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Special thanks to campy for proofing this chapter.
KP © Disney
I.
1542
While Kim Possible was old enough and possessed of sufficient confidence to admit that a hottie could all too easily turn her head in the days before she'd figured out just what Ron Stoppable meant to her, she had never been particularly impressed by monarchs. When a royal needed her help, she felt she was assisting just another person; being in the presence of someone with an inherited title fell under the category of "no big."
This time was different, however. Not because she was awed by the crowned head of state she faced but because he was indeed big.
"Come to me, wench!" a leering Henry VIII bellowed.
Kim glowered as she worked to put more space between England's ruler and herself. "You so didn't call me a wench."
"Aye, I did," he replied with what Kim had to admit was a winning smile. "But fear not, for I shall still make you a queen!" Henry then lunged at her.
"Sorry, but I've got already got a BF," she replied as she easily dodged him.
"A BF? Is that Old English?" he asked, confused.
"My bad," Kim said as she tried to figure out how she was going to escape from her unwanted suitor. "Boyfriend."
"Not after he is dispatched to the Tower!"
"Nobody messes with my Ron," Kim snapped. "Besides, you're not my type."
"I do not understand. I am one of the most powerful men in Europe. With me you would have riches, comfort …"
"… And a one-way guaranteed trip to the block to have my head chopped off when you tire of me? So not interested." Kim then did a handspring onto a table and followed that up with a vault over Henry's head before she made a bee-line for the door. "Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I need to ace this place."
She then ran down the hall, a huffing Henry in hot pursuit, wondering just where Ron was. The combination of Kim's regular world-saving and cheerleading coupled with Henry's highly indulgent lifestyle enabled her to quickly put some distance between herself and the amorous monarch. She found what looked like a closet, ducked in and secured the door. Then she looked at her Kimmunicator, offered a silent prayer, and pressed the on button. Much to her delight, Wade's image appeared, though it was quite fuzzy.
"Hey, Kim. What up? And where are you?" he asked before he took a sip of his Slurpster. "The connection is terrible."
"I'm in England. Sixteenth century," she answered.
"Come again?"
"The Mathter shot us with some kind of time-travel ray. I'm at Hampton Court hiding from Henry VIII's henchmen."
"Good thing I included temporal displacement compensation functionality in the latest Kimmunicator upgrade."
"I don't mean to be rude, but I'm so not interested in the tech speak right now unless it's going to get me out of this sitch; becoming the next Queen of England is most def not part of my plans for this fall."
"Got it," Wade replied. "Where's Ron?"
"I don't know," she said, her brow knit in a way that conveyed both her frustration and concern. "He was hit, too. So were Dad, Rufus, and the math freak."
"Gotcha. I'm on it, though this may take some, er, time."
Kim groaned, but then relented. "Thanks, Wade. You rock in any century."
II.
940
"Uh, hello?" Ron said as he surveyed his surroundings; he was in the midst of a mist-enshrouded forest. "Yo! KP? Rufus? Anybody home?"
An owl hooted as if in reply; Ron screamed, and then attempted to strike a manly pose. "Nobody mess with the Ron-man!" he said cockily. "I've got the mad fu skillz!"
Seeing no one was around, he finally relaxed his stance. "Man, where am I?"
Warily, he began to look around.
Then his eye fell on the rock. Or, more to be exact, the object that protruded from its surface. It appeared to be a sword, albeit unlike any he'd ever seen before. "Oooo. Shiny," he cooed.
Like a celebutante drawn to a camera or a politician drawn to a donation, Ron felt called by the weapon. Without thinking, and without noticing the other figures approaching, he reached for the hilt and pulled. The blade slipped out effortlessly, much to the surprise of his as yet unseen companions.
"Badical!" Ron exclaimed as he looked at the weapon. It was a few moments before he noticed the armored men and women gaping at him. "Uh, I can explain …"
Before he could, though, they had each dropped to a knee. One of the men looked at Ron with awe. "My liege, you have freed Excalibur!"
Ron looked at the man, then sword, the rock, and then the sword again. "Kim is so going to kill me …" he groaned.
III.
1679
James T. Possible knew what he was doing was in direct contravention to everything he'd studied in Temporal Mechanics at MIST, not to mention all seven time-travel themed Captain Constellation episodes, but for what seemed forever, he'd watched apple after apple fall from the tree, each one missing the head of conceivably the most consequential scientist in English history.
Mr. Dr. P knew that fruit had to make contact with noggin if physics history was going to be made. At first, he thought to do nothing. But then it occurred to him that rather than interfering with the time stream, he might actually be an unrecognized part of what was supposed to happen. And so, he tip-toed towards the tree. Fortunately, Newton was engrossed in his book.
Twenty-first century scientist climbed into the thankfully large tree's branches, picked an apple, and took position over his seventeenth century predecessor. He did some quick calculations, taking account of the apple's shape and the gentle breeze, murmured "Rockets are go!" and let loose his epoch-making piece of fruit …
IV.
60
"Hey! Watch where you're poking those things!" The Mathter's protest was met with an incomprehensible, guttural response and another prod by one of the spear-wielding barbarians amongst whom he'd found himself after the time-travel mishap. Reluctantly, he began walking.
The men led him away from the river where he'd appeared and into a forest. His only means of escape, his propeller hat, was in the possession of one of the brutes. If he wanted to reclaim his headgear, he'd have to bide his time before striking.
His captors numbered five. With some careful calculation of the odds, he might be able to take them, assuming he could determine the right vectors for launching his decimal points. He'd also need the right location.
More light began to break through the tree canopy. The Mathter wondered if they were emerging from the woods. When he heard the chanting he wasn't sure he wanted to. At first he couldn't make out what was being shouted, though he could tell it was being done with enthusiasm and passion and by a very large number of people.
In what under less trying circumstances he might have recognized as a remarkable instance of the law of extreme odds at work, he was able to simultaneously determine that a name was being chanted, what that name was, and recognize the object of the multitude's ardor.
"Boudicca! Boudicca!" an army of barbarians cried out, shaking their spears and shields with gusto as quadriga rode past bearing the most fearsome warrior in Britannia, a petite but supremely confident young woman with blazing red hair and intelligent green eyes.
"Kim Possible!" the Mather shrieked before he fainted.
V.
1940
Winston Churchill grumbled in frustration. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the right combination of words. And if ever he needed every word, every syllable to be perfect, this was the moment. Tomorrow he would stand before the House of Commons, where as the King's new First Minister, he would have to rally his parliamentary colleagues and, through the wireless, his majesty's subjects in Britain and throughout the Empire, for the long battle with the Nazi foe.
He surveyed the Cabinet Room, where so many momentous decisions involving the fate of his island race had been taken. When he turned back to his chair at the table's center he glowered.
"And who are you?" he demanded of his unexpected visitor.
"Hullo!" Rufus chirped with a friendly wave. "Rufus!"
Churchill stared at the diminutive pink creature. Perhaps Clemmie had been right to express her concern about his consumption of potent beverages. Quickly, he pushed aside the heretical thought. After all, Rufus, as he called himself was bald, a trait with which the Briton could identify.
"Well, my little friend, perhaps you can be of assistance to me as I attempt to wrestle my speech under control."
"Ho-kay!"
"I have nothing to offer but a great deal of hard work."
Rufus shook his head.
"I have nothing to offer but a bloody great deal of bloody hard work."
"Nuh-uh."
"If we don't continue to fight the bloody Bosch, we'll all being eating bratwurst and sauerkraut for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
Rufus blew a raspberry, both in response to Churchill's choice of words and the prospect of the culinary combination he mentioned.
"Blast it! What would you have me say?" the PM demanded.
Rufus rubbed his chin as he considered the question, then brightened. "Pen! Paper!" he squeaked.
Churchill complied with the naked mole rat's request, then watched in fascination as Rufus began to scrawl out some words. When Rufus was done, he proudly handed his handiwork to the prime minister.
"Blood, toil, sweat, tears," he murmured with satisfaction. "Yes, yes, this will do …."
To Be Continued …