~Okay, so. . . this is what I've been up to lately, if anyone's missed me. ;) It stared out as a chapter for Assorted Ficlets, and then grew so massive I had to post it as a separate story. I will a post a (very short) chapter every day or two. Still massive love for you guys! :)~

1. Hide all self-destruct buttons in places where you cannot accidentally activate them with a bang of your head.

Sirens blare in harmony with squealing tires as the police cars round the corner, nearly skidding up onto the curb as they rock themselves to a stop beneath the metallic replica of a taco shell. From his dangling position on its side, Dr. Drakken's already-tremulous hold falters more, and he gazes down at the police with decidedly mixed emotions.

On the one hand, those sirens and those hurried tires are for him. Dr. Drakken, the great and glorious future ruler of Earth, is being acknowledged as a true threat, for perhaps the first time in his villainous career!

On the other hand, Drakken doesn't want to be arrested - who would? - and it'll be his first arrest since Shego came to work for him. There hasn't been an alarm system built yet that Shego can't disable, nor a police officer born she couldn't trounce into the earth. Even now, she's lost only because Kim Possible is what they refer to in the evil-genius business as a cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater. Threw Shego right through the door with deliberate trajectory into the path of that man with the buzzed-off hair. Knocked them both out, with no regard for the safety of that innocent civilian.

The same child stands beneath the taco tower now, wearing a self-important smile and a green tank top that wouldn't have flown with the dress code back when Drakken was in high school. Remarkably unfazed, even though he just told her she wasn't "all that." Aren't those words to fatally wound the soul of a vapid adolescent girl? Who does she think she is, anyway?

And for that matter, who is she? Why does she care? She's not a policeman - policewoman - policegirl if there is such a thing, not a first responder of any type. She's a kid, barging in on matters she doesn't understand and putting herself on the map of some very bad people.

But on the both hands - Drakken grimaces, gripping harder, though he can't stop his wrists from quavering - he can't very well hang from this metal taco for the rest of his life. Although, he sort of has to, because there won't be a rest-of-his-life if he lets go at this point. At least he doesn't think so. He hasn't experimented with this exact altitude. Maybe he could throw some kind of contraption and see what shape it's in when it hits. . .

No, that still wouldn't work because it would be a thing, not a person. And since Drakken does not currently have any world leaders to drop (because if he's going overthrow them, why not just go ahead and throw them over?), he will refrain.

Although hurling Kim Possible over the side is looking more and more appealing.

A fire truck wedges between the police cars. A ladder stretches up and up and up, and Drakken finds himself looking into the bewhiskered face of a firefighter - a face that visibly recoils as soon as it registers Drakken's.

Oh, yes. This will also be his first arrest since his - eh-heh - little skin mutation.

By the time Drakken realizes that this is exactly the kind of reaction he should be savoring, the guy has already grabbed him and is inching him down the ladder. It's too late. Too late, too late! rattles through the frozen mass of intelligence inside his head.

Drakken does thrash about in the fireman's arms. It earns him a knee in the pelvis and a harsh whisper of, "Look, dude. You don't want me to drop you."

That's true.

And so Drakken waits until the fireman has his feet on the ground before coiling up every ounce of strength in his body and ramming it into the man. The fireman brushes aside Drakken's one-hundred-and-fifty-five pounds as if they are nothing more than a few flies and cranks Drakken's hands behind his back. The already-tender tendons in his wrists beg for mercy.

Tender tendons. Drakken almost chuckles, though the sound turns to mush in his nose. That's alliteration on a grand scale.

Drakken is hoisted into the back of the paddy wagon. Shego waits for him there - she's awake now, thank goodness. Drakken had never seen her blacked out before - never even seen her asleep before - and it was frightening. She doesn't sneer when she's unconscious, and it makes her look so very, very young. Switches her from someone you could trust to defend you into someone your gut ached to defend.

As the door clangs shut behind them, Drakken blinks at Shego. "You've never failed me before," he muses.

Shego gives him a look meant to parboil him, and Drakken isn't entirely sure why. That statement was ninety-five percent compliment.

The ride to the station is made long by her glare and by the fact that Drakken's hands are forced to curl backward from his already-achy lower back. He feels cold and deeply shadowed, even though the sun is still several hours from setting. Once they are inside, the police split the two of them up, and Drakken can't suppress a cry of "Shego!" as his sidekick, his sole ally, is handed off to a female officer who appears no softer than her male counterparts. The women have their own prison, Drakken knows, which is for the best considering the absolute lack of privacy, but. . .

"Why do you have to split us up now?" Drakken grumbles into the police officer's brass badge.

The policeman doesn't pause for a nanosecond. "Keep walking."

"You can check my rap sheet!" Drakken squawks. "I'm not that kind of criminal!"

Still no pause until they reach a cell with peeling Shego-colored paint on its walls. The policeman unlocks the door and heaves Drakken into the cell in much the same manner as he's seen garbage collectors handle their loads. Almost as an afterthought, he clicks the cuffs off Drakken's wrists.

There's no time to make a dive for the door or soak up the relief that cools his arms before it's shut again, with the guard on the right side of it.

Drakken sinks down onto a cot the consistency of mushroom stew and tries not to think about everything he's lost. For example, he shouldn't think about the hovercraft, blasted apart by his nanotick, that he'll need to fix once he gets out. Or about the gravitomic ray that surely went with it. Or about the last bit of respect that he saw flee Shego's eyes as the fire hydrant soaked her bangs to her forehead.

The grungy yellow light coming from the low bulb overhead makes Drakken's stomach pound, but to look away from it is to move closer to the bars and get an unbearable, striped view of freedom. Everything's bubbling and foaming inside him like a maddening carbonation. The holding-back is unpleasant - worse than unpleasant - but the police are already eying him as if he's a disease, and he doesn't need to add froth to the blue, scarred imperfection.

Don't touch anything. Shego's words play on a loop in his brain. You - don't touch anything!

Drakken swallows and crimps his fists. He's forgotten how self-doubt wallops you between the eyes when you are alone in a holding cell. Ever since he came up the idea for his nano-tick-bot-explosive, it has only been coming in fits and starts that could be fought off.

All right, so he goofed by putting the detonator directly in the center of the dashboard, a spot where he often flings his face in disappointment. It should have been somewhere else - only where else could it go? Where doesn't he fling his face when victory is yanked away from him?

It had to have been able to detonate from a distance, Drakken decides as he edges away from the sunlight coming between the bars. Was more effective that way.

And, okay, so he didn't especially want to be right there watching a world leader's head get blown to bits. So sue him!

Maybe I could have put it somewhere high above my head, Drakken thinks. Back in my lair.

But then he'd have to use his belt-buckle jet-pack to get to it. Those would be useless if someone already has him in an armlock, and flight is one of the few powers Shego doesn't have.

Perhaps if all the henchmen stacked up on top of each other -

No! I can't rely on the henchmen!

Drakken tries not to shudder as he glances down at his faux-leather boots. In no time at all, they'll be replaced by hateful squeaky prison sneakers that can take him back in time, drag him back to a decade when his ten-year-old self was pinned between a jungle gym and a mob of boys twice his size.

You - don't touch anything! Don't touch anything! What did we agree on? Shego keeps playing on a mental eight-track tape. . . or whatever they use these days. Drakken scrapes his fingernails backward through his hair and, for the first and probably last time in his life, sympathizes with Kim Possible.

This must be how it feels to have a bomb strapped to your head.