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Enter the Naked Mole Rat	By : kwh Category: Kim Possible > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 18154 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Kim felt herself melt ever further into the comfortable massage table. She imagined that there were over-boiled noodles all over Hong Kong right at that moment that were less relaxed than she now felt. The by any measure stunningly beautiful Asian masseuse who had spent the last hour expertly and intensively manipulating almost every inch of her oil-anointed body, stepped back, smiled at her and said 'And now, Madam, you should relax in the spa-bath and allow your muscles to recover before the final stage of your programme! I will return in a little over half an hour...'.
"Thank you, Miss Chang!" said, Kim, having noted the masseuse' name tag a little earlier, as she self-consciously adjusted the tiny but luxuriously appointed white fluffy towel, which was all that had been intermittently protecting her modesty for many of the past three hours.
The door closed behind Miss Chang and Kim languidly pulled herself up to a sitting position, allowing the small and now aromatherapy-oil impregnated rectangle of cloth to fall into her lap, and then she swivelled through 90 degrees and slumped back against the wall of the private hotel spa suite she now had entirely to herself.
This had been entirely surreal couple of days, she decided, as she looked around the palatial treatment room.
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She had gone straight from one kind of surreal (losing her temper, tearing a huge strip off of Dr Director, not only swearing at her but even making her cry, something that she could scarcely believe had really happened), via a night in her own bed, with only Pandaroo to help her cope with the horrific nightmares that she suspected unhappily would be a feature of her nights for a while, to a whole other kind of surreal, when an airline limousine picked her up at home at the end of a day of frantic packing ("Just how many different gi's does a girl need?") and delivered her to the VIP set-down zone at Middleton airport, and then she was whisked into the ultra-exclusive, snootier than first-class, VIP departure lounge, where she discovered the joys of squidgy leather couches, deep carpets, crisp white linen and canapés, all accompanied by a string quartet, a corporate CEO and a visiting diplomat, the latter two being fellow passengers on her flight. There she was served expensive European bottled water, and offered a selection of exotic fruit juices to wash down her voluvant and other snacks (the corporate CEO seemed to be enjoying a selection of fine wines, Kim noticed - she had obviously been given the 'under 21' menu to select from), before being ushered across a red-carpeted air-bridge and into the uber-exclusive upper deck lounge of a Boeing 747-400, where she had a leather seat that was as large and as comfortable as any she had ever sat in, let alone on a plane. Even Mr Nakatomi's private jet had been less opulent than this cabin. 'How the other half fly!', Kim remembered thinking as she boarded.
The breath-taking gourmet food that was served soon after take-off combined with the incredibly cossetting first class seat and the previous two nights of seriously curtailed sleep soon lulled her into the land of nod, a deep and relaxing sleep only interrupted by a brief 'touch and go' stop at LAX, where the corporate fat cat disembarked, a couple of necessary trips to the fittingly sumptuous VIP deck lavatory, and another gourmet feast. She had awoken for the final time, as well rested as anybody ever could be (although her allowance might not stretch to VIP international air travel every time she needed a night of nightmare free sleep, she had wryly told herself at the time), to a light but now familiarly exquisitely prepared breakfast, and then was able to gaze out across the myriad twinkling lights of the densely packed sky-scrapers of Hong-Kong. The plane soon banked to line up with the runway at Chek Lap Kok, as dawn chased it to the ground. From there, another red carpet, a walk through a special VIP immigration and customs channel to another VIP lounge, and then a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow appeared to whisk a still dazed Kim, who had never previously imagined that such a thing as opulence fatigue could even exist, through the madness of the start of the Hong Kong morning rush hour to her hotel.
When Wade had told her that she was booked into the most expensive, luxurious and spectacular hotel in the whole of Hong Kong, she hadn't really appreciated what that might entail. She soon began to get an idea. Impeccably dressed functionaries were everywhere, unloading her luggage from the trunk of the hotel's Rolls and fussing around her as she was escorted into a cavernously palatial lobby area to a front desk the size of the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, to be told that her room, the 'Dragon Queen Suite' was ready for her. Kim suddenly felt horribly underdressed, given that she was wearing fashion slacks and a long sleeved crop top, surrounded by more starched collars, designer dresses and impeccable tailoring than she had ever seen outside a Royal wedding. And that was just the staff!
"Your luggage shall be taken to your suite now, Miss Possible. Would you like to dress for breakfast? Or we can send the chef to your suite! Our client was most insistent that you should have whatever your heart desires at no cost to yourself during your all to brief stay with us." schmoozed the Concierge.
"Dress for breakfast"? Kim felt sure that he didn't mean a karate gi, or indeed an orange Shaolin robe. Beyond what she was wearing, sleepwear, her mission gear, a pessimistically large selection of underwear, and a tiny bikini that she was almost certainly far too chicken to ever be seen in anywhere ever but which Monique had insisted would be perfect for her, she had nothing with her that would be appropriate wear anywhere outside of a dojo, a ring or a temple. She doubted she even owned anything that wouldn't stand out like a high-visibility jacket at breakfast here, and not in any good way!
Perhaps she had communicated her momentary angst through her face a little more expressively than she had intended, but more likely the Concierge in the finest hotel in Hong Kong had seen her rather travel and mission-worn luggage make its way across the the lobby and expertly deduced that it probably didn't contain any Dior, because he said "Of course, if it pleases Madam, the boutique VIP team will attend your suite immediately and will be happy to assist you to complete your wardrobe as you desire."
Kim hesitated, weighing the already finely balanced ethics of accepting hospitality from somebody as unsavoury as Lo Pin, against the need to maintain the cover for her mission, however inconsequential that mission might be. And then she realised that if Lo Pin was willing to fund an expensive designer frock so that she could dine in the restaurant rather than her room that evening, she could donate it to charity later and help Lo Pin put something back into society. Win win!
"Of course, it would all be entirely chargeable to our client's account...", said the Concierge, trying to be helpful while misunderstanding Kim's apparent momentary indecision.
"Oh, of course!" said Kim, who at that moment suddenly realised that the Concierge might have made a similarly cynical snap assumption about the nature of her relationship with the extremely rich man who was showering such largesse on a teenage girl, and was feeling a little soiled even for thinking it. "But I was just thinking that I ate a lovely breakfast on the plane and I really am not at all hungry at the moment. Maybe we could arrange for the boutique people to come on up later and I can speak to them about something to wear for dinner tonight?"
"Ah! Of course Madame! You must be exhausted after your flight. I will have the bed turned down for you..." said the Concierge, raising his hands in the air ready to clap and set the wheels in motion.
"No, no, really... Thank you!" said Kim, quickly. "I slept very well on the plane, in fact I'm wide awake and raring to go!"
"Ah... then... a tour, perhaps? Allow us to assign you a car and a personal guide for the day, and you can see the Hong Kong. The Tiger Balm Gardens are particularly beautiful...". His hands were again in the air, again about to clap theatrically. That small part of Kim's mind prone to flights of fancy and threads of whimsy wondered how the well oiled machine of the hotel knew what the concierge expected to happen when he clapped his hands. perhaps it was all for effect, and the concierge was talking into a hidden microphone that the rest of the staff were actually listening in on. Or perhaps the claps were coded? Maybe two rapid claps, a pause and then a big one meant "Tourist guide, stat!".
"No... thank you... really... that sounds wonderful. But I'd set my heart on... a spa treatment!"
There are many ways to remember a fallen comrade, or indeed a fallen foe, but as acts of solemn remembrance go, a spa treatment was a pretty novel one. Nevertheless, it was probably the most entirely appropriate living memorial Kim could give Shego. Well, she reflected, apart from stealing the British crown jewels. Or overthrowing the government of Uzbekistan and then personally eviscerating several of the more unspeakable people associated with it. But because she wasn't Shego, she was Kim Possible, she couldn't imagine herself doing either of those things. So the Shego memorial spa day it would have to be. Assuming Shego was actually dead, of course. If Shego wasn't dead, Kim decided that she wanted to make this a spa treatment that would make her nemesis green with envy. Greener.
Kim knew little or nothing about spa treatments from personal experience, but she suspected that the more over the top and decadent the whole exercise, and the more opulent the surroundings, the more annoyed with her Shego would be if Kim ever one day had the opportunity to taunt her with details. Although Kim knew in her heart that that was never going to happen...
"Aha! Our world class spa! Of course!" said the concierge, raising his arms aloft and clapping three times, pausing, and then three times more, with an almost flamenco flourish. "Oh yes! Nailed it!", thought Kim, in passing, as people at the far end of the lobby began to mill around purposefully in her peripheral vision.
"And which spa treatment would madam wish to take? We have a truly world class reputation here at..."
"I'd like to make a day of it, please! Everything you have! The whole deal...". 'In for a penny, in for a pound!' thought Kim.
"Madam! Of course! Then you will be requiring our Billionaire Retreat package!" announced the concierge, in a tone indicating that Lo Pin's open tab might be about to take rather more of a beating than mere couture fashion would have dealt it, and almost daring Kim to change her mind. His arms shot aloft with even more enthusiasm and this time he clapped six times in rapid succession. Within seconds a phalanx of impeccably starched white tunics was marching across the vast shimmering lobby towards her, and the concierge barely had time to hand her 'The key to your Private elevator, Madam', before she was whisked away into an entirely alien world, deep below the hotel.
Kim's only exposure to the Spa treatment experience previously had been entirely indirect, on those couple of occasions when she had interrupted Shego in mid preen, but even if she had been a regular client of Middleton Health and Beauty, it would have been no preparation for 'The Billionaire Retreat package'. Within minutes of being led to the 'Empress level' of the hotel spa, which seemed to be dedicated to pampering mainly the wives and concubines of the hyper-rich in surroundings of unimaginable luxury, Kim was wearing a white bath robe so soft and fluffy that felt like it should have cost more than every single item in her wardrobe at home put together, reclining on a chaise long, while relays of beauty therapists worked on her every extremity. Her finger and toe-nails were assaulted by armies of emery-board wielding manicurists and pedicurists, her cuticles were teased with strange concoctions and her hands and feet exfoliated and then bathed and massaged with lotions that Kim suspected cost rather more than the soap and water she normally treated her hands to. The various nail specialists to a woman clucked and fussed over Kim's short, practical finger and toe nails, and it was all she could do to persuade them not to fit her for some spectacular nail extensions that would have made even climbing a rope impossible, let alone punching anybody. In the end her resistance softened slightly and she was persuaded by their entreaties to allow them to install specially trimmed armoured gel nails with a deep and lustrous permanent colour overlay. She chose a particularly vivid dark red that complemented her ginger hair - she hardly ever painted her nails, but she actually loved the effect, although it would take a little getting used to.
Once the hand and foot specialists had done their worst, the multitude withdrew and handed over to a new shift of beauty therapists. Within a trice she was struggling not to be self conscious as she sat naked bar an unflattering pair of paper knickers, arms folded across her breasts. Shortly thereafter, she mummified from ankle to neck in warm clay-impregnated bandages. While the minerals in the clay worked their magic (although it felt absolutely wonderful, Kim was a tad sceptical that the claimed benefits would have survived even cursory scientific scrutiny), the next shift - the hair specialists and beauticians - fell upon her eagerly. Rejecting the opportunity to have her ears belatedly pierced, she also had a hard time dissuading the hair sculptors from getting artistic with the exciting blank canvas provided by her luxurious ginger locks. Fortunately they were soon distracted repairing the damage inflicted on her hair by the over-tight hair scrunchie she used to maintain her pony-tail. They were also apparently shocked by her atrociously bad split-ends, which they busied themselves with repairing; who knew that HALO parachuting was so bad for ones hair?
Kim had wavered in the face of some spectacular computer generated 'dos' as displayed on a wall-mounted plasma screen that would have given her a whole new look. Although she loved her au-natural flowing flame-red main, her favourite 'hair creation' would have made her a ginger 'dead-ringer' for Star Wars' Princess Leia! Unfortunately it would have precluded wearing a helmet entirely and the first mission she went on would have left her with an irreparable ginger birds nest on her head. Nevertheless, she was very tempted!
After rejecting the heartfelt entreaties of the hair sculptors and the ear piercers, Kim's resistance to the semi-permanent make-up artists was less certain, not least because she thought that the computer generated images of her face with the subtle lip-lining, eye shadow and eyebrow enhancement really did look spectacular, and at least as good as anything she had ever managed to achieve when applying make-up herself. Although the searching questions she asked of Hong Kong's leading make-up artist were probably something of a first for the poor lady; questions like 'It says here that semi-permanent make-up is waterproof. Down to what depth?','Will it survive terminal velocity during free-fall?','Do you happen to know, is it radar reflective?'.
The benefit of being on the Billionaires Retreat was that somebody had a hotline to the manufacturer and was able in short order to assure Kim that her eye-shadow would indeed survive the deepest of mixed gas dives unscathed, and that even 250mph air-flow wouldn't smudge her eye-shadow. But perhaps unsurprisingly, the cosmetics manufacturer hadn't conducted any research on the radar observability of their products, since most of their potential clients didn't spend half as much time as Kim did sneaking into supervillain's lairs! Kim was forced to turn to her Kimmunicator and ask guardian angel Wade, who in turn was able to scan the bottled products and reassure her that not only would she not be any more radar reflective with the semi-permanent make-up on her face, but that her infra-red signature might even be marginally reduced!
She almost went ahead with the semi-permanent make-up, but at the last moment, she changed her mind. 'What was I thinking?', she asked herself, as she told the best and brightest of Hong Kong's make-up artists that she wouldn't be requiring their services after all. Their disappointment was palpable, and bizarrely she found herself feeling a little guilty for denying them the chance to (semi) permanently alter her natural appearance. The world of spa clearly had its own internal logic which she was in real danger of becoming swept up by, Kim observed. It was like being inside a bubble where reality doesn't apply!
As soon as the dejected make-up artists had trooped out of the suite, the clay-wrap came off, the paper knickers went with it, and all trace of the sticky clay was hosed and vigorously scrubbed away by the two therapists who had first applied it in the luxury spa suite's integrated marble-and-granite shower room. Kim was then handed one of the small fluffy towels that would be her constant companion for much of the the remainder of her spa day, and introduced to a traditional Swedish sauna, complete with icy plunge. After a couple of cycles of sweating profusely in the oppressive heat of the sauna cabin on one side of the private spa suite, before stepping out and jumping naked into the small ice-pool on the other, she was in the mercifully hot shower again, and then being towelled vigorously dry by yet another pair of beauty therapists. And then it was onto the treatment table, and time for the wax.
It began with them showing Kim her face on the big screen, and then cycling through eyebrow shaping options. To be honest, Kim had never even noticed the shape of her eyebrows before, let alone considered changing them, but this wasn't a long term change and she was still feeling bizarrely guilty for denying the make-up artists their canvas, and so after a little umming and ahhing, she made a choice, and then lay back as the hot wax strips were expertly applied to her forehead, and then ripped away. The pain barely registered with Kim; her... unconventional... lifestyle had rather raised her pain threshold some way beyond the norm. The result was as advertised, and although when she looked at the side-by-side 'before and after' pictures on the plasma, she could see nothing wrong with her eyebrows 'au-naturel', the new shape was certainly... different. And better. Probably. Certainly no worse, which Kim was relieved about. In fact despite changing nothing except her eyebrows and her fingernails so far, she realised she was feeling good. Really, really good! Great, in fact!
The waxers, meanwhile were less content. Kim soon realised that they were more used to working with more... matronly clientele, here on the Empress level of the hotel spa. The flawlessness of youth frustrated them. They were unable to find a moustache on Kim's top lip that they could remove, the fine downy hair on Kim's arms and legs apparently wasn't ideally amenable to waxing, which didn't matter because Kim was even less amenable to allowing them to try, and Kim had out of habit shaved her pits and bikini line before getting on the plane. They looked so frustrated that when they said 'There is only one more thing we can possibly do, Madame', Kim said 'Show me' almost out of sympathy. If she'd been thinking a bit more and going with the flow a bit less, she might have held her tongue, or at least been less mortified by what appeared on the screen. Her mons pubis. Complete with ginger bush. She felt her cheeks flush and burn, but she had asked them to show her so she couldn't really object. The screen started scrolling through computer generated images of her crotch, with her pubes arranged in various styles, and she wanted to say "Ewww! No! No way!". But that would be rude. And anyway, it was vaguely intriguing seeing herself 'down there' as others might one day see her, with those weird and wonderful pubic hair arrangements. Her neatly if generously defined and trimmed triangle of red curly hair looked very unkempt besides the littany of 'pubic hairstyles' she was shown, most that she'd never heard of, let alone seen. It also suddenly occurred to her that Monique's ridiculously tiny bikini choice was just slightly smaller than her current bush, so in the unlikely event that she did want to wear it, she'd need a good twenty minutes of undignified contortionism with a razor in the shower first. Or perhaps she could just have the excess waxed away now.
"...and this is a Hollywood!" announced the 'Chief Cosmetic Wax Technician', as her name badge proclaimed her, as a computer doctored image of a completely bald Possible hoo-hah appeared on the big screen. Kim's nose involuntarily wrinkled. Apart from the fact that it would apparently make her look like a plucked chicken (or a pre-pubescent) betwixt her legs, her broader inner disdain for sexual stereotyping (which was the only explanation she could presently come up with for why somebody might want to do such a thing to themselves) was tweaked. She imagined that this would obviously have to be the final slide, and was about to say something when she discovered she was wrong. "From there, of course, we can enhance..." said the chief wax technician, as the same post-hollywood-wax bald labia appeared on the screen, this time augmented with a number of glittering jewels and crystals stuck to the bikini area in the shape of her initials 'KP'.
This was definitely too much for Kim who exclaimed 'Ewww! No way!' before she even realised that she had spoken. "Go back!" she added quickly, anxious to avoid causing offence. "Further... was it 'French'?". The wax tech quickly backed up though the 'pubic hairstyles' slide-pack, slowing down as she approached the 'French' option. It would definitely do the job, she decided as she looked at it. It was definitely smaller than that very risque if not quite indecent bikini in her luggage upstairs. But a bit boring, she thought, looking at the rectangular 'landing strip'. Actually her eye had moments earlier been taken by the slide just after this one. "Can we see the next one, please?". Perfect. Practical but also a little cute, without being tacky. And nobody need ever know. Her next locker room shower would be a good two months hence, by which time it would all have grown out. "I like this one, Please and Thank You!" said Kim, before she could talk herself back out of having it done.
The waxing downstairs hurt. A lot. Even Kim found herself wincing occasionally. There was also a mildly awkweird moment when the wax tech had said "Please open your legs as far as you can, Miss Possible". And then squealed and jumped back in shock when Kim had promptly and literally obliged. The waxer had quickly apologised profusely while Kim had in turn blushed crimson as the 'spa treatment bubble' momentarily burst and Kim realised that a complete stranger was about to rip much of the hair around her most intimate area out by its roots. But she was committed by then, so she moved her legs back down just past perpendicular to her pelvis and awaited her fate stoically. More fool her when she was asked 'Would you like us to clean up any odd hairs further back?' and she said 'Why not!', because she wasn't prepared for the indignity of laying on her stomach, pulling her own buttocks apart while a strange woman fiddled around between her akimbo legs with wax strips. Nor was she prepared for the excruciating pain as the rather more hair than she had ever imagined being there in the first place was torn out from round her back passage, high pain threshold or not.
By the time it was finished, though, and Kim looked at the 'before and after' pictures, the 'spa treatment bubble' had formed around her again, and she was quite taken with her new, smaller, tidier and most shockingly, heart-shaped bush. Which would be her little secret, from everybody. Forever. Full stop.
From there, it was another shower, and then straight into an all over mud bath, where Kim spent half an hour immersed to the neck in an oversized portable bath-tub of warm, gloopy, mineral rich mud that was wheeled in to the suite, with slices of cucumber over her eyes and head slathered in still more of the odiferous gloop. 'This one is for you, Shego...' thought Kim, as she descended into sombre contemplation of the awful fate that had befallen woman who she had never thought well of, had even tried to kill (although she now bitterly regretted it), but who she had always regarded with healthy respect as an opponent. Only now that it was too late, had Kim come to understand Shego a little better, and also realise that she must have thought more highly of Shego than she was ever aware of at the time.
In due course, a couple of very well built women who looked like they might once have been Olympic shot-putters came and wheeled the tub straight up to the door of the shower and hauled Kim bodily upright out of the cloying and now cooling mud by her arms, then scrubbed her clean from head to toe in very no-nonsense fashion. Once the last trace of mud had spiralled away down the plug-hole, they turned off the water and swapped the shower heads for towels before towelling her dry with equal brusqueness.
By now, fully inside the 'spa treatment bubble', Kim was becoming slightly blasé about being naked in front of complete strangers. By the time she emerged from the shower, the mobile mud bath had gone, presumably in the care of the two muscle-bound ladies, and the luxuriously comfortable robe she had worn earlier hung on a hook outside the shower room. On the small table next to the bench where the Kimmunicator lay, privacy mode engaged and camera firmly face down, a menu, cutlery and a place mat had been laid, along with a rose in a glass. Kim was shocked, and checked the time on the Kimmunicator - how was it lunchtime already, given that she had started so early this morning? She realised that she now was a little hungry, but nothing that the light salad and mineral water she ordered from a spa attendant who appeared right on cue wouldn't fix.
Again it was no run of the mill salad, although a slice of cucumber is still a slice of cucumber, however skillfully it has been carved into an intricate shape. But Kim went from the sublime to the ridiculous, following the 'healthy choice' light salad, with the height of decadence in sweet courses, as she enjoyed a bowl of chilled frosted strawberries, which she individually dipped into a jug of fresh whipped cream, all while reclining in the suite's jaccuzzi.
Bliss.
When she was eventually invited to climb out of the jacuzzi, the fluffy bath robe had gone, replaced again by one of the tiny towels, and the massage 'treatments' started. One after another, separated by sauna sessions or pauses to relax in the Jacuzzi. Kim doubted that many of them were anything more than complete flim-flam, but they were all pleasant enough experiences despite that. There was a Reiki massage, a Shiatsu session, a session with an unpronouncable name where the therapist kept talking about 'unblocking her chakras' and a hot stone massage, each more relaxing than the last, although all of them a little hokey to a greater or lesser extent. But the last one was the best of them all so far, half an hour of glorious deep tissue aromatherapy massage.
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Kim yawned, contentedly. Apparently, proper relaxation was utterly exhausting. She glanced down at her right bicep, and was surprised to see that for all that the 'treatments' she had just experienced were clearly outrageous quackery, the angry bruise she had been sporting for a couple of days, courtesy of Hiro Kung in the Global Justice training dojo, had faded significantly, and upon a bit of exploratory prodding, was less painful to the touch.
She knew one thing now, as well. Miss Chang wasn't the only stunningly beautiful woman who had laid hands on her today, but she was surely the most beautiful, and the massage she had just given Kim with the aromatherapy oil had been the most sensual massage experience she had ever had. And yet... she had experienced not even a tiny flicker of arousal. If she was a closet lesbian, she was hiding it from herself very well!
That thing with Shego the other day... that must just have been some kind of weird aberration.
Kim found herself inadvertently thinking about her late nemesis for a second. She remembered the fighting mostly, and fantasised about Shego snarling at her and leaping in to attack her full bore as Kim taunted her with the whole 'I spent the day at the 'Billionaires Retreat' deal...
...and for the first time all day, she felt a tiny but still unwelcome echo of a bloom of tingly heat in her groin as she remembered the raw desperate abandon of full bodied combat with Shego...
"NO!" she admonished herself, jumping up sharply and stomping over to the Jacuzzi. Stepping in, she slumped down in one of the seats, while forcing herself to think about mundanities. And definitely not Shego. Or the fact that if the only thing that turned her on was going head to head in life or death combat with a truly worthy opponent, her love life was always going to be... complicated. To say the least. Dear Dr Ruth...
She slumped further in the Jacuzzi... until suddenly a jet of warm water blasted her squarely in the crotch. She yelped, and quickly shuffled away from the unwanted stimulus, paranoid that what had happened the other day might happen again. Her rational mind told her it wasn't anything she need worry about; she hadn't just spent a day and a half fighting skilled martial artists, and she hadn't known then that Shego was almost certainly dead, either. But she was thinking about Shego again in an awkweird fashion, she realised. 'Must stop doing that!' she told herself . She made an effort to clear her mind entirely, and when that failed, to think about something entirely different. Kim chose to focus on where it had all begun. And why. Mrs Mulberry's Ballet Academy had an awful lot to answer for...
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In London there is a man who, despite being severely autistic, can be shown a mere glimpse of an entire cityscape, and then accurately draw it in its entirety over several days, including every one of thousands of buildings in their correct locations, with the correct number of floors and windows on each floor. This is something that no 'normal' person can do. In Moscow, there is a blind man with a reading age of 7 and a severely limited intellect, who, given a piano, can perfectly recreate at will any performance by any of the world's greatest pianists, having heard it just the once. Again, this is beyond the capabilities of almost all of humanity. These incredibly rare and gifted people are more commonly known as 'savants', and their superhuman abilities seem to be a consequence of their brains being wired up entirely differently. Most of them suffer for the fact that their superhuman innate capability is balanced by an even more significant disability. A particularly crass, insensitive and narrow minded commentator might say that they 'came out wrong'.
Kim definitely 'came out wrong'. Kim had recently remarked, referring to the tweebs, that 'This is what happens when a rocket scientist and a brain surgeon reproduce'. Indeed, when two people with intellects in the 99.9th percentile have children together, you'd expect them to be intellectually gifted to an astonishing degree. The tweebs were doing differential calculus for fun before they were out of Pre-K. For Kim to be merely 'quite bright' was definitely a surprise to her parents. Oh sure, her standardised IQ tests put her up there on or about the 85th percentile, but she was definitely slow-witted for a Possible. But on the other hand, according to her mother, she was crawling at 10 weeks old and walking at less than 6 months, which should have been a biological impossibility. By 9 months she was climbing up the curtains to get a closer look at the ceiling and by the time she was three she was tightrope-walking on the banister rail for fun. By four years old, her poor mother was run utterly ragged. Kim seemed to have boundless energy and no healthy way to expend it, compounded by a penchant for blithely taking what appeared to be the most horrific risks. One day Anne drove home from the hospital to discover the child minder outside in the garden tearing her hair out as Kim balanced on one leg on top of the chimney pot on the roof of the house and bouncing up and down. For fun. Nobody could work out how she could possibly have got up there, let alone how to get her down. While Ann was ageing ten years on the front driveway, Kim aged her another decade by seeing her and leaping off the chimney pot and sliding down the roof at the back of the house then apparently off the edge, two stories above the ground. She was still standing transfixed with shock when Kim ran round the side of the house and said 'Hello mummy!' . When an increasingly desperate Anne saw an advertisement in the classified section of the Middleton Bugle for a ballet class for tots, she decided to take Kim along and see how she took to it.
What happened next caused something of a stir.
Mrs Mulberry was formerly a leading light of the Middleton Amateur Ballet company, and perfectly qualified to introduce very small children, mostly girls, to ballet dancing. When her left hip had finally called time on her own modest ballet dancing dreams, and with her own children having grown well past the cute stage, she had decided to try to combine sharing her love of the art of ballet with her love of small children, and to earn a few extra bucks in the process, by starting a ballet class for the tots she found most adorable at the old Middleton temperance hall. She had been running her classes for around 6 months when Anne Possible first brought little Kimmy along to join in.
At first none of the exercises, aimed at 4-6 year olds, seemed remotely interesting to young Kim. She seemed able to assume the basic positions that Mrs Mulberry demonstrated to her class of tots during her first session with perfect ease and grace, first time every time, without any help or guidance, obviously fairly bored, and so she expressed surprise when Anne remarked later that Kim had never taken any kind of ballet class before. But it was when Mrs Mulberry played a grainy video of the Bolshoi performing Swan Lake to her class (to inspire them, and also to give her creaking hip a bit of respite), that Kim was apparently utterly transfixed. Afterwards she persuaded her mother to try to borrow the tape from Mrs Mulberry. That evening before bed she watched the tape just twice more, and then went to bed a happy 4 year old. The next day she attempted to dance Odette's solo in the back garden. And anybody watching would have been utterly amazed. But little 4 year old Kim was apparently frustrated by her physical inability to emulate precisely the physicality of Natalia Bessmertova, prima ballerina of the Bolshoi, who of course had by then spent a lifetime dedicated to honing both her craft and her body as well as her artistic skills. But undaunted, and with no prompting, little Kimmie apparently knew exactly what she needed to do. She devised a training program for herself that would enable her to match Bessmertova's performance perfectly.
Anne had no idea what she and Mrs Mulberry had started. She only knew that for the next four weeks, little Kimmie had stopped climbing trees and swinging from high branches, and the latest child minder had stopped taking Valium. In truth, if she had known that little Kimmie was training herself to the pitch of a prima ballerina at 4 years old, then as a doctor she would have been even more stressed and anxious. But ignorance is bliss. Fortunately for her, little Kim the savant was perfectly aware of her own body to a level that no other human being could be. She understood every muscle and every fibre in a way that no sports scientist, bio-mechanist or radiographer ever could. She instinctively knew how to make it do exactly what she wanted it to do, including get stronger, without doing any damage. She knew what foods to eat, in what quantities, and what to avoid, although she couldn't yet properly articulate her desires. She knew that fine line between optimal training and over-training, not only holistically, but at the level of each individual muscle, sinew, tendon and ligament. And yet she knew these things at a purely instinctive level, because at 4 years old she barely had any concept of muscles and bones, or fitness come to that. And of course, it never remotely occurred to her that she was in any way different to anybody else. She just wanted to dance exactly like the pretty lady on the TV.
Anne was called in to work to deal with a burst aneurism the following weekend, so she didn't get to take little Kimmie to her ballet class, but the following Saturday Anne was free and returned with Kimmie, the borrowed video and an apology for the delay in returning it. 'Oh no, don't worry, please…' said Mrs Mulberry to Anne, dismissively. "It's just wonderful to see so much enthusiasm for ballet in a child!". Then turning to little Kim she asked "Did you like it?". "Yes, thank you Mrs Mulberry! I'm learning to dance just like the lady in the video! Look, I can do…" babbled Kim excitedly . "Oh really! I'd really like to see that, Kim! Maybe later you can show me!" said Mrs Mulberry, humouring the child.
And that was it, until the end of the class. Anne spent the next 45 minutes reading the current issue of The Neuroscience Review, while little Kimmie looked bored as she went through 'First position', 'Second position…' etc. Only at the end of the class, as the parent were milling around gathering their charges, did Kim say "Can I show you now Mrs Mulberry? Pleeeese!".
"Oh go on then, Kim. Just there, I'll be watching!" said Mrs Mulberry, apparently expecting to be able to have a little light chit-chat with Mrs Dr Possible while Kim cavorted around the temperance hall in an uncoordinated fashion that bore no relation to any kind of dance, let alone ballet.
Instead, she found herself standing alongside Anne and watching transfixed, their mouths hanging open in amazement, as a 4 year old danced what appeared to her to be a perfect rendition of Odette's solo from Swan Lake. She finished in almost complete silence, her mother, Mrs Mulberry and those parents who hadn't yet made it out the door all standing and staring in slack jawed amazement, and then skipped over to Mrs Mulberry and her mother and said 'It's not right yet. I can't do this…', Kim assumed a position on the point of her left ballet pump and raised her right leg past her ear, 'for long enough yet. And…'. "Where did you learn to do that?" asked a shocked Mrs Mulberry, interrupting her. Anne obviously wanted to know the same thing. "I watched the tape you lent my mommy!" said Kim, simply.
Mrs Doctor Possible and Mrs Mulberry looked at each other. Then looked at Kim. Then looked at each other. Then Mrs Mulberry said "Kim… if I put the video here in the player and turn the sound up, could you do that again to the music ?".
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" said Kim, bouncing up and down with unrepressed excitement.
A week later, and with a week more of her self-generated physical training program, Kim's interpretation of Odette's solo from Swan Lake was, by any objective measure, world class. The voluntary artistic director of the Middleton Amateur Ballet, a former professional Corps de Ballet dancer, wept real tears of emotion as 4 year old Kim emulated the greatest ballerina of the modern era in a draughty public hall in Middleton, accompanied by a ghetto blaster. For good measure, having watched another couple of famous ballets and ballerinas on video a couple of times each, she gave two further world class performances. When he asked how long she had been dancing and they had to tell him that her first ballet class had been four weeks earlier, he thought they were joking. Nevertheless, he had taped Kim's extraordinary performances on video and sent the tape to an old buddy of his who now worked for the Metropolitan ballet in New York, with a covering note saying 'Get a load of this kid. It's unbelievable!'. And that had brought a sudden end to Kim's ballet career.
It was the Wednesday of the following week when the offer of a ballet scholarship hit the door mat. Well, three offers. Apparently, second and third generation copies of Kim's impromptu performances had spread around the world of professional ballet like wildfire, and creative directors were clamouring to grab this exceptional new talent for their companies and to hone, or exploit, it further. None of them had even seen Kim dance in the flesh, but they had all shot from the hip. If the family would move to New York, Moscow, London, Kim would have a stellar career ahead of her. But Mr Dr Possible was just leading his first major research project at Middleton Space Centre, and Anne had just been given the nod that she would be chief neurosurgery resident at Middleton hospital within the year. That, and she had just discovered that she was pregnant again. All things that made dropping everything and suddenly becoming itinerant ballet parents completely inconceivable. And she couldn't even consider narrowing her obviously extraordinary daughter's horizons so completely at just 4 years old. So, the next Saturday, when she clipped Kim into her car seat and set off to drive her to ballet class, she had to explain to her that she wouldn't be able to go to ballet class any more after today.
For the first mile of the trip, Kim cried inconsolably. Then she was very quiet for another mile. Finally, she said, in a very quiet voice "Mommy… it wasn't really fun when I'd learnt how to do it. It was only fun when I couldn't!'"
Anne pulled over to the side of the road and then turned to her daughter with surprise. 'What do you mean, Kimmie?'
"Now I can dance like that lady, it's quite boring really. How many dances are there to learn?"
A brief calculation in her head based on how quickly Kim learnt the three solo dances she had already mastered, told her that Kim would have finished with ballet in its entirely and be bored stupid with it within about two months, with only 25 years of dancing ahead of her, if the family had uprooted themselves in pursuit of ballet immortality. And Anne still hadn't worked out how Kim was able to do what she already physically could without having permanently ruined her growing body; she felt vindicated. "Not enough, darling. Not enough!"
She pulled away again, but then a sign caught her eye; 'Shotokan Karate, 2nd Dan Instructor, all ages welcome' had appeared over a previously empty shop-front in the strip-mall they were passing. On a whim, Anne pulled in to the parking lot and stopped. "Kimmie, how would you like to try something a little different? It might be more fun for you than ballet".
"OK, mommy!" said Kim, brightly.
************************************************************************
In due course, Miss Chang returned and hosed Kim clean of any of the aromatherapy oil that wasn't already forming an unappealing scum on top of the water in the jacuzzi; it was obvious why they left this treatment until last! When she emerged from the shower, she found one of the super-comfortable robes waiting for her, along with the chaise long and half the beauty therapists she had met earlier. They fell on her like a frenzied pack, and within minutes, her hair was conditioned and then pinned and clipped up into a simple arrangement that she could shake out when she was done with it, her face was made up beautifully, her new gel nails were polished to a gleam, and she smelt… expensive. Finally, she was handed the clothes and undies she had walked in wearing, freshly laundered, and pausing only to grab the Kimmunicator, she was ushered towards the private elevator that served the 'Dragon Queen Suite'. The entire staff of the Empress Spa lined up in three ranks to wave her goodbye as she left.
It was only as the elevator doors snicked closed between her and the waving drill formation of spa employees that it felt like that 'spa treatment bubble' she had been cocooned in finally went pop; she looked at the Kimmunicator and was shocked to see that it was 6pm local time. Had she really just spent an entire day doing absolutely nothing useful? 'Well, wherever Shego is now, I hope she appreciates the gesture!' thought Kim.
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