PARADISA

You know, even real parents have the option of hiring a babysitter. Food for thought.

So who wants to come play nanny? There have to be some people around here who are morally outraged by the idea of a four-year-old hanging around with a supervillain all day. And if you need more incentive than that, let it be known that we're starting with pickpocketing and working our way up.

[she raises her voice a little]

Isn't that right, kid?

[a cheery reply of "That's right!" comes from off-screen; satisfied, Shego shuts the journal]

[after waking up in a stylishly-decorated city loft-style room, teenage Shego had to take some time to verify that she had, in fact, not died and gone to heaven]

[after that, she explores a little bit, flips through the journal, figures out what it is, and decides to get business out of the way before getting back to the cool stuff]

[the first part of her dictation sounds like it's being read from a memorized script:]

Fear not, brave citizens.

[it's definitely Shego's voice, albeit a younger Shego's voice]

Your collective nightmare will soon come to an end, now that our dastardly kidnapper has seen fit to steal away one-fifth of the Team Go and trap her in this admittedly swanky fortress of misery, destruction, and really cool spa rooms. Rest assured, they will be caught and brought to justice, and when they are, they'll curse they day they came up with this evil scheme of... yadda yadda yadda.

Look.

I don't know what the deal here is, and I'm not gonna lie and say that this isn't at least kind of a welcome change, but that doesn't change the fact that me and all these other people were brought here against our will. I know you're listening to this, because no good bad guy doesn't keep tabs on their kidnap victims, and I just want you to know that you've set yourself up for the butt-kicking of a lifetime here.

The rest of you? You don't really seem like a panicky bunch, but if you are, breath into a paper bag and sit tight. You have at least one superhero among you now, and the rest of my team is eventually going to get their crap together without me and come after us. But, judging by how well they normally do when I'm not around to organize everything for them, we're looking at two-three weeks of waiting time, minimum. If you need someone to talk to about your predicament, find someone who isn't me, because I don't have the time or the patience to deal with freaked-out civilians.

Thanks. Bye.

[she shuts the journal]

[there might be a few water droplets on the journal pages today, because this punchclock villain is spending her off-the-clock time lounging in the hot tub in the castle pool room, a small stack of books and magazines on a towel rack next to her-- she's actually in quite a good mood right now, in contrast to the other times she's decided to make her own journal entry, so her voice is relaxed and even a bit affable]

Not bad. If I close my eyes I can almost pretend this is a resort complex in Tahiti. Now, if only that beach room was open seven days a week, this place might just be perfect.

For a certain definition of perfect, anyway. But it definitely could be worse.

[a small fingerprint-sized drop of water appears on the page as she taps the journal, her tone almost playful]

Now how many of you think I just jinxed it?

[OOC: also open to in-person interactions for anyone who wants to drop by to bug her/hang out/completely destroy her serenity with cannonballs into the pool/whatever.]

[obvious teeth-chattering here over the journal-- but her fingers are too cold to hold a pen for long! what a dilemma]

Okay, here, new question for all of you: how long do these things last? Because I don't know about the rest of you, but I wasn't expecting the glacial arctic when preparing winter stuff.

[there's a contemplative pause]

Anyone else luckier than me?

[beware, Paradisa: she's scouting for people to steal from]