Author's Foreword

I'll keep this brief for your sanity and mine.

This project has been bouncing around in my head for the last year and a half. I couldn't help it. I swore I was done, that I had ended the story in a good place, and that it didn't need anything more. Of all the stories I've started, The Power Trilogy was the one I actually finished and did credit to (at least, in my opinion).

Then: Season Four.

And damned if Mark and Bob aren't doing a hell of a job with the new status quo in Kim Possible. I love it. I love the new dynamic between the characters, which hasn't overshadowed what I loved about them before the change. It's great.

So: this story.

I hope you enjoy Our Power Together. It'll be my final foray into Kim Possible fan fiction. For anyone who hasn't read the previous stories in the Power Trilogy, I highly recommend that you go back in my archives and take a look. There's a lot of confusion to be had if you aren't familiar with the zany alternate reality I've crafted. For those of you who are familiar with the Trilogy, I hope I do you proud, just like I hope I do right by Kim and Ron.

Now let's get this show on the road.

Chronological Note

This storyline began back before Season Three started, and thus differs ever so slightly from canon KP. Generally, the events of S3 happened in this story (with the exception of Kim and Yori's first meeting). So the Drama happened as well, but without the revolutionary hookup at the end; Kim and Ron have, as of Our Power Together, only recently become involved. No events from Season Four are included in this continuity (with one partial exception, whom you'll meet again in Chapter 2).

For a complete understanding of the continuity changes, reference the previous three arcs in the story, beginning with The Power of Love. Otherwise, you can pick it up as you go along.

All-Purpose Disclaimer

Kim Possible is a registered trademark of Disney, Inc., and was created by Mark McCorkle and Bob Schooley. All rights and properties are retained therein. Use of the aforementioned is without permission for this fan-made fiction without profit in accordance with the Fair Use Act doctrine of United States Copyright law.

Three Weeks Ago

The world terrified him, and so he clung to sleep with frightened ferocity. Even safe in his womb, surrounded by a viscous sea of orange, he curled tighter into a fetal ball every time the dark shapes returned to the world's edge. Life was always like this: the orange, the dark shapes, and the feeder and breather snaking down from the top of his world. On occasion, the shapes would pound against the edge of the world from the other side, sending tiny bubbles to chase each other up the edge's glassy surface. He would watch his warped reflection tremble behind the bubble curtain. Then he would squeeze his eyes shut and hope for sleep to steal him away. There, in his dreams, he saw the others.

"No big," rose petal lips assured him, curving into a smile that made his heart skip two beats. "What are best friends for?" she asked, twirling, her fiery hair shimmering around her cherubic face. He knew without a doubt that he would die to protect her. He loved her more than anything.

"Bon-diggity," a grin as old as the hills said, answering some forgotten question. Freckles danced beneath chestnut eyes as he swept a hand through unruly waves of straw atop his head. "So we're on the job, right?" He knew without a doubt that anything was possible with him by his side. He loved him more than anything.

The dreams came often, even when he was awake. He retreated into those fanciful flights with gusto, watching those others. Their adventures delighted him. Their language confounded him. But the connection they shared baffled him utterly. He could almost touch it, as though it were physical, tangible. But it was not in him, and its absence frightened him more than any dark shape ever could.

The others sat atop a rusting bunk in a dungeon of steel. She turned her back to him, wearing a puffed expression of exasperation to hide her fear and anger. He slid in behind her, wrapping his arms around her in defiance of her pointed obliviousness. As he did, she buried her face in his arm to hide a smile she could not repress. "You know I just act that way because I'm crazy about you," he insisted to her in a soft, mirthful voice.

Her resolve crumbled. She turned back, inadvertently pressing into him. Her arm wrapped around his waist, and his, hers. "And it never occurred to you," she murmured with half-lidded eyes, "That the crazy goes both ways?"

Life continued like that for as long as he could remember. Longer. And it ended abruptly at the design of those dark shapes.

The edge of the world lifted, disappearing high above him. His feeder and breather pulled out of his face, leaving him to drown in the viscous orange as it spilled out onto a metal grate before he did. Naked, dripping, he collapsed onto the grate in a fit of seizures. Sensations assaulted him from all sides, forcing him back into his fetal curl. Whimpering gargled in his throat as he choked up the last of his womb.

"Vital signs are spiking, but stable enough," a brusque voice said some distance away. It dripped with an accent that struck his newborn ears as odd, though he couldn't place its origin. "The subject is awakening into post-gestation activity quite nicely. Better than we ever could have hoped."

He tried opening his eyes. A dark blur waited on the other side of his eyelids, interrupted by a forest green smear that bent low over him. A sultry voice erupted from the smear, which clarified enough to develop a set of piercing green eyes. "He looks like somebody just puked him up," the voice said as the eyes probed him critically.

Something about the two voices struck him as familiar. Impossible, because the others' voices were the only voices he'd ever heard. "I assure you," the first, masculine voice snapped from somewhere in the surrounding pitch, "This young man is the product of the most advanced, radical technology—"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," the feminine green smear answered back. Her eyes never left him as she knelt down. She solidified further as his eyes adjusted to the new world, detail by detail: waves of charcoal cascaded around her shoulders, framing a pale expression centered with deep, black lips. "This is so weird," she said, letting her gaze wander over his nakedness. "He looks just like..."

The familiar feeling buzzing in his head intensified as her face came into focus. Her sallow green smile didn't resemble either other in the slightest. So why did it seem so familiar? "Looks can be deceiving, Lady Shego," the first voice said. A figure dressed in red and black stepped out of the shadows, following his voice. He stood by the woman's side, peering down through a cowl-like helmet. He was barely half the woman's height, yet his posture commanded respect enough for two men.

"She...Go?" He repeated the name, rolling it around with his unfamiliar voice. Both of his spectators started at this, pulling back. He felt bad; he didn't want to scare the only people he knew. "Shego," he said again. Had he spoken it properly?

The green woman stood. "Did he say my...Does he know who I am?" she demanded. Criticism fled from her eyes, replaced by surprise. "How is that possible?"

The slight man shook his head. "It is not," he assured the woman, oblivious to the familiar feeling that plagued the newborn. "He is simply repeating your name because he heard me speak it. The gestational hypnotic/synaptic download did not include memories." To prove this, he knelt down in place of the woman, and used his thumb to roughly wipe the layer of orange from the newborn's eyes. "Do you know who I am, boy?"

Familiar feeling or no, he couldn't recognize this helmeted figure. "No," he admitted.

"Do you know who you are?" the short man pressed.

Images of the others flashed before his eyes. Were they memories? Dreams? Visions? "No," he said again.

A wide smile spread beneath the rim of the helmet. "You are my son," he said, offering the newborn a hand. "And I am your father."

He took the hand, rising on unsteady legs to tower over the stocky man's helmet. His father. Glancing at the cynical woman at their side, the newborn asked, "Is she my mother?"

The woman snorted, pulling her eyes back above his waist. "Hell no," she grunted.

"She is your partner," the man in the helmet explained. "Together, you will overcome the impossible, and do the unthinkable."

"Why?" he asked.

The man's smile grew wider still. "Because you are a man capable of great good," he said in his thick accent. "You have the ability to do what no one before you ever could."


"Save the world," the man said with a smile.

Kim Possible
Our Power Together

by Cyberwraith9

Act I: In which we catch up with old faces in preparation for new troubles.

"Students of Middleton High," a shaky voice said over the loudspeaker system, "You are about to take your first step on an incredible journey."

The auditorium ceased its collective shuffling at once, turning all attention to the podium seated atop the stage, and the officiously-dressed redhead standing behind it. Chatter silenced in the space of a single word, leaving it quiet enough to hear her pressed suit skirt crinkle through the microphone. She paused for effect, feeling her confidence grow.

"Some of you recognize me," she said, and paused again for a chuckle to work its way through the crowd. A hulking figure snorted from the side of the stage, glaring at her in her peripheral vision. "After Mister Barkin's 'interesting' introduction, there's really no need for this. But I happen to like the sound of my own name, so...I'm Kim Possible."

Another chuckle traveled through the audience, loudest in the blue-robed teens seated in the front rows. It gave Kim a chance to lock down her knocking knees. She could practically hear Barkin's brow creaking down over his eyes, but it didn't bother her. His glare was drowned out by the enormous smile beaming from the chair at Barkin's side. 'He's only smiling because his joke went over well,' Kim thought. She knew full well that Ron was actually being as supportive as he could. It was all she could do not to look over and return his thumbs-up.

"Now, you're probably wondering why I'm hitting you with platitudes and clichés. I'll admit, it doesn't pack the punch of 'I have a dream,' or 'Friends, Romans, countrymen...' I'm not much of a public speaker. Truthfully, I'm more at home dodging full-auto plasma gunfire while surfing down the Amazon on a broken door than I am in front of this terrifying bunch."

"Show a little of that ol' Possible modesty," Ron had told her while she wrote her speech. "Let them know there are still one or two things that terrify the great Kim Possible." She recalled being annoyed by Ron's interruptive suggestions. Now, she felt her toes curl as she imagined the thank-you she would give him.

Kim brought her mind back to her anxious task, and locked the rogue thoughts down. "But when I was asked to be a guest speaker at this year's graduation ceremonies, I wracked my brain trying to come up with something meaningful. In the end, all I could think to say was the truth. And the truth sounds corny and hackneyed because, well, it's true, and it's worth repeating."

A couple of the graduating students in the front row leaned closer to one another, exchanging graveyard whispers under cover of Kim's speech. It must have been a joke at her expense, because a silent giggle capped their conversation. One year out of high school, Kim refused to believe that she and Ron had ever been that young.

"There's a world of adventure out there," Kim said, gripping the sides of the podium. "And I'm not talking about firefights with megalomaniacs or earthquake rescues, though you should certainly pursue those things if you're interested. I can use all the help I can get." With a soft smile, Kim brushed a lock of hair from her face. "I'm talking about the day-to-day grind. The 'boring' stuff. Sometimes the everyday things are more exciting than any adventure I've ever had. And it starts today for all of you."

The young couple in the front row didn't hear a word; they leaned closer, locking eyes as they whispered to one another. Kim found herself more interested in what they had to say, and had to force herself to concentrate on her speech.

"Life," she said, "Is an adventure. A journey. And you don't get any second chances. Time can either be cherished or lost. The choice is yours. No," she amended, pausing again. "'Choice' isn't the right word. 'Choices.' A million of them, waiting for you when you step off this stage with a little roll of paper that will try to tell you that you're ready for the 'real' world."

Kim had to stifle a laugh at the notion. "You aren't ready," she told the children seated before her. Even her young couple in the front row now stopped to listen. "You won't ever be ready," she said, "because life isn't something you prepare for. It happens whether you want it to or not. So prepare to be unprepared."

Listening to herself, Kim wondered if she'd always sounded so old and pretentious. She hoped not. Give me a villain to quip at, she thought dryly, Quick!

"I wanted to come here and give you all that one piece of magical wisdom that would make your first steps into life smooth and easy. Maybe once I find it," she said, rubbing the back of her neck, "I'll let you know. Maybe." One final chuckle answered from the audience, fanning her smile into something worthy of a finale. "But until then, let me tell you this: live. Live for today, look to tomorrow, and always be mindful of yesterday. And always believe that anything is possible."

The audience burst into applause before she could finish thanking them for their time. One by one, then in pairs, and then by rows and sections, they rose up in standing ovation, giving her a brilliant blush as she stepped down from the podium. Kim caught sight of Steve Barkin's perpetually irritated expression as she passed him on his way to take her place onstage. She shot him a furtive look of amusement, reveling in the way his scowl deepened.

"Thank you, Miss Possible, for that incomprehensible speech," Barkin said at the podium, ignoring the screech of feedback that cowed his audience back into their seats. "We will now begin the needlessly long and convoluted ceremony of passing out fake diplomas to sate your parental need to see your son and/or daughter parade around. Real diplomas will follow in the mail once our soul-crushing bureaucracy—"

Kim reached the end of the stage and descended the steps to take Ron's outstretched hand. His face offered silent congratulations as he squeezed her hand. Looking over Kim's shoulder, Ron drew her gaze back to Barkin, who had already begun to drone names off in his sleep-inducing monotone. According to the program, they were supposed to take their seats and watch the rest of the senior class cross the stage. Ron's waggling eyebrows communicated an alternative, to which she eagerly nodded her agreement. Hand in hand, they snuck out the auditorium's side door, escaping Barkin's speech in the hallways beyond.

"Bon-diggity speech," said Ron, grasping her other hand to swing her full circle. Laughter rang between them until Kim broke away, spinning on her own and coming to rest next to a bulletin board mounted on the hall's faux-brickwork. Ron followed in a theatrical leap that brought him to the other side of the board. "Middleton High's most famous alumnus returns to make good."

Kim laughed. "Famous alumnus," she sneered playfully, punching him in the arm. Her elbow throbbed with the effort, reminding her that she needed to return it to her sling before a month's worth of incarceration in a cast became moot. She rubbed her arm and grimaced, momentarily losing her humor. "I'm mission-grounded, living in my parents' house again, and very much stuck on the injured list. Oh, the glamorous life of Kim Possible. They ought to make a show about it."

Ron's laugh echoed down the empty halls after hers. "That'd be a hoot to watch," he said. Tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket, he said in his worst Scottish accent, "Maybe they could find someone Connery-esque to play the dashing Ron Stoppable."

"Yeah." Kim wasn't listening. Her eyes had taken to roaming the hall, and worked their way to the bulletin board at their backs. Flyers collaged the corkboard out of sight with notices about summer clubs and school policies. "It all feels smaller, doesn't it?" she asked, and backed away from the board. "I don't remember everything being so small."

A quick shuffle brought Ron back to Kim's side. He took hold of her shoulders and examined the bulletin board. "Oh, I don't know," he said, squinting dramatically. "Personally, I don't think anything could diminish the significance of Chess Club summer tryouts."

"I'm serious," she said, laughing anyway while she slapped his chest. The blow hurt her elbow more than anything else. "I just told a room full of people that all of this was basically kid stuff. Most of them weren't that much younger than us."

Something caught Kim's eye from the edge of her memory. She looked over, spotting a pair of clueless children ghosting past their lockers. The first sprinted down the hall with book slung underarm, ducking and weaving through an invisible crowd. Her long red hair waved behind her like a banner, and the hem of her tasteless green tank top fluttered around a taut midriff. Behind her, a doughy, gangly blond traipsed after her, tripping over his own feet. His silent shout for help made the sprinting girl turn back, and returned the smile to Kim's face.

"Was I wrong?" asked Kim. She leaned into Ron's grasp, allowing his arms to slide around her waist while she watched the ghostly pair fade back into the past.

Ron wondered briefly what Kim was looking at. "We had some good years here, KP," he said. "I wouldn't trade any of 'em for a grande-sided platter. But you gotta admit," he added, looking back at the bulletin board, "a lot's happened to us in the last year."

Memory flared back into Kim's eyes: LoVE; Yamanouchi; the Observatory. A year's worth of battle, loss, and victory hammered into Kim, instilling new truth in her speech and Ron's affirmations. Their high school days had been fun and exciting, but nothing like the last year they'd just survived. "I guess we have changed," she admitted. "Does that make us old?"

"Older than dirt," Ron agreed, earning him another slap to the chest. "What? How can nineteen-year-old geriatrics like us appreciate the hip, young intricacies of..." He leaned forward, squinting again as Kim giggled at his antics. "...a Swim Team bake sale, or a mini-reunion for our graduating class, or—"

"Wait. What?" Kim broke from Ron's arms and rushed forward, slamming into the board with her palms. The pain in her arm flared unbearably, but she didn't feel it. She tore the innocent flyer from its staples and buried her nose in its wrinkled print. "Middleton High School invited its distinguished alumni back into its halls for the one-year anniversary of their graduation," she read aloud. "Return to your alma mater and reconnect with the people who made your youthful days special."

Peering over Kim's shoulder, Ron scratched his head and read the flyer's headline. "A 'Where Are They Now' dance? This is so unfair," he moaned. "I never even got around to dreading our five-year reunion, and now we've got a reunion coming up in...when is it?"

The rumpled flyer fell away from Kim's face, revealing a horrorstruck expression. "One week," she said.

"Oh, well that sounds reasonabuh—what?" Ron snatched the flyer from Kim's grasp and pressed it into his face. "How is this possible?"

His shrill commotion awoke a small, bewhiskered blob in his pressed pants' pocket. The curious rodent poked his head out, looking up at the piece of paper flapping in his mobile home's hands. "Huh?" Rufus muttered, stretching himself from Ron's hip to his elbow and scampering to the flyer. Plucking it free, Rufus examined it for himself. "Ho, foxtrot!" he squeaked, wagging his tail.

"Traitor," Kim muttered at the mole rat as he began to fold and crease the flyer. Her gaze drifted up toward Ron's, which held the same spark of dread that hers had. "How could this happen?" she asked. "What kind of idiot would organize a reunion one year out of high school?"

"That would be me."

The intrepid team turned in unison to the stunning brunette posed behind them. A stack of the flyers sat cradled in her arm, leaned up between her low-rider jeans and her provocative crop top. Tempest sparked her ocean eyes when they met Kim's smoldering emeralds.

"There's no surprise," said Kim.

Bonnie Rockwaller sniffed as only she could, and lifted her nose into the air. "It just so happens that I'm our graduating class's Reunion Officer. I organized this 'Where Are They Now' dance all by myself."

"You must be busting with pride," Kim muttered, affixing a plastic grin to her lips.

Ron managed a much better impression of delight than Kim. "Look, Kim," he exclaimed, stepping around to Bonnie's side. "It's Bonnie! You remember Bonnie, right?" Looking to Bonnie, he said, "We went to school here together. I'm Ron Stoppable." He took Bonnie's hand, much to her distaste, and pumped it up and down. "You may not remember, but you used to have the biggest crush on me. And you'd express it in the cutest ways. Like how you called me 'Loser' all the time, or when you told the cheer squad that I was impotent. You even photoshopped my face onto a horse's ass and posted it all over school," he said, laughing and slapping his knee.

"Kim," Bonnie said, glancing down at the unwanted handshake, "could you please tell your pet loser to let go of me?"

Her hand slid from Ron's with a sweaty squeak. Ron laughed, and said, "Ah, good times."

"The official invites went out lat month," said Bonnie, wiping her hand on her jeans. Freed from Ron, her snide expression found new life. "Didn't you get yours?" she asked sweetly.

"Must have gotten lost in the mail," Kim said through her smile.

A flip of the hair dismissed Kim's green flames. "Pity. But at least you know about it now. It'll give you plenty of time to make sure we don't have a repeat of Senior Prom."

Ron heard the telltale crack of Kim's knuckles. "Okay," he said, stepping between the ladies so quickly that he almost knocked Rufus off his shoulder perch. Keeping his back in the way of Kim's potential onslaught, he ushered Bonnie away, once more curling Bonnie's lip with unwelcome touch. "You know what, it has just been such a treat seeing you again, simply delightful, such a shame you have to go, no, we understand, you're a busy lady, off you go, keep in touch, eat your greens, all that jazz."

"Eight o'clock in the gym, K," Bonnie called back as she sauntered free from Ron's hands. "Bring a book so you won't be bored."

Both teens locked their eyes on their departing rival; Kim glared back at the lingering laughter in Bonnie's last glance, while Ron's gaze fell to the swaying curve of Bonnie's hips. Bile clawed at the bottom of Kim's throat. "There is no justice in this or any other world," she uttered just loud enough for Ron to hear, "that incorporates that disgusting social peacock as anything even remotely successful."

"At least some things never change," Ron quipped.

"It just so happens," Kim sang, mimicking Bonnie's voice in mangled soprano, "that I'm our class's Reunion Officer." She waved and tilted her hips, strutting like Bonnie did. Then she collapsed into herself and stuck her finger down her throat. "What the hell is a 'Reunion Officer' anyway? And also: blech!"

The wrinkle of her brow struck Ron. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he said, folding his arms.

Kim's eyebrows shot up. "You know Shakespeare?" she asked, shocked.

"That's from Shakespeare?" Now Ron's eyebrows ascended. "I heard it on Must-See Thursdays." Kim's annoyed look couldn't deter him. "C'mon, KP. What's got you so tweaked? We haven't seen Bonnie in almost a year. You should have, like, massive stores of Bonnie-tolerance stockpiled."

"I know, I know," she said, sighing. Turning, Kim closed her eyes, this time fighting the flood of memories that came. "You know me and dances."

Strong arms encircled her from behind, drawing her back to the folds of Ron's suit jacket. "Don't tell me that the human dynamo Kim Poss—"

Kim burst from his embrace. "Knock that off, Ron," she snapped. "It isn't funny."

The soft, melodious mumbling of a naked mole rat drew all eyes to Ron's shoulder. There, Rufus held the stolen flyer, which he'd folded into a pair of dancers joined at the hip. The origami couple wriggled in his grasp to the tune of his humming. "Dip!" he squeaked, and turned the paper pair on its side.

"Seriously, we could trade you in for a hamster so fast it'd make your whiskers twirl," Kim barked at him. Rufus dropped the origami and retreated across Ron's shoulders, cowering behind a messy mop of hair.

Ron scooped Rufus up and cradled him protectively. "Whoa. Okay, easy on the naked mole rat," said Ron, tossing Kim a surprised look.

Kim deflated, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, Rufus," she said. The mole rat quivered as she extended her hand to him, but when she left it hanging there, he sniffed at it. Rufus crawled onto her hand, and then squeaked with contentment as Kim brought him to her chest and stroked him apologetically. "And I'm sorry to you, too," she told Ron.

"Glad to know I at least rank second," joked Ron. Kim just continued to stare down at Rufus as she petted him. "Seriously, KP," he said in a soft tone, "You shouldn't stress it so bad. There's one big difference between this and Senior Prom."

"And that would be what?" Kim asked. Her elbow flared up again. In a miserable tone, she said, "I'm mission-grounded, living with my parents, and very much stuck on the injured list."

Those strong hands snared her waist again. This time Kim didn't fight them. She let her head fall back onto his shoulder as he whispered in her ear, "This time you'll be showing up with the pick of the litter on your arm."

Kim surrendered to his advances, and released Rufus onto her shoulder so she could reach up and caress Ron's cheek. "Well," she said, feigning thoughtfulness, "I guess it has been a while since we've been out together."

Ron's mind sped over their month of relationship, separating their standard, platonic activities from those that fit into traditional concepts of romance. "KP," he said, offering her a confused look as her head swiveled toward his, "we've never 'been out' before."

"All the more reason, then," she quipped back, and then silenced his lips in a slow and affectionate way.

Ethereal winds swept through her sandalwood-scented locks, whispering secrets to her from the four corners of the mortal plane. She sat in the center of the tempest with her legs curled beneath her, keeping her eyes closed so that she could see better. Senses most people never knew of spoke to her about everything and nothing all at once. The flood of otherworldly information acted as white noise, allowing her to seek answers to unspoken questions within herself.

Breathe in the chaos, she chanted within herself. Exhale in peace. Accept uncertainty. Never succumb to it.

She sat anchored to a sense of tranquility as her master's lessons ghosted across her lips. After only seven months of intense study, the lessons had become her own to someday teach to other impressionable young girls. It would be decades before she completed her training, but in that short span, she could already feel her abilities growing into those of a true champion.

But those months of training could not prepare her for the wave of discord that hammered into her.

Peace fled in panic from her body, stranding her alone in the middle of a sudden gale. The universe's whispers rose up in disharmony and deafened her with a thunderous roar. Reality wept. She did not know why, and could only weep with it. Magic shivered, chilling her to the core of her very soul.

She reeled back and clapped her hands over her ears, falling back into the physical, back onto the mat of woven reeds beneath her. A scream scraped her throat raw as she cried with the universe. She rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut in tears.

"Sempai!" A worried cry came from the hall before her door slid open, admitting a flock of junior students. They descended upon her in a flurry of white canvas uniforms, their bare feet padding around her on the wood floor.

A young girl rolled her over, shooing her classmates back as she knelt by her side. "Sempai," she said, trying to pry the hands from the elder student's ears, "Sempai, please! What is wrong?"

Yori Akamatsu opened her eyes, drawing a deep, sharp breath. Her hands came free of her head and fell into the laps of her crowding students. Tears tumbled clear of her lolling eyes, which finally found purchase on the faces above her. "Did you not feel it?" she rasped.

The young girls exchanged confused expressions. "Feel what, Sempai?" one asked.

"Was it an earthquake?" another added.

Yori sat up with their assistance. The light supper in her stomach fought for release. "Like no other," she said.

Cold sweat poured from her body as she tried approaching the astral catastrophe objectively. Shell-shocked, she extended her senses back into the ether with caution. The storm raged on, but distantly. This time she had prepared herself for it. This time, she was aware enough to recognize the familiar feeling at the storm's focus.

New tears sprang into Yori's eyes, upsetting her students anew. She sat on the floor and wept without heed of the worried jabbering in her ear. "Oh," she moaned softly, burying her face in her knees, "This cannot be."

"Sempai, what is it?"

Yori looked up at them. The anguish on her face drove her students back in fright. "Something awful will rend the balance," she whispered. "And I fear our Chosen One is to be responsible."

To Be Continued

A big tip of the hat to Isamu for beta reading this story. Go check out his contribution to the KP arts, entitled Born To Shadowrun. Then come right back and read this story again. After that, you're free to do as you like.