Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible. She is owned by Disney and Mark McCorkle and Bob Schooley. Any original characters shown or mentioned belong to me and can not be used without permission. Got it?

The WPS universe was inspired by BlackBird's AIRW universe, with permission.

The Worst Possible Sitch

Chapter Fourteen – EMPulsive

At oh-seven-fifteen sharp, Eastern Daylight, Dr Director stepped out of her office at Global Justice's World Headquarters in New York, absentmindedly scooping two aspirin gel-caps from among a meager pharmaceutical assortment laid out next to an oversized cup of unadulterated coffee on a tray in the hands of an alert steward who saluted and – as far as she was concerned – evaporated from her awareness. No one knew exactly how the senior-most agent gained entry to the installation – any of them, worldwide – much less her offices without anyone noticing. It certainly was not by means of any of the monitored means; elevators, driveways, or even the network of 'Spitball' pneumatic travel tubes clustered around each installation.

She was just… there. Seemingly twenty-four hours a day.

In fact, unless deploying with field troops on an operation or relocating to a regional base local to missions, all anyone would ever see her enter or exit was her office. Never the base itself. Considering the lack of sleeping amenities in there, rumors ran the gamut from her never sleeping, to whispers of top secret entrances to the bases through her office. Whenever summoned to her sanctuary, many a sharp-eyed agent would surreptitiously seek to suss out the supposed alternate access points, but so far none found anything.

As it were, the only indication any ever had of her on-base presence at a particular location was by means of a green panel above her door; lit when present, dark when not. Which was how the Steward Department knew to have the Alpha Agent's morning brew ready for her expected appearance at the expected time.

"Good morning, Madam Director," a slight built woman of Asian Indian ethnicity with long wavy dark hair and an ornately bejeweled bindi prominent on forehead, stood several paces along the corridor. Wearing a skirted Base Duty version of the navy colored officer's uniform, she waited patiently, experience having taught her the wisdom of allowing the one-eyed woman time to indulge in the first few sips of her coffee. Sometimes, as this morning, washing down medication. Falling into step alongside her, the young woman kept silent until acknowledged.

Grimacing at the sharp bitterness of the cup's hot contents, Dr Director nonetheless drained a third as they strode along for several minutes. Finally feeling almost as alert and sharp as she appeared, almost to their destination, the woman broke silence. "Good morning Nyna. Dare I ask the status of the sweep for Possible?"

Although GJ's Lead Female Agent – the second-most top agent – and the current Officer of the Day for the week, carried an oversized PDA, she had no need to consult it. "Not a trace since escaping from her parent's house and rendezvousing with Shego fifteen hours ago."

Betty sighed. The involvement of Shego was both unexpected, and bad news. As if dealing with Kim Possible on the run had been bad enough, Du's analysis of what the duo were capable of from the few previous instances they worked in concert was more than daunting. But then, he sees would-be world conquerors around every corner. "And the usual status report?"

In a pleasantly clipped Mumbai accent, Special Agent Nyna Nyn recited the highlights of the world's most critical current events; concerns with potential international fallout given priority, followed by matters of regional import-only last, "…and finally See-Sis advises of a break-in and theft at an undisclosed secret RCMP research facility in Alberta… ."

Dr Director paused. They had just entered the base's Central Operations Room, three curving rows of consoles, each station manned by an operative or scientist, all centered on four huge flatscreen monitors arrayed about the largest one center to all. The area was somewhat crowded as Change of Shift was imminent.

"Wait. The Canadian Security Intelligence Service? That CSIS?? Admitting to a chink in the armor they consider their national security?"

"Yes, Madam Director," the young OD nodded.

"What have those red-breasted Queenies lost track of this time?"

"A compact non-nuclear electromagnetic pulse generator prototype."

"An EMP?" the brunette led them deeper into Ops to clear the doorway.

"Yes, Madam."

"Did they provide any forensics which might supply a clue as to the perpetrator?"

Checking the PDA, "The report does mention several claw-like marks in several substrates, including metal."

"Shego!" Betty whipped about, her uncovered eye narrowing. "Oh, this doesn't bode well. Wait. What was that Canadian border sighting again?"

"An American-side patrol filed a UFO sighting, southbound at the British Columbia-Washington border."

Scoffing, the woman asked, "Complete with Christmas fairy lights and five-tone music, I suppose."

"Actually no. Completely dark. The report says it was heard and felt more than observed. It was described as a huge, dark, shapeless mass overhead occluding stars.

"Dark and stealthy?" Clasping the mug, warming both hands with it, Dr Director deeply inhaled the braincell-stimulating aroma like incense, "Hmmmm… BC… there was an incident there, too."

"Correct, Madam," Nyna consulted her readouts again. "A Skybus airliner fabrication facility north of Vancouver went dark a hundred and forty-two minutes ago. Investigating RCMP 'E' Division Emergency Response Teams discovered they had been attacked by several helicopter gunships, and had a brand new airliner stolen. Fully fueled."

"A huge one, yes?"

"An A400, announced the largest passenger in the world, but yet officially rolled out."

Turning, Director made for her Master Station, face drawn in concentration, nearly sloshing her drink while absently gesturing. "There is something there Nyna… I can almost taste it… ."

At that moment a General Alert began chiming. Operatives scrambled, current shift personnel moving out of the way of the next as per protocol. As a GA could last an undetermined length of time, when one arose so close to change over, the shifts were performed early, leaving the fresher operatives ready in case of a prolonged watch. Betty rushed the final steps to her desk, barking, "Situation!"

One of the agents in junior officer grey announced, "Alarm at Lemon Supermax!"

"Retasking SkySat," another called out, the central screen changing to a satellite view, the nighttime Midwest scrolling to acquire central Colorado.

"Lemon!" the one-eyed woman slammed down her mug, growling, "I should have known. Mark my words Nyna, somehow all that has something to do with this."

"Local time: Oh-five-twenty-seven Mountain Daylight."

Standing in the Officer of the Day's position near the master station, Agent Nyn demanded, "Which alarm?"

"Uhm…, all of them, Sir!"

Another operator clarified, "Riot, lock-down, breakout, break in, multiple wall breach, multiple Open Gates, multiple smoke alarms, fire, air raid, tornado, medical emergencies, telecom blackout, and… ."

"And what?" Betty stood, arms on desktop supporting her, "Somebody kill that klaxon!"

The operative continued a bit sheepishly, "And multiple RoadStar™ car alarms registering in the parking lots."

"…everything but the microwave timer…," a sotto voce comment floating from a corner was ignored.

"Which suggests the use of ordinance nearby if automobile sensors are being tripped by concussion waves," another station offered in the sudden silence of the chiming alert dying out.

"Scramble Strategic Response Units stat. Contact Will and Team Orchid. Unless they are within kissing distance of Possible, he's to drop whatever he's doing and get his skinny ass there ASAP!"

Repetitions of the commands echoed in confirmation as imaging on the screen rapidly centered upon the prison's coordinates, zooming in. Nightvision filtering was not even required due to the entire facility being awash with bright lights, including frantically roving spots. View stabilizing, the square shaped facility leapt into focused clarity.

"What the Hell!"

"Seems we found the Skybus… three dee ex-strap!" ordered the lovely Mumbaiite. Thanks to the marvel of satellite technology, hypercomputers, and holographic viewscreens, the audacious scene filled out, leaping to life, lifting to slowly rotate with extrapolated CGI sharpness. "Mil Mi-26 or -27s. Gunships accounted for."

Observing the jailbreak in progress was nearly mesmerizing; prisoners scrambling aboard via ingenious lifts – several station's sub-monitors running facial recognitions against the prison's population roster – helicopters laying out suppressive cover fire, and the easily recognizable Go Jet overflying it all. Shego's presence would suggest Dr Drakken's involvement but for those cohorts not wearing his colors. Betty could only shake her head in fascination, "Astounding. Notice how the airliner just barely fits the yard, obviously airlifted in place by the helos – there's that UFO sighting… I knew it all fit together. Kim Possible is behind this, guaranteed. She's aiming to liberate them all. The sheer chutzpah to even attempt to execute something like this is… just… have you raised Du?"

"He is inbound, twelve minutes after SRUs, of which lead dropships' ETA is just under ten," provided a station to the far left.

Excellent response time considering how thinly spread we were in dragging for Kim. Sitting back down, the Chief Peacekeeper crossed arms and legs in open satisfaction, all the while clicking her tongue in self-recrimination. Should have left a couple squads picket, but who knew she'd return, much less attempt this? Kim, Kim, Kim… you have no idea how much this pains me… .

In the holographic rendition floating in the open space between banks of stations and the monitor, the superjumbo had sealed its doors and the six Mils were steadily lifting it off the ground. Noting the clock counting down the Strategic Response Units' arrival, reaching for her almost forgotten coffee with a predatory grin, Betty mused, Leaving early, but not by nearly enough! Kim burst into the courtyard. Too late! So, she uses her grapple-gun to snag a ride. So predictable… .

Except the scale holographic redhead did not do as the woman expected. There was no last second ride hitching, rushing instead to a device dropped by Shego's little black and green jet as the rotorcraft and their common load rose out of the hologram's field of view. A flick of her eye to side monitors confirmed them still under observation. Lemon Correctional Officers advanced on the former hero, moving in from all sides by the time she returned her gaze to the computer extrapolated view.

Something niggling at the back of her mind, the lead peacekeeper took a deep hit of the still respectfully hot beverage, watching as first Kim, and then the COs ran, clearing the courtyard, giving wide berth to the unknown device…

…a compact non-nuclear EMP generator prototype…, the OD's Indian-British voice repeated in her head.

…‼ ‼ ‼…

Bolting to feet wide-eyed, dropping her cup, Dr Elizabeth Director barked out a series of orders. Unfortunately, having been in the process of swallowing, only the black – and hot – contents of a coffee-filled throat issued forth from mouth and nose. If any words got formed they were drowned amid fluid spraying all over her desk and startled attending OD. Gagging, hacking, and gasping, the woman nearly passed out due to burning pain of abused and seared nasal passages just moments before holographic electromagnetic generator pulsed.

To the surprise of everyone else in the room, the three dimensional image, along with all the monitoring stations in the Ops Center – even those not focusing on the Lemon situation but dependent still upon the feed from SkySat One…

…went dead.

A dripping but fully composed Agent Nyn commented dryly, "I see we found the RCMP's prototype."

"…There's no need for that sort of language Mr Phoenix, I'm just following my own orders," the strawberry-blonde's irritated voice shot back over the disposable cellphone. "When? Trust me, you'll know when to full-throttle. Oh, and you best leave all electronics turned off until later. Again, you'll know when. Good luck." The call ended.

Tossing the unit into the lap of an inmate he had selected to be his copilot, Simon cut loose a string of profanity which stated in English, shifted to Spanish, and migrated back again. The superjumbo rocked under the heavy-lifters, the Coloradan Rockies coming into view through the front windows as walls were cleared and altitude mounted. The motion was slight in the overall general scheme of things, but it was easily felt in the filled to capacity airliner. A raucous and cacophonous blend of shouts, curses, laughter, and cheers from the escapees on the lower decks floated through the open cabin door.

"Sheeeet," the dual eye-colored criminal drawled, reaching for a headset while flipping open the inter-cabin comm. "Better tell the muthafukkas to plant their asses…" bing! "…Hello," he spoke, affecting a commercial tone, "this is your pilot speaking. Welcome to ConAir…

"…NOW SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND STILL!" he yelled, dropping the pleasant voice, stilling the last few rowdy criminals. "Lissen, normally I wouldn't give a culo de rata if you all act th'fool or not, but seein' as this breakout is still, you know, in progress, I'd rather not have to take the time to kneecap any of y'muthafukkas for potentially messing up my getaway! ¿Entender?" Understand?

Returning back to his faux pleasantness, "Now, I'm not exactly sure what's next, but you might want to fasten you seatbelts as the 'Please Fas…' …where the fuck is the button for the go'damm sig… ah there's the fucker…" bing! "'…Fasten Your Seatbelt' sign is now lit th'fuck up."

Being as the lot of them were criminals, most resumed interrupted conversations, many ignoring the pilot's sage advice. Still able to hear them up in the cockpit, Phoenix looked to his copilot with a shrug. "Well, wattcher gonna do?"

The other man shrugged back at him with a goofy grin.

"Y'gonna fasten your fuckin' seatbelt is wattcher gonna do, y'moron!"

"Right!" he scrambled to comply, "Sure thing boss."

As he did so, the black man fired up the plane's engines. All but the dumbest convicts ceased their conversations when the whine of six Rolls-Royce Trent XWB-97's turbofans coming to life filled the double-decker cabin. After ensuing green lights on all six and checking various dials and readouts, Phoenix throttled them back to idle at pre-taxi levels before reluctantly turning off all instrumentation and avionics according to the instructions he had been given, sliding the laptop-like keyboard into its drawer-slot above the foot pedals.

Normally the one to call the shots, the crime lord was willing to extend a bit of faith for once and do as instructed considering how flawlessly the audacious escape plan was so far coming off without a hitch. Truth be told, he was mightily impressed.

Not that he would admit it aloud.

Waiting for the promised moment to full-throttle, he sat back, grooming his bleached crew cut with a crude pick fashioned from the heads of three plastic forks. "Don't know what the bitch is talking about," he griped to no one in particular, completely unaware at the very moment that very bitch was ordering her fellow pilots to shut off their avionics, "obviously we'll have t'be set down somewhere in order to properly take-ooooohhhhshhiiit!"

Simon Phoenix had no idea what was happening seventeen thousand feet below. Far from his mind was any concern as to what was happening in the lifting aircraft…

"Coming up on the Mark, and then a ten-count, people!" an eye glued to the altimeter, Thirteen spoke clearly across their encoded channel. "Those with passengers double check restraints. Time to earn our bonuses. Mark. Good luck. Turn off all electronic systems in five… four… three… two… OFF!" Following her own instructions the henchwoman killed power to instrumentation seconds before everybody felt all their fine hairs stand on end.

However no one really had time to remark on the phenomenon, all but pilots grasping instead at crash-webbing as each of the six Russian rotorcraft went spiraling out of control.

Well, a carefully controlled out-of-control.

Knowing what was coming, each of the six Russian-made helicopters had been pulling out and away against their systems of wire roping. Cabling which were secured to welded-on arrays of saddles and eye-hooks by catches electronically powered closed. All of which turned off with the EM pulse, releasing simultaneously, freeing copters from airplane.

As they fell away, spinning about the major axis of the main rotor, Thirteen and her fellow pilots fought deadstick to keep autogyroing level while copilots worked swiftly to reboot systems protected from the pulse by having been off. First power to the hydraulic-assisted Flight Control Systems, then the less critical instruments.

In her little black and green Go Jet, Shego was also prepared, killing her avionics immediately after curving back around into a powerless glide for the prison yard. As soon as she saw her former rival at the generator, the woman jiggled the dual sticks. From a distance appearing as if in trouble, the jet's waggling wings were in reality a signal to her partner she was set for the coming fireworks.

Beginning power-up immediately after detonation, grinning predatorily, the pale woman swooped in on the group of Correctionals crowding in on her partner. She enjoyed their startled faces as the clawed harpoon snagged Kim, lifting her up and away from their midst. With a laugh brought on by the successful maneuver, Shego boosted for the sky… .

Bringing her Helix One back under control after only a twenty-six hundred foot drop, and acknowledging the other Helices' checking in, the strawberry-blonde wondered, "Anyone got eyes on The Baby?"

"Dropping like a brick, One… ."

Ignoring a flurry of sudden shouts and assorted yells and screams erupting from the wide-bodied cabin behind him, Phoenix – although caught completely off guard – dropping feet from where he had them crossed while combing his hair, moving in the sudden freefall and grabbing at the joystick style flight yoke to his left with both hands amid a nearly continuous stream of "Ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit‼" occasionally punctuating with frantically shouted commands, "Reboot! Reboot!

"Keep y'fukkin' hands off the stick! The joystick idjit! Keep y'r' hands off the stick!"

The problem was, while airplanes only a few years older – such as the military C-5 he was used to – have Fly-by-Wire Flight Control Systems capable of operating without powered assistance, requiring plenty of muscle to wrangle with them, newer and modern birds like the Skybus 300 and 400 Series are – in their entirety – electronic and computerized.

No power, no flight control. Period.

Which was one of the reasons why as soon as he stepped into the flight deck and saw not flight yokes – the sticks, commonly called steering wheels by the uninitiated – but a couple of small multifunction joysticks like one would see on a fighter or hooked to a kid's game console, Simon Phoenix cursed. Turning back and grabbing one of the other inmates who was supposedly a former navigator on the newer commercial birds, he pulled the hapless man with him. Not trained as even a copilot, the man nonetheless was familiar with the systems and pre-flights.

A wise thing it turned out, as the convict went right to work, pulling forth his keyboard and typing in the emergency boot-up command sequence. One by one the digital monitor-like screens flickered to life.

Phoenix capitalized on each system as they turned on. "Gear up! Gear up!

"Gear up muthafukka, get the g'damm gear up‼ Push that lever there!

"Ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit‼" there was no longer any way to tell who was saying that as both voices on the flight deck began to meld into one interestingly synchronized mantra.

The thunk! of landing gear retracting into place was lost in the moment as the plane fell straight down, waffling flatly like a leaf. "Reboot the board! There! There!

"The fukkin' button there‼" The board began to come to life, but the man with mismatched colored eyes, with left hand gripping the stick and right on the throttle, was barely coherent in his commands, more often than not shooting out his right – never the left, that remained on the flight control – to flick what he wanted.

Subconsciously he felt a slight give in his left. Without bothering to check for the appropriate status indicators, he was already shoving the control stick hard against the yolk, pushing it forward.

"Push! Push hard! The fukkin'stick! NOW YOU C'N GRABBIT‼

"SHOVE HARD YA G'DAMM MUTHA, SHOVE‼

Falling flat as it was, there was only one fast way to restarting the six powerful Rolls-Royces. Counter-intuitively it was to drop the aircraft's nose downward.

"Ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit‼"

Hard.

"Ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit‼"

Not recommended for non-military aircraft.

"Ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit, ohhsshiiit‼"

Yet doable.

The liner's nose dropped as they did. Air was forced into the engines, spinning the turbofans up to speed, making their jumpstarts easier. Keeping right hand on the throttle, as soon as he felt those levers give a little, indicating power had reached them, he eased them forward until the first engine to catch roared to life over the whistle of wind across the windshields.

Actually all they needed was only one of the six Trent XWBs, but the more the merrier.

The easier.

A second kicked in. "Engines three and six are up!" the copiloting convict called off as indicator lights turned green. The distinctive whine of a power dive grew. "Number Two!"

"Now pull back!" Phoenix ordered. For the first time casting his gaze out the double paned windshield, "Ohhsshiiit! PULL‼"

The ground, the prison, rushed at them.

"PULL!"

"One and five!"

The Flight Control System's Power Assist was in place, only now they were contending with the greater forces of gravity, inertia, and the desire of things heavier than air to want to find the ground the fastest way possible. Pilot and co- pulled back on the joysticks, the crime lord revving the throttle higher, needing the massive turbofans to gulp in air faster than the fall was ramming down their throats.

"Four! All six lit up!"

Ignoring sweat, having been pouring down his face since the initial drop, but now noticeably working into his eyes, Phoenix allowed a glimmer of a grin to grace his lips as he felt the filled-beyond-capacity, wide-bodied, double-decked, superjumbo responding, its nose pulling back up.

Opening the throttle all the way full, he crowed, "Simon says: fly, Sweetie, FLY!"

The ground, the prison, and guards scattering once again for cover, rolled down and away, dual lines of train tracks and nearby highway once again reaching for the distant Rockies on the horizon as the aircraft leveled out, then proceeded to climb. Slowly the flight crew were finally able to take note of the myriad groans, moans, and collective sobbing rising forward from the rear cabins.

"What a crazy-assed plan! I can't believe the bitch pulled it off! But I ever get her in my sights, I'll kill her for that last part." Phoenix declared, opting to run his mouth than look at the altimeter until much later.

Somethings he decided he really did not want to know.

"Penitentiary ETA nine minutes, sir," the copilot responded. "We'll be fourth to the party."

Having been recalled from their various search grids, almost a dozen Global Justice hoverjets were inbound for Lemon Correctional. Some only minutes away. A few, minutes ahead of the others. Most were the black with scarlet underside Assault versions, a couple were the less aggressively outfitted transports done in GJ's signature color of navy blue.

It was in one of the latter which found Special Agent Will Du standing behind and between the piloting stations, his agitation palpable. I should have recommended leaving a couple squads picket! This will look bad on my performance review. "Can't we shave any time off our ETA?" he prodded.

"Look Agent…"

"Special Agent."

"…right, sure," the man glossed past the interruption, for 'correction' was not the term he was ready to give it. "This is not one of the red-bellies. We're built for comfort, not speed." He nodded to the rear compartment. "Considering how loaded we are, we're moving as fast as the crate'll carry."

The young Turkic operative felt a certain nerve above his eye dance. He was very much aware of the team Dr Director saddled him with. He both objected to, yet saw no way around, a duty he felt little more than baby-sitting. Ironically, the last time he felt so burdened was with the very teenager this team was tasked to bring down. While the South American girl was pleasant enough, something about her distinctly reminded him of the redheaded fugitive. Which should hardly be surprising, Will, since you were the one to profile and select her in consideration of replacing Possible. I wish I could understand Madam's fascination with cheerleadering amateurs as potential recruits.

His facial tic throbbed in agreement.

What annoyed him even more were the Latina's male companions. Nearly as insufferable as that clown, Stoppable, he grunted inwardly. Doubly so since they instantly made friends… .

"Everybody hang on!" Monique abruptly shouted. "Turn off th… ."

Snap!

Everyone's fine hairs stood as the VTOL's instrumentation went dark or dials crazy. Several alarms sounded, most notably the Flight Distress/Imminent Crash Alert.

"Flame out!" the pilots tugged on their yokes, frantically prodding their HOTAS – Hands On Throttle And Stick – systems to regain a semblance of control. A practiced pair, they spoke in a rapid-fire verbal shorthand which Du, although rated to pilot the craft as well, was unable to follow in the confusion. Especially over the black girl's urging her teammates to strap themselves in.

"Oh m'God! We're losing power!"

"We're Red!"

"One and Two both out!"

"Restart!"

"Neg!"

"Engage Verti's!"

"Neg!"

"Sir, you better strap yourself in… Cycle hard boot!"

"No time! We're going down!"

The problem with Global Justice's VTOL hoverjets was their lifting-body design was wingless, sacrificed for oversized turbofan engines capable of hovering in place as if hung from a wire, or speeds upwards of Mach Two. Which meant there was little in the way of normal tricks to pull when dead-sticking without a shred of power. Which further meant, in following protocol, there was only one thing to do if unable to recover within thirty seconds.

"Agreed. Punch it!"

Half-turning, the copilot raised his voice, "Passenger compartment! As soon as each of you strap in, grab the red handles to either side of your head, simultaneously pull down on them, and keep your hands on them until you clear the aircraft. ASAP!" Then to Will, "You as well, Agent…"

"Special Agent," Will automatically corrected as he found his own seat while from the rear, half a dozen booster rockets momentarily roared one after the other.

"…right, you just wait here whilst I go get that engraved on an invitation for ya!" the other finished.

"Passengers clear! I'm punching!" The pilot tugged his manual ejection activators hard.

"Right behind you! Punching!" and the second pilot was gone. Followed just seconds later by the swarthy İstanbulite.

Cursing in several languages while floating down with the others, Special Agent Will Du had an excellent view of two other groupings of parachutes from two other downed hoverjets, which told him, Somehow Kim Possible caused this! I don't yet know how, but of this I am very sure… .

Not the first time Kim ever dangled from Shego's jet, this was different in that she did not need to cling for dear life. The claw had her firmly in its grip. All she needed do was fasten a harness which the career villain had insisted be installed despite the redhead's assurance it was unnecessary.

However that had been during the planning stages.

Now in the execution phase, feeling the pressure of the jet's hard climb and acceleration, Kim was rather glad for the additional security the harnessing provided. Note to Self: Shego is not Ron… don't ignore her very valid concerns as if she is… .

Since the plan was to get as far away as possible before any spying eyes could be brought back to bear on the area, all of the escaping aircraft were heading away at full speed, the superjumbo heading about to take up its position above and pacing the commercial flight out of Go International. After a bit the copters would be landing in preselected hiding places, ready to wait things out a while.

What it all meant was they were not going to set or slow down anytime soon to pull her back into the tight cockpit. So, with the wind whipping past her like during her free-flight, the former hero settled back into a meditative state.

Maybe I can reconnect some more memories… .

Notes: Whew! I managed to get this chapter in just under the 1 year wire! Sorry about that. My med issues are evening out. Keep your eyes peeled to this space as I'm now working on chapter 15 for a back-to-back updating!

This chapter introduces a new OC of mine: Agent Nyna Nyn, GJ's Lead Female Operative, second of Field Agents only to Will Du. She is an East Indian Hindu, and I've based her appearance on the real life actress Tiya Sircar. Look her up. She's a beauty. I used to have hips like hers…

One of my anonymous reviewers left a couple of detailed reviews which I'd like to address a few comments there in.

First off, even though I am injecting a great deal of real world details into this and my other stories, I am still writing Kim Possible fanfics. Which means I'll also be leaving one foot firmly planted in the fantastic. So even though I give a lot of details about things like helicopters and superjumbo aircraft, please notice I like to use models which are not real. This allows me to extrapolate exaggerated capabilities as well as make shit up. Thus the Mil Mi-27s. I was unaware there was a proposal for associating that number to an advanced version of the -26, yet I still can give my -27s lifting power and capabilities greater than the real world baseline models. In other words, I can say they can do what I say they can do because they don't really exist.

The same with Skybus, a stand in for Airbus (but imagine my surprise to discover Skybus also exists) of which the A380 is currently the largest non-military airliner in the world. So I upped it to the A400, added two more engines, and expanded on the number of passengers it can hold. By the way, look up the luxury version of the A380. It's a flying hotel. I mean, damn.

Now maybe Real World, six Mi-26s might not be enough to lift an A380, but remember, I'm writing KP, and in her world it's amazing what just one to three little black helicopters can lift.

Still, I appreciate the information.

As for the comments about what punches can do to a man… Doy! What do you think happens to the multitude of henchmen she wails upon? In Kim's world they too are just doing a job, HenchCo very similar to a manpower service. You may want to see Kim put down like a rabid dog, but I am just happy my writing evoked such strong feelings in you. Shows I'm doing my job as a writer.

I hope you remain for the ride.