THE RED TORNADO IS THE PROTECTOR OF HER NEIGHBORHOOD.

The crisp, night air had a strong bite of unseasonable cold, and the sky overhead was an endless expanse of stars. But the cops crowded on the rooftop weren't interested in the splendid view, they were interested in cornering the hulking figure shod in garish yellow, metal helmet glinting from the lone streetlamp down below. The police had her almost on the edge of the building, holding wicked wooden batons aloft, ready to strike at her slightest movement.

THE RED TORNADO IS A STAUNCH DEFENDER OF RIGHT AND JUSTICE.

The police were about to tell her to stand down, that she couldn't escape and to just turn herself in, but the Red Tornado never gave up. And instead of kneeling with her hands above her head, she charged forward with a hoarse yell. She dodged left to scoop up a stray brick and chucked it into the group. It didn't hit anyone, but it caused the coppers to scatter, easier to pick off one by one, which she did, starting with the tallest, meanest looking man in the bunch.

THE RED TORNADO IS NEVER ONE TO BACK DOWN FROM A FIGHT.

Grabbing the man by the collar, she hoisted him as if he was nothing more than a sack of flour. Holding him above her head like a prizefighter in victory, he went down shortly after on top of his comrades, a sickening crunch sounding from the now prone man.

THE RED TORNADO IS ALWAYS ON THE SIDE OF THE LITTLE GUY.

Down, but not out, a stodgy little fellow just up to her chest gave chase. As soon as he charged she simply held out her suede-covered fist and he ran right into it, nose and face crumpling into a bloody mess of teeth.

THE RED TORNADO IS EVER READY TO TAKE ON VILLAINY IN ALL ITS MANY FORMS.

The door to the roof banged open, and an angry, shouting group of five men stormed the rooftop, replacing the beaten officers. Without a moment's hesitation they set upon her, knocking her off her feet and bringing their batons down with abandon.

THE RED TORNADO IS A GUARDIAN OF GOODNESS.

The Red Tornado gave a guttural cry, and threw off the pile of lawmen, literally sending them flying away from her with the force of her brawn.

THE RED TORNADO IS A DOER OF GOOD DEEDS.

With almost inhuman strength, she threw punch after punch, never missing her target. The men dropped like flies on a hot day, each one a groaning mess that scarce could move, yet she didn't let up.

THE RED TORNADO IS A BEACON OF HOPE TO HUNDREDS.

Her good fortune soon ran out once one of the original battalion finally regained his stamina. He limped over as quietly as possible, using the chaos for cover to grab the Tornado by her billowing blue cape and wrap it around her head and body, temporarily blinding her and making it easy to lock her head in a vice-like grip under his arm. Mummified in her cape, all the Tornado could do was yowl like a bull.

THE RED TORNADO IS A BRAVE BATTLER, A COURAGEOUS COMBATANT, A FEARLESS FAN OF FISTICUFFS

The captain of the fallen men strode over, nursing a broken arm and his left eye swollen shut. With his good arm, he put all of his strength into ripping the damn helmet off of the vigilante's head. The leather strap that held it on stayed fast, but the small steel rivets bent and popped out of place. The helmet came off.

THE RED TORNADO IS...

Grabbing their assailant by his prickly, stubbly chin, they looked into beady dark eyes, full of rage and hate. His sweaty face shone, as did his scarred, shaved scalp, in the waning moonlight. The most abundant hair on his veiny head were his bushy black brows.

...A MAN?

"Damn it, Gideon, try again! He can't be nowhere !" Rip Hunter shouted at the console in the center of the Waverider's bridge, slamming his hand down onto the plasticized carbon-fiber.

"Captain" the calm, feminine voice of the ship's computer came in reply, "the mathematical probability that searching the time stream for the 7,897,426th time will yield different results from the first 7,897,425 times is so small as to not be worth mentioning at this point. Without new information, it is highly unlikely that we will ever locate Vandal Savage."

"It's not as if I can just go and get mo-" his sentence was cut short by an alarm blaring throughout the ship.

"What is that, Gideon?" he asked, his attention instantly shifting toward the possibility of attack, or worse.

"It would seem, Captain, that we are the target of a temporal distress signal. Or rather, a member of the crew is."

"Member of the crew? Who even knows we're out here?"

"Unknown, Captain. But the message is quite clear in its intent, if not its usage of the English language."

"Well, shut off that damned alarm and play the message, then!"

The alarm instantly silenced, and the A.I. responded "While I am happy to do the former, I am afraid the latter would be inappropriate at this time."

"Ina- what are you on about, Gideon?" Rip blustered.

"The message is very clearly marked for Mister Rory's ears, or… curious."

"Where is Mister Rory at this moment, Gideon?"

"With Mister Snart, in their quarters."

Without another word, Rip stalked off the bridge and down the corridor, passing through the various twists and turns which led him to the room he had assigned to the two Rogues. Finding the door unlocked, he opened it without bothering to request entry, and found both men asleep on the floor. Or rather, as the pile of empty beer bottles suggested, passed out drunk.

He cleared his throat. Nothing happened. He did so again, loudly. Mick farted and rolled over, but nothing more.

"Gideon? If you will?" he politely but exasperatedly requested.

Suddenly another alarm, even louder and more raucous than the one before, sounded, this time localized entirely to the two former villains' quarters. It was so painful, Rip had to cover his ears as he waited for either man to stir. His efforts were rewarded soon, though, as Snart's eyes darted open, and Rory gave a growl that equaled the alarm for volume.

"Enough, Gideon!" Rip shouted over the din, ending the wakeup call.

Looking ready to cannibalize the man, Mick Rory fixed his bleary gaze on the timeship captain, and in his lowest, gravelliest near-whisper, he said "You've got five seconds to explain yourself before I force every one of these bottles inside of you, Hunter. Broken."

Snart rolled to a sitting position and added "And it had better be good."

Attempting to think of the best way to describe the situation both quickly and concisely, yet in a way that a primitive from the 21st century could understand, Rip announced simply "Mister Rory, you… have a phone call."

Gathered together around the bridge's console, the team looked expectantly at the captain.

"Okay, so what in Hell's name is going on?" Mick asked.

"Well," Rip began, "it would seem that somebody is using a temporal distress beacon to signal the Waverider, and asking for you, Mister Rory, by name. I was hoping you might be able to explain."

"I don't even know what a tempura disco bacon is, how the hell should I know?"

"How do we know this isn't a trap?" Sara was sitting in her chair, sharpening a rather wicked-looking knife.

"I think, at this point, the only way to find out any answers, is to answer." and with that, Rip pressed a button on the console's screen.

A slight hissing sound came over the intercom, and a tinny, heavily-accented voice came through.

"Callin Mick Rory. This is Abigail Hunkel callin Mick Rory, of the Waverider. Come on Mick, I know yer out there. Mick Ro- is this thing even workin?"

Rip silently motioned toward Mister Rory, and he spoke.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end, distorted as it was, became audibly elated "Mick! 's you! I knew ye'd come through! Listen, that thing ya said ta watch-"

"I never met any broads named Abigail. Who is this? What's your game, lady?"

"Stop playin aroun' Mick, this is important! Remember how ya said ta call you if I sees any of them, uhh, antagonisms?"

"What?" came Mick's flat reply.

"You know! One a them antagonisms, wheres I'm ta call ya so's you and yer Legends can come fix it!"

"I think, perhaps" Rip intervened, "she's referring to an 'Anachronism'."

"Who's that, you get a butler or sumpin' Mick? Anyway, yeah, what he said. Cause I saw some stuff what don't belong nowheres near 1946!"

Sara interrupted then, "We haven't even been to 1946 Rip, how is-"

"Cap'n Lance, thank God!" came the voice, "Can you please bring yer ship down ta-"

"What does my father have to do with any of this?!" Sara shouted into the air.

"Yer father? No, he's not here, just some kinda spaceman with a raygun or sumpin'."

At that point, Rip pressed the button again, silencing the call "I believe that's quite enough of that." he said with an air of finality.

"What, we're just going to ignore this woman's cry for help?" Sara stood up from her seat, and pocketed the knife.

"Our quest is for Vandal Savage, not for spacemen in World War II" came Kendra's reply

"Actually," interjected Ray, raising a finger in the air, "World War II ended in-"

"Nobody cares, Haircut" Mick was leaning against a glass wall, sipping at a bottle of beer.

Professor Stein chimed in then, "How can we possibly pass up the opportunity to both aid a woman in distress and solve a mystery as provocative as said woman knowing our Mister Rory and the father of Ms Lance? "

"Gideon, where is the signal coming from, exactly?" Rip asked

"From an apartment building on 129th Street, in the Harlem area of New York City, circa 1946"

"And you're absolutely sure, Mister Rory, that you've never been to 1940s Harlem? Maybe on a little jaunt in the jump ship? Perhaps while drunk?"

"Check the records, Rip" came the reply from Leonard, as Mick silently continued drinking his beverage, "nobody's been on any late-night joy rides."

"Look" said Jax and Sara simultaneously. It was an awkward moment of gesturing "you go first" before finally Jax won out "Okay, so this lady has some kind of way to contact us, and some kind of reason to contact us. I think we oughtta go down there and see what's going on."

"I… agree with Jax" Sara said, "what's the point of being Legends if we don't help anybody on the way?"

"We should vote" suggested the professor, to which Captain Hunter clearly disagreed, though none of the others paid him any mind as they made their decisions. "Those who say we should leave this mystery be and go on with our journey, raise your hands."

Feeling defeated already, Rip raised his hand. He was surprised to see Kendra and Mick raising theirs as well.

"And, though I doubt such a formality necessary, those who say we should investigate, raise your hands."

The professor's own hand went up, as did Sara's, Jax's, and Ray's.

"Mister Snart, do you intend to vote?" Stein asked.

"I'm not the voting type." he said, "But it looks like we're going, either way."

Rip Hunter, Mick Rory, Sara Lance, and Leonard Snart stood in the hall of the Harlem apartment building they'd tracked the signal to. The device in the captain's hand indicated precisely which door the distress beacon was behind, and he knocked gently, hoping not to arouse any suspicious neighbors with their presence.

Soon, the door opened, and behind it stood a lady. She was stout and fairly young, looking to be no more than thirty, with fiery red hair piled at the front of her head. She was a round woman, her heavy bust and substantial gut making it easy to fail to notice the taut, bulging muscle of her bared arms. She was dressed casually, as if she wasn't expecting company, in a simple yellow polka dot blouse and navy blue skirt with stockings of red and black stripes. Looking up at Rip, she showed no recognition, but when her eyes alighted on Mick, they widened, and her face filled with joy.

"Mick!" she practically shouted, alarming the four time travellers as she forced her way past the captain into the hall, "Ya ol' scoundrel get over here an' give yer pally a hug"

As the woman wrapped her bearlike arms around him, Mick stiffened, unsure of whether to return the gesture or begin beating his assailant senseless. The clear dichotomy made Leonard and Sara smirk, though Rip seemed merely annoyed.

She finally let go of him, and turned her attentions toward Sara. She stuck out her right hand and clicked her heels together in some kind of cross between a military salute and a proffered handshake "Cap'n Lance, a pleasure ta see yer doin well. I presume ye'll innerduce me ta yer new compatriots?"

"Uh…"

Rip broke in and took her hand, " I am Captain Rip Hunter, of the Waverider, these are my crewmates, Sara Lance and Leonard Snart. And you are, Miss…"

Abigail's brow furrowed " Mrs. Abigail Hunkel, thank ya very much, and I don't know who you think-"

"May I see your temporal beacon, Mrs. Hunkel? The device which you used to signal us?"

The odd woman threw up her hands then, and turned back into the apartment "Where's me manners? Of course, come inside! The kids're at school, an I got Gus an Herman watchin the store, so's we're alone fer right now. Best youse come inside an have a sit while I go get that gadget fer yez."

With that, she showed them into a living room that clearly served as a bedroom at times, with two cots put up against the wall, and the four Legends sat in chairs of various designs arranged around an old radio, while Abigail went off to another room. They could hear the sounds of pots and pans being shuffled about, and soon, she returned, a temporal distress beacon of exactly the sort the Waverider stocked in her hands.

"I done just like ye said, Mick, I pressed the button marked 'send' and started sayin my name into the doohickey, and sure enough, yer voices came through a few seconds later"

Rip took the device from her, and began examining it while she offered the group refreshments in the form of coffee and lemonade. As soon as she left the room, he leapt out of hs chair and demanded "We must leave. Now."

Snart and Sara replied with cries of incredulity, while Mick seemed not to have heard him.

"I'm serious, now. Let's go, before she-"

"Before she what?" asked Mrs. Hunkel, returning with a pitcher of lemonade and several cups on a tray.

"Yeah, Rip, what is it she's going to do?" Mick piped up, accusatorially.

"No, we have to go. Now."

Nobody moved, except to grab a drink from the tray Abigail had set on the table. They all looked at Rip, waiting for some kind of explanation. His shoulders slumping, he finally relented.

Sighing, he said "This" he held up the distress beacon "is from the Waverider."

"That's what I been tellin ya!" interrupted the small lady.

"Yes, but , not from our Waverider. This comes from a possible future Waverider, one where apparently Miss Lance is the" he looked to Mrs. Hunkel for confirmation "Captain?"

She nodded.

"Yes, and I would imagine the Mick Rory of that particular timeline is somewhat… different from our own."

"Hey," Mick growled, offended, "what're you tryin' to say?"

"Simply that the beacon's signal reached the wrong Waverider, in the wrong timeframe, and that we really must be going before we breaktime by learning any more about our possible futures."

"But what about the anarchism?!" cried the clearly distressed woman, "That spaceman he-!"

"Not one more word!" Rip was deadly serious, and the depth of his conviction was matched only by the apathy of his team, who continued to sit, sipping their lemonade and smiling pleasantly.

"I think, Captain ," began Sara, leaning back in her armchair and crossing her legs, "that you've been outvoted. Again."

After several moments of apoplexy, the timeship captain finally seemed to relent, his posture changing to that of a defeated man, and he announced "Fine. We'll stay and help with the anachronism. But on one condition" he whirled on Abigail, "you say no more about our futures. Nothing of how you know any of us, or don't know any of us. Speak not one word of any adventures you've had with the Legends, no matter the circumstances, no matter the consequences. Are we clear on this inviolable stipulation Mrs. Hunkel?"

She appeared to think heavily on his words for a moment, then, hesitantly, "I think so, Mister"

" Captain"

She corrected herself, "Captain Hunter"

He finally sat down, then, though still not taking a glass, instead toying with the beacon in his hands as he spoke "So, you mentioned a… spaceman?"

"Well," began Abigail, sitting opposite Rip and lowering her tone, "while I was on patrol last night-"

"Patrol?" Captain Hunter interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Well now I'm just confused, am I s'posed ta tell youse about me other life, or is that gonna break time too if I do it?"

"Let's say, for the sake of brevity, that it won't" it was the first thing of substance Leonard had said since entering the apartment, and everybody looked toward him with a small amount of surprise, as if they'd forgotten he was there.

"Okay, so I'm what ye'd call a mystery man, a crimefighter? I goes by The Red Tornado. Most days I go out and keep people safe in th' neighborhood, sometimes wit' my words, sometimes wit' my fists. Now, last night, I was runnin aroun town, an I sees this guy breakin inta Mr. Grady's radio store, so I make to stop 'im, but he pulls out this er, ray gun or sump'n, like in the serials? I thought it were a reg'lar one so's I jumped outta the way, but then a bright light come out of it! Then, he starts to chasin me , tryn' ta shoot me wit the thing over an over, I barely got away wit me life! We made it halfway to midtown before I finally lost 'im. I gets back here just in time to send the kids off to school, then I calls youse guys an', well, that's my story."

Leaning forward and setting down his drink on the table, Snart asked "And what, exactly, do you want us to do about this? Finding random thieves isn't exactly our forte , spaceman or otherwise."

"See, I got a plan. It's jus' like last time whe- oops. I mean. Nevermind that."

Rip gave Abigail a stern look that said "tread carefully", and she continued.

"So, this fella is lookin fer me, see? Prob'ly wants ta do me in fer witnessin whatever it was he was tryin' ta do. I figure, we send Mick out in my suit, and-"

"Not a chance." interrupted Mister Rory, "I ain't no hero, and I ain't no play-actor."

Abigail was crestfallen, and Rip quickly stepped in to salvage the situation "What he means to say is, your sizes are very different, and he doubtless wouldn't fit the costume. Also, I'm sure that Miss Lance would make for a better-"

"Oh!" Abigail interjected, "He can just wear the suit he wore last time when- er… the thing I'm not s'posed ta say anything about."

"You mean to tell me" Rip asked incredulously "that you already have a version of your super suit in Mister Rory's size from some previous mission? And he was willing to wear it?"

"I… I really shouldn't say any more. Lemme go get it."

Mrs. Hunkel shuffled off into a back room, while Mick poured himself another glass. "I don't care what some other version of me did in some other timeline, I'm not puttin on no hero getup, and I'm not playin patsy for some raygun packin spaceman. I told you when I joined this little team, Rip: I ain't no hero."

Leonard leaned over in his chair, putting his face close to Mick's ear. "You know, Mick. Vigilantes in this time weren't like the goody-goodies we've come to know and despise in our time. They didn't bat an eye at beating people to a pulp, or even killing them."

"You're saying if I do this, no limits? No rules?" he said the word like it tasted bad in his mouth.

"Just the one, Mister Rory" piped in Captain Hunter, "you'll have to leave your heat gun behind. We wouldn't want to create an anachronism in the process of trying to eliminate one."

"But I still gotta wear some kinda… super suit" it wasn't so much a question as a resignation.

"One little concession, Mick, and you get to really let loose. Like you couldn't even in Central." Leonard cooed at his companion.

"Alright, I'll do it. But I better not look like some kinda…"

He never finished his sentence, as Abigail returned at that moment, carrying a bundle of clothes, along with a cooking pot with eye holes cut into it.

"NOT A CHANCE!" Mick shouted, kicking over a crate labelled "flux capacitors", "Not for all the violence in the world am I putting on that thing!"

His voice echoed loudly in the storage bay of the Waverider, but Leonard knew the best course of action was to just let him rage. Eventually he would wear himself out and be receptive to further negotiation, but this was not that moment. Leonard leaned against a carefully stacked pile of boxes, each one full of spare parts. But before he could say anything, Mick took a flying kick at them, narrowly missing his partner. Leonard scooted over slightly, giving Mick room for further tantrums.

Without much else to break in this room, Mick roared and ran off into the next, and from the sound of it, found even more fragile objects to throw. Leonard sighed loudly, pushing up his sleeve to check his watch, he knew from experience Mick could throw these types of fits for hours, and he was already bored of babysitting the hot headed man.

Mick walked back over to Leonard, still seething and cursing, but quieter. Leonard decided to test the waters by extending a beer. "Okay, since you've-"

Before Leonard could finish his sentence, Mick grabbed the bottle from his hand and chucked it hard against the wall, where it smashed into a circuit panel, sending sparks flying. Leonard sighed again.

"Attaboy Mick, you really showed me."

"I know you think you're going to find some kinda promise or threat that gets me in that thing, but it ain't happening. There is no way I'm wearin a bucket on my head, and I am never putting on a god-damned cape!"

Snart opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off before he could begin.

"NO! It's not happening! Nothing you say is going to make me put that thing on!"

An hour later, Mick Rory stood in a Harlem alleyway, dressed in red long-johns, green trunks, a yellow shirt, blue cape, and a steel pot strapped to his head. On his hands were suede welding gloves, and on his feet were pointed yellow booties. He felt more ridiculous than he ever had in his life.

"So what do I do now?" he asked into the comm unit in his right ear, "Stand here and wait for the rest of the circus?"

"Now, Mister Rory, you patrol the streets." came Rip's response from the other end.

"I am not walking down the road in this getup." he stated with finality.

"Well, then patrol from the rooftops. They aren't very high in this era, you should be able to climb a fire escape."

Looking about, Mick saw such a ladder, and grabbing hold of the bottom rung, pulled himself hand over hand up to the top. Once at roof level, he began stalking back and forth, looking down at Grady's Radio Repair and hoping this wouldn't take long.

After several hours had passed with nothing of note occurring, Mick was ready to call it quits, when a flashlight beam shone on him from the street below.

"Who's up there?!" came a voice from behind the light.

"None of your business!" was Rory's reply.

"Stay right where you are, this is the police!" shouted the man with the flashlight.

"No, don't worry officer, it's me, the uh… Red Tomato!"

"The Red Tornado?!" the cop blew on his whistle, and soon, several more officers came running, batons at the ready. "I have the Red Tornado cornered on the rooftop, he's got nowhere to go but down!"

Bashing one cop over the back of his neck with an elbow, Mick grabbed the helmet and wrenched it from his assailant's hands, then began using it as a weapon, smashing into blue-suited men left and right, sending them flying to the rooftop. But more were coming up the fire escape, and through the opened door, and he was woefully outnumbered. 'Time', he thought, 'to break the one rule'.

From inside the waistband of his long-johns, he pulled out his heat gun, and depressed the trigger, casting a wall of flame in every direction.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING MISTER RORY?!" cried Rip's voice in his ear as he roasted pig after pig in the cleansing flames of his miniaturized flamethrower.

"That's it!" he heard Rip continue, "team, go in! See that no officers are killed, if possible."

With that, Mick was surrounded by his teammates. Hawkgirl and Atom flying around, grabbing cops and flying them off the roof, Firestorm blocking the trail of flame that emerged from Mick's gun, somehow absorbing the fire. Somewhere in the distance he heart Leonard's cold gun firing, probably putting out those pigs he'd fried. He couldn't help feeling slightly betrayed. He'd have to punch Snart for that later.

Once Rip had Mick alone, he took a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts. Although most of them came back to the merits of leaving Mick in some ditch somewhere.

The other man scratched at the seat of his long johns, looking for all accounts like he had done nothing wrong and as if this were a huge overreaction. When he realized Rip wasn't going to start the conversation, he decided to break the silence.

"I don't see how that broad wears this, my balls are-"

"Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused!" If Mick was surprised by the ferocity in Rip's voice, he didn't show it, instead he shrugged his shoulders and said "meh."

"M-meh!" Rip sputtered like a broken record and ran his hands down the sides of his face "is that all you've got to say for yourself?"

"Well, bringing it back to my balls-"

Rip knew better than to physically attack Mick, that would be like poking the proverbial bear, but it didn't stop him from fantasizing about it. He took a deep breath, and tried to stay level-headed, because Mick sure as hell wasn't.

"Do you fully grasp what we do Mick, we are here to help the timeline. To fix things, we-we're like doctors- "

Mick looked over his shoulder "pretty sure that's copyrighted"

"Focus!" Rip snapped his slim fingers right under Mick's nose, which he knew was pushing it but Mick had gotten his murder-jollies out, he was most likely in no mortal danger. Besides, Rip could handle broken fingers.

"You ever have a prostate exam Rip? Because those fingers are gonna-"

"Excuse me" said a timid voice from behind Mick.

Both men whirled, their guns pointed at the new stranger, who was dressed in a tattered robe, one which Rip recognized instantly.

"He's a Time Master. Likely here to kill us."

"Sooo, does that mean we get to kill him ?" there was a hint of joy in Mick's voice as he asked the question.

The man held up his hands in surrender. "Please, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not even sure who you are. I just recognized your tech from the display you were putting on, and hoped you could help me."

"Help you how ?" asked Rip, still pointing his pistol at the man.

"My name is Captain Lars, and yes, I'm a Time Master. My timeship, the Gallant, it exploded in the time stream, and I ended up here, in 1946. I only had time to grab an emergency kit before everything happened, it's a miracle I'm even alive. I was attempting to build a distress beacon using 20th century technology, but without any modern currency, I had to resort to petty theft, which drew the attention of your friend here" he indicated Mick, "I didn't want to create an anachronism, so I attempted to wipe his memory" he pulled out a standard-issue memory-eraser "but he got away. I was resigned to living as a vagrant in this century, until I saw your battle, and I knew you must be Time Masters yourselves. I was hoping you'd come to take me home, but I see now that I was mistaken."

"So in attempting to prevent an anachronism, you ultimately caused several." Rip's response wasn't a question.

"My apologies."

"I tell you what, Time Master Lars, we will give you a temporal distress beacon, but on the sole condition that you never speak of this. Any of it. Not where the beacon came from, not what happened to you in 1946, nothing. As far as the Time Masters are concerned, you arrived here, activated your beacon, and that was that. Are we clear?"

"Er… yes?" replied the confused, disheveled man.

"Good, then we have an accord."

"And what about me?" asked Mick, clearly trying to start something.

"Just… just get back to the ship, Mister Rory. And take off that ridiculous getup."

"So he was one a you fellas?" Abigail said, having heard Rip's explanation.

"More or less. He should be home soon, if not already." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar device "I've reset your beacon. The next time you use it, should there be a next time, it will contact the Waverider in the correct timeframe."

"Thanks, Cap'n" she said, taking the small tablet from Rip and looking it over as if expecting it to be somehow different.

"And thank you for the use of your costume, my apologies for the damage-" Captain Hunter was cut off when Abigail handed back the dented pot-helmet.

"You tell Mick ta keep it. It was always his, an I can make another one anyway if need be. He can use it ta remember me by, when he finally does meet me for the first time."

"Mrs. Hunkel, your grasp of temporal mechanics is admirable" said the former Time Master, putting the helm beneath his arm "I'll ensure it has a place of honor on our little ship."

"Hey," the woman said, laying her hand upon Rip's arm "I know I ain't s'posed ta tell ya anything about yer future but-"

"Please, Mrs. Hunkel, don't-"

"Just… just watch out for Mick. He's gonna have it harder than any of you. Harder than he deserves. Take care of 'im. For me, Rip."

"I'll do my best." said the timeship captain.

The team strapped into their seats, Captain Hunter prepared for takeoff back into the timestream.

"There's just one question remaining" he said to Gideon as much as to any of the crew as he activated the thrusters.

"How did her distress beacon become tuned to our version of the Waverider, rather than the one it originated from?"

"Some questions" Kendra replied, "just aren't meant to be answered."