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Enter the Naked Mole Rat	By : kwh Category: Kim Possible > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 18153 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Shego sat alone in the back of the armoured paddy wagon, her badly singed cat-suit still smelling strongly of burnt fabric, and wallowed in a mixture of self pity and self loathing.
It had all started when Dr Drakken had decided to start being secretive about his latest and most grandiose scheme, she decided. Contrary to some evidence, Drew Lipski was not a homicidal maniac as far as she could determine. There was little doubt that he was insane by many measures. Advanced ego-mania, and a persecution complex aside, his biggest failing, for a man with an IQ well into the 200+ range, was a personality disorder that gave him his child-like lack of forethought and grasp of the consequences of his actions.
When Shego knew what he was planning, all she normally had to say, with a suitable sneer, was something like "Hey, Dr. D, are you planning to take over the world or kill half the people in it?" as she pointed out the glaringly obvious flaw in this scheme or that, and he would have made some dismissive reply, before frowning and then reworking the suspect bit so that it didn't destroy the planet or kill half the inhabitants when it was activated. It was exactly the same failing that ensured that he was never actually likely to succeed in his ambition to take over the world. And of course if he ever did by some miracle succeed, he had no earthly idea what he would do with it. He'd simply never thought that far ahead.
While he was unlikely to succeed in taking over the world, he was much more likely to inadvertently exterminate humanity, without somebody around to point out those aforementioned fatal flaws in his plans. But unlike a proper homicidal maniac, Drakken would say 'Oops' with great sincerity, just before the planet exploded. And in the case of the Little Diablo scheme, it nearly came to that. Most 8 year olds could have told you that unleashing hundreds of thousands of giant laser-wielding battle robots on the world would cause mass casualties and horrendous damage unless some careful steps were taken to control them; most 8 year olds, but not Drew Lipski.
It was the sort of thing Shego would have mentioned, sarcastically of course.
Had she known.
But working on the ostrich principle, Dr Drakken had decided that if he didn't tell Shego what he was up to, and she couldn't guess his plan, then Kim Possible wouldn't either. The problem was that she thought she had guessed his plan, and she had been entirely wrong. She'd wholly underestimated the blue-skinned lunatic, not something that anybody could often say about Drakken. She had thought he was obsessing over Kim Possible again and was taking over Bueno Nacho just to mess with the sidekick's head. The Little Diablos had made no sense to her when they first appeared, but then so much about many of Drakken's plans made no sense whatsoever that she just assumed he was losing the plot again. It wasn't until the millions of little toys had suddenly transformed into giant killer robots that she had had an inkling that her employer had done something so brilliantly and breathtakingly stupid that she might have to break him in half later, and by then she was a little busy with an unusually pissed off Kimmie; she really hadn't laughed off the whole Erik the synthodrone thing like she'd thought she would. That one had been all Shego's idea, and it had kept her chuckling for days. She'd hoped to have it confirmed that Kimmie was less of a virginal goodie two-shoes than she acted, which had mainly been her motivation for persuading Drakken to create the Erik drone, because Erik was many things - but anatomically correct wasn't one of them.
In fact, 'his' beanbag-stuffed crotch had 'Hard luck, Princess' written across it in black indelible marker.
But it appeared that Kim hadn't seen the joke, either figuratively or literally. In fact, Shego assumed, Kim must have been having some pretty serious hormonal issues, judging by the ferocity with which she laid into Shego later. And the thing about fighting Kimmie was that you had to be both brilliant and absolutely on the case to have a chance. Shego could usually manage the first, but she found that she was starting to worry about the unintended consequences of Drakken's scheme and what they might be. The result was almost predictable, she mused; Kim at very definitely the wrong time of the wrong month versus a distracted Shego was going to end in tears. What she hadn't expected was that Kim would lose it to the point that she actually tried to kill her! Most people don't have a comet-enhanced constitution. Most people who become the discharge path to earth for 17KV at 112 Amps would be reduced to charred flesh. Most people who were kicked off a tall building to fall to earth some hundred feet below would also not be eligible to vote afterwards. Shego wasn't most people, but even she had had her synapses well scrambled and her central nervous system disrupted. It was a good half hour after they had loaded her into the van opposite Drakken before she could move her limbs reliably, and before the feeling of intense pain from every nerve fibre in her body subsided to the point where only the extensive bruising hurt. It was 15 minutes later before she trusted her vocal chords to work. For all of that time she had been joining the mental dots and realising with mounting horror what the likely consequences of Drakken's scheme would have been, and probably had been. She had then only had ten minutes to call Drakken all the names under the sun for his stupidity and tell him that he had probably killed tens of thousands of people.
That was when the armoured van had stopped, and the rest of the human cargo had been ordered out by a couple of burly but nervous looking National Guardsman with M16's held at the aim. Through the open back doors she could see state troopers, more national guardsman, a couple of armoured vehicles and she could hear a couple of helicopters hovering overhead. Police probably. Or maybe National Guard gunships. She hadn't been concerned when the doors closed again, leaving her inside the van in chains. She felt she could use a bit of recuperation time before she made herself scarce, and she expected that in due course GJ would want to talk to her, which would give her an opportunity to tell them herself that the catastrophic death toll that she assumed Drakken had caused wasn't any of her doing. She wasn't entirely sure why it had mattered to her that anybody knew that apart from her, let alone that she should personally tell them, but for some reason it had.
Did.
A way of atoning for her lack of insight, perhaps?
"They'll find out soon enough, anyway", she thought. She realised that there was a comprehensive surveillance archive from both the lair and the Bueno Nacho corporate HQ, and that GJ's finest would already be poring over it, analyzing it. Besides, she was glad that she wasn't in the same cell as Drakken again. By now she would probably have battered him to a bloody pulp, and then his pathetic whimpering would have made her feel guilty about doing it. This time she anticipated Drakken spending a long time in jail. A very long time indeed. She doubted that she would be breaking him out herself, either.
"If he's really just killed tens of thousands of people all round the world, and if I was dumb enough to just let it happen, then maybe prison really is the best place for him" she thought. "Although what he really needs is a psychiatric hospital". Shego there and then resolved to anonymously hire a very expensive lawyer for him to help make the case for Drakken being guilty but insane.
The first inkling she had that there was anything unusual going on was when the journey in the van seemed to drag on. After a while, she had pretty much run out of things to beat herself up about and started wondering what was taking so long, not to mention where she was going. As boredom prevailed, and as the van bounced and hopped across the country for what seemed like a lifetime, Shego entertained herself by using a controlled jet of plasma to liberate a few links from the then unused chain running along the floor next to the bench seat opposite her. Then she delicately added them to the chains that were theoretically securing her, in such a way that you couldn't see the join.
Shego was quite proud of her welding work in the end, especially given that it had been done with only a jet of superheated plasma emerging from the end of her index finger, and she had been welding titanium alloy without an inert gas shield, in the back of a heavily armoured paddy wagon that was bouncing about like a cork in a storm on its tired springs most of the time. She doubted that either chain would be any less strong than they ever were; more than that, all the welds were undetectable to the naked eye, or would be once they had weathered for a day or two. Utterly pointless, but a very satisfying way to pass otherwise dead time.
Quite a lot of dead time, she realised, and Shego was starting to get uncomfortable on the unforgiving bench. She had been intending to stick around until she'd had a chance to unburden herself to Global Justice, perhaps had gotten a good night's sleep or two, had let her bruises heal. Then she had been intending to take her leave at her leisure. "However, if they don't schedule a bathroom break in the next 20 minutes or so, I'll be leaving early! Perhaps I'll send Dr Director a postcard", she mused. Although - she frowned - that would mean burning through the chains she had just spent over two painstaking hours carefully re-fabricating. Just at that moment the paddy wagon slowed dramatically, and then turned slowly off the metalled highway onto what she quickly discovered was a very rough dirt road, which was jiggling her now somewhat full bladder quite uncomfortably. 'Still', she reflected, 'journeys end is presumably nigh'.
She had taken advantage of the recently lengthened chains to stand up, better absorbing the violent swaying and the crashing bumps through her knees. After about 10 minutes the truck slowed again, and changed direction once more, this time on a slightly smoother surface. Perhaps a poorly maintained road or rough concrete, Shego decided. She was just starting to debate with herself whether or not to cut her way straight into the drivers cab or out through the armour-plated floor of the truck when it swung to a halt. Then it reversed briefly, before finally stopping abruptly with a loud hiss of air-brakes. The engine shuddered to a halt. 'Finally!', Shego thought, impatiently.
There was a bit of banging and clattering from outside the truck, and then the back doors swung aside and she found herself dazzled by an array of powerful arc-lights shining directly into her face. She shielded her eyes in some annoyance, wondering what all the melodrama was in aid of. If only she'd known, then she'd have been long gone. With the back door open she again heard the beat of hovering rotor blades somewhere above, but this time she had judged that it was a large single rotor helicopter, probably military, possibly something like a Blackhawk. The pins locking the chains to the truck snapped back, as an unseen lever was pulled, and then the slack in the chain that ended at her wrists was taken up by somebody outside the truck who was concealed from her by the light show. Then she heard - and she assumed was meant to hear - the racking of numerous slides, and the pulling of numerous cocking handles, somewhere out there in the brightness. The message was clear enough.
Moments later a voice distorted by a loudhailer commanded her to climb out of the van, and she felt a gentle pulling on the chains. Cocking an eyebrow, she did as the loudhailer commanded, more interested in getting to somewhere she could take a pee at this point than trying to work out what the hell Global Justice were up to with all the idiotic grandstanding.
As she stepped out of the truck into the dazzling light, she stumbled forward as the chain was unexpectedly tugged just as she was off balance and she found herself slamming into the heavy duty bars of a cage, and at that moment a set of equally heavy duty bars which had been waiting above her for her to pass below slammed down behind her and were locked into place.
"Enough already!" she yelled, but just at that moment she had felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her left buttock, deep into the muscle. She twisted her head round with a snarl of rage in time to see one of those long poles with a big needle on the end, the kind vets use to tranquilise dangerous caged wild animals at the zoo, being withdrawn. As she had turned, the floodlights had been cut, presumably to stop her seeing or identifying her assailant at the blunt end of that pole. Her hands were still in front of her, pulled there by the chain, so she couldn't issue the immediate retribution that instinct had demanded.   That instinct had lit her hands though, and she turned her head forward again, but this time with the lights off, outside the cage she could see only a handful of people, illuminated by her green glow, plus a big reel to reel tape machine, and she realised that she had been suckered by sound effects. Behind the tape machine and the now dark arc-lights she also saw the outline of a derelict hanger and the silhouette of a small business jet. But before she had a chance to hurl any plasma at the architects of her current situation, suddenly she found herself falling, and falling a very long way indeed into inky blackness.
************************************************************************
The next thing Shego was aware of was throbbing pain in her head. She didn't know where she was, or for a few moments who she was, but she had long ago trained herself that in those circumstances, opening your eyes and groaning or moving was never the best policy. So she stayed exactly as she was while she tried to work out what on earth was going on.
Eventually events came back to her, although her fuddled brain couldn't quite yet work out what those events she remembered meant. Instead, still playing possum, she tried to work out where she was, just using her ears. She knew as soon as she asked herself. Being a bit of a plane geek had its uses. She was on that Challenger 605 that she'd seen before she had passed out. Probably, from the feel of things, towards the rear of the plane, and facing the direction of flight, but from the way the sound of the engines was reaching her ears, she decided that was just forward of the rear-mounted engine nacelles, not directly between them.
As she started to become more aware, as whatever they had shot her up with was broken down and metabolised by her comet-enhanced liver, she started to better understand her situation. She realised that she was upright, arms and legs akimbo, presumably cuffed or chained in place. She was hanging against her restraints, so was able to work out that she was secured at ankle, wrist, waist and neck. She also then realised two further things almost simultaneously; her bladder was no longer full, and whatever she was wearing, it wasn't her trade-mark form-fitting green and black suit. From its feel against her skin, she surmised that it as a loose fitting garment made of a cheap poly-cotton material. She also then noticed, though it took a while to process all the sensations, that her very expensive sports bra had gone missing in action, and that she was wearing... a somewhat damp diaper.
Her hands almost sparked spontaneously into angry flame at that point, but she controlled herself with great effort. She knew that somebody was definitely going to pay for all this, though.
While she willed herself to think calm, tranquil, happy thoughts to control the rising rage, one of her fingers involuntarily twitched, and touched something solid. That surprised her. She explored with her fingers, carefully at first and then more boldly, and found that her hands were actually completely contained inside metal spheres which appeared to form part of her wrist restraints. Now she was really confused. This wasn't Global Justice's work, unless they had declared amateur hour or decided to run a 'who can really piss Shego off the most for no good reason' contest. GJ would have told her where they wanted to take her, and asked her if she was prepared to give her word that she wouldn't try to escape before she got there. If she had been, and she would have been, they would have showed her up the steps of the plane and probably even taken the cuffs off for the duration of the flight. They knew she kept her word. It was in the file they kept on her. She rarely gave it, but had never broken it. More importantly, if they had wanted to take her against her will, they would have done a better job. The metal globes around the hands reeked of somebody who didn't understand Shego's plasma powers trying to work out how to neutralise them. She knew that Global Justice knew a great deal more about her than that.
And they would also have known that drugging her wasn't as easy as it looked, either. Whoever had done this had used something sufficiently potent to knock her out, which meant that they probably wouldn't have expected its recipient to wake up for some considerable time. Possibly after the plane she had awoken on had landed. The plane confused her as well. Until she realised that it might be taking her overseas. And that had made another mental connection for her. She risked cracking one eye open a tiny bit and found that there was a hood over her head, concealing her face from her captors. When she opened her eyes fully, she was able to see the top of an orange jumpsuit inside the bottom of the hood.
Extraordinary rendition.
The CIA.
Or somebody acting like them. But why? How had they taken her out of the hands of law enforcement inside the continental USA and where were they planning on shipping her? It had still made no sense. She had wracked her brain, trying to remember what she had read on the subject, and had another brief moment of rage as the paragraph in the article she had read about the use of sedative suppositories on those being transported jumped out of her minds eye.
She had a quick and very careful squeeze of the muscles thereabouts, and nothing felt amiss. She'd need to check properly later, but she was reasonably sure that her back passage hadn't been violated, so she simmered down a little. There would soon have been somebody walking around out there who would never have been physically able to pick his nose again if she had discovered that the little ball bag had stuck a finger up her butt without asking first. The sedative would probably have had little effect on her anyway.
However, the lack of it told her that whatever they had given her had indeed been meant to keep her out for the duration. All she needed now was to let her unnatural metabolism process more of the crap out of her system, and work out where the plane was. If they were flying over land, she could take them at any time she felt ready, but if they were crossing a major ocean, she really needed to make her move when she was near a major land-mass, so that she could fly the captured plane into radar clutter, put it on the ground quickly and make good her escape, leaving just enough time beforehand for her to kick seventeen shades of holy living crap out of her captors before she departed.
It was ten minutes before she heard the sound of a telephone ringing in the cabin, and then somebody - an American by his accent - answered, said "Thanks, I'll tell him!", then put the phone down. "We've caught a tail wind", said the voice. "We'll be on the ground in Cape Verde to refuel and re-crew in just under 3 hours, and our ETA in Tashkent is now 2300 EST, 1000 Local."
"Great!" said another voice, "I wanna be back stateside in time for my kid's first little league game. I've done Tashkent before and if we don't get airborne out of there by about 1400 local, the flight crew will be out of hours to get us back to Cape Verde, we'll be stuck there for another night and I'll be screwed. His mother already thinks I don't give a shit, that's why we got divorced in the first place".
"We'll make it!" said the first man, reassuringly.
Shego's head, meanwhile, was spinning again as she tried to take in the enormous implications of what she had just heard.
First, the practical - and she needed to get that straight in her mind because thinking about the other first would just make her too angry to analyse the practicalities later.
3 hours from Cape Verde put the plane roughly mid-Atlantic. More disturbingly, knowing approximately where they had taken off from to within a hundred miles or so, that was outside the cruising range of a Challenger 605. Which meant that they must already have landed once and refuelled. Thinking about it, the obvious East Coast stop would be Cuba. Guantanamo. But that meant that she had been out for the count for maybe 6, 8 hours or more. And if they'd given her enough of anything to knock her out for that long, wouldn't it have killed a normal person?
Unless perhaps they'd given her some kind of binary agent, designed to render somebody comatose for an extended period or until they were given an antidote. Which would explain why they were paying her no attention. As far as they were concerned she'd be a sack of unconscious meat until after they handed her over to the Uzbek authorities.
So she just had to bide her time until they were about 30 minutes out from Cape Verde, since for her plan of action to succeed she needed the plane to be at or near cruising altitude. Which would give her time to brood about the idea that somebody, anybody, would hand her or anybody else over to the SNB, the Uzbek secret police. Uzbekistan was where the government boiled political prisoners alive or tortured them to death, apparently not even as a means of extracting information, but as a signal to others who would oppose them. Shego knew all this, and she knew why the Uzbek's wanted her as well.
She'd been to Uzbekistan about 18 months ago, not for any higher purpose, but because Drakken had wanted the rocket motors from some festering cold-war tactical nuclear weapons that were stored in the mountains there.
Not the warheads, thank your deity of choice, just the liquid fuelled rocket engines. Not that she would have stolen the latter for him anyway, but the mere thought that he might have wanted them would have scared her half to death.
He could have bought or built better rocket motors himself, and she could have told him that, but Shego liked the challenge of stealing them from a nuclear weapons store, so she took a few of his henchmen with her and went "shopping". She had discovered the hard way that the Russian FSB security at the storage site was excellent, but not quite good enough to stop her from leaving with several rocket engines from an engineering spares store. Although she assumed that security would have been beefed up if she had gone back again, since if she had been after the warheads, she would probably have had them. As it was, she drove out the shattered gates of the compound in a stolen truck carrying the rocket motors, and several unconscious or wounded henchmen, although none of the injuries were life threatening as it transpired. The FSB men defending the site would be sheepish but mostly uninjured. When they woke up.
But it wasn't the raid that was the reason that the Uzbeks wanted her, it was what happened after, as they made good their escape. She'd been flying top cover for Drakken, who was in one of his stealth hoverships, in the VTOL all-weather strike plane that he'd designed and built to her spec in the spare time between his other projects.   Happy that the stealth hovership really was undetectable on Uzbek radar, she decided to stop drawing attention to it by flying in a different direction to draw any opposition away from the mad scientist.
As Dr D was leaving Uzbek airspace with a full load of battered and bleeding henchmen and several stolen rocket engines, she had caught sight of what appeared to be dead bodies in the square of a small town she was passing over. She had pulled an Immelman turn and gone back for a closer look.   Focussing the high-resolution FLIR camera on the spot, she was disturbed to see men and women, ordinary people, laying in the town square, some surrounded by pools of blood, amongst torn and bloodied banners and fallen placards that would seem to suggest that some kind of a demonstration had been in progress. There was an armoured car on one edge of the square, and she could see, when she looked at Infra-Red mode on her FLIR display, that the barrel of the machine gun on top of the turret was hot. As she had watched, men in police uniforms had moved through the square, pausing only to shoot wounded people on the ground in the head. She realised that she was watching a slaughter of innocents, a massacre.
The images sickened Shego, and she put the jet down in a clearing in a nearby copse of trees and practically ran into the town, incandescent with rage. And then she kind of lost it a bit with the butchers who had done this thing. And by the time she walked quite calmly out of the town, 40 minutes later, as far as she knew there was not a policeman or an SNB man alive in the town, and their vehicles and buildings burned in ruins.
It had got worse. Survivors of the massacre had been crying at her feet, thanking her, and others had told her of their brothers and sons and daughters held in the basement of the interior ministry building, next to the police station she had just reduced to burning rubble, and so she had gone there, just to free them. Then she had fought her way in to the building and down to the basement, taking care this time not to kill people, something she had not done with the butchers in police uniform.
Once through the heavy steel doors and into the vaulted basement, she had discovered a terrible and horrifying example of man's barbarity to man, a grisly medieval torture chamber, full of unspeakable horrors. And she'd found the torturers, hiding from her down there, huddled together in their recreation room, where they watched western satellite TV and drank coffee in between drilling holes in people's skulls and pulling their finger nails out with pliers.
Her first instinct had been to vapourise them slowly from the feet upwards. But then suddenly from being enraged by what she had seen, she was unexpectedly calm, ice cold and detached. She had expertly laid into the bloodstained monsters in front of her, breaking limbs, and burning flesh, but she only did enough to render them immobile, not unconscious. And then she went and freed the victims of the torture, and she showed them, the ones who could walk and weren't catatonic, where the torturers broken bodies were laying, and she told them in broken Russian that it was up to them what justice for their tormentors was.
The blood curdling screams that had followed her out of the door as she left were music to her ears.
As she walked away from the interior ministry building, friends and family members of people who had been held, and many who had probably died in that basement, started to stream the other way. Many were crying, many thanked her, a small girl hugged her for saving her daddy. She ruffled the child's hair in relaxed fashion, and grinned cheerfully at those thanking her as she stepped over the corpses of some of the men she had beaten to death, or blown in two, and whose blood was splashed across her green and black flight suit.
She had strolled back to the copse, relaxed and almost pleased with herself. She felt that sense of accomplishment, of personal pride, that she had often strived for as a member of Team Go, and had almost always failed to achieve. Not that Hego would ever have approved of what she had just done in a million years.
She'd just lifted clear of the trees, when she was shocked to get a bleep from the tactical radar warning that there were two - no three - Hind gunships approaching the town from the North, no doubt carrying troops as well. The bastards had called for reinforcements to continue the butchery.
Transitioning to forward flight and firewalling the throttles, she had got within AMRAAM range of the ground attack choppers and taken all three of them out before they got within weapons range of the town and its celebrating people. But her mind was already screaming. It was all going to go wrong. She couldn't fight off the entire Uzbek state security apparatus on her own. And eventually, they'd take their revenge on the town for what she had done there. And she didn't think that there would be any survivors left to hate her for what she had brought down on them.
She frantically patrolled the approaches to the town, aware that she was burning up fuel and couldn't stay on station forever. Then she spotted a convoy of trucks and armoured personnel carriers coming up the road towards the town, and she could see the heavily armed interior ministry troops on board, ready to punish the inhabitants for her sins.
She had made attack run after attack run the length of the convoy, strafing and bombing and rocketing, and dodging bullets and shoulder launched anti-aircraft missiles. The road was littered with burning vehicles and corpses. But all too quickly, she had expended all of her ordnance, and could only watch impotently as the survivors climbed onto the remaining serviceable vehicles and resumed their journey towards the town.
She'd realised that she would never stop them now. All she had thought she could do was to warn the townspeople.
She had tried.
She had buzzed the town, waggling her wings frantically, three times. Then she realised that the townspeople were outside, frenziedly waving and cheering at her. She used the radio to broadcast a warning in broken Russian on as many frequencies as she could.
Nobody was listening.
And then the interior ministry trucks had rolled in to town and up the main street and the shooting had started. This time, as she watched in mounting horror, some of the people had armed themselves with weapons dropped by the troops and policemen she had slain. But they had
obviously been no match for trained soldiers with armoured support. Then Shego got a tactical radar warning of a squadron of incoming Mig 29s. The Uzbek air-force had finally got in on the act. And with only one air-to-air missile left, no gun ammunition and barely enough juice to make it back to the fuel dump where she was meeting Drakken, she had to leave.
She pushed the stick forward, throttled back to save fuel, went right down to the deck, and flew away from the town at tree top height; a town that she hadn't even known the name of, and still didn't.
Alone in the cockpit, twisting and turning near the ground as the mountains flashed by above, Shego had cried very private and bitter tears.
All she had later told Drakken was that she had 'had a bit of trouble'.
She had cut herself off from news of Uzbekistan. She didn't want to know what the government there were doing, or had done. Nor, specifically, did she ever want to read about the massacre of the entire population of the town she had last seen burning over her shoulder as she flew away
from it; because she felt responsible. Just like she did now for what had happened with the Little Diablos. But now, Uzbekistan wanted her. They wanted her in one of those dungeons, to torture in revenge for what she had done to their apparatus of butchery. They had tortured her mentally already by what they had done to the town as she watched. Now they wanted to torture her physically. Or perhaps they just wanted to kill her in a particularly horrible way, live on state television, because she was a symbol of resistance.
That... was not unexpected. One day she would have to deal with her Uzbek demons; probably violently. But for today, her rage was reserved and channelled for whoever wanted to knowingly hand her over to these grotesque people, helpless and unconscious, to be tortured, dismembered,murdered.
For a moment she had been tempted to sling the foot soldiers who were travelling on the plane with her out of the door at 40,000 feet. Not a good way to die, watching the ground come closer and closer and knowing you are going to hit it very hard in a few seconds.
Then she remembered the little league game and she relented. It wasn't the kids fault that his father was an apologist for murderers and torturers. She'd make sure that he'd be able to spend a lot more time with the kid in the near future; in several casts, maybe, but quality time nonetheless. But one way or the other she'd find out who had ordered them to do this to her. And then she'd make time to pay them a little visit.
And fuck up their whole damned day.
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Judging two and a half hours in your head isn't easy, but Shego was fortunate that at about the time she thought that two and a half hours had passed, she heard the engine note subtly change as the pilot throttled back for the long descent.
"Showtime!"
Shego very carefully charged her hands, manipulating the electromagnetic flux around them to keep the superheated plasma very close to the skin of her hands, and away from the metal of the globes, globes which concealed the powerful build-up of plasma from the eyes of her jailers.
She had to be careful to keep the energy away from the metal because although her skin was immune to the plasma that she generated from her hands, which were themselves miraculously unaffected by the extreme temperatures they generated, the heat of objects that she had heated up
with that plasma would still burn other parts of her body, like her wrists, severely. And, as she had discovered to her cost before, large full thickness burns required a skin graft to fix them, even if the skin was green. She kept maintaining the electromagnetic flux and pumping more and more power into the layer near her hands. She built it up until it was so intense that she could start to smell the ozone as it ionized the air around her. Then she took a number of very quiet deep breaths, culminating in a big one that she held. Then, she let the raw, stored power in her left hand go, in one focussed blast to her left hand side.
There was a loud explosion, as a bolt of superheated plasma burnt straight through the end of the titanium globe on her right hand and then out through the skin of the plane, creating a fist sized hole. At 48,000 feet, there was instantaneous explosive decompression, and the plane lurched nose down into a steep dive as the pilots executed the emergency descent that Shego was hoping would give her the time to free herself and deal with the two men she'd heard talking, and any others that she hadn't. She had continued to pour power into her right hand to the point where it would have been too bright to look at, and then she just pulled her hand towards her, through the wrist restraint, vapourising the titanium alloy like it was ice turning to steam, and then she allowed all that energy to just dissipate as she grabbed for the hood over her head with her now no longer burning hand and ripped it clear. Just in time to brace herself as a man in a polyester suit flew towards her after losing his grip on a leather seat back. He slammed into her midriff and Shego bellowed as the bruises Kimmy had given her flared. Touching two fingers to the forehead of the man pinned to her, and who was frantically scrabbling inside his jacket, she zapped him into unconsciousness.
His companion was meanwhile strapped in to a seat facing away from her, and he was fumbling with an oxygen mask that had dropped down from above his head. His task was made harder by the P9 in his hand. Once he had the mask over his mouth and nose, he looked round - straight into Shegos eyes. He swung the weapon around to aim at her, but she beat him to the draw, a plasma bolt knocking the pistol out of his hands and throwing it into the corner. Frantically, he unclipped the seat belt and dived after it, and Shego helped him quickly on his way with a blast of plasma. He slammed hard into the cockpit door and collapsed, unconscious.
Shego blew across the tip of her finger, gunfighter style, then grabbed the oxygen mask that was designed to serve one of the seats that had been removed to make room for the quite impressive collapsible titanium crucifix that she had been secured to. After a couple of deep breaths, she briskly and effic iently released herself from the restraints.
While she waited for the plane to descend to below 10,000 feet and level off, she reached into the jacket of the man slumped at her feet and pulled out the P9 that he had been frantically fumbling for earlier, and casually flicked the magazine release to drop the clip on the floor, then racked the slide with her thumb, ejecting the chambered round, and finally lit her hand and screwed the melting pistol up like it was an empty soda can, and tossed it away.
The engines stopped screaming and the descent slowed, so clearly they were back into breathable air. She walked, waddling slightly thanks to the damned diaper which was chafing somewhat, up the aisle towards the other spook, and stopped, surprised.
She was not alone.
There was another passenger, sitting chained to a seat, in an orange jumpsuit, with a bag over his head. She pulled the bag clear, looking in case it was somebody she recognised.
The unknown man woke up, looked around groggily at the unconscious escort - Shego guessed that he hadn't been quite as lucky with the whole finger up the tradesman's entrance thing as she had - and slurred "God is great!" in Arabic, before closing his eyes and returning to the land of nod.
She'd have to let him go, she decided. He could be a dangerous and committed Al Quaeda terrorist, but knowing the kind of people in charge at Guantanemo he'd probably once delivered a pizza to Osama Bin Laden's third cousin or something. Either way, he didn't deserve being handed over to be boiled alive by the Uzbek torturers.
The internal phone started to ring. She ignored it.
She waddled up the aisle, fuming with every soggy, diaper-rash affected step, and repeated the impressive crushing trick with the P9 that she had blasted out of the other agent's hand. That agent groaned and moved, so she reached down and gave him the zap on the forehead. With most people, that gave her an hour or two before they woke up, which in this case would be more than enough time. She cursorily searched the man, discovering a US passport, drivers licence and credit cards in a name that might or might not have been genuine. She also found $800 US in cash in the man's wallet, which she stuffed into the breast pocket of the extremely unflattering orange jumpsuit. She'd need some cash for a new wardrobe when she hit civilisation.
And some baby powder.
The internal phone started to ring again. Once again she ignored it.
Then she spotted the briefcase. In a flash she had it in front of her and had burnt the locks open. She was rewarded by a sheaf of documentation bearing the crest of the Central Intelligence Agency,
including an 'intelligence report' on her which on a brief skim seemed to have been written by an illiterate fantasist who knew little or nothing about her or her activities, and another on the other passenger, which she gave little credibility to in light of what they had said about her, but had him down as a possible extremist from Algeria who had been captured in Afghanistan.
It quickly became clear that the US were sending the other guy with a name she could not pronounce to the Uzbeks to see if they could get him to admit his links to Al Quaeda. She had no doubt that they could. In great detail.
Whether he had any links to start with or not.
She also came across the print out of telex correspondence not 8 hours old where the CIA had advertised the fact that they had captured Shego and were looking to ship her abroad, and the Uzbeks had replied saying that they wanted her 'in connection with domestic terrorism in Uzbekistan'.
Evil bastards.
Time to take the plane.
She fired up her hands, and silently burnt the lock of the steel cockpit door out, before yanking it open. The co-pilot reacted first, looking over his shoulder and then plunging his hand into the pocket beside his seat and emerging with a small revolver, obviously designed as the last line of defence against terrorist hijackers storming the cockpit. He never got to pull the trigger - Shego had covered the space between the cockpit door and the co-pilot in half a second, and gone for a
pressure point in his neck with an expertly delivered knife-hand punch. She was able to take the pistol from his limp hand as he slumped back in his seat. Meanwhile, the Captain was yelling “Cockpit breach! Cockpit breach!" into her headset, continuously repeating the same phrase as if stuck in a loop caused by terror. Or she was until Shego casually cut the wire to her headset with a little flicker of plasma anyway.   "Please don't...", she said. "I'm just... I just fly the plane!" She
added, plaintively. "Be my guest" said Shego, as she emptied the cartridges from the revolver and melted it into a paperweight. "Just hold this altitude and heading until I say differently, OK?"
The pilot nodded, and concentrated on the controls, as Shego zapped the co-pilot on the forehead, after first removing his headset and releasing his harness. She yanked him up and over the back of his flight seat by his belt and collar, dumping him in the cabin. Then she slammed the steel cockpit door and spot- welded it shut with her finger. "Right!" said Shego, as she vaulted over the back of and into the co-pilots seat and landed with a rather unpleasant sounding squelch. "It looks like you're doing a damned fine job here!" she added, to the shivering captain, as she fastened the quick-release harness. "But..." she added, reaching out, "I have control!" as she zapped the pilot on the temple and she slumped back in her seat. By the time she awoke, Shego knew reckoned she would be long gone. Probably - she compared her stature critically with that of the unconscious pilot - in what she was wearing. Although she'd steal some clean underwear from the woman's flight bag which was stowed behind her seat, she had noticed.
Relaxing, Shego did a quick sweep of the instruments, looking for any problems or issues.
There was plenty of fuel. There obviously had been tailwinds. More than enough to make the African mainland, in fact - so that was what she decided to do. She also noticed that the vibration sensor on the port engine was indicating a slightly high reading; probably caused by ingesting lumps of aluminium and the other detritus that had been sucked out of the hole in the skin that she had burned.
Ideally, she'd shut the engine down, but she took a pragmatic risk, spooling it down to idle, so that it was available if she needed the power, but wouldn't rip the tail off the plane if it siezed or broke up.
She spooled the starboard engine up to compensate. Then she reached down and zapped the transponder with her finger. The transponder that had been set to squawk an automated distress code onto radar screens up and down coastal Africa, and even as far north as the Canary Islands, presumably, since she had blown a hole in the side of the plane.
It would squawk no more.
She grabbed the headphones and put them on her head, expecting to hear very little. She was mistaken.
"Boxcar seven, this is Hammer one - seven, challenge break five alpha, please authenticate and respond."
Somebody was clearly talking to her. Or actually, to the sleeping pilot alongside her.
"Boxcar seven, this is Hammer one - seven, I say again, challenge break five alpha, please authenticate and respond."
She didn't know who or where Hammer one - seven was, but Shego decided that silence was the best policy.
"Hammer one - seven, nothing heard..."
She knew that she could make landfall in mainland Africa within 20 minutes, so unless they had had a fighter already shadowing them, or an aircraft carrier sitting more or less directly between them and the coast of North Africa, she be feet dry in 20 minutes and flying low enough to be undetected, then landing somewhere convenient where she could lose herself.
It was just at that moment that the first missile hit.
There was an enormous bang from the rear of the plane, the controls were almost wrenched out of her hands and the jet yawed drastically to starboard and started to roll, with massive vibrations kicking at her hands and feet.
As Shego fought to control the almost uncontrollable, the warning lights on the panel lit up like a Christmas tree, a cacophony of buzzers, horns and klaxons competed loudly with each other, and a digitised voice started reciting a list of critical failures. A quick scan showed that the port engine warnings were all lit, from oil pressure through fire to turbine over-speed, that there was a major fuel leak and that two of the three independent hydraulic circuits to the tail had lost pressure. The starboard engine was still running, and she deftly switched its fuel supply to the one tank that wasn't leaking, then hit the button to kill the shrieking audible warnings. She wasn't quite sure what had happened, but had an idea. Still wrestling with the yoke, she looked back towards the tail out of her cockpit side window, to see an empty space where she expected the edge of the port engine to be, and a trail of flames and black smoke behind the stricken plane.
And she also saw, between two clouds, the unmistakeable silhouette of an F14 some way back on her port quarter, with big drop tanks under its wings and fuselage. And as she watched, she saw the bloom of flame from under its wing as another missile left its rack.
"Shit!".
They had had a fighter shadow. And this was what their orders must be if the human cargo ever took over the plane. Hammer one - seven was just cleaning house. There was no way of cheating the inevitable. The plane was lost. Everybody on board was almost certainly dead, unless she could save them or even herself; which was unlikely if the plane exploded in mid air.
She took a calculated last-ditch risk, and pulled a violent wing-over, an evasive manoeuvre more suited to a fully stressed and aerobatically rated fighter plane, and that she knew well exceeded the wing loading limits of the already crippled business jet. The gamble was that the wings would stay on, and that she was able to buy some time by dodging the missile.
She lost the bet.
A new alarm started as she hauled on the stick and kicked the rudder pedal, along with the calm computerised voice saying "Airframe! Stress!" repeatedly. There were various terminal sounding creaking and groaning noises but Shego ignored them, as the plane pulled up and over to starboard. She had to, otherwise they were dead for sure. Then the already damaged horizontal stabilizer broke away from the tail with a bang, the plane lurched uncontrollably into an even more violent manoeuvre and the port wing folded at the root like it was made of paper. She felt both failures through the controls, and heard the screech of the tortured main spar crying enough.
"And that's all she wrote..." thought Shego.
Relieved of one wing, the plane would have inevitably violently spun into the sea, shedding parts and wreckage, like a giant metal sycamore seed. That's if the second missile hadn't slammed into the fuselage and triggered an explosion that blew the stricken plane apart in a giant fireball.
The cockpit section, with Shego and the unconscious pilot strapped into their seats, was severed from the fuselage by the blast, and tumbled lazily towards the sea, 10,000 feet below, in amongst a shower of other burning wreckage.
There was silence now, apart from the increasing roar of the wind. Shego realised that in a little over a minute, the cockpit section was going to plunge into the sea at roughly 150mph. This was not going to be a surviveable impact.
Shego turned to the unconscious pilot, strapped into the seat adjacent to her, and spoke sincerely.
"Sorry."
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Enter the Naked Mole Rat