Shego: Extreme Ways
To be on the safe side, I have rated this story "M" ("R"), mostly because of content in this first chapter; a proofreader has said it's probably only a "high T" (PG-13), but, again, I wanted to err on the side of caution. That said, the content of the remaining chapters is mostly "T" for violence and language.
The story takes place in the "OLS" universe, at least in terms of general timeline. That is, I structured the events of the show "Disney's Kim Possible" to take place between 2003 and 2006 (Kim's freshman year was 2002-03, her sophomore year 03-04, junior 04-05, senior in 05-06, and the events of "OLS" take place in April 2007, her freshman year in college), and then worked backward from there.
Shego was born in 1976.
Aside from a few incidences mentioned in "The After," I have tried to use the (limited) amount of canonical information provided by the original series to expand why Shego broke away from her brothers and eventually wound up as Dr. Drakken's enforcer.
Finally, a huge amount of credit and attribution is due where it is rightfully due.
I was quite wowed by the work of an FF-dot-net writer who goes by the name "Binkmeister," particularly his story "Shego's Birthday." That short story formed the kernel of inspiration that lead me to write all this. Since that story seems to have gone dead, I adopted it, and it forms the scaffolding of chapter two.
I must also give accolades to RavenStarFire. His fic "Replacement" is very impressive, and his description of the comet strike in his chapter nine is amazing. With his blessing, I adopted the first italicized section in chapter nine; I've scattered the relevant section across chapter 3 and a later (currently unwritten) chapter so it fits better with my story flow.
Enjoy, and please review!
Extreme ways are back again;
Extreme places I didn't know;
I broke everything new again,
Everything that I'd owned;
I threw it out the windows, came along...
Extreme ways I know
Will part the colors of my sea;
Perfect color me...
Extreme ways that that help me,
Help me out late at night;
Extreme places I have gone,
But never seen any light;
Dirty basements, dirty noise,
Dirty places comin' through;
Extreme worlds alone –
Did you ever like it then?
I would stand in line for thissss...
There's always room in life for thissss...
Oh baby (oh baby)
Then it fell apart, it fell apart;
Oh baby (oh baby)
Like it always does, always does...
Extreme sounds that told me
Helped me down every night;
I didn't have much to say;
I didn't give up the life.
I closed my eyes and closed myself
And closed my world
And never opened up to anything
That could get me along...
I had to close down every-thing,
I had to close down my mind;
Too many things could cut me,
Too much to make me blind;
I've seen so much, in so many places,
So many heartaches, so many faces,
So many dirty things...
You couldn't even believe...
I would stand in line for thissss...
It's always good in life for thissss…
Oh baby, oh baby;
Then it fell apart, it fell apart;
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart...
Like it always does, always does...
A warm, bright beam of newly minted sunlight shot between the woman's half-closed eyelids, blinding her. Cupping a hand beside her left eye to block out the glare, she rolled over on the sun-warmed cotton sheets. Patiently, persistently, however, the sunlight poked at her until she slowly opened her eyes, blinking a few times to clear out the sleep fug and spots from the sudden flood of light.
It was morning. Solid columns of light slanted in from two compact windows of the corner flat, making the polished outlines of the furniture glow and brass sparkle. The room was softly quiet, filled only with small morning sounds – intermittent traffic humming down in the street, a door slamming a ways off, water thrushing gently through pipes buried deep in the walls. A quartz-mechanism desk clock pealed off the slow seconds with the soothing regularity of a metronome, its faint, gentle ticking surprisingly distinct after the ruckus earlier.
The woman lounged languorously on her back atop the snarled covers, arms folded comfortably beneath her head, completely nude. At utter ease in her skin, she made no attempt at self-conscious modesty – she'd worked damn hard for her body, and she was damn proud of it. What with frequent bruises and a handful of scars, she knew every inch of it.
Her elevated body temperature warded off the usual chill of bare skin in open air. Shifting position slightly and snuggling a little into the bedspread, she savored the near-erotic sensation of the smooth fabric sliding against her tingling, hypersensitive skin. A sheen of sweat felt good as it slowly evaporated off her pale skin. She drew her left leg toward her chest, knee forming the point of an A, her right leg resting casually across the thigh at a perpendicular, toes dangling.
Digging her fingers into the pillow, she propped her head up slightly and glanced askance out a window on the wall ten feet to her left, her line of sight just clearing the sill. She could see the peaks of squat, shingled roofs poking into a cold, pale, whitish-blue sky. Fresh, startlingly green shoots and leaves poked tentatively upward from a handful of roof gardens, growing well in the first gasps of spring despite the caution of snow-ice patches still clinging to north roofs and in the shadows of chimney pots.
Scattered irregularly through the old-country dwellings, modern highrises glittered in the early sun. Thin wisps of stringy clouds reflected off the glass sides of the slender monoliths. Halfway down, the buildings peered superciliously over the short houses and solidly built mid-rises crouching at their feet, reflections transforming the streets below into an upside-down neverland.
The woman smiled a little. She always liked the contrasts in this part of the world...
Her listless musings were broken as a large, sloppy mass of covers to her right twisted noisily onto its back, emitting a low, drained groan as it slowly regained consciousness.
She reached over and playfully tousled the mop of unruly blonde hair beside her. "…'Mornin', sleepyhead."
Her partner groaned again, resigned to waking up, and began wrestling with the near-straightjacket of sheets he had mummified himself into after falling like a rock into sleep.
Eventually, panting slightly, he flopped the covers mostly off himself and fell still, listening to the ticking clock. His breath hung in the air like an expectant cloud. The edge of the fold-back stopped just below his belly-button – he didn't have quite her body-confidence, or skin temperature.
Satisfied, he glanced over at her. Their eyes met. The pair stared fixedly at each other for several awed seconds before the blonde tossed heavily supine onto his pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling, and dazedly ran a hand down his face.
"Hellig dritt…" he muttered drowsily, rumpling the bridge of his nose with his palm, "What…. the hell… was that?"
The woman giggled a little through her teeth as she grinned. "Aaaahhhhhh… I told you were gonna feel that in the morning..."
He returned his hand to his forehead, massaging his brow with the tips of his fingers. "...Helvete ... I haven't gone like that since basic training..." He glanced over at his crumpled navy-blue greatcoat, flung haphazardly over the back of a chair. The twin gold stars of Oberstløytnant epaulet insignia sparkled back at him in the morning light. "Ahhhhh, shit... my Oberst is gonna raise hell if I'm not back by oh-ten-hundreeeeeeed..."
He drew the last word out into a groan.
The woman ran her fingers through his hair, gently kneading his scalp. "Don't worry... you've got, like..." she squinted at the desk clock, "...Little over an hour..." Using one finger, she began teasingly tapping the grouping of three freckles beneath each of his eyes.
In response, he reached up slightly and brushed his fingers in gentle, wispy circles on the smooth, soft skin of her pelvis, then traced the tips of his fingernails slowly upward along her coronal plane, one of her erogenous zones. Her torso stiffened, breath whistling through her nose as she inhaled sharply. Reaching her underarm, his hand detoured further upward and massaged her right breast for a few moments. He watched, a little detached, as her hands curled, arching back on themselves slightly. Keeping it up until he saw her fingernails beginning to dig into her palms, he meandered back down along her median line, fingers finally settling into the trough of her pelvis and leg, palm gently caressing her hip.
"Daaaaa-aaaammmmmm..." he murmured softly, awed by the sensation, "...You're still warm..."
The woman nodded, eyes closed, still lost in a torrent of oxytocin.
"…That was cool… earlier… how you were able to… light the candles... wi'th..."
Finally opening her eyes, she again nestled her arms beneath her head and stretched, back arching. The skin on her chest tightened and her breasts stood to attention, little cream pyramids subtly catching the light of the sun. She settled back down with a pleasured sigh and the quasi-conversation flickered out, dissolving into a cozy silence that didn't need filler.
After a few minutes, the blonde propped up slightly on his elbow, gazing driftedly at her dully-glinting waves of black hair spilling over her shoulders and upper arms. Opening his mouth a little, he made a few gulping, hesitant false-starts, and the quiet drowse of the room became sharper and less comfortable at each one. Finally, he managed to place his words, tiptoeing as though through a minefield. "...I, uh... noticed... you didn't ask me to put on... a...?"
Her eyes, which had slid shut again, popped open and then narrowed mischievously.
"Betcha haven't been able to feel like that in a while!"
Taken aback, he blushed slightly, a faint pink band warming beneath his eyes, and nodded quickly.
The woman laughed. "...Elevated body temperature kills everything off… I think it's normally, like, around 107. Just like a damn chicken." She laughed, harsher this time. "Th' glow's endothermic, though, so when I light up, my body temp goes a little hypothermic."
"Whew…" He flopped down supine again. "No worries about the Sicknesses, then...?"
"Nope... Never had to worry about STDs..." Her mouth crinkled into a leer. "...And thanks for reminding me…" Leaning across her body to her right, toward a night-table on her side of the bed, she swirled her index finger around in an open jar of KY, settled onto her back again, aimed, and inserted. A rim of green flared a little around the circular gap, and her lower abdomen lit up slightly from the inside.
The NATO air force colonel watched the procedure out of the corners of his eyes, too exhausted to be much aroused.
"…Jus' killing your product placement… The chance of something getting through is, like, zero, but gettin' preggers would really screw up my curves... No use taking chances..." She smirked a little, withdrawing her finger and tracing it in a seductive S across the man's chest. "…Only one thing left…" She rolled over slightly. He heard the bedsprings creak as she reached for something on the floor, and he began nodding off as he nestled deeper into the warm heat of the covers.
The man's eyelids widened to their stops as he suddenly found his own service P80 pressed flat against his sternum. Before he could open his mouth, the slide cracked rapidly back and forth. His body went rigid as it digested the first soundless contact shot, then became increasingly limp on the remaining nine. His pupils contracted into dots of surprise and pain. He stared up at her in shock for a moment, and then his eyes glassed over, clouded, faded, and rolled back.
The mercenary lifted the smoking gun off the body's chest, mouth twisting between revulsion and pride at a job well done.
Since the gunshots destroyed his chest cavity, there was very little external bleeding besides a deep red stain soaking down into the mattress. After setting up the gun and his hands to make it look like a suicide, the woman ignited a thin film of plasma in her palm while holding the gun, effectively torching any telltale fingerprint oils left on the grip.
The vixen rolled off the bed and dropped to her knees, rooting in a small carry-bag stuffed between the legs of the nightstand. She unearthed a slim box of latex gloves, tugged out a pair, and screenched them on, snapping the rims deftly against her wrists like a doctor. Digging a folder out of the flat bottom of her bag, the mercenary withdrew a 'handwritten' note, peppered it with the dead man's fingerprints, and left it prominently on a dresser.
Times had been tough on the world's militaries since the USSR collapsed several years before. Discharges – and the fear of discharge – were common, particularly in Europe; retirement stipends were often far too meager to support the life an officer had had at-grade; and for many soldiers, the military was their life and soul. The letter explained the officer's deep fear of discharge in the face of an imminent downsizing, that he'd hired a prostitute for one last go, paid her handsomely, and sent her on her way. She'd had no part in this at all.
She again applauded herself as she twitched the letter slightly to give it the right 'touch,' surprised at how well it'd turned out. It had taken her a month of stress and danger to intercept all the needed writing fragments to feed into her current employer's mainframe. With mild annoyance, she remembered the M-13 had needed only a few hours to analyze the man's cursive and pump out a forgery that even his closest platoon-mates couldn't spot.
After glancing around for other traces of physical evidence, she stepped into the adjoining bathroom, still naked, and turned on the shower tap. Standing under the sharp needles of the showerhead, she stretched deeply, lengthening her spine as she leaned backward slightly, hands threaded together and extended above her head, cracking her knuckles.
The gloves felt weird drenched in water. She grimaced a little as the latex stuck tightly to her skin in some places and bubbled in others, but she'd been around long enough to know that anything, everything in life left a trail. Like walkers through a field of grain, people created indelible tracks of their existence, no matter how well they tried to hide. As it was, she knew she'd left a trail of biologic a mile wide, but she hoped the trace of 'her' spinning out behind her – skin cells, strands of hair, sexual residue, stray fingerprints, her toe-prints on the shower tiles beneath her feet – would be explained away by the letter. That ruse wouldn't – couldn't – hold forever, but it usually gave her enough distance to stop the trail cold. Wearing the gloves in the shower, to prevent leaving prints on the gleaming chrome water controls, was a start.
Washing off a splatter of blood covering her chest and gun arm with a miniature shampoo bottle, she closed her eyes. Instantly, the face of her still-warm hit seared before her, his shocked, betrayed eyes boring into her own.
She recoiled, blind, smashing painfully into the shower controls. Crushing her eyelids even tighter together, she knocked the mixer-faucet all the way right with a bump of her hip. At the same time, she reached up and scrabbled at the showerhead, twisting it to an excoriating jet. Goosebumps erupted over her skin as she tilted into the freezing water, letting the painful stream drill between her eyes.
The faces always came back. In her twenty-two years, she'd seen, and done, enough killing to become numb to it, detach herself from empathy, contort her victims into nonentities, merely vehicles to her payday – but the faces always came back a little in REM sleep. Always. She'd found the echo effect could be damped significantly if she drove the person, and the deed, from her mind as soon as possible. Cold, pounding showers seemed to work best.
The woman stood in the shower until she was nearly hypothermic, until the burning image of her victim was overtaken and drowned by the miserable, unrelenting sting of frigid water. She got out, shivering, and toweled off. She gave her head a whip, and water sprayed across the wallpaper and mirror as droplets zinged off her long, raven hair. A Clorox bottle rooted out from beneath the sink erased her footprints from the linoleum.
Meandering back into the bedroom, her spirits lifted with her temperature. With her memories successfully repressed, the thing on the bed now held the same emotional impact as the beige window drapes. She collected her belongings and sex things and dumped them into her travel bag, cleaning flat surfaces for fingerprints as she did so. She knew she couldn't get them all. Finally, satisfied, she popped onto the bed and wriggled into her clothes. She'd researched the country's fashion carefully, and her dress was ubiquitous and inconspicuous – as inconspicuous as someone with her curves could be, anyway.
Dressed, she slung her bag over her shoulder and sashayed to the door of the flat. After checking the peephole to make sure the hallway outside was clear, she opened the door and stepped across the threshold, but then paused, undecided. Hesitating, she turned back to look into the room, scanning, feeling the unnerving prickle that she'd forgotten something important. Then it clicked. Leaning across the doorframe, she scrabbled at the thermostat control, cranking the apartment's temperature all the way down to the minimum, and set the timer for half an hour. This step would chill the body, slowing decomposition, and push the apparent time of death forward by fifteen to twenty minutes – more than enough time for her to clear the building.
Some dickwad PI too smart for his own good's probably gonna notice the power spike... she grumbled to herself, But by then...
Striding at a brisk, confidant clip, she breezed through the deserted, elegant hallways. By this time in the morning, most commuters had left for jobs, and the corridors were empty. The only major issues were ones she had already planned for.
When she rounded the corner to the main array of elevators, she found, as she'd expected, a lone security guard leaning against the floral-patterned wall separating the two banks of lifts. His crisp blue shirt strained to contain the load of his belly overhanging his belt, and he rocked aimlessly back and forth on his heels as he stood beside his chair, clearly bored out of his skull.
The sight of a curvy young woman in a short tan trench coat and jade miniskirt, both clinging in all the right places, proved a welcome distraction. Arching his eyebrows appraisingly, he perched his cap a little higher on his head and stood up straighter. "...'Elp ya derr, miss?"
"Uh-yuh-huh, um, sirrrr," she said, putting on as much American Valley-Girl accent she was willing to stoop to, "Um, like, how'dya'cha get to, uhhhh," she hesitated for a moment, sticking out her tongue a little, feigning stupidity, "Vip-Vippetangen?"
She noted with mild distain that his eyes did the standard male "elevator," and her face was the last thing he got to. Suited her, anyway. It meant he didn't notice her ease a hand behind his neck, or a small flash of green a second later.
He stiffened as if under an electric charge, seeping a choking, muffled noise as his tongue glued itself to the top of his mouth. His eyes rolled up slightly and he crumpled down the wall, unconscious. Huffing and puffing, the woman heaved him bulkily up into his chair and contorted him into a sleeping position. Fat folds oozed slightly over the edges of the seat.
Standing, the woman cricked her back and dusted her hands off. Evaluating the practice-honed zap she had just delivered, she judged he would snooze for another five minutes or so. There would be a ten-minute hole in his memory, like a cigarette burn, roughly five minutes before the KO and five minutes after, erasing herself from time.
Turning casually away, she took the stairs, since she'd noticed last night that the lifts had cameras in them.
Finally, she reached the elegant main lobby, an over-gilded affair with a two-story cathedral ceiling. Loitering behind a potted plant, she visually swept the room for security cameras and remaining stragglers. She picked out the cameras at once, still in the same positions as last night. They were older models; stationary and without plastic shrouds. The receptionist would be a problem, but she had her nose buried in a tabloid.
Taking a deep breath, she began, walking a contorted, zigzagging path around columns and behind furniture to remain out of the CCTV line-of-sight and the view of the receptionist. The latter glanced up once, as the woman made her final break for the doors, but considered the call-girl she'd seen coming in last night with the Oberstløytnant not a threat and promptly forgot her as she turned back to last week's scandals.
Flooded with adrenaline and the euphoria of success, the black-haired woman stepped out into the streets of Oslo. Over the apartment complex's threshold, she felt a thick wad of unmarked Deutschemarkspressed into her cupped, waiting palm. She knew better than to turn around and look.
Shego checked her watch. She had a contract that evening at nine in eastern Germany on an ex-KGB agent. NATO had promised her a quarter of a million.
Flagging down a taxi, she smirked again.
Life was good.
9:28 AM UTC
April 16th 1999
To be continued...