smiled. Ron couldn't afford a huge rock, but that girl was right. It was a pretty ring.
The bus drove away, leaving Kim and three other people to wander from a stop she really didn't remember. She recognized the street name, but apparently the city had decided to tear up and rebuild that section. It was almost infuriating. Like they needed her permission to do that.
Get a grip, she told herself. You're nervous. Everything is a little off. It's all right.
She probably should eat something, but she wasn't sure if she could keep it down. Her fellow bus riders vanished to unknown destinations, but Kim walked a few feet up the sidewalk and stopped. It was late afternoon, the time when the families of Middleton would be arriving home, settling down, doing whatever.
Oh, she was going to faint.
What was everyone going to think? What was everyone going to do? She had never been dead before. Were there certain protocols for this?
She should have stayed at Shego's place. Shego had got her out of that cell, Shego could have arranged everything else.
Yeah, right.
Kim had other priorities. Her family. Ron. Her friends. Middleton.
A few cars drove by, drivers not even glancing at her. No one recognized Kim Possible, back from the dead.
She darted back to the bench and sat down, head between her knees. Her heart was pounding so hard it was going to break through her ribs.
She shouldn't have left the cell at all. She should have insisted the guards keep her in there. Then she would not have to deal with all of this.
Was anyone still in Middleton? She had thought about calling, but that had made even less sense than this.
She needed her mom. Oh, hell, what was her mom going to think?
It would be good, wouldn't it? Kim had nearly died from missing everyone so much. They missed her, too, didn't they? She would see them, they would see her, tears and hugs and kisses and panic and joy and pain…
Ugh. She would have been sick if her body hadn't desperately absorbed that stir-fry.
This street was so open. The open wasn't good anymore. Open was bad. But it was supposed to be good.
She leaned back against the bench and began to cry.
"Miss, are you all right?"
Whoa. Stranger. Person. She almost screamed.
It was a cop, one she did not recognize. A middle-aged guy, a little on the short and pudgy side.
"No, I'm not all right," she muttered.
"What seems to be the problem?"
She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to talk to anybody. She could see his car parked on the side of the road, his partner in the driver's seat. Oh, great. Back up. "Go away," she muttered.
"I don't recall your face around Middleton."
Well, he should. She had helped the police plenty of times. She sent him a scowl, but did not reply.
"Miss, I am going to have to ask you for some identification."
What for? Could he not just leave her alone? "And I am going to have to let you know that I don't have any."
"Look, we just want to help you and keep this town safe. So just let me—"
It was a lightning reflex she hadn't expected herself. Her arm reached for his wrist, squeezed it, and wrenched the entire arm down.
The cop's reaction was slow, but not too slow. He ripped his arm free. "Now that is not okay!" His hand shot out and pinned Kim's arms behind her back.
Stupid cop training. "Let me go!" she shrieked. She tried to aim a kick for the groin, but apparently short-'n-pudgy was too clever for that. She jerked her torso around and managed to free one arm. But the cop still had her.
His partner jumped from the car.
She gave another useless twist, then slumped to the ground as a blue wave hit her. Oh, who cared? She went limp, and fresh tears flooded out. The cop slipped the handcuffs on her. He certainly had power issues.
"What's with this one, Hale?"
Kim sniffed. The new voice was rather familiar, though she didn't have the energy to look up. If her brain wasn't such a fog…
"Eh, probably just the usual alcohol or drugs."
So not the problem.
"She put up quite the fight," said the new cop. "Totally awesome. You really have to give…" Semi-familiar voice trailed off.
She could feel him staring at her. It was almost a good feeling. Like he was going to next say—
"Kim Possible?" came the whisper.
