Categories > Cartoons > Kim Possible > The Fortune of Fox
The Fortune of Fox
0 reviewsA soulless killer staring into her future, a rising agent still clinging to his past, and their lives intertwine once again.
-1TrainWreck
The Fortune of Fox
She knows he's here, she can smell it, taste it even, that frantic tension, that hit of apprehension, but it's the aggression that's prominent, drowning them all and heightening her excitement. That was the thing about pheromones, the chemical literally penetrated her nose and she savoured it, the resulting sensations could fuel her for hours... and she closed her eyes and inhaled, deeply.
Feint, rhythmic rustling of disturbed branches and leaves break her jovial train of thought and fluster the scattered tint of light under the forest canopy. She squints as she glances at the glinting sun high in the sky... midday, she muses, as she tails a reticent path between the trees. It's silent, save for the cracks and snaps of dried leaves and twigs under the strained weight of her boots. They're black, leather, based with thick red soles and secured over the calves of dark camouflaged pants with metal straps which flash the withered glare of the sun with every sweeping step. She designed them herself, made them too. Her gloved fingers polish the gleam of the chain barely securing the pants under padlock and key as the teasing black strap of a red g-string slipped free from its confines. The nonchalant staunter was now a deceptively seductive sway, familiar to the smirk gracing her lips.
Any innocence remaining, heavily fleeting or otherwise, or illusions of temptation are dispelled by the five-feet long turrets of a Gatling gun held with a steadfast ease at her side. One handed. The chained rattling of live rounds strapped across her torso echoed among the rustles of trees and leaves fluttering with a gust of breeze, as does the hem of the black tan top clinging to her skin... One tale tells true for all prey; sooner or later they get far too confident... this one is supposedly among the best, supposedly enticing her into an unsuspecting trap, which, in the end, amounted to little more than a modest clearing with nothing but trees skirting the gravel. This is supposedly when the hunter would become the hunted, and this is supposedly where she'd be captured, knocked unconscious, and dragged away to be interrogated about God only knew what. Either that or he'd kill her... most likely the latter before she became a threat too large for him to contain. She's far beyond any conceptions of leagues; that in itself is testament to her evolution... still, it's highly unlikely to happen.
Maybe it's her style, her grace, her swiftness with a blade or adeptness with a gun, her reflexes, her strength, her spunk, her sheer athleticism, flexibility or litheness... hell, there're many things she can attribute to herself... because, y'know, its her/... Or, she realises, as her eyes scan the trees, maybe it's the basic common sense normal humans lack, maybe it's the weariness catching up to her prey, or maybe it's the fact that this stupid little bastard's cloaking device wasn't as adept as he'd have liked to believe. Sure enough, the liquid distortion of light bending as it hit the flinching masked target only confirms her suspicions. A cryptic smile forms on her lips. Her eyes are /never mistaken.
The turrets of her arsenal are hoisted with an inhuman strength, more scarily is its ease; the omen is delivered with the whispered hum of gears, brown eyes widen beyond a black mask, pearl-white teeth are bared in a grin... and the branches of trees are obliterated by the ensuing gunfire... but he's just as quick. Her ears twitch as his controlled breathing turns to frantic heaves for oxygen... music to her ears, it symbolises his fear, so she toys with him, tailing him, prolonging her joy and doubling his sweat. The ricochet and splits of searing rain tearing at his clothing and licking his flesh are prominent in his run and she's sure the burning is prominent to him too, more so than even the strays that severed fleeing birds and animals. So she laughs, demonically, her face splitting into parting lips as they circled the canopy together.
His determination fades, she can smell it, soon overshadowed by what prey should always feel in her presence... fear, sweet, sweet fear. It feeds the well of bloodlust swelling and filling within her, and it overflows, doubly so by the teasing prolonged chase. He was formidable, but the deadly rain strikes her invisible target, effectively tearing his organs to shreds and his body limb from limb... A familiar wave of euphoria washes through her as she listens intently for a body to drop from the branches and crash to the ground below... and waits... and waits, the moments last an eternity before she curses herself.
Leaves flutter behind her with a silent jump.
An unsheathed blade sings a metallic chime.
Its glint sparkles in the sun, a Gatling gun lowers with fated surprise.
Wisps of the whistling air, a smirk rises where her gun is lowered.
Brown eyes widen, for a man of his calibur he should have seen it coming...
Her target freezes, his blade erect in his grasp, once poised and ready to counter-strike, clangs dully into a bed of shrubbery as a searing pain explodes through the depths of his stomach... again, and again, and again, before he crashes to the forest floor... a bloody mess. He can only stare at his fingers; the black of his gloves coated with the thick sheet of red, a shade matching the vibrant shade of his assailants cropped bangs. His torso spits torrents as his arm collapses limply to the ground, he can't move. He can only stare at the sweat stained spine of her tank top, the Gatling gun resting with a mocking ease in her left hand, still smoking from its fire, the shards of metal still hanging to the bottom with twisted nails, seemingly ripped from the armoured vehicle carrying the burden through most of their pursuit.
Yes, she's a monster... inhuman.
From the depths of his screaming mind, he struggles to grasp with a frantic desperation... No... that couldn't be it. He'd outmanoeuvred its use. There was no way... no way she could've have swung it in time, let alone fire it... then slowly, with a meticulous malice, she chooses her moment, gently exhaling, her right arm lowering to her hip... revealing the pistol cradled within her fingers as if an infant. The handle relinquishes an empty clip, which falls to the floor with a painful patience. The dull stinging numbness blinds him, swelling to agony, and he goes into shock... screaming silently into his mask, oblivious to the waving staunter of light footsteps crushing charred, splintered twigs and leaves underfoot.
She can see the brown fire locked in his orbs, leaking away with the fluttering of his lids, his eyes rolling frantically into his head with the muffled torture she can only imagine. Six bullets to the gut can do that to a guy... and she openly mocks him, dropping the Gatling gun, blowing a puffed sigh from her lips as she cleans the dust from the SOCOM with a bright pink handkerchief, all as she steps toward his prone form.
He whispers a wheeze as she plops onto his chest, fingers running through the fringed bangs of her hair. "Guess you've never heard of a bullet-proof vest... huh?" He spits blood in response through his pained haze, though his limp lips can only sputter and slide the red fluid down his cheek. "Shame..." she muses, "...probably would've saved you a lot of pain, and probably your like, y'know?" Her fingers grip and pull the black mask off, revealing the pained, bloodstained features of a boy, barely seventeen or eighteen by the looks of it. She flicks a lock of black hair from his head.
His eyes focus on the gun, blearily, the sun's shine reflecting along the ridges the cool metal. His heart beats rapidly against his chest as the as she reloads the clip, and he moans in fear. She grins in solace... "Then again it probably wouldn't have made a difference. Y'know... me being me and you being... well, some kid..." Two sets of eyes, both humorous with musing and soulful with fear, stare at the tool clutched in her grasp as she twirls it. "Though I gotta hand it to you, I can see why the doc wants you dead. Giving me the run-around, making a nuisance of yourself, you got a lot of energy, kid." Her thumb finds the hammer, and the pistol cocks with an ominous, resounding click. She stands, levelling her gun between the little bastard's tearing eyes... and she realises, despite his formidable skill, just how much of a child he still is as he stares into hers in return, pleading with desperate silence to touch a heart or soul within the depths of green... There're neither, only the feint hum of a processing unit... Kim Possible doesn't exist anymore.
"Oh well..."
Caesar's last conscious act is a forced whimper, severed from his lips as a bullet explodes through his skull...
Kim Possible: The Fortune of Fox © Evolved 2007. Kim Possible characters & concepts © Disney Co.
She knows he's here, she can smell it, taste it even, that frantic tension, that hit of apprehension, but it's the aggression that's prominent, drowning them all and heightening her excitement. That was the thing about pheromones, the chemical literally penetrated her nose and she savoured it, the resulting sensations could fuel her for hours... and she closed her eyes and inhaled, deeply.
Feint, rhythmic rustling of disturbed branches and leaves break her jovial train of thought and fluster the scattered tint of light under the forest canopy. She squints as she glances at the glinting sun high in the sky... midday, she muses, as she tails a reticent path between the trees. It's silent, save for the cracks and snaps of dried leaves and twigs under the strained weight of her boots. They're black, leather, based with thick red soles and secured over the calves of dark camouflaged pants with metal straps which flash the withered glare of the sun with every sweeping step. She designed them herself, made them too. Her gloved fingers polish the gleam of the chain barely securing the pants under padlock and key as the teasing black strap of a red g-string slipped free from its confines. The nonchalant staunter was now a deceptively seductive sway, familiar to the smirk gracing her lips.
Any innocence remaining, heavily fleeting or otherwise, or illusions of temptation are dispelled by the five-feet long turrets of a Gatling gun held with a steadfast ease at her side. One handed. The chained rattling of live rounds strapped across her torso echoed among the rustles of trees and leaves fluttering with a gust of breeze, as does the hem of the black tan top clinging to her skin... One tale tells true for all prey; sooner or later they get far too confident... this one is supposedly among the best, supposedly enticing her into an unsuspecting trap, which, in the end, amounted to little more than a modest clearing with nothing but trees skirting the gravel. This is supposedly when the hunter would become the hunted, and this is supposedly where she'd be captured, knocked unconscious, and dragged away to be interrogated about God only knew what. Either that or he'd kill her... most likely the latter before she became a threat too large for him to contain. She's far beyond any conceptions of leagues; that in itself is testament to her evolution... still, it's highly unlikely to happen.
Maybe it's her style, her grace, her swiftness with a blade or adeptness with a gun, her reflexes, her strength, her spunk, her sheer athleticism, flexibility or litheness... hell, there're many things she can attribute to herself... because, y'know, its her/... Or, she realises, as her eyes scan the trees, maybe it's the basic common sense normal humans lack, maybe it's the weariness catching up to her prey, or maybe it's the fact that this stupid little bastard's cloaking device wasn't as adept as he'd have liked to believe. Sure enough, the liquid distortion of light bending as it hit the flinching masked target only confirms her suspicions. A cryptic smile forms on her lips. Her eyes are /never mistaken.
The turrets of her arsenal are hoisted with an inhuman strength, more scarily is its ease; the omen is delivered with the whispered hum of gears, brown eyes widen beyond a black mask, pearl-white teeth are bared in a grin... and the branches of trees are obliterated by the ensuing gunfire... but he's just as quick. Her ears twitch as his controlled breathing turns to frantic heaves for oxygen... music to her ears, it symbolises his fear, so she toys with him, tailing him, prolonging her joy and doubling his sweat. The ricochet and splits of searing rain tearing at his clothing and licking his flesh are prominent in his run and she's sure the burning is prominent to him too, more so than even the strays that severed fleeing birds and animals. So she laughs, demonically, her face splitting into parting lips as they circled the canopy together.
His determination fades, she can smell it, soon overshadowed by what prey should always feel in her presence... fear, sweet, sweet fear. It feeds the well of bloodlust swelling and filling within her, and it overflows, doubly so by the teasing prolonged chase. He was formidable, but the deadly rain strikes her invisible target, effectively tearing his organs to shreds and his body limb from limb... A familiar wave of euphoria washes through her as she listens intently for a body to drop from the branches and crash to the ground below... and waits... and waits, the moments last an eternity before she curses herself.
Leaves flutter behind her with a silent jump.
An unsheathed blade sings a metallic chime.
Its glint sparkles in the sun, a Gatling gun lowers with fated surprise.
Wisps of the whistling air, a smirk rises where her gun is lowered.
Brown eyes widen, for a man of his calibur he should have seen it coming...
Her target freezes, his blade erect in his grasp, once poised and ready to counter-strike, clangs dully into a bed of shrubbery as a searing pain explodes through the depths of his stomach... again, and again, and again, before he crashes to the forest floor... a bloody mess. He can only stare at his fingers; the black of his gloves coated with the thick sheet of red, a shade matching the vibrant shade of his assailants cropped bangs. His torso spits torrents as his arm collapses limply to the ground, he can't move. He can only stare at the sweat stained spine of her tank top, the Gatling gun resting with a mocking ease in her left hand, still smoking from its fire, the shards of metal still hanging to the bottom with twisted nails, seemingly ripped from the armoured vehicle carrying the burden through most of their pursuit.
Yes, she's a monster... inhuman.
From the depths of his screaming mind, he struggles to grasp with a frantic desperation... No... that couldn't be it. He'd outmanoeuvred its use. There was no way... no way she could've have swung it in time, let alone fire it... then slowly, with a meticulous malice, she chooses her moment, gently exhaling, her right arm lowering to her hip... revealing the pistol cradled within her fingers as if an infant. The handle relinquishes an empty clip, which falls to the floor with a painful patience. The dull stinging numbness blinds him, swelling to agony, and he goes into shock... screaming silently into his mask, oblivious to the waving staunter of light footsteps crushing charred, splintered twigs and leaves underfoot.
She can see the brown fire locked in his orbs, leaking away with the fluttering of his lids, his eyes rolling frantically into his head with the muffled torture she can only imagine. Six bullets to the gut can do that to a guy... and she openly mocks him, dropping the Gatling gun, blowing a puffed sigh from her lips as she cleans the dust from the SOCOM with a bright pink handkerchief, all as she steps toward his prone form.
He whispers a wheeze as she plops onto his chest, fingers running through the fringed bangs of her hair. "Guess you've never heard of a bullet-proof vest... huh?" He spits blood in response through his pained haze, though his limp lips can only sputter and slide the red fluid down his cheek. "Shame..." she muses, "...probably would've saved you a lot of pain, and probably your like, y'know?" Her fingers grip and pull the black mask off, revealing the pained, bloodstained features of a boy, barely seventeen or eighteen by the looks of it. She flicks a lock of black hair from his head.
His eyes focus on the gun, blearily, the sun's shine reflecting along the ridges the cool metal. His heart beats rapidly against his chest as the as she reloads the clip, and he moans in fear. She grins in solace... "Then again it probably wouldn't have made a difference. Y'know... me being me and you being... well, some kid..." Two sets of eyes, both humorous with musing and soulful with fear, stare at the tool clutched in her grasp as she twirls it. "Though I gotta hand it to you, I can see why the doc wants you dead. Giving me the run-around, making a nuisance of yourself, you got a lot of energy, kid." Her thumb finds the hammer, and the pistol cocks with an ominous, resounding click. She stands, levelling her gun between the little bastard's tearing eyes... and she realises, despite his formidable skill, just how much of a child he still is as he stares into hers in return, pleading with desperate silence to touch a heart or soul within the depths of green... There're neither, only the feint hum of a processing unit... Kim Possible doesn't exist anymore.
"Oh well..."
Caesar's last conscious act is a forced whimper, severed from his lips as a bullet explodes through his skull...
Kim Possible: The Fortune of Fox © Evolved 2007. Kim Possible characters & concepts © Disney Co.
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