Thanks to Boris Yeltsin, Katsumara, LoPe21, Eddy13, campy, Yamal, Quathis, Ron Heartbreaker, whitem, daywalkr82, CajunBear73, Taechunsa, bigherb81, Reader101w, Mr. Wizard, JCS1966, Danny-171984, Mahler Avatar, Lilulu, Molloy, ZorpoxTheConqueror, HarryloveGinny09, and Aronim for reviewing and to everyone for reading.

Special thanks to campy for proofreading this installment.

KP © Disney

Dear Readers,

My apologies for taking so long to update this story – it's been eight months since I last posted. However, life has a way of happening. Fortunately, for me, it's all been good, but it's meant I have far less time for writing KP fan fiction. While I do intend to finish this story, I can offer no guarantees as to how long it will take me to accomplish that goal!

I.

1940

"That is so not called for," Kim snapped as tracer fire passed dangerously close by the canopy of her aircraft. She pushed forward hard on the throttle and felt her plane head upwards and out of the line of fire, grateful that she'd learned how to fly back when she was a sophomore in high school. Confident that she was safe, if only momentarily, she activated her wrist communicator.

"Kim?" a surprised Wade said. "Are you okay? What's going on? Aren't you in Tudor England?"

"Henry's history and the people firing at me want me to be, too."

"Firing at you? Where are you?"

"I'm in an old airplane being chased by some people with seriously bad attitudes."

Wade's fingers began to fly over this keyboard. "Kim, you're in a Spitfire, somewhere over Southern England. If people are shooting at you, you must be engaged in a dogfight. You're in the Battle of Britain!"

"Spankin'," Kim commented acidly. "Can you get me out of here?"

"I'm working on it."

"Thanks," Kim said. "Gotta jet! I've got company …"

II.

1898

The doughty old woman glowered in the direction of the interloper. She was not alone in wondering just who he might be – the ornate gilded chamber was filled to the rafters with curious bewhiskered men wearing dark frock coats and beribboned uniforms. Scores wore wigs and ermine-trimmed robes. The entire tableau reeked of power and solemnity.

The intruder felt out of place – say, as out of place as a grande-sized naco in a health food store. "So, uh, I'm, Ron," he said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Ron Stoppable. And you would be?"

"Not amused," Queen Victoria responded as Ron's belt failed and his pants plummeted.

III.

Early in the spring of Kim and Ron's senior year

"Possible? What brings you here, old boy?"

James looked around, recognizing both a fellow member of the global scientific fraternity and the Senior Common Room of Camford, England's most prestigious university. "Some very whacked physics, as my daughter might say."

"Ah, I see," the don said, unfazed by the appearance out of nowhere of his American colleague. "We were delighted to receive her application to study here next year. Would you please pass the claret?"

"Of course," James said, marveling at the spread before him. This definitely beat the cafeteria at the Space Center.

"You know, speaking of your daughter, we received the oddest application."

"Oh?" James asked.

"Yes, it was from someone claiming to be her assistant. A Jon Drippable, I believe."

Another don, one James didn't know, snorted. "Isn't that the fellow who claimed he helped Miss Possible save the world, invent some odious form of fast food, and appear on a show on the telly?"

"Yes," the first don answered. "Obviously, a charlatan."

"Well, actually, my Kimmie-cub does have a sidekick," James offered.

"Does she now?" the first don replied. "Do you mean we might have done him wrong?"

James gulped. Though he wanted to defend Ron, he feared that anything else he said might pollute the time stream. It was one thing to drop an apple on Isaac Newton's head, when he was confident he knew what was supposed to happen; this however involved a situation whose outcome had yet to be determined and with consequences he couldn't predict.

"Well," the second don chimed in, sparing James a decision, "even if he did all those things, it's not as if we could have granted him a place."

"Why?" James wondered. "Grades?"

The man laughed. "Grades? Who ever cared about grades? There's always a way around those. No, it was the transcript and the letter of recommendation. Or lack thereof."

"What do you mean?" James asked.

"His transcripts never appeared, but, as I noted, grades aren't the only thing we take into consideration," the first don said. "We were also supposed to receive a reference, if I recall correctly, from one of his teachers."

"I remember that," the second don noted. "Man had the most ludicrous name."

"Quite."

"Now what was he called? Yapping? Arfing? Oh, yes! Barking."

"Barking mad, if you ask me," the first don quipped before he eyed his empty glass with disapproval. "Pass the sherry, old nut?"

IV.

1415

Henry V sat alone in his tent, fretting. "What ever was I thinking?" he groaned, knowing full well the answer to his question. The invasion of France had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, it was defended by, well, Frenchmen; send over some troops, best the enemy, go home. The English had already twice kicked Gallic biscuit at Crecy and Poitiers. Agincourt would make it 3-0 with Henry undisputed ruler on both sides of the Channel. Instead, he'd been cut off from Calais and now faced a foe that enjoyed an overwhelming superiority in the number of troops.

"What am I to do?" he wailed. "All is lost! There is no—hey!"

Henry was stunned.

He'd just been slapped.

By an unmistakably exasperated pink varmint.

The creature gesticulated.

Henry gawped.

The animal jumped up, grabbed his tunic, and began to shake him.

It dawned on Henry that the critter was trying to communicate. But what was it saying? That he shouldn't despair?

"What, take heart, you say, noble rat?" he groused. "Have you not seen the French army? It is a multitude, waiting to crush us."

The animal waved a dismissive paw, then assumed an archer's stance, one paw outstretched before its torso, as if holding a bow, the other pulled back as if pulling taut an arrow.

"Archers? You believe that my archers can defeat the French knights."

"Uh huh!" the animal said with a grin.

Henry considered the idea, then shrugged. "Well, why not? Better to go down fighting with valor than to surrender to despair."

The small animal nodded vigorously.

Henry rose, prepared to rally his troops. He was about to leave his tent, then turned to the creature. "Thank you, faithful friend, whose name is...?"

The diminutive visitor beamed, puffed out his chest, and answered, "Rufus!"

"From now on," Henry declared, "you shall be Sir Rufus." And with that, Henry went to rally his men.

V.

2332

"Where am I?" the Mathter demanded, though the presence of the alien convincingly suggested he was no longer in Boudicca's encampment but somewhere in the future. "Who are you?"

Before the extraterrestrial, or the similarly-clad human by its side, could answer, a door opened with a gentle swoosh that would have been most pleasing to the ears of Senor Senior, Senior, and another human entered.

"I could ask the same of you," the new arrival retorted before turning to the human. "What's the sitch, Mr. Glenn?"

The Mathter's eyes opened wide. Other than the blond hair, brown eyes, and freckles, the woman, right down to her voice, was a dead ringer for Kim Possible. "This isn't possible!" he spluttered.

"What's not possible?" asked the alien known as Bagellan Llox.

"Her!"

"But she's here," Llox replied phlegmatically. "Therefore, logic dictates she is indeed possible."

"Possible Stoppable, actually. Captain Veronica Possible Stoppable, commanding the space cruiser Kepler Ten," she offered before giving the visitor a visual once-over. "Should I know you?" she asked, sure she'd never met the man. There was no way she would have forgotten that ridiculous hat.

"Captain, this is the Mathter. A twenty-first-century Earth minor villain …"

"Minor?" he squawked. "My mathematical genius is-was-incalculable!"

"Apparently," Llox continued, "he had encounters with one of your ancestors, the twenty-first-century teen hero Kim Possible."

"Really?" the captain asked. "What are the odds?"

"4,324,567 to one," both Llox and the Mathter answered.

The captain groaned. Temporal incursions were bad enough. The perils to the timeline, not to mention the paperwork involved, were daunting. But two math know-it-alls … Her reverie was broken, however, as the Mather suddenly began to dematerialize. Realizing he was about to make another time jump, he grinned and bade tauntingly, "Farewell, girlie!" before he faded away.

VI.

The present

Kim looked around and realized she was no longer in the cockpit of a 1940s airplane but was back in 21st century Greenwich. Her relief at having returned to the present was tempered by her concern over the others, who still appeared to be missing. She lost no time activating the Kimmunicator.

"What up, Kim?" Wade asked.

"Apparently, no longer me," she answered as she surveyed her surroundings. Then, before she could say anything else, Rufus, bearing a large hunk of cheese, appeared. He was followed by her father, who looked bewildered, and possibly a bit tipsy. Then, Ron, sans pants, materialized. "Do I even want to know?" she asked with a bemused smirk. Finally the Mather reappeared – and just as quickly disappeared.

VII.

2332. Again.

"Initiate temporal preservation protocols now," the captain ordered.

"Yes, ma'am."

The Mather rematerialized. "No! This can't be!"

"It can and it is," Captain Stoppable replied coolly. "Consider yourself busted. Mr. Glenn, Mr. Llox, please make arrangements for our visitor. And find him some clothes that aren't such a fashion disaster," she added before she turned and strode out of the chamber.

The human male shook his head. "You shouldn't have called her girlie."

"What are you going to do with me?" the Mather asked. "I demand you send me back!"

Mr. Llox, the alien, cocked an eyebrow. "That is a risk we cannot afford. I have determined that your knowledge of the future combined with your villainous background suggests a probability of 99.44 percent that you will tamper with the timeline for your own nefarious advantage."

"Meaning?"

"Welcome to the 24th century," the alien offered.

VIII.

Back to the Present

"Okay, what just happened to the bad guy?" Ron asked.

"Good question," Kim said. "Wade?"

"Sorry, Kim," he answered. "But it looks like the Mathter's been pulled back into the future."

"And you know that how?" she wondered.

"Oo! Oo! Let me guess!" Ron interjected. "Time cooties!"

Kim snorted. "Right," she said skeptically.

"Actually, he's kind of right," Wade said as he rubbed his chin.

"Ronald? Right? About temporal mechanics?" Mr. Dr. P sputtered.

"Yeah," Wade replied before he took a sip of his Slurpster. "It seems that there's some kind of temporal residue that's been left behind by each of your trips through time."

"Time cooties," Ron said smugly to his girlfriend and her father. "The Ronman shoots and scores. Though we still can't explain why I'm not in college. Man, that tanks."

"Actually, Ronald, I may have an explanation," James said.

To Be Continued …