Author's Note:
Hey! An action scene! Missiles and jets an’ everything! Please lemme know how I did at it. Or does it just not “fit” the story…
“They're… they're different. They're… what's the word… ‘hazel’?”
Shego told her story, from the beginning: how bored she'd been, how disgruntled, how she'd felt about the trailer-park of a GJ compound. How lonely she was…
She went on to the Telegram from Dr. Director – supposedly - and described how the opulence of the Hong Kong Hilton had affected her. She was leaving nothing out.
When she described Ko, and the experiences of sex with Ko, she continued to leave nothing out, describing each act in explicit, shocking, clinical detail. She hadn't intended to… it was just coming out that way. Shego stared at the floor and told them absolutely everything,purging herself.
The boy's mouths hung open. They looked at each other, as if to be sure they were hearing right, and then looked back at her, as she went on with her monologue. For Josh, a homosexual, but who had experienced girls, it was an eye-opener. For Ron, a bi-sexual but a virgin with women, it actually began to make him feel queasy. For both of them it was way – WAY! - too much information.
And when she began to go into how different it was from Kim… well, Ron tried to think about his Civics lesson, and Josh re-played Kasperov vs. Big Blue in his mind. But they still the couldn't help hearing.
Finally, blessedly, Shego seemed to be finished after she described the images that had run through her mind at the pub, when she'd wished there had been some peanut-butter for the crackers. All this time, she'd been staring at the floor, almost trance-like. Now she finally looked up at the two, ashen-faced boys.
“So basically, long story short, I was feeling low and lonely, and someone – I think we all know who – threw a pretty girl with a 42-D chest at me, and I crumbled. Any questions?”
“Uh…” “Couldn't you have just said that…”“No…” “I guess that…” “I sure don't…” “Damn, Shego…”
“Sara”, she said.
Ron and Josh looked at her questioningly. “What?”, they both asked, not quite in sync.
“I don't want to be ‘Shego’ anymore. Ever. It's just a name I used… I didn't even make it up - my big brother did that… and I don't want to be her. I just want to be myself, and my name is Sara Chase Gomez. Pleased to meet you.” Her voice had a tired, flat tone, as if she'd worn herself out with guilt, anger, and shame, and just wanted to start again, her slate clean.
She stood up while they stared at her, both of them trying to keep from picturing the images she'd just put in their minds – in excruciating detail – as she stretched her stiff muscles.
“Ron? I'm sorry I zapped you. Are we okay?”, she asked, although she already knew the answer. Somehow, during her Purge, she'd just felt it – she was forgiven. Whatever she'd done, whatever she would do, she their Sheg – their Sara. Kim would too, although there was more to it than just being forgiven by Kim… because Kim would be mostly “disappointed”, and that was going to hurt. When the time came, it was going to hurt a great deal.
She wished Kim were there now, so she could just get it over with, with the support of the two boys. You don't always get what you want… but if you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need – the words of the Rolling Stones echoed in her head.
“We're okay, She- Sara”, he said.
“Josh?”
“Nice to meet you. Again. Sara.”
They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Josh said, “Sara, I hope you're going to split our therapy bills, when this is all over.” He rubbed his eyes, which had been too wide for too long.
She smiled. Suddenly, everything was back to the way it should be, except for Ron's odd hazel irises. “I'll think about it. Chinese food? On me?”
Ron quipped, “This isn't another part of your story is it?”
Back to normal, indeed.
“Sheaghen! Stop leaving these in the DEN!”, Kim hollered.
Kim had brought the synth to her home while she packed, and Sheaghen seemed to have a bad habit of leaving empty fuel-cell cartons wherever she happened to be when she swallowed them. On the coffee-table, the kitchen-counter, the top of the TV, the bookcases… everywhere. Each individual cell was quite small, and she was loading up on as many as she could comfortably carry in her intake-buffer, in preparation for the mission.
She hollered back from the downstairs bathroom, “Sorry, Princess! I'll take care of ‘em!”
Kim came down the stairs, backpack in hand, meeting the synth just as she was coming out of the bathroom. “Uh… what were you doing in there?”, Kim asked.
Sheaghen smirked, “You really want to know?”
Kim could tell by the smirk, “Uh, no. No I don't.”
“Good girl!”, Sheaghen chuckled, kissing Kim on the forehead before the teenager could clear her head.
Kim was more than a little startled, “Hey! You said you wouldn't do that!”
“What? According to what little I know, a peck on the head does not qualify as ‘hitting on you’… does it?”, Sheaghen asked, truly wondering.
“Well… no… I guess…” Kim tried to focus her mind. It was difficult, because she had to keep reminding herself that this was not Shego. “Just, watch it with the physical contact, okay? I'm creeped out enough as it is.”
Sheaghen looked her in the eye for what seemed too long, to Kim. For Sheaghen, it was an eternity, and while she was looking, she'd analyzed what had happened in the halls of the GJ when she'd seen the teenager blush. She still didn't know what it was, but she had her suspicions, and she also suspected what it might lead to. System Overload, among other things. The robot made a note to update her backup at the next opportunity.
“Okay, Kimmie”, she finally said. “You're the boss.”
“Good”, Kim said, relieved to have the conversation over with. The synth remained in the bathroom door. “Um, excuse me? I need to use the… facilities, too, y'know.”
“Oh! Sorry. Forgot how you meat-bags are. Ick.”, she said, stepping out of her way and into the den.
Kim went in, closing and locking the door. She shouted, “And stop calling us ‘meat-bags'!”
“Uh, Sh… I mean, ‘Sara’… you do know how to fly this thing, right?”, Ron asked trying not to let the fear show in his voice as he climbed into the rear seat.
“It's a plane, Ron. Pull up, go up. Push down, go down. Left to go left, right to go right. No sweat”, she replied, also trying not to show her anxiety.
“Uh-huh. Good. I feel better now”, he lied.
When Josh had added the news of the breakdown in talks between China and the oil-producing countries to his matrix – or structure, or diagram… whatever it should be called, along with the information he had from Shego – now “Sara” - on the root cause of it, the next hole in the pattern had become obvious. Even the Director didn't argue (she had information from other sources that backed him up), and immediately arranged for Ron and – Sara – to head for Venezuela, piloting an F/A-22 prototype fighter by themselves to get there.
The fighter was part of a military-arms show going on in Hong Kong at the time, and the U.S. was trying to interest the Chinese – who were a “most favored trading partner', after all – to buy some. As usual, the project was way over-budget.
Since there were two of them to go - and the aircraft was a two-seater - Sara would have to pilot. Sara had a 4-hour crash-course in super-sonic stealth-fighter aeronautics, while Ron poured over the “owner's manual”, oohing and ahhhing the whole time. It was a lot to take in in four hours… and while Sara knew planes like the back of her hand, this plane had air-brakes, after-burners, variable-contour control-surfaces, directional-thrust nozzles… and when all else failed - ejection seats.
She wasn't sure she could get it off the ground, let alone back down again. Aircraft built for speed often had a hard time going slow enough to land; or handle while taking-off, for that matter.
To make the flight, they'd had to suit up in G-suits, hooked up to a compressed-air valve and other cabling under their seats. The idea was to squeeze the blood back to their brains if they pulled too many G's. The plane itself could withstand enough G-force to squash them flat, and – being a prototype – there were no safe-guards to stop the pilot from killing the occupants with too-sharp a turn.
As a final insult, the suits were hot, and the flight-techs were double-checking everything for the rookie pilot and passenger. Sweat poured down both their faces while they waited in the sun on the tarmac.
“Ron, keep an eye on the computer, will ya? Let me know as we're passing the points? Uh… you know what I mean by ‘points’?”
“Yeah. I gotcha. Turn your gain down, you're gonna blow my ears out.”
“How's this?”
“Good. Yeah, I may not be a pilot, but I've spent far too many hours playing F-15 Strike Eagle, PC version, at home. Some of this stuff actually looks familiar…”
Sara taxied to the end of the runway like a drunken sailor on the way back to base.
“Problem with your feet, Sara?”, Ron teased. Even prototype fighters still steered with foot-pedals when on the ground.
“Shut up, Ron.”
Sara finally – after three tries – got the plane pointed the right way, and close enough to the center-line of the runway. They waited for clearance, engines on idle. Sara ran through the checklist she'd been given, while Ron hunted down the appropriate indicators. Finally, they were given a green light.
“Hold on to your hat, Ron. Here goes nothin'!”, Sara nervously said, pulling the throttles back.
“I thought you said you could fly this-”, but the roar of the engines cut him off. Sara hadn't known just how sensitive the throttles were, and pulled a good 4 G's before she could get things back under control. They were already doing 200 mph. Good thing it was a long runway.
“L-1 – mark!”, Ron said, watching the computer display as if his life depended on it. “L-2… mark. Aaaaaand… L-3, mark! No turning back now, Sara.”
“I'm aware what L-3 means, Ro - whoa!”, the plane lifted off the ground by itself, and all at once, not “nose, wings, tail” as she was used to. She nosed up as gently as she could, given the terror she was feeling.
“Flaps – check. Gear – check, transponder – check…”, Ron was saying, flipping various switches despite his orders “not to touch anything”.
“Damn, Ron. How many times have you done this?”, Sara asked, impressed.
“Heh. More than I can count. It took me a month before I could take off at all, when I first got the game.”
“And when was that?”
“'When I was about 9.”
“Whoa.”
“You said that already.”
“Shut up, Ron.”
After attaining the correct altitude, and pointing the right way, there wasn't really much else to do. They were over open ocean, so there wasn't much to see, either. Bored and fascinated at the same time, it was inevitable they would explore their new toy.
“Cool! This thing has flares, chaff, jammers for everything you could ever want to jam…”, Ron was saying, flicking through the various displays on the computer.
“Well, it's supposed to be a ‘stealth’ fighter, so it gives me no confidence that they still felt the need to put in flares and chaff. Don't touch anything, Ron. You're making me nervous back there.”
Oh… Shego… you have no idea just how nervous you should be…, Ron thought evilly. He had just discovered the environmental control display for the suits they both wore. “How ‘bout some nice cool air?”, he asked innocently.
“Yeah, that'd be -”, and instantly her suit was puffed-out with compressed air from the engine's intake, bled down to 30psi – but still at minus twenty degrees centigrade. “AAAAHHH! Ron! Cut it off! Cut it off!” Sara screamed
Ron cut it off, smiling to himself. His display showed a temperature-contour of her suit. The air inlet was right in the chest, and Sara's breasts showed faint blue against the otherwise red and orange of her body. “Sorry”, he lied. “Wasn't expecting so much pressure…” It was only with the greatest difficulty that he could keep from giggling. “You okay?”
Still catching her breath, Sara could only say, “Shut pant up pant Ron,” as she thought about what she would do to him once they'd landed.
Somewhere beyond the southern end of the Hawiian chain, they ran into trouble. Apparently someone was waiting for them. Someone who didn't like them. On their panels, flashers flashed and beepers beeped.
Sara, in the middle of her fuel calculations, sounded perturbed. “You checking that out Ron?”
“Uh… Sara?”
“Uh, Yes, Ron…”, she mocked him.
“Uh… someone's shooting at us.” He was too busy going from one display to another to verify what he saw to sound worried.
“What?”
“Yeah. Uh… listen, can't talk. No time. Just do it…”
“Do wha-” Sara tried to ask.
“Hard right turn! NOW!”, he shouted.
Without thinking, Sara pulled hard to the right. Too hard. Their suits inflated automatically, but by the time Sara could recover, she was already 180 degrees from her last heading. During the turn, while she'd been unable to move her head, she'd seen two smoke trails off to her left.
“What the -”, she began, but Ron interrupted her.
“Up… 20 degrees. No, 40!”
Again, Sara complied automatically. It occurred to her, in the back of her mind, that she should be wondering why she was obeying his commands without thinking. But… something about the tone of his voice, the words he was using… it just seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn't like being controlled – it was like being part of a team. Which was something Sara wasn't used to. To have enough unspoken trust to just dowhat someone told you to, no questions asked, and immediately, was something new to her. She waited for the next instructions, checking her radar display. There were no less than 8 incoming bogies.
Ron continued clicking on things in the backseat. She heard “chunk” noises as flares deployed from the fuselage.
“Okay, uh… can you use the afterburners?” Ron asked.
“I think so…”
“Right. On my mark, 20 left and 50 down, level out and burn ‘till I say stop. ‘Kay?”
“Check. Ace”, she said, using the nickname Josh had for him, which she'd heard through the wall on many, many, occasions. Whatever it was Ron was doing, it had kept them out of trouble so far, so she wasn't about to start arguing.
“On three. One… two… MARK!”, he shouted into the comm-link. Sara performed the maneuver. and that was all.
“Burn! SHEGO! BURN!”, Ron began to panic.
“I'm looking for it! I'm looking for it! -Ah!” Apparently Sara was doing her own panicking. The burn threw them back in their seats, hard.
Ron was unable to look down at his display screen, and had to imagine what it might be showing. He was chanting “Burn… Burn… Burn… STOP!”, and Sara had to actually force her finger up from the after-burner trigger, against the force of the acceleration holding it there. She saw two more smoke trails appear over her head.
There wasn't really much worth saying at this point, so she waited for new instructions.
“Go back up to 45k. We're going to need the room.” Sara pulled up, but not so sharply as her previous, gut-wrenching turn. She could tell by the tone of his voice that there was no need for that kind of urgency for this maneuver - which certainly didn't mean that there was time to waste, either.
“'Kay. Uh… Sheg – I mean, Sara – we may have to take a hit here… there's four coming, in a fan. I don't know if we can lose ‘em all… plus, I don't think they're just Sidewinders…” She heard more “chunk” sounds, and a couple of “FUFF!” ones in addition.
“How ‘bout the air-brakes? Know where those are? Check your left arm-rest.”, Ron said.
“Check. Got it”, she said.
“Okay. And the engine kill-switch?”
“Check.”
“'Kay. I'll handle the ignitors. You just fly the plane, comrade.”
“Mind telling me the plan?”, she asked. It sounded like it was going to be tricky.
“We're going to try to run them into the ocean, going straight down, on the after-burners. Missiles can fly faster than us, but we can turn faster than them. Uh, you'll have to use your own judgment for when to pull-up… I'll let you know when I think it's safe. If you pull-up before then, there's a good chance we'll take a hit.”
After a short pause, she said simply, “Check”.
“Okaaaaaaay… here we go… 40 more up, my mark… Mark!” They were almost heading straight up. Few aircraft in the world could power continuously straight up – but all missiles could.
“Barrel roll left. Soon… soon… MARK! “, one of those missiles flew by only yards from their heads. As Sara watched, it began to turn around to come back at them.
“Fuck me!…”, she said to no one in particular.
“Brakes! 90 down, then burn!” More flares could be heard shooting from their dispensers.
In a surprisingly short time, they were headed straight down into the middle of the Pacific ocean at Mach 3. Since there was nothing to see in the ocean, Sara kept her eye clued to the altimeter and artificial horizon. It would be difficult to “pull up” if she didn't know which way “up” was. The altimeter's digital numbers were spinning by too quickly to read, but luckily the digital “dial” was available. And it showed her that the ground, as it were, was coming up awfully fast.
“Ron…”
“I know.”
“Ron -”
“I know! Stop burn!”, they weren't accelerating down nearly as fast… but then, they didn't have nearly as much room left, either.
“RON!”
“I KNOW!”
Sara was running out of wiggle-room fast. If she waited too long, she might be in the process of pulling up, might even be nose-up, but their momentum would continue to force them into the water, in a huge belly-splash.
“RO-”
“NOW!” Ron clenched his teeth and waited for the G's. As a rule, he didn't like weighing even twice his normal mass, let alone seven – or more – times.
The aircraft was less than twenty feet from the water when the rate-meter finally stopped. A large wave could have taken them out. Three missiles splashed harmlessly into the ocean, but the fourth – and last – was beginning it's turn to follow them. Unfortunately for it, it lacked the control-surface area to execute the maneuver in time, and went into the water tail-end first as it attempted to power itself out of the dive.
Five minutes later – it seemed like forever – Shego finally spoke.
“When we land, Stoppable, I'm giving you a big, wet kiss. Tongue an’ everything.”
“Eww. My boyfriend says girls have cooties”, Ron teased.
Sara chuckled at that. Suddenly, it didn't seem necessary to say something sarcastic all the time.
“Shut up, Ron”, would do.
A/N
“Shego – stop leaving these in the DEN!” is from hobnobrev, his (I'm assuming) avatar on a certain forum board. It was so precious, I just had to use it. Hope he doesn't mind.
So, how far do we have to go, yet? If I knew, I'd tell ya.