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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
- 24
- 25
- 26
1. Anchors Aweigh!
Will Du yawned expressively, and then took another sip of the complimentary champagne. He had seen Kim Possible safely aboard Lo Pin's gaudy flotilla of junks, as ordered, and now he was heading home for a long overdue period of R&R, having handed over surveillance duties to Global Justice 227.
On the one hand, he was distinctly disdainful of the whole idea of using an amateur, even one he grudgingly acknowledged was as competent as Kim Possible had proved to be.
On the other hand, having given her a Global Justice mission, even one as lightweight and inconsequential as this one, Dr Director's sudden late decision to delay the start of his leave and have him shadow her to Hong Kong, let alone to pull an asset of the value of the '227 off of its pre-assigned mission and have it standing by doing nothing for a week or so was quite incomprehensible to him.
An hour's notice for a 7 hour stealth hovership flight to get him in position ahead of Miss Possible's arrival in Hong Kong, followed by a couple of extremely unsavoury swims in the filthy odiferous soup of Hong Kong's Victoria harbour, had done nothing to improve his opinion of Global Justice's current operational priorities. Especially when he had been looking forward instead to six chukkers at the Lowerton Polo Club against the Argentinean National Polo Society touring side, followed by a celebration costume ball featuring the cream of Argentinean and local Society followed by a night of high stakes Baccarat.
On the flip side, although it was only the fact that Global Justice was so… comfortably resourced… that allowed such profligacy as sending Tier 1 agents, let alone the South China Sea command centre, on a babysitting mission for a precocious brat in the first place, it also ensured that the staff travel budget was… commensurately generous. Which meant he was flying back to Middleton in a very civilised Business Class seat instead of crammed into coach with the screaming babies and plastic cutlery.
Once he had landed in Middleton and reported in at HQ, he'd be free to head home to sleep. After another hour in the shower to try to finally remove the lingering nostril-wrinkling taint of 'Eau de Victoria Harbour' and the gallon of aftershave he had doused himself with to temporarily mask it, anyway. And then tomorrow he could finally saddle up for a bit of civilised sport. After Kim Possible had ruined the genteel and relaxed game of Golf for him forever by introducing him to Duff Killigan, Polo was now his chosen recreation of choice.
Of course, balancing his missed Polo match, it was thanks to the well above espionage industry standard and entirely tax-exempt Global Justice benefits package that Will could afford to indulge himself; even his small string of Polo ponies was… well, it wasn't the most expensive hobby maintained by loyal Global Justice operatives, but you'd not be doing it on a spook's or law enforcement salary if you worked for anyone else, that's for sure.
He knew of course that in theory he was on stand-by and could be called back to duty if there was a need to extract Kim Possible from Lo-Pin's tournament, but as far as he could tell, Miss Possible was on a barely disguised vacation rather than a mission, and as… unsavoury… as Lo Pin's business activities might be, he wasn't any concern of Global Justice. So, unless Dr Director had another brain fart, he could look forward to a week of uninterruptedly blissful equine R&R, in the company of the cosmopolitan jet set amongst whom he felt most at ease.
But for now, it looked to Will as if the flight attendant was coming down the aisle again with the open Jeroboam of Krug, and Will Du decided that another glass of champers to further wash down the excellent Fillet Mignon dinner would be... most agreeable.
There were very many far worse jobs in the world for a man with his particular skill-set, he reflected. And very few indeed that were better paid...

oOo
Shego awoke with a start and took a moment to remember where she was, before relaxing, stretching and enjoying the glorious feeling of crisp, clean Egyptian cotton sheets against her now equally clean skin. She hadn't wanted to take another cat-nap with the ship still anchored in Victoria harbour, and potentially vulnerable to assault, so she had used the afternoon profitably, with the storm covers on her stateroom firmly sealed against the eye-searingly flickering green flashes, by engaging in a little bit of advanced titanium craftsmanship. After 4 hours painstaking work, she had finished fabricating, and then artistically embellishing, a pair of the finest Sai Swords she had ever personally seen or handled, using Grade-5 titanium offcuts liberated from the scrap recycling bins outside the R&D workshops of a major aerospace manufacturing company she had been fortunate enough to ride past the front gate of on the way across Europe, just at the start of a shift change.
She hadn't even needed to get off the bike or move outside of its enveloping bubble of invisibility, let alone risk stealing anything anybody might actually connect with her. Just in and out in 5 minutes, stealthily and invisibly past the security post and under an open barrier, tailgating company staff.
A little later she would fill the cabin's steel waste bin with cold water and place it in the shower tray as an improvised quench bath, so that she could heat treat these newly fabricated works of art with her hands at 900 degrees centigrade, before plunging them into the ice cold water to rapidly cool them and harden them. But first, she needed to check that they were perfectly balanced. And to do that, she needed to do some serious Sai twirling. Assuming she could remember how. She had barely touched a Sai and certainly not wielded one for a dozen years now; why would you ever bother with weapons if you had hands that could burn almost as hot as the sun itself?
A few experimental twirls in her stateroom hinted that she was rusty but could still manage the basics just fine, and that the Sai were both there or thereabouts in balance, but only 'going for it' properly would prove that she didn't need to shave a few grams off of the two beautifully etched and decorated Titanium Sai here or there, and that was best done before the final heat-treatment.
She had needed more space than the stateroom provided, but she hadn't fancied drawing undue attention to herself while they were still in harbour, so she had decided to wait until they were well out at sea before hitting the deck and seeing what she still remembered.
At about six in the afternoon local time, according to the wall clock in her stateroom, she had heard a motor dhow draw up alongside the ship, and had peered cautiously outside to check that it wasn't anything she needed to worry about; it turned out to be the security crew from one of the reception centres with a number of crates that corresponded to the scanners she had seen when she had checked in herself. They were hauled on board, one by one, with a deck crane and then the security crew came aboard and the dhow chugged away from the ship as the landing stage was hauled aboard. A few minutes later, Shego had heard the unexpected sound of what she had been surprised to recognise as a gas turbine engine winding up to operating rpm, accompanied by the clank of anchor chains and the whine of the electric capstans and the sound of running feet as the ship made ready to leave port.
Soon the flotilla of four junks had been motoring slowly out of the harbour in line astern formation, and Shego had felt confident enough to grab a quick catnap for an hour or so.
Now, there was no turbine whine and from the way the ship moved, Shego could tell that the junk was under sail. Quickly she dressed, checking in the bathroom mirror to ensure that no green-tinged flesh would be visible to an observer, and pausing only to retrieve a bottle of chilled water from the small well-stocked refrigerator and the two titanium Sai swords which were temporarily doing duty as door spikes to give her warning of any uninvited visitations, and headed for the deck.
When she emerged topside, it was into a gentle evening breeze, as the sun dipped towards the horizon over the stern, over the tips of Hong Kong's tallest buildings, all that was still visible of the former colony. The four junks were sailing close together in a line abreast formation. The battened Junk-rig sails were full, the rigging creaked, and the ship very gently rolled. Occasionally, electric winches buried in the gunwales whined briefly, pulling in or paying out small amounts of high-tech rope, obviously intent on keeping the canvas optimally trimmed for the gentle airs propelling them in an easterly direction. A handful of crew members went about their business, mostly maintenance tasks so far as Shego could tell, and seemed to be entirely ignoring her.
She found a clear area of deck in front of the main-mast and began some basic warm-up exercises. She swore as her right shoulder flared with pain momentarily. Her right arm really was still giving her real gyp.
Her superficial injuries were behind her now, her skin scarred but healed, and her alien metabolism had even rebuilt her ruined knee and elbow ligaments, wrecked knee cartilage and torn right shoulder rotator cuff. The deep muscle injuries and sprung sternum had also healed well. But that old bugbear, scar tissue, was still slowing her down, and until it broke down she was wary of re-injuring her left hamstring, which could easily re-tear around the scar tissue, and her right pectoral muscle and bicep were similarly compromised.
The hamstring was getting better every day, as she worked it every time she walked on it, but what she needed for the remaining upper body injuries was a bit of percussive massage - bluntly, she needed either the services of a good Turkish style masseur, or somebody to kick the crap out of the affected area for her. It would hurt like a bitch, but the 're-tenderised' muscles would heal again quickly enough - within a few hours in fact, without the big lumps of scar tissue that would easily take three months to dissolve left to their own devices.
Obviously, given that she wanted to stay dead for a while, available massage options were somewhat limited; 'Where better to find somebody to kick the crap out of my injured muscles than at a martial arts tournament, though?', she asked herself.
The trick was finding somebody to spar with who she could read well enough that she could afford to drop her guard against without getting her head knocked off when she was expecting to get her arm pummelled. Not getting clobbered was one thing. Getting clobbered just the way you expected to get clobbered was... not something she had really practiced much. 'Where's the spoilt brat when you need her?', she wondered, idly.
It suddenly occurred to her that if she could find a Wing Chun dummy somewhere on Lo-Pin's island, she could use that to tenderise her upper arm and her left thigh, but the pectoral muscle really would need some good old-fashioned clobbering by somebody else.
Once she felt everything was as loose as it was going to get, she dredged a basic Sai Sword form from the recesses of her memory and set to work. Once upon a time she knew she'd been good at this. Damned good. World class in fact. What had 12 years of neglect done to her skills?
She surprised herself. Apparently, she remembered more than she thought she would. It was all a tiny bit ragged by the standards she had once set herself, and her body wasn't moving with the freedom she desperately wanted it to, but she quickly progressed through form after form, moving surprisingly competently onto routines that had once won her cups and adulation in equal measure, as long atrophied skills were rekindled and the happy memories associated with them temporarily crowded the normal undercurrent of dark brooding thoughts out of her mind. Even the tiny miscues in the forms and routines she was resurrecting from long buried history caused only the briefest of scowls to briefly cross her face, as with every complex and long unpractised sequence that she more or less nailed, she became more certain that with only a little revision work she would be back to where she had once been, a couple of months over 12 years previously. The Sai were just perfectly balanced as well, both in the twirl and in flight. She could heat-treat them now with confidence!
She decided to take a hydration break, at the end of the form that had, performed with slightly more grace, poise and freedom of movement, taken three open class weapon form titles at City, Division and State level back in the 1990's for a 12 year old White Ninja.
She grabbed the bottle of water, and headed into a small alcove in the lee of the deck house, placing it between her and the other four ships of the flotilla, before lifting the hood of her shinobo shozeki just enough to get her lips around the top of the cool bottle and taking a good swig, swilling the water around her mouth before swallowing, confident that she was protected from observation. The she replaced the cap, adjusted her hood carefully, and re-emerged onto her chosen deck space, glancing across the bobbing line of three ships to starboard as she did so.
She stopped in mid-pace, and her jaw dropped. On the deck of the nearest junk, roughly in the same part of the upper deck of that ship as Shego was currently standing on Lo Pin's flagship, stood quite the most… extraordinary… man.
Admittedly, his mode of dress, or more specifically the lack of it, might have something to do with the impression he was making on her; a pair of what looked like tiny and ridiculously clingy stretch-lycra briefs were all that protected his modesty (but in reality they served rather more to… highlight… what they contained), as he wielded a large oar with intent. The target of that intent was a black shinobi shozeki that looked far too small for him, but which was yielding great clouds of dust every time the blade of the oar slapped it.
However, Shego wasn't looking at the garment he was beating. She was instead looking at the way his absolutely breathtaking physique, which was glistening slightly under a sheen of sweat that highlighted his truly stunning musculature most effectively, moved and twitched as he athletically laid into the black garment with the heavy wooden paddle. She had no idea what on earth he had been doing with it, but the clouds of dust that blew away on the breeze after every violent slap of the oar didn't seem to be diminishing. From Shego's perspective, the longer beating the dust out of his clothing took absolutely the finest piece of male eye candy she could ever remember seeing bar none, the better.
'Now THAT is a boy toy…', thought Shego, unconsciously licking her lips. He made Senor Senior Junior, who she had once… extensively educated… look like a pre-pubescent cave troll!
It didn't help matters that Shego was, not to put too fine a point on it, starting to get just a little tiny bit sexually frustrated.
Nothing could have been further from her mind, when she had awoken on the beach on Ilha de Santo Antão; if getting her rocks off had for some bizarre reason occurred to her there and then , the fact that she had badly scalded every inch of her flesh, yes all of it, including the most sensitive membranes, and then immersed it all in salt water for an entire day before grinding volcanic sand into it would have pretty much ensured that her first thought on the subject would have surely been her last. Two sleepless days of agony, intense physical exertion and stress had followed, by which time her dermis at least had healed, and then a long night of the sleep of the dead once she had reached the chateaux had allowed her to wake up rested and to think momentarily about jilling off.
Think about it, but not to actually do it.
No sooner had she hobbled into the shower after waking in a bed for the first time in a week, than a chirrup from the entry-phone had signalled the arrival of Andre Montgolfier, setting in train a series of events that had brought her here without any opportunity to scratch that itch whatsoever. She had been looking forward to getting her rocks off in the shower in her cabin, until she discovered that the showerhead was bolted solidly to the junk's bulkhead.
Which rather stymied her.
Sheila Go had first discovered the joys of solitary self stimulation a couple of years before the comet turned her life upside down. In the absence of a school health class, or anything resembling a relationship with her mother, it had fallen by default to an excruciatingly embarrassed Amelia to guide young Sheila through the physical and emotional minefield of puberty, and she had - despite both of them very obviously wishing that the ground would swallow them whole every time Sheila felt moved to ask any of 'those' questions - done a remarkably good job of delivering Sheila into young adulthood with a healthy and well informed attitude to her sexual and physical development.
Unfortunately, there's nothing in any book anywhere that can prepare a young teenage girl for what happens when she suddenly finds herself equipped with hands that can suddenly turn into welding torches in moments of extreme emotion or stress. What happened to her would never happen now, given the same circumstances - she had soon learnt how to properly control her power - but back then, her first post-catastrophe attempt at teasing the little man in the canoe ended in her last ever orgasm by her own hand, a bed and very quickly a hotel room ablaze and some agonising burn injuries.
It was a formative experience, as excruciatingly embarrassing as it was painful. She was grateful that Amelia was there for her, still on bail awaiting trial, to fend off Henry and his moronic questions, deal with the hotel management and get her to hospital without dying of embarrassment or being arrested for arson; she didn't know about her incredible healing ability at the time. Well, not until injuries that the doctors assumed might well be fatal and certainly life-changing had healed completely within ten days. But the trauma left her with a frustrating and insurmountable psychological scar; ever since that day she could diddle away for hours with her fingers and her subconscious would never let her achieve release. It was a super-powered sexual hang-up all of her own making.
Of course she had always worked round it. Shower heads were definitely a girl's best friend. And over the years she had developed some very nifty ceramic battery powered toys for herself, made of the same insulating material that NASA had used to make the heat-resistant tiles on the space shuttle. But they were all unavailable to her now, and would be for probably as long as she wanted to stay dead. If she'd had 20/20 foresight she would have stashed something at the Chateaux, but when she had put together the emergency equipment caches for her bolt-holes, plasma-proof sex toys had hardly featured on her list of priorities.
But… none of that would matter, if Mr Sex on a Stick was a viable option for an entertaining one night stand during the forthcoming tournament!
Of course, it was probably a non-starter. She couldn't risk outing herself to anybody who could conceivably blab about being visited nocturnally by a reincarnated Shego, and nobody was ever going to mistake her for anybody else. But… well, she owed it to herself to check him out all the same. Just in case…
Shego stood and stared, drinking in the view and fully appreciating the impromptu show, for at least ten minutes. Eventually, the efforts of the modern day Adonis were rewarded as the black garment that was hanging on a rope strung across the deck of the adjacent junk gave forth no more dust, however hard it was beaten, and the chiselled god put up his oar. As he retrieved the black garment, he noticed his audience for the first time, and waved at her with a cheery self-conscious grin. Shego, to her chagrin, waved back like a giddy school girl. And then scowled to herself under the hood of her shinobo-shozeki. 'Get a grip, woman! Have you never seen a himbo before?'.
And then he was gone, and she went back to her work with the Sai swords, running through the form she had reprised before her water break and then moving on through the rest of her long forgotten repertoire, pushing all thoughts of the tall, dark, incredibly handsome stranger out of her mind. Well, almost all…

oOo

Kim sat in the lee of the deckhouse of the junk on the far right hand ('Starboard… it's starboard…', she told herself) end of the flotilla, enjoying the lapping of the waves, the rolling of the ship, the wheeling of the gulls and the whole novel ambience of a large ship under sail on the high seas. She had been delighted to discover, after she was shown to her beautifully appointed cabin, that even anchored in Victoria harbour, the movement of the ship seemed to be the key to nightmare free sleep. She hadn't even intended to have forty winks, she had just laid on the bed fully clothed and rested her eyes for a moment, and then suddenly it was several hours later and she was awoken by the whine of the engines and the sound of the anchors being weighed.
After a quick shower, she had dressed in a simple karate gi and a pair of wooden sandals and made her way topside, and here she had been sitting ever since, watching the port facilities and the Hong Kong skyline slide by, and then as the ships moved past what were obviously the outer marker buoys for the main navigable channel into Victoria Harbour, the sails had unfurled themselves without apparent human intervention, and the amount of commercial sea traffic around them had gradually thinned, before the four junks had turned hard to starboard into line abreast formation and headed away from the coastal sea-lanes.
Now the sun was touching the horizon behind them, the last of Hong Kong's sky scrapers had vanished from sight and Kim was starting to feel a little peckish, having not eaten since breakfast. She had seen the cabin service menu in her stateroom, presented in eight languages, featuring a limited range of cuisine from a dozen traditions, including western food. She could, were she so moved, order a toasted cheese sandwich, but the stir-fry option appealed more.
She sighed, contentedly.
Presently, she got to her feet and stretched languorously, turning to look across the impressive flotilla of junks ploughing through the waves in full sail.
Her eye was drawn to a distant figure on the deck of the furthermost ship. It was obviously a woman, in a white shinobi-shozeki, and she was performing some intricate and impressive Sai Sword forms. Something about the way she moved reminded her of Shego. No surprise, reflected Kim - she'd been seeing Shego in the patterns made by the creamer in her morning coffee since she had heard of her untimely demise. But still, this woman had something of the Shego about her. An older, stiffer, less assured, less precise Shego, she assumed, but still graceful. And obviously not wearing green and black. Shego had never handled a brace of Sai Sword's to Kim's knowledge, either. But still, Kim was impressed. Perhaps she would get an opportunity to test herself against that woman in the coming tournament; Kim certainly hoped so.
She headed towards the companionway, stir fry chicken firmly on her mind…

oOo

Ron headed away from his stateroom towards the staircase that would take him back to the deck, now clean after a quick shower, and dressed in another of the black shinobi-shozeki from his trunk, with the wet and hopefully now equally clean garment that he had earlier beaten the worst of the dust from the... incident... out of.
It would probably dry quite quickly in the breeze if he hung it out up on deck for a couple of hours, he thought.
His mind was a whirl. He wished he could talk to somebody about what had happened. Actually, he wished he could talk to Kim. He had exhausted Rufus's limited insight into the situation within ten minutes of the little pink rodent indicating that there were no surveillance cameras or microphones in their cabin; he had diligently scanned the cabin with the little electronic gizmo that Sensei had provided for him, and had given Ron the all clear within five minutes, but beyond empathy and sympathy, he had had little deeper to offer.
Existential questions of morality and personal responsibility were not really Rufus's realm; broadly speaking, anything you couldn't eat was of limited concern to the little fellow. Whereas they were meat and drink to Kim. However, he imagined that even Kim would seriously struggle with "Hey, Kim, imagine that you had just had to kill 200 people to save yourself and one of your best friends from certain violent death by their hand… what should you feel about it?".
He had gone over it in his mind time and time again. He hadn't been wearing the Cuff of Sosumiha when… it… had happened, so he couldn't blame those flashbacks for the way… things had turned out.
But despite his best efforts, he couldn't blame himself either.
He had replayed the events moment by moment and looked for a point where he could have made a different choice that would have led to a better, less horrific outcome. No choice that wouldn't have resulted in his own death or at best maiming presented itself to him. Even if he had abandoned his mission and chosen to run away after that rat-faced cabbie had blown his whistle, it would have surely meant abandoning Rufus to the murderous mob, so that was no option at all, even with 20/20 hindsight.
The one thing that those flashbacks had previously shown him was that almost two millennia ago, Mystical Monkey Power had been a byword for bloody carnage on a scale that had previously been unimaginable to him. Now, he knew that it still was.
In many ways, he had hoped that he could blame himself for what happened. It would be easier to wallow in self pity, to curse and hate himself for the mistake he made that led to the deaths of hundreds of people by his own hand.
But he couldn't.
Without Mystical Monkey Power, even that slow-witted man with the baseball bat would probably have been the death of him. It was only his attempts not to use violence against the insane ranting man who had then attacked him that had resulted in his death; he had left Ron no defensive options other than to use a 'Wooden Monkey Whips The Flying Baboon' kick to deflect his final murderous attack, and the fact that he had landed head first really was his pure poor fortune. After that, Ron had been fighting merely to stay alive! When somebody started shooting real bullets and throwing petrol bombs at him, he had again only had one desperate option.
He had been voluntarily following Kim into ridiculously dangerous situations for years now, but he couldn't remember ever being the personal focus of so much collective hatred and violence. Was that a side-effect of mystical monkey power? Or just a side-effect of not having Kim alongside him as a human lightning rod. And how had Kim so competently fought her way out of so many life or death situations without so much as a drop of human blood on her hands? He would love to ask her now, but he was afraid of what she might tell him about his own inadequacies. Would she say something about great power coming with great responsibility?
Should he have sacrificed his own life and that of his tiny pink pet to save the lives of those trying to kill him? Ron had searched his soul carefully and concluded not.
If anybody had told him before he had 'volunteered' for this mission that he would have killed anybody, let alone tens, hundreds of people before the mission had even started , he would have walked away then and there in horror.
On the other hand, he imagined what might have happened if Hirotaka had found himself in the same situation that Ron had. Perhaps he would have dealt with the gorilla with the bat, perhaps even with the insanely ranting but skilful and powerful lunatic - although that wouldn't have been easy. But he would surely have been hacked to pieces by the mob. And if Ron had decided not to step up, he would therefore now have Hirotaka's death on his conscience. In addition, the two Yamanouchi agents would still be incarcerated on Lo Pin's island, and.. well, he doubted that Yamanouchi, still less Yori, would have allowed Hirotaka's death to go un-avenged, so it was very possible that the fate of many of the residents of that quarry was sealed the moment the taxi driver picked up a Yamanouchi ninja, any Yamanouchi ninja, and tried to shake him down.
But Mystical Monkey Power was clearly far more dangerous than Sensei realised. He hoped at least that if Sensei had understood what the return of Mystical Monkey Power would mean, he would have been less enthusiastic about it and much more cautious about Ron using it.
Well, now that the Ronmeister knew, he decided, there would be no more killing. He felt the tremendous responsibility of his ancient magical power weighing him down. And he realised that perhaps his Camp Wannaweep inspired monkey issues had been far more prescient and rational than he had been led to believe by… well, everybody he had ever shared them with. So, he had a rescue mission to fulfil, and there was surely no reason why anybody else should die by his hand. That was something easily said, but apparently harder to achieve. When he next got back to Japan, he would have to have a very serious conversation with Sensei indeed!
He emerged onto the deck, glanced to his left and nearly fell back down the stairs! A shock of very familiar red hair was just vanishing below deck, two ships over. He almost shouted "Kim!", but she was gone before he could open his mouth, and she wouldn't have heard anyway, two hundred yards away across the open sea.. Plus, he realised, he didn't exactly look or sound like Ron right now.
He ran to the ship's rail, looking for some sign of his girlfriend, but there was none. Had he imagined it was her? He didn't think so. But what was she doing here?
Silly question; it was a martial arts tournament. Lo Pin had been inviting great martial artists from all over the world. Kim certainly qualified.
But was she on a mission of her own? Had Wade sent her to help him?
He had no idea. If he approached her without knowing what the situation was, he might risk his own mission and hers if she had one. And if she was here to help him, Wade would surely have warned her what he now looked like, so it would be best to let her approach him. Otherwise, if he approached her and said 'Hi, it's Ron', she would probably think he was a lunatic!
No, he would leave it, at least until he knew what was going on. Perhaps Sensei would visit him in his dreams tonight and he could ask him? He could also perhaps talk to him about what had happened in Hong Kong, as well! It would be wonderful to spend some time with Kim again, but not at the expense of blowing two missions and bringing the wrath of Lo Pin down on their heads.
Ron sighed and headed back to the spare length of rope that he had earlier borrowed from the crew and strung up to beat the dust out of his soiled shinobi shozeki; it would make an ideal washing line to dry the soaking garment on...

oOo

"Raise attack in 3… 2… 1… Mark!", ordered Captain Domenchskeva, speaking quietly in English with a heavy Russian accent.
The attack periscope slid smoothly up from its well in the deck of the control room, and the Captain grabbed the training handles and knocked them flat as soon as it was clear of its housing, crouching down to get his eyes against the eyepiece before the head of the small periscope broke surface above him. He took a quick glance at the four junks off the port beam, before spinning through 360 degrees, just to check that they had the rest of the ocean to themselves, and then returned to the four junks. "Target 1 bearing… THAT!", he said, clicking the trigger on the right hand training handle, adding "Range… thirteen fifty metres". Then, moving slightly to his left, he continued "Target 4 bearing… THAT! Range… eleven hundred metres. Down periscope!".
The attack periscope swished back down into its well, Captain Domenchskeva slapping the training handles back up flush with the body of the optics as it plummeted.
"Depth five zero metres. Navigation, plot parallel course and steer that. Make revolutions for… 6 knots. Next observation in five minutes!", he ordered, and then headed to the electronic chart table to examine the plots that the navigator was even now making on his touch screen at the far end of the control room.
It wasn't quite the good old days, playing cat and mouse with NATO warships on exercise in the unforgiving North Atlantic, but it felt good to be a Submarine Captain again, instead of the glorified caretaker of an underwater command post.
He had Captained Global Justice 227 in its previous life as well. Well, one of its previous lives. Moving from command of an alpha-class diesel-electric hunter-killer to commanding a brand new Акула Class nuclear powered boomer, known to NATO as 'Typhoon', the largest submarine ever built and pride of the Soviet Navy had been a huge promotion, and a massive vote of confidence in his command ability.
The TK-210 as she was then known carried 20 massive SSN-20 SLBM missiles, and represented the ultimate threat of nuclear retaliation against a first strike by the capitalist running dog imperialists of America and her allies. After a couple of years she acquired a name to go with her uninspiring number; the Sebastopol. With two nuclear reactors, twin internal pressure hulls, a crew of 180 and such refinements as an on board Sauna and swimming pool, the Sebastopol and her sister ships represented the ultimate expression of Soviet submarine technology.
And then one day it seemed that everything had changed all at once. They had vanished beneath the arctic pack ice as the pride of the Soviet Navy on a war patrol, and returned to port, to the surface and to news broadcasts three months later to discover that they were now part of the navy of the Russian Federation. Soon the vessel was stripped of it's nuclear arsenal, a consequence of the START treaty, and then even the missile silos were removed as she went into dry dock to be converted into an underwater cargo carrier. A ship without a purpose, it seemed; what use was a giant submarine with a 15,000 tonne cargo capacity anyway?
Captain Domenchskeva commanded her on what he was sure would be her last ever mission as a Russian naval vessel, a short surface cruise to tie up alongside other redundant Russian submarines and warships in a decaying naval base in Severodvinsk. And then he had been a civilian again, working as first officer on a Liberian flagged bulk carrier to keep the wolf from the door as he imagined his once proud command rusting slowly away in forgotten ignominy. Or turned into dog-food tins.
In fact, by some sequence of events he had still not managed to get to the bottom of, his old ship hadn't stayed tied up for long at all. She had passed through several pairs of hands, and 5 years later the Sebastopol had been captured in mid Atlantic by a Global Justice sting operation, as it loaded 12,000 tonnes of ultra-persistent hallucinogenic love drugs from a freighter also owned by the same supervillain, Professor Theramin, whose warped plan to doctor the waters of the Amazon basin and cause the worlds largest acid trip come orgy to 'foster peace and love on a continent wide basis' was safely derailed by Agent Du and the Global Justice Kinetic Operations Squad. But not before the mad professor had consumed a kilo of his own cargo, apparently. Before he began tripping wildly, he explained that it would make his impending imprisonment much more fun. Rumour was that he was still, some years later, very much enjoying his long term incarceration in a global justice detention facility; something about the way the walls kept melting.
However it had come to pass, thanks to the Concordat, the old Sebastopol had now become the property of Global Justice, and they had immediately seen her potential. Six months later, Global Justice had advertised for an experienced submarine captain and submariners to crew their new underwater command vessel, and a desperately keen Mr Domenchskeva had his job application in the post within 24 hours. Eighteen months later, after an exhaustive bare-metal refit, he had his beloved ship back.
But some things were definitely different.
His 'new' and smaller crew consisted mainly of cold war peace dividend cast-off nuclear submariners from Britain, France, America and the former Soviet navy, with a few new recruits to leaven the distinctly late-middle-aged vibe on board, and while the heavy engineering was still just the same as it always was, his ship was almost unrecognisable internally; gone were all the reassuringly solid, tactile, push-button Soviet navigation, sensor and weapon systems, in favour of cutting edge technology that left his control room looking more like the command deck of a futuristic starship than the control room of a cold war boomer. He had had to fight tooth and nail to even retain the periscopes; how could it be a proper submarine without periscopes? That giant cargo bay, once home to enough destructive power to devastate the entire eastern seaboard of the United States, was now a hover-ship hangar, and the former missile fire control compartment contained a command and control centre from which Global Justice bigwigs could run dozens of simultaneous operations across an entire theatre.
The other difference, of course, was that everybody on board was being paid an absolute fortune, and apart from Captain Domenchskeva who chose to live aboard, were only at sea for three months in every nine. They also enjoyed an off-duty lifestyle while aboard that had more in common with that experienced by passengers on a cruise liner than crew on an operational submarine. Individual cabins for the crew? A solarium? An a la carte restaurant? A briefing room that doubled as a cinema? Unbelievable!
Most of the time, from one year to the next, Global Justice 227 pootled around aimlessly at periscope depth in empty oceans with its communications arrays poking above the surface, operating as a glorified underwater headquarters complex, so those vanishingly rare occasions when all the crusty old cold war warriors crewing the Sevastopol actually had a chance to play at being proper submariners again were much prized by everybody. Even though a few of them had worked out that at various points in the past they had actually been hunting each other during 'the good old days'!
They had picked up the junks as they had motored out of the deep channel into Victoria harbour, and after a quick periscope observation, which had confirmed the identification and even allowed Captain Domenchskeva to identify Kim Possible sitting on deck on the rearmost junk in the flotilla, Target 4, they had shadowed the vessels using the hydrophones alone, keeping their distance. When the junks had cut their engines, and hoisted their sails, Captain Domenchskeva had called for silent routine, in case the junks had hydrophones of their own, and they had been creeping along as quietly as possible ever since, tracking the now almost silent sailing vessels visually, ensuring that they always kept eyes on the junk carrying Miss Possible.
Mind you, Captain Domenchskeva reflected, at this rate it would take Lo Pin's junks two days to reach his island, and two days of silent routine and visual observations every five minutes was perhaps a little too much nostalgia for the re-tread cold warriors on the crew! No flushing the heads, no hot food from the galley, no entertainment and no sleep for two days were not appealing prospects. At least they would feel like they had earned their salaries this month!
He glanced at the countdown timer on the navigation display; it was almost time for the next observation, he realised.
"Come to Periscope depth!", he ordered, quietly.
It was going to be a long night.

oOo

Shego tapped confidently on the door of Lo Pin's cabin, half expecting there to be no answer. Instead, the entryphone spoke; "Ah, White Ninja… do come in!".
Shego noted the well concealed camera, as the door lock buzzed and the door swung open.
Shego walked inside, and the door closed behind her. Ahead of her, the tail end of a glorious sunset filled the giant picture windows in the stern of Lo Pin's junk, and Lo Pin said "One moment, Shego…".
The blinds again snapped closed, and this time, when the lights came on, Shego was still standing where she had been when they went out, although admittedly her hands had moved reflexively to the grips of the Sai Swords that were tucked into the belt she was wearing around her shinobi shozeki, but she quickly moved them upwards and peeled her hood back, before walking towards the settee she had sat on earlier.
"Please sit down, Shego. Is everything to your satisfaction?", asked Lo Pin.
"Yes, thank you…", said Shego with uncharacteristic politeness.
"Perhaps that drink now?", asked Lo Pin.
"Bourbon, neat, on the rocks. Make it a large one!", grinned Shego.
A minute later, Lo Pin was handing her a large clinking glass of whisky that he had poured himself from a small cocktail cabinet that had emerged from the wall of the stateroom at the push of a button, and then he sat back and sipped a rather smaller single malt Scotch of his own.
"What can I do for you, Shego?".
"Well, since I am your guest, I suspect it would be considered... rude to wait until you had gone to bed, then break in to your cabin and hack into your computer network in order to find out what I want to know. So I thought it would be more polite to just come and ask you.", said Shego, sweetly, as she swilled the bourbon around the glass and then took a decent swig.
Lo Pin raised an eyebrow momentarily and then laughed aloud. "I suspect you might find your first suggestion more difficult than you expect. But that isn't a challenge, Shego. Ask away!".
"Thank you. I wanted to ask you about one of my fellow competitors. He's travelling on the next ship in the flotilla. Large man, very well built indeed, dressed in black. Who is he?", asked Shego, simply.
"I'm sure you wouldn't want me sharing your information with any other of my guests, Shego. I have assured you of your confidentiality, and I'm not sure that I should be breaching the confidences of another competitor…", said Lo Pin, cautiously.
"If he has any confidences that you feel you need to preserve, that would probably tell me all I need to know...", said Shego; if the guy had secrets then that would immediately rule him out of consideration as a candidate for any nocturnal aerobics on the island. Lack of secrets didn't rule him in, of course, but at least it meant Shego could make an informed decision.
"What is your interest in this man?", asked Lo Pin?
"Purely personal. Very personal…", said Shego, with a slightly feral grin.
"Ah… I think I may know who you mean. Apparently, he has made quite an impression on the Navigation Officer on board his vessel. Wait a moment…"
There was a brief pause as Shego saw an iris scanning laser shine into Lo Pin's eye, and then a practiced tapping of keys, followed by a pause as Lo Pin apparently read the man's file.
Lo Pin grinned, and then rotated the screen to face Shego and said "There is nothing here that is confidential…".
Shego read the short report, which stated that no record of anybody with Saru Chounouryoku's DNA, fingerprints or facial features had ever been captured or recorded in any computer database, or logged on any digitally recorded CCTV camera, anywhere in the world, ever. A note explained that the findings of their in depth research supported and confirmed a cable from the Sensei of the Yamanouchi school asking them to take care of and assist the competitor they were entering into the tournament because he had never previously set foot outside the walled compound of the Yamanouchi school.
"Well would you look at that…", said Shego under her breath. Not only was he vanishingly unlikely to have the faintest idea who Shego was, knowing the ascetic and decidedly asexual life of the average warrior monk, he had probably never even seen any woman naked before! Provided he wasn't gay or anything, and provided she played this… and him… correctly, taught him exactly what to do and how and when to do it, Shego could very definitely blow the cobwebs right out with this hunk of prime himbo. Cobwebs. Right out! Blow! BOOM!
She realised that Lo Pin was smirking, and that her face was probably rather more revealing of her intentions than she would have hoped, so she forced her features into a deadpan expression and turned the flat screen monitor back to face Lo Pin. "Thank you", she said in as business-like a fashion as she could muster.
"My pleasure. Now, may I ask something in return?", asked Lo Pin.
"You can certainly ask…", said Shego, retaining the deadpan expression.
"Your DNA, Shego. We scanned it remotely when you signed in, along with your fingerprints. The prints are on file, in fact on rather a lot of files, dating back many years, but the DNA… "; he trailed off.
Shego smirked. "It's apparently not human, and every time it has been tested, the results have come back saying it is different, often a different species or no living species at all?"
"Yes…    how do you do that?", asked Lo Pin, sounding both curious and impressed.
"It's easy. Just get hit by a comet from outer space. Before you know it, your DNA will be uniquely and randomly mutating every seven seconds for the rest of your life. Sometimes I'm surprised I don't have two heads and a hump on my back. Once upon a time the Belgian police actually spent several months looking for an unidentified burglar who they believed had used a trained penguin to help them turn over a bank vault."
Lo Pin grinned.
"My turn…", said Shego. "Final question for now. What little I have found out about your... business operation…   includes the fact that since you took over from your father, in such tragic circumstances, you've changed your modus operandi somewhat. Why?".
Lo Pin looked surprised, and pursed his lips for a moment.
"A better question is why do I do what I do at all. But the answer to both questions is the more or less the same. There are some parts of my father's legacy with which I was... uncomfortable. So I changed them. And we must all make our own way in the world as best we can, true to ourselves. But in the final analysis, we are all prisoners of the legacy of our upbringing, Shego… and this was my destiny…"
'We are all prisoners of the legacy of our upbringing… ain't that the truth!', thought Shego, bitterly.
She raised her glass to Lo Pin, in semi-salute, and took another swig of her bourbon.
She wasn't quite as sure about the destiny part, though. Partly because the person always most concerned with telling her what her destiny was had always been Hego, and he couldn't have been less right, and partly because   she was pretty sure she didn't believe in destiny at all.

oOo

Mike Jones pushed the pile of empty pizza boxes to one side to make more room on his bench, and reached for his notes. "Yeah, I made that 211 mph between one thousand feet and sea level, based on prevailing atmospheric pressure and air temperature around the crash site…", he said, looking across at an unkempt and exhausted looking "Digger" Hawk, who was tapping numbers into his shiny new computer model.
It was the end of a long night in the lab, and this was the culmination of their joint efforts. They had proved, to their mutual amazement, quite early on once 'Digger' had modelled the effect of Shego's plasma versus the waters of the Atlantic ocean, that given the right combination of plasma temperature and impact speed, Shego could have survived her plummet into the sea. They had proved further that having survived entry to the water, Shego could just about have made it back to the surface alive, based on evidence on her Global Justice file of her lung capacity and physical endurance. This had validated the basic premise of Mike's bizarre hunch.
But then just when they thought they were going to have to take disturbing news to Dr Director, a statistical analysis of different combinations of entry speed and plasma temperature had highlighted the fact that Shego's chances of getting the combination of speed and temperature right by even intelligent guesstimation was approximately one point seven million to one against. Put another way, statistically speaking she had more chance of having her fall broken by a flock of passing flying seagulls than she did of surviving hitting the sea using her plasma powers. As long as her survival depended on her unpracticed judgement and control of her speed versus the temperature of hands on entry as she plummeted towards the ocean, this was not a viable survival strategy.
Of course, in order to complete the analysis, they had to look for any data points that might negate the randomising effect of Shego attempting to select a speed and a temperature herself. For that, they first needed to more precisely model the water and air temperatures and densities at the crash site and factor those into their calculations in order to work out exactly what the correct speeds and temperature actually were. As Dr Hawk had burnt the midnight oil, refining his computer model and developing a whole new sub-branch of mathematics, Mike had been diligently modelling ocean currents at the time of and immediately after the crash, and then factoring in Shego's maximum possible swimming speed.
He had only managed to identify one remotely possible approximate landfall. The Cape Verde islands. Not that it would matter if Shego couldn't have survived the fall.
Finally, 'Digger' had finished his computer model, and Mike had given him the results of his own calculations; what would Shego's sink rate be in a standard stable sky-diving free fall position, naked (the CIA sponsored search operation had recovered Shego's polyester boiler suit from the sea two days earlier, although the CIA themselves had yet to recognise the significance of the find, and Mike had already determined that it had been ripped from her body in mid air) and Dr Hawk had plugged the numbers into the model; the verdict had been unequivocal - at Shego's maximum instantaneous plasma temperature, based on analysis of the video from the Uzbek torture dungeon, and thus using a temperature far higher than Global Justice's previous estimate of her capabilities, she would be far too hot to survive hitting the sea.
There was one final check to do; if she had chosen for some reason to hit the water at terminal velocity, as fast as she could in other words, and heated her hands as hot as she could, then that would not be a randomly chosen combination of speed and temperature, and thus would be significantly more likely, despite still being a very unlikely set of circumstances indeed. If that combination was a survivable impact, Shego's odds of surviving the initial fall from the plane would have risen from 'statistically nil' to 'slight'.
"Ok, here goes nothing, mate! And then I'm going to bed to sleep for a week…", said Callum Hawk, hitting the Return key triumphantly.
A few seconds later, there was a loud 'Ding!' from Callum Hawk's PC, and his jaw dropped open as he slumped back into the chair he was already half way out of.
"Fuck me, Mike!", he said with some amazement.
"That combination is in the sweet spot?", asked Mike in some consternation.
"Bang in the middle of it, mate. If she lit up as hot as she can, and if she hit the water absolutely flat out, arms first, and if she had then played her cards just right, then according to this she would have survived. Although even for Shego, working a plan like that out as she fell towards certain death would be… unlikely. But still, she actually might have made it into the sea alive! Fucking hell…", emoted a shocked sounding "Digger" Hawk.
"Right then… I'd better start a trawl of any satellite imagery I can lay my hands on for the Cape Verde islands…", said Mike, rubbing his hands and reaching for his keyboard.
"NO!", Dr Hawk almost shouted.
"What? Why not? We have Gold Priority Clearance, remember…", said Mike, looking puzzled.
"Because the NSA has its beady eyes trained all over Global Justice. And if we start looking at satellite imagery of the Cape Verde islands, then the next thing will be that the CIA will know that we know something that they don't. and they'll be looking at the same imagery we are looking at ten minutes later. Which isn't a problem if there is nothing there to find. But if there is something there to find, then we need to find it, and Dr Director absolutely won't want the CIA to find it!", explained 'Digger'.
"So… is there anything we can do?", asked Mike with a pained expression.
"Only one thing I can think of, but Dr Director is really not going to like it, mate. Still… needs must! She'll be at her desk in half an hour, we can talk it through with her then. In the meantime, I'm going to grab a quick shower and some breakfast; I smell like a possum's nut-sack and without a very strong coffee, I may fall asleep across her desk. I guess you wouldn't say no to the same thing, either!",
'Bloody hell…', thought Mike. 'How close did I just get to getting myself fired before I've even got my feet under the table?'
"Thanks!", he said, and it was heartfelt. "I guess all this cloak and dagger stuff doesn't come naturally…".
"Don't sweat it, kid. You've done some great work here. If you hadn't flown this kite in the first place, and if Shego is out there, then the CIA would probably be finding out that she had survived before we did. And definitely not in a good way. So, shower, coffee, a bacon butty, and then back here in twenty to pull together a slide pack to take to the boss lady. OK?", said Digger, reassuringly. "And I'm out of here…", he said, heading for the door.
Mike Jones was only two paces behind him.

oOo

Kim placed the empty bowl down on the coffee table in her cabin, and licked her lips appreciatively. Her food had arrived within 20 minutes of her ordering it, and had been well worth waiting for! This mission was getting better and better! She drained the soda can and dropped it into the metal waste can, tossing the disposable chopsticks in alongside it and then sat back in the comfortable armchair and wondered at the darkness outside the portholes in her cabin; in these latitudes, the transition between daylight and darkness really was almost like somebody turning out the lights.
And then she heard the sound of the junk's engine firing up again. 'I wonder why they are starting the engine?', she thought, curious. If the wind had dropped, she would have felt the movement of the ship change as it was becalmed, and it was still ploughing along at five or six knots, give or take, under sail.
The answer to her question was not long in coming and very much surprised her.
As she listened to the whine of the engine or engines get louder and more high pitched than it had in the confines of Victoria harbour, she was just wondering why on earth a sailing junk would have what sounded like jet power, when there was a continuous whir of electric winches above her cabin; since all the sails had been up when she had been on deck, Kim deduced that the canvas was coming down. All of it, judging by the number of whirring winches she could hear. All the way down, judging by the length of time they whirred for . But she was also distracted by a vibration beneath her feet, and the sound of big hydraulic rams operating.
This was just the moment when she would normally whip out her Kimunicator and ask Wade what the sitch was. Instead, she jumped up from her armchair and ran to her porthole to look outside. She couldn't see what heavy machinery was making the noise she could hear on the junk she was aboard, but a quick look at the closest junk, which was dimly illuminated by a half moon, showed that something big was now dragging in the water both near the bow and near the stern.
And then, as the winches stopped, the mystery was solved; the whine of the turbines rose to a crescendo, the junk picked up speed, while the ship alongside kept pace with it, until suddenly its keel rose out of the water and it was travelling with only two braced hydraulically deployed hydrofoils in contact with the water, and with the rest of the massive ship a good seven or eight feet clear of the sea's surface! And still the four now low-flying junks continued to accelerate, in close formation!
She had idly wondered how long the tournament could possibly last if it was going to take them the better part of two days or more each way to get to and back from Lo Pin's island, based on her memory of the map she had seen in Dr Director's briefing. Now she realised they might be on Lo Pin's island within a couple of hours, so fast were they moving.
It also occurred to her that it was probably no coincidence that they had waited until they were out of range of coastal radar and other shipping before suddenly converting from luxury sailing vessels into high speed high tech hydrofoils.
Still, no matter, the more tournament time, the better from her point of view…
She headed back to her armchair, enjoying the different feel of the boat now that it was 'flying' above the waves, and reached over to pull her English exercise book and a pen out of her open suitcase. She had an inkling that her 'What I did on my summer vacation' essay might be marked down for 'containing elements of fantasy rather than being grounded in reality', or whatever Mr Barkin would sarcastically scrawl in the margins when she described events so far (or a sanitised and unclassified, edited version of them at least), but really, she wanted to remember this 'mission', and without the Kimunicator to take snapshots for her mission log or just for her personal scrapbook, a picture in words was the only kind she would have when she got home!
She began writing, slowly at first and then with increasing speed and confidence...

oOo

"Chyort voz'mi", Captain Domenchskeva muttered to himself as he looked at the rapidly receding sterns of the four Chinese sailing junks he had been tailing. The Hydrophone operators had already reported them moving away at increasing speed, the visual observations confirmed it.
"Secure from silent running. All ahead full!", ordered Captain Domenchskeva, slightly desperately, as he stared through the image-intensified viewing port on the larger 'Search' periscope. But it was no good. The four junks had suddenly accelerated from five knots to between fifty and sixty knots and were vanishing towards the horizon. If he redlined both the reactors, and ran in the warmest, least dense layer of water he could find , he might be able to coax an over-speed 30 knots out of the old girl at war emergency power. For a while. Until one of the steam turbines blew up and probably killed somebody, and then they would be limping to the nearest super-tanker sized dry dock for repairs at 12 knots.   In the meantime he had 'lost' Kim Possible. Dr Director would be pleased.
Not.
He was about to drop the periscope, go deep and try to head for Lo Pin's island at best sustainable speed, while he encoded a message reporting this unexpected turn of events back to HQ, when something caught his eye, fluttering in the breeze between his periscope and the rapidly receding junks. He centred the crosshairs on it and turned the 'increase magnification' ring on the left hand training handle three full clicks. The image intensification system caused the eyepiece to flare green for a moment while it adjusted to the altered optics, and then the image stabilised. Just as the black one piece garment of some kind that had obviously been tossed about in the air by the turbulent vortices behind the giant junk- come-hydrofoils, had succumbed to gravity and fallen into the sea.
He realised that he remembered a guy coming up onto the deck of Target 2 and hanging a very similar looking garment over an improvised clothes line, during one of his observations, and grinned to himself. Presumably he hadn't expected the junks to suddenly rear up out of the water and turn into high speed jetfoils either!
'It looks like at least I'm not the only person round here whose day just got ruined by this crock of shit!', he thought, chuckling grimly to himself.
Then he barked "Make depth nine zero metres. Steer zero niner four, all ahead full. Engineering, watch those temperatures and pressures and keep it in in the green, reduce speed if you need to, I'd rather be there ten minutes later than blow up on the way. Number one, you have the con, I'll be in my cabin.".
The gaunt, steel-eyed and grey haired American ex Polaris boat skipper who was currently his deputy on the Sebastopol, and would be for another month until the end of his three month shift when another hugely experienced ex cold-war nuclear submarine captain would replace him for three months, said "Aye aye, Captain, I have the con..." as he moved into Domenchskeva's usual spot between the chart table and the periscope platform, and his boss headed for his quarters.
No wonder he preferred to live aboard, he had often mused while laying in bed comparing the modern, comfortable, well equipped and spacious and well lit cabin, built in the space once occupied by both the Captain's cabin and the Political Commissar's cabin in the 'good old days', with his damp depressing little apartment back home in a Moscow suburb. But now he was writing a flash message to HQ in Middleton, USA to report that the junks had at least temporarily gotten away from them, and he was hoping nobody in the underground complex would blame him for the fact that a submarine wasn't as fast as a hydrofoil. If Global Justice had known that the junks he had been tasked to follow were capable of 60 knots, they would surely have sent a couple of stealth hover ships up to tail them instead. Can you say 'intelligence failure'?
Still, it was only a small glitch; they would catch up with Kim Possible at Lo Pin's island tomorrow and then continue to stand by as ordered.
But what was worrying Captain Domenchskeva wasn't so much what had already gone wrong; it was more 'If we didn't know about that, what the hell else don't we know about?'.
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Enter the Naked Mole Rat