Summary: A kluge of short to very short fusion crossovers that made me giggle for more than five consecutive seconds. It's possible I have an easy sense of humour. Fandoms included: Kim Possible, Twit...Twilight, Harry Potter, My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic, Neon Genesis Evangelion, Sherlock Holmes, and Girl Genius.

Kim Possible

Her alarm arose from sleep, beeping to give her the last warning, and Imoen 'Im' Possible bounced out of bed, cartwheeled down the stairs, and dextrously flip-flopped over her annoying younger twin brothers to claim her breakfast. She was what happened when a university professor made out with an evil cult leader and surgeon who fused her fetus's genetics with a certain powerful interdimensional entity: a perfectly ordinary teenager who went to school, made the cheer squad, kept on the honour roll with hardly any studying, and saved the world in time to be home for curfew. Her tweeb brothers Koveras and Sarevok complained.

"Moooom, Imoen stole all the sugar frosty flakes!"

"Moooom, Imoen's hogging the milk!"

"Hey, do you know what could fix that?"

"Hey, do I know what could fix that?"

Their mother, fixing her feathers in her hair for her cult uniform, glared above the rustle of her religious pamphlets and muttered a few words in a deadly-sounding and long-vanished tongue of old. "Boys! No swords at the breakfast table."

"Take it to the yard," their father supported, brushing down his grey shirt.

Imoen swallowed down the last of the sugar in the milk and tumbled out of the door with its energy, picking up her pink backpack on the way and tucking down the skirt of her cheer uniform.

"Go...Candlekeep High!"

Three double cartwheels and a sponge flic-flac jump and she stood between Safana Rockwaller's and Skie's hands on the top of the pyramid. The mascot of the Radiant Hearts ran out below, his face red in embarrassment above his attempts at growing a beard. The music played and in perfect rhythm Imoen shook her pompoms in classic touchdown position.

Then her Imtercom loudly beeped. Skie, surprised, jerked her hands; the pyramid collapsed. With her natural reflexes of a cat on a hot tin roof Imoen sat atop the jumble of pompoms, cheerleading skirts, and flexible limbs, to note the face of her dour world-saving technical advisor upon the screen.

"Your newest unlikely mission, should you have the suicidal impulse to attempt it: your old nemeses have pinched Professor Irenicus' soul-replicating technology from his lab. They asked for your help, but I'm sure this one will doom you," Xan said. "If you insist against my better advice, you'll find your ride waiting outside the gym."

"Heya, it's me," Imoen said, using a pair of her classic catchphrases, "I'll cut them down to size!"

She vaulted loose from the fallen pyramid and made sure to drag her sidekick behind her.

"It's the least I could do after you saved Faenya-Dail from that aerial tsunami caused by the levitating shark-men," their avariel transport chattered, hoisting Imoen in a harnessed balloon basket pulled by her spell of strength.

"Aww, it was no big, Aerie. Why, if Ano Stoppable here hadn't lent me his belt buckle just in time I'm sure I'd never have been able to hitch the trapline onto Jan Jansen's speed-of-sound aerial nightmare with only twenty-three seconds to spare."

Her sidekick scowled blackly at the recollection, moving his hands unobtrusively to his waist.

"Whee!" imoen parachuted down to the villain's lab, the pink fabric landing in a neat billowing pile behind her. She shook her head at Ano trying to escape his tanglings. "Hey, Xan, can you de-invisibilitify the lair protections?" she spoke into the small Imtercom.

"Alas, to do so only shows how hopeless your chances are at retrieving the stolen property," he replied. "Forests of constantly regenerating lightning bolts. Vile necromantic pillars plunging up from the earth. Cunningly transmuted spider pits to await the unwary. And some extremely original arrangements of old-fashioned barbed-wire tripwires."

Then it shimmered into action, and as if it were a cheerleading routine Imoen somersaulted between the lightning bolts, vaulted off the necromantic pillars and knocked them across the spider pits, and after she had reached the other side put down the Imtercom on the universal control system so Xan could now disarm them for her sidekick to wander through.

"'Doctor' Montaron," Xan pronounced, emphasising the dubiousness of the qualification, "will surely have arranged all sorts of other horrendous traps to await you. To say nothing of his green sidekick."

The so-called doctor and genuine thief was short, scarred, and blue. His sidekick wore green and black. The battle was fierce, fast, and furious.

"Can I get through one adventure without losing my pants?" Anomen fumed. Casually, he leaned against a mysterious lever upon the wall. This activated the death trap a touch early, and sent the spinning tops of doom ricocheting back upon the very villains who had implemented them. Imoen seized Professor Irenicus' work.

"Hey, Ano, you don't think it's unethical research, d'you?" she said.

"It's lawful and right to return it," he said. "I'm sure this device will absolutely not reoccur in future battles that feature our arch-nemeses."

"Whatwasyernameagain, squire-boy?" Doctor Montaron muttered from the ground, then fell back into unconsciousness.

Korgan, the World's Deadliest Dwarven Golfer, took a swing. "Aye, sink the nine-iron up to your elbows and make 'em scatter-willy away from ye and the bile soaking through the clean cushions of yer novelty golf obstacles!"

Twilight, or, Bloodthirsty Vampires And The Sociopathic Humans Who Love Them

Forks High School was frightening. Three hundred and fifty-seven other people. Only one counsellor. I didn't relate well to people my age. I didn't relate well to people at all. There was a glitch in my brain, and I knew I had to stay on the psychotropic meds this time. Other students stared at me. I wanted them to stop touching me. I tried not to compare the rhythm of the endless rain on the roof to small rabbity claws.

Biology class. Stay on the meds. Keep going to counselling. You can get out of here and get to a university lab for the study of cell necrobiology... I reminded myself. I'd done this lab back home. I skewered my fingers dripping red on the prongs to test the type. Red blood cells have a life of about a hundred and twenty days. For six hours after death, the blood of corpses can be used in transfusions. Blood can be easily dated in forensic science, and it is even possible to estimate age based on bloodstains. Blood type is a matter of antigens on the surface of the cell, and I have a rare one of B negative. What I'm really interested in is senescence, or the slow death of cells, and for that you need to get at more complicated information than blood type. I know there's important work out there being done on the subtle chemical changes in the oxidative processes that cause eventual phagocytosis on the aged cell. My lab partner ran away. I don't think I like girls who scare at the sight of blood. Funny, she said she knew her way around pig heart dissections and her adopted father was a doctor. I scribbled down my results of the childish lab. I didn't care for Eric and Jessica and all their stupid socialising. I wanted to get out of the lonely small town.

It turns out lab partner calls herself a vampire. She's superhumanly strong, fast, invulnerable to most physical force, and amazingly beautiful. And she sparkles in sunlight. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to find out how, exactly, and if I could replicate the cellular effect in a laboratory setting.

"I'm torn between wanting to drink your blood or sleep with you."

"I'm torn between wanting to dissect you or date you."

"Touché."

Harry Potter

"SLYTHERIN!" called the Sorting Hat.

Edwin pouted. "But I'm supposed to wear red!" he protested.

"SLYTHERIN!" called the Sorting Hat.

Viconia sauntered away in silver and green.

"SLYTHERIN!" called the Sorting Hat.

Koveras the half-blood took his seat of ambition.

"SLYTHERIN!" called the Sorting Hat.

Dynaheir glared at her intra-house rival and future fellow prefect, her ambitions in the right place.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Nobody dared confiscate the axe from that dwarf.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"For Tempus!" Branwen screamed, flying like a human Bludger herself.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Everyone thought the halfling Beater played as if she had something to prove. Usually on the kneecaps of the opposing players.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Maim the sodding men," ordered the captain of the all-female Quidditch team.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Bronze and blue is so fashionable, darling," Safana gloated.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"C-can someone...please, s-someone—t-tell that necromancer it's wrong to use your classmates as experimental spell components?" the avariel sobbed, unable to move.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"I knew whichever House I inhabited would prove the least popular," sulked Xan.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Blue and bronze, Imoen, not pink and pink! It'll be a week for the house-elves to get this dye out!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Tee-hee, we're all going to have great fun this year!" Alora giggled.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"I had...w-wanted not to be a S-squib," Khalid stuttered in relief.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"I am assured that loyalty and hard work are excellent, natural virtues," Jaheira said haughtily.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"How else can I help the less fortunate but in the house designated that of leftovers with natural disadvantages—hey, hold on!" Nalia objected.

My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic

"And today, Monty," said the magical pegasus pony with the skull cutie mark upon its acid-green flank, "I learned that the true magic isn't only in books to read or bones to dig up and reanimate, it's to be found all around us through the magic of friendship!"

Neon Genesis Bhaalevion

"I mustn't run away," Aerie said, weeping shimmering crystal tears. "I miss my mother."

"Dummkopf!" Edwin shouted. "(They're all fools but me. All fools!)"

"As the piston grinds through the oil with slow regularity, so we must pilot our giant humanoid robots as instructed," Cernd said without emotion.

Melissan steepled her white-gloved hands in front of her chin. "The prophecies shall be fulfilled."

Sherlock Holmes (with a tip of the hat to 'The Hidesman', by Anonymous)

In the year 13—, I took up the role of a paladin; and two years later I had returned to Athkatla from the Bhaalspawn wars. The campaign brought honours and advancements to few enough, and for me nothing but misfortune and disaster. At the fatal battle of Amkethran I was struck on the shoulder by an enchanted crossbow bolt, which shattered the bone, grazed the subclavian artery, and continued to exist in my body in multiple locations regardless of healing attempts I or any of my comrades could make.

Worn with pain and weakness at the completion of the battles, I returned to Athkatla. There I had neither kith nor kin, but a place at the Order of the Radiant Heart; and I was as free as air as an income of a part-time assistant in their healing wards would allow. For lodgings I remained in the novice quarters, a small stone room which barely accommodated the bull pup I had come by in Saradush, amidst young squires with whom I could feel little in common. Realising that I should find domiciled quarters of my own, I made up my mind to commence a search for inexpensive lodgings in the City of Coin.

"By Helm!" I cried to Ilvastarr. "Then that sounds the very solution. I have the same search for suitable housing in this city."

Ilvastarr looked rather strangely at me. "You don't know your presumptive roommate yet," he said, "likely you would not care for him as a constant companion. Highly queer in his ideas; desultory; eccentric; and quite possibly Evil."

The green-robed wizard was clearly engaged in unnatural acts with a corpse in the basement below the hospital, far from the ward I generally inhabited.

The body of a pig was strung up in the air, and with a mage's staff he was attempting to beat its dead skin.

"Success!" he cried, leaning forth to examine the animal, "do you notice the pattern of the distended blood vessels? I have created a sure test for the extent of post-mortem injury to a corpse!"

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think that my companions were as friendless as I was myself. Montaron certainly seemed to care nothing for the society of fellow humanoids. Presently, however, I found that the mage had many acquaintances, and those in the most oddly different classes of society. There was one little sallow rat-faced, blue-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Aegisfeld, and who came three or four times in a single week, and who walked as if he were or had been a guard or soldier of some sort, though I estimated he was too young to have completed his viginti. One morning a young lady called, fashionably dressed with a sigil upon her handkerchief that marked her as a member of one of Athkatla's noble houses, her gown of rich material though her gloves torn and unattended to. She stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy-looking gnomish visitor, with smoke-stained hands and a mechanical crossbow modified by custom, who appeared to me to be much excited, and closely followed by a slip-shod elderly dwarven woman, her hands uncallused as if she had been born to wealth. On another occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with the mage, the smell of alcohol attending upon his clothing and a flask clumsily hidden in a hip-pocket; and on another a young man who worked at the Athkatla docks, as judged by the Maztican-style tattoo upon his shoulder and the slight spilling of fish scales across his shirt, his fingernails roughly cut to a practical length. "These people are my clients," Xzar would say simply, with a languid wave of his hands, and I would retire to my bed-room whilst he used the sitting-room. Delicacy prevented me from forcing a confidence, since it was plain enough that all visited of their own will and an evil conspiracy was unlikely. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to his company, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his own accord.

"I'm a consulting necromancer!"

"I suppose the fair sex is your department," he said.

It is true enough I have a certain experience of women which extends over several nations and at least three discrete regions, though since I had been unattached for the entire period of our acquaintance I was not sure how he deduced this.

"Because of being one and all that."

To Xzar he is always the Thayvian. I have seldom heard him mention him under any other name. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Edwin Odesseiron, or for that matter Edwina Odesseiron...

I have seen Montaron take bare minutes, a bit of greasepaint, and carefully steepled boots to turn himself into the image of an old laundry-woman wandering the alleyways of Athkatla. The halfling had an ability not simply to fade into the shadows but to adopt the garb and voice of many alternative characters, as if in another setting he might have made a living upon the stage. Among characters he has impersonated are a purple-skinned gnome, a scarred dwarven veteran, and a heavy-cloaked sewer inspector who had cause at one point to become engaged to the second housemaid of the noted blackmailer Viconia DeVir.

"That woman is the Drizzt Do'Urden of crime," Xzar said. "She is extremely tall and thin, her forehead domes out in a white curve below her wig, and her eyes are deeply sunken within her head. Her shoulders are rounded from much study of her social inferiors, her face protrudes forward, and is forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. Lady Delcia is but the dowager aunt of a noble estate severely dilapidated by a former incursion of trolls. And yet the picture within her home-away-from-home in Athkatla is by Jean-Baptiste Arabellandry—similar sold for above fifty thousand danters, and her income is supposed to be a mere seven hundred a year.

"Delcia Caan is the organiser of half that is subterranean and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. She is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker, a brain of the first order, and I'd wish that my own organisation could take the hints. She sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web munching fresh juicy flies, and that web has a thousand radiations, and she knows well every quiver of each of them. Aye, there's the genius and the wonder of the thing!

"And she's working with the rabbits!"

Girl Genius

Aerie bared sharp, pointed, teeth that seemed far too long and crowded to possibly fit in her mouth and flapped the tattered, bony growths upon her back in an extremely menacing manner.

"Hy vill not let my friends or my hats be hurt!" the newly minted Jaegermonster vowed, the power of the Battledraught spiking through her heated veins below the cheery blue fez upon her head. "Edvin! I come to see vhy hyu are zo arrogant. Let us cast de combat science upon ze enemies all!"

The mad scientist cackled as the electric arc rose. Lightning flashed from the heavens. Then, standing in Edwin's place was a tall and red-robed woman who looked extremely upset.

"This reminds me of the time," Jan chattered, "when this mad Spark I once knew, my second cousin's nephew and my first cousin's uncle's great-aunt out of a rather complicated series of events involving time travel and a remarkably similar invention to young Edwin's here, decided to create life out of potatoes. He dug up eight potatoes from a potato graveyard and then he infused them with essence of griffin, which is cheating. The first crop he had a griffin with a potato face, which is probably called a potato-lion, since technically a griffin has to have the head of an eagle, so therefore a griffin with a potato head can't be a griffin any more. Next he carved cheery little faces into the potatoes, and accidentally included the snapping jaws of one of his animated artificial alligators. The creation naturally rebelled at this thought, and the next thing, the family started to make rules against inbreeding."

The herd of brainwashed creatures of the Other continued to advance. Edwina burst into angry tears.

"Zhere vill be no mercy!" Aerie experimented with a battlecry. "No mercy! The very shtink uf zheir foulness clogs my breath! Ve vill take zheir hats!"

Xan drew a Heterodyne-made electroblade that glimmered a soft and steady blue. "This world is doomed," he sighed.