Author's Note: Holy shit, sharkflip has written something other than Zutara, that's how good Timeless is. If you're not watching already, go watch. I'll wait.

Back? Okay. This story is set in a nebulously divergent alternate timeline where most of 2x03 happened except that Jessica didn't come back, because that is a Whole Huge Can of Worms that I am very much looking forward to unfolding in the series but didn't want to tackle in this story because there are so many other things to tackle. Also, Flynn has joined the team.

Inspired by the unknown and static strange by extasiswings on Archive of Our Own. Title from "Say Geronimo" by Sheppard.

(Enslaved is not dead, don't worry)

March 16, 1968, Quảng Ngãi Province, South Vietnam
20:05 Local Time (GMT +7)

Humidity flooded the time machine as the hatch opened, followed by the smell of swamp and waste. Insects and generators buzzed in the background as Nicholas stared into the darkness. Behind him, he heard Miss Whitmore flipping switches to idle down the machine.

Nicholas set his teeth and scrambled down the face of the machine. His lip curled in disgust at the squelch of mud beneath his boots. Whitmore followed a moment after.

"Mark your clock, Miss Whitmore," he said. "We have exactly thirty-six minutes."

The woman's long hair was tucked up into her cap, her female shape obscured by layers of uniform and kit. Hardly proper, Nicholas thought, and it would barely hold up to scrutiny, but so long as she followed the plan it shouldn't matter.

"This had better work," Emma muttered, adjusting her cap. "I still don't like landing this far into camp."

"As you've stated." Nicholas pulled his notebook from a pocket. "Of course it will work – if you follow my plan. To the letter." He pulled a loose sheet of paper from the notebook and held it out to her.

"Of course," Whitmore muttered, taking the paper.

"Thirty-five minutes," Nicholas reminded her, and turned away into the darkness. His map was crude, information on the camp scarce, but the tent he needed was clear from his research. He strolled between rows of tents, nodding at the few soldiers he passed, and giving Whitmore time to accomplish her part of the plan. The camp lay quiet except for the insects and generators, most of the soldiers asleep after a strenuous day.

The tent he sought lay at the far edge of the encampment, lit from within. Nicholas tucked his notebook back into his pocket and swept aside the door flap. The soldier inside startled, his face weary and wary in the steady lantern light. A pistol lay disassembled on the folding table before him.

"Second Lieutenant Edward James McCaley," Nicholas stated, stepping fully into the tent and folding his hands behind his back.

"Who the fuck are you?" The soldier stood, anger creasing his face.

"Assigned to command the First Platoon of Charlie Company," Nicholas continued. "First Battalion of the Twentieth Infantry Regiment, Eleventh Brigade, Twenty-Third Infantry Division." He turned towards the single lantern and noted how McCaley's face changed when he saw the oak leaf on Nicholas's collar.

"Look, Major –"

"You, Lieutenant, have had quite the day. Haven't you." Nicholas held out his hand to gesture McCaley's chair. "You may sit."

McCaley stared at him, hand hovering by the empty holster at his side.

"Sit down, Lieutenant. We have much to discuss."

McCaley sat slowly, reluctance and suspicion clear on his face and in the tension of his body.

"Second Lieutenant Edward McCaley, commissioned September 7, 1967." Nicholas turned away, taking in the rumpled bedclothes on the cot in the corner, the gear slumped in a corner. "Your superiors at Schofield described you as 'average' in your officer candidacy evaluation, but your men have a somewhat... lower opinion of you, if the reports are to be believed."

Anger darkened the man's face. "I don't know who you are, but you can't –"

Nicholas turned away from the cot and looked directly at McCaley. "I have come here tonight to tell you that I can change that." He held McCaley's glare, letting the words sink in.

McCaley drew breath to speak again when Emma interrupted, pushing the door flap aside and stepping into the tent. "Haber sends his regards," she said, and set a camera onto the table next to McCaley's sidearm. She reached into her pocket and placed several rolls of film next to it.

McCaley glanced at the camera, then at Emma's face. "You're a wo –"

Nicholas ignored him. "Is it as I instructed you?"

"Yes sir." Emma gave a mock salute, then tilted her head, an insolent modern gesture to match the tone of her voice. "I know, just the color film. You made that very clear."

Nicholas sniffed, then turned on his heel, hooking his hands behind his back again. "Tell me, Second Lieutenant. Are you acquainted with the work of Sergeant Donald Haber?"

Bafflement showed now on McCaley's face. "No."

"Are you sure? Because today he became quite familiar with your work." Nicholas stepped towards the table and picked up a film canister, turning it slowly. "Indeed, you may have seen him on the battlefield. He would have been the man with the cameras."

McCaley froze, his eyes widening.

"Ah. I see you begin understand." Nicholas nodded, flipping the film canister in his fingers. "What you do not yet comprehend is that Sergeant Haber had two cameras with him on the battlefield today. We let him keep the one issued to him by your Army. It's the usual fare: burning huts and interrogating your supposed Viet Cong."

Nicholas set down the film and picked up the camera, examining it. Such a small thing, to tell so many stories so quickly. "His personal camera, though... these are the interesting ones. The 'money shots,' as you might say." He looked up, straight at McCaley. "Tell me, Lieutenant, how many people did you kill today? Mothers shot in the back defending their children. Men too old to fight or run. Twenty? Fifty?" He lifted the camera to peer through the viewfinder at McCaley. "How many of them do you think Sergeant Haber photographed today? And what do you think he would have done with the prints, if we hadn't intervened."

McCaley swallowed. "Wha – what do you want?"

Nicholas lowered the camera and smiled. "Loyalty, Lieutenant McCaley. To me, and to Rittenhouse. Today, and for the rest of your life."

March 16, 1968, Washington, D.C.
09:41 Local Time (GMT -5)

"It's back. It's back, guys – the Mothership is back in D.C."

Lucy jumped at Rufus's voice, tinny through the handheld radio. She fumbled to turn the volume down. Around them, the Senate Caucus Room buzzed with conversation.

"Flynn," Lucy hissed. "Flynn – it's back. Rufus says the Mothership just got back."

Ahead of her, Flynn nodded. He'd pointed out the locations of Secret Service agents in the crowd as they waited, and Lucy saw him scanning the room even now.

The crowd hushed suddenly, save for the sound of cameras clicking and flashing. "Flynn! What's happening?"

He half turned to her, ducking his head. "Bobby Kennedy just walked to the podium," he murmured.

Relief washed over her, then confusion. "I still don't get it. Where would the Mothership have gone with Emma's goons still here?"

"Well," Flynn started, nodding at the podium. "They didn't stop the campaign announcement, and I don't see any goons. Maybe our tip was enough?"

Before them and the crush of politicians and reporters, Kennedy spoke solemnly. "I run to seek new policies – policies to end the bloodshed in Vietnam and in our cities..."

Lucy leaned back against the wall. "When haver our tips ever worked?"

"Maybe we got lucky."

Lucy snorts. "I can't believe you of all people just said that."

"Lucy? Flynn?" Rufus's voice issued from on the radio again. "The Mothership is back in D.C. Do you copy?"

Lucy elbowed her way past a reporter, stepping into the hall as she fumbled for the radio. "Yes. Hi. Rufus, we copy. Over?"

Flynn followed her into the hallway, rolling his eyes. Lucy rolled her eyes back at him.

"You don't have to say 'over,' we've been over this – wait. Wait!"

Lucy gripped the radio hard enough to make her fingers ache. "Rufus, what?"

She looked up at Flynn, seeing her sudden worry mirrored on his face.

"Rufus – do you copy?"

"Lucy, I copy, but – the mothership just jumped back to the present. They're gone."

"Are you sure?" Lucy winced. "Sorry, Rufus, I know you're sure. I'm just..." she trailed off, remembering to release the button this time.

"So, are you guys heading back here, then?"

Lucy looked up at Flynn, who shrugged.

Robert Kennedy's voice continued to fill the room. "In private talks and in public, I have tried in vain to alter our course in Vietnam before it further saps our spirit and our manpower..."

"Yeah, Rufus, we're heading back."

The trees were bare and the ground brown with fallen leaves as Lucy picked her way through mud and brush, but the air held a crisp hint of spring. "I've always thought it was fitting that they built Theodore Roosevelt's memorial in a forest on an island in a swampy river," she said. The trees were shorter now, the woods thinner than they had been when Lucy had visited on a school trip, but it remained the best place to hide the Lifeboat.

"This entire city is a swamp," Flynn replied.

"Literally, yes, it was all swampland when –" she broke off when she saw Flynn smile. "You just want to set me off again."

"Now why would I do that, Lucy? There's no challenge to it."

Rufus sat in the lifeboat, the hatch ajar. "Well? Did you tip off the Secret Service? Did Emma's goons do anything? Did RFK make the announcement?"

Lucy nodded. "RFK is officially in the presidential race, and the goons were quiet. They didn't do anything that we could see."

Flynn snorted. "Nothing we could shoot them for, either."

"Wyatt's going to be glad he missed this one," Rufus said as he settled back into the pilot's chair. "Even if he won't admit it. He hates sitting around waiting. I can't believe he lost a coin toss."

"I can't understand how Flynn rigged the coin toss," Lucy said, and Flynn smirked as he released her hand. She sighed and rubbed her eyes.

"But seriously," Rufus started. "Does this make sense to either of you? Emma brings the Mothership to D.C., they hole up in a hotel overnight, then jump somewhere else for –" he checks his watch – "Thirty-six minutes, but we know they're still in March 16, 1968. Then they jump back here, for, like three minutes, and now they've jumped back to the present? What else would they have come back to do?"

Lucy shook her head. "1968 was a turbulent year. There's a lot going on – the Vietnam War was – is – intensifying and anti-war sentiment is growing. No one here knows it yet, but the army just slaughtered 500 innocent villagers in Vietnam – the My Lai Massacre, we call it now, but that story doesn't break until late next year." Flynn held out his hand to help her into the Lifeboat, and she took it to steady herself as she climbed up the rings.

"There was rioting across the country every few weeks – Martin Luther King Junior is assassinated three weeks from now, RFK is assassinated in June... college campus activism is gaining steam." She released Flynn's hand she threaded her way between the seats. "The Civil Rights Act was signed, people were going nuts over the Beatles, the gold standard was repealed, the first two manned Apollo missions got off the ground..." She nodded to Rufus as she flopped down in her seat. "It's a mess. There's hundreds of little things Rittenhouse could have changed without us knowing, for hundreds of different reasons."

Flynn palmed the hatch close button as Rufus started flipping switches. Lucy twisted her knees to the side to let Flynn sit down across from her.

"Do you get the feeling they were just giving us the runaround?" Rufus asked as the lifeboat hummed to life around them

Lucy clicked her seatbelts into place and leaned back against the headrest. Flynn slid into the seat opposite her, their knees brushing as he settled.

"Yeah," she said. "I feel like they were giving us the runaround."

Present Time, Undisclosed Location, Greater San Francisco Bay Area, California

Lucy waited for her stomach to settle as Flynn unfolded himself from the seat and moved to open the hatch. Beyond, the bunker lay dim and drafty as usual, the air slightly stale, but Jiya's brilliant smile lit up the control area. Connor Mason and Agent Christopher flanked her, expectant. Lucy looked around but didn't see Wyatt.

Odd, she thought. Those few other times he'd been left behind, he'd uncoiled like a wound spring to help her from the lifeboat and not-so-subtly check her for injuries.

"Well?" Christopher asked as Flynn hopped down to the floor and snagged the ladder.

"Jiya, when was Robert F. Kennedy assassinated?" Lucy asked, stepping down carefully.

Jiya tapped her keyboard, used to the routine, but Christopher responded first. "June 6, 1968. Why? What was supposed to happen instead?"

Lucy shrugged. "Nothing. We have nothing – we don't know what Emma was after or if she changed anything."

"That's not encouraging."

Lucy ran her hand through her hair, rubbing her scalp. "Tell me about it. Where's Wyatt?"

No one answered. Cold pricked along her spine, settled into her stomach. She looked up to find Jiya, Mason, and Christopher watching her expectantly.

"Is he okay?"

"Lucy... who's Wyatt?" Jiya's voice was gentle.

No, Lucy thought. No, no, no, no, no. She forced the panic down, trying to ignore the walls of the bunker closing in around her. Stay calm, breathe deep, she told herself, but her pulse raced, thundering in her ears.

Rufus broke in, tension making his voice sharp. "Wyatt, our team soldier? Blue eyes, kind of scruffy, surprisingly well educated?"

Jiya shook her head and Mason and Christopher exchanged glances.

"Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan, Delta Force?" Flynn offered, no sarcasm in his voice for once.

Time slowed as Christopher, Jiya, Mason all went very still. Jiya looked afraid, Mason surprised, and Christopher's expression carefully blank.

This isn't happening, Lucy thought. She wondered what her face must look like, because Christopher met her eyes and spoke directly to her.

"Lucy..." she started, her tone gentle. "Wyatt Logan is a Rittenhouse operative."

A note on historical figures: the two "original" characters named in the prologue are based heavily on two real people who were present at the My Lai Massacre on March 16, 1968. I decided to change their names because in the altered timelines of this story, the characters do things that the real people didn't do. The My Lai Massacre was absolutely and inexcusably horrific, but I didn't feel right ascribing additional fictional atrocities to a real person who is still alive, was tried and convicted by a military court, and has publicly expressed remorse. I encourage any and all of you, especially US readers, to learn about it if you don't already know the details.

A note on sources: research for this story was done hastily through Wikipedia and Google, filtered and guided by my experiences with actual legit historical research. If this were for anything other than a fanfic, I'd of course gone to a library and tracked down primary sources, but war and battles are one of those things that Wikipedia is fairly accurate about, if disjointed and selective. Any errors are mine; please feel to correct me so that I can correct the story.