A/N: The final day of the Timeless Big Bang is here! If you enjoyed any of the works over the last month, please 1) let your authors and artists know and 2) drop the mods a note of thanks on timelessbigbang . tumblr . com . They all worked incredibly hard to make this all happen for you!

At some point today, there will also be art for this fic, created by the wonderful olivaraofrph (also on Tumblr). I can't wait to see how it turned out!

Finally, per Big Bang rules, I will be posting all seven chapters of this fic at once. I understand the urge to keep reading but, if you could spare the time, I'd love to know what you thought about each of them. Thank you in advance!

Emma Whitmore was frozen in the middle of a carpeted hallway, her raised fist inches away from an elaborately inlaid wooden door. An entire minute had passed but she still hadn't been able to actually make herself knock, her brain stuck in an endless loop of what could go wrong. Her whole life she'd prided herself in absolutes, only taking risks that were designed to succeed. Her new assignment was anything but and, if it didn't go as planned, her career was over.

And it all revolved around this conversation.

She took a deep breath, silently ran through her speech again, then knocked.

"Come in," a deep voice responded.

Emma twisted the handle, then stepped into the room. It was as ornate as the door, with a large wooden desk in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the Bay, massive built-in bookcases, and a thick plush carpet that probably cost more than her last MI paycheck.

A white-haired man sat behind the desk, his gaze focused intently on Emma. "Did you find it?" he demanded as soon as she had closed the door.

"Not yet sir. We've searched his house and office but found nothing. His financials reveal a monthly payment to a storage unit at Camp Pendleton, so we are going to search there next."

"And just how do you plan to get on base?"

"I have an idea but it requires use of your plane."

The man scowled but motioned for her to sit down. "Tell me more."

He was completely silent through her entire explanation, only nodding once at the end. "By when do you need it?"

"As soon as possible. We don't know when Moran's insurance is going to trigger."

"How do we know it hasn't already?"

"We don't," Emma said with an offhand shrug. "Right now, we're running under the assumption that there is some sort of periodic check-in and his information is released only if the check is missed. Since it's been thirty-one hours and we haven't heard anything, I would say his check-in is on a weekly cadence, if not monthly. It would save him from accidentally releasing it if there was an emergency of some sort."

"We need to assume the worst and wrap this up as quickly as possible," the white-haired man stated, rising slightly in his chair as if to emphasize the gravity of the situation. "Do you know what will happen if that information is released?"

"Of course, sir."

The man stared at her for a long moment and, knowing she was being evaluated, Emma met his gaze firmly enough to prove her capability, but not strong enough to dissuade him.

Finally, the man relaxed into his seat and reached for his phone. "Let me make a few calls."

If Wyatt had slept for more than fifteen hours in the last week, he might have heard the footsteps following him as he left Mason Industries. If the team hadn't gone on three consecutive grueling missions through the worst parts of history to stop Emma, he might have been able to fight back. If there was a B team that could have gone on even one of the missions, Wyatt definitely would have been able to put the ex-military men down.

Today though, Wyatt was overworked, sleep-deprived, and starving for something that didn't have a questionable expiration date. His nerves more than a little frayed, he spun around at a soft clicking sound to find a dark-haired man wearing a blue suit standing at arm's length.

"We need you to come with us," the man said, his tone very clearly indicating this was an order, not a suggestion. To prove his point, he pushed aside the flap of his jacket to reveal a gun nestled in a side holster, the safety band unsnapped.

It didn't escape Wyatt's notice that he wasn't wearing a badge. "I think not," the soldier replied, his grip tightening on the duffel bag where his gun resided. Unfortunately, at this distance, there was no way he was unzipping the bag and unholstering his weapon before the other man got off a shot. So, Wyatt threw the bag at the man, high and to the left, while attacking low and to the right.

The man ducked under the duffel, simultaneously drawing his gun, but Wyatt smacked the inside of the man's wrist, sending the Glock flying from stunned fingers. The man cursed but recovered quickly, launching himself at Wyatt and sending the two crashing into the side of Wyatt's truck. The fight went on for another few minutes until Wyatt landed a right uppercut that sent the man's eyes rolling back into his head.

That was when he registered the second set of footsteps.

He tried to turn but it was too little, too late.

Pain exploded in his cheekbone, sending his head whipping around, as a rather impressive fireworks show flashed in his field of vision. His legs buckled and he barely had the wherewithal to keep his face from connecting with the asphalt. Then something smashed into his side and he collapsed to the ground, unable to breathe.

His training was screaming for him to move, to get up, to fight back, so, with great effort, he rolled away from the direction of the kick, desperately scanning the ground for his bag.

Then something cold pressed against his left shoulder blade, right behind his heart, and he froze. For a second, all he heard was his pulse thudding through his ears, before his brain kicked into high gear, trying desperately to come up with a plan.

He had just tensed his shoulders, ready to throw himself back and away, when a woman said, "Well, that didn't go as planned."

Recognizing the voice, Wyatt's response was anything but polite.

In the split second it took him to realize that might have been a bad idea, the gun barrel knocked against his head hard enough to cause him to see stars. When his vision cleared, Emma Whitmore was crouching down in front of him, her fingers inching toward his throbbing cheekbone. Wyatt flinched back before her hand could make contact, only as he was moving hoping that that wasn't going to merit him another hit over the head…or worse.

Thankfully, the gun stayed where it was and Emma pulled back her hand, splaying her fingers wide as if to show she meant no harm.

That gesture was about three months too late for Wyatt's liking. "What do you want?" he spat, with as much venom as he could muster.

"Your help."

Fear shot through his system—not for his own safety but that of Rufus and Lucy—and it took everything he had to keep it from playing over his face. As much as it pained him to admit it, he was the most expendable of the team, so if Emma needed his help for something, she'd definitely need Lucy, maybe even Rufus as well.

"Where are they?" he demanded, as steadily as he could manage, all the while scanning the area behind Emma, looking for any glimpse of his teammates.

"Safe. I don't need them."

"I don't believe you."

Emma just shrugged. "You're not in a position to do anything about it. Not with Henry's gun so close." Then she leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with him. "You really want to listen to my proposition."

"I will never help you."

Emma just smiled, which only ratcheted up Wyatt's concern, before she reached behind her and brought back…a Polaroid?

Wyatt hurriedly scanned the small photo, exhaling softly when he didn't recognize anyone in it: new teammates, family or otherwise. With that concern quelled, he allowed himself a more serious look. The Polaroid was new, judging by the lack of a sepia tint and the crisp corners, and depicted two men: one, tall and dark-haired with an angular face, standing over the other, who was lying on his side, eyes closed. The man on the ground was smaller and blonder and looked to be either sleeping or unconscious.

Since Emma was involved, Wyatt assumed it was the latter, especially since this photograph was obviously intended to be a leverage of sorts.

"The one on the left is Henry, Karl's replacement," Emma said, pulling Wyatt from his thoughts. "Not quite as handy with his weapons but his survival skills are off the chart."

"Thank you ma'am," a voice said from above Wyatt. The soldier didn't bother to try to look, not with the gun still in his back, but his curiosity was piqued about how Henry could be both here and in the image threatening someone.

He had just chalked that one up to 'time machine problems' when Emma spoke up yet again. "The one on the ground is Charles Spitzer," she stated with a finality that told Wyatt he was supposed to recognize the name. Unfortunately, he didn't, but he kept quiet until he could figure out if that was going to help or hinder Emma's cause.

She must have figured out it though since, a beat later, surprise flashed over her face. "You don't know who that is, do you?" she asked, eyes wide in almost perverse excitement. "Well, I suppose Lucy was going through a lot during your conversation in 1945."

Wyatt's instinct to protect surged and he'd lifted himself up a few inches before the barrel of the gun rapped against his shoulder blade in discouragement. "Leave her out of this," he growled, settling for throwing as much malice as he could into his icy glare.

Tsking softly, Emma just shook her head. "I can't Wyatt. Otherwise you'd never run my little errand."

She adjusted the photograph so her index finger was pointing to Spitzer's head and held it inches from Wyatt's face. "On April 14th, 2002, Charles Spitzer drives to Stanford to take his freshman daughter home for the weekend. This drive requires him to cross a bridge which, on that day, was covered with a large oil slick—"

She didn't have to continue. As soon as Emma had said the date, Wyatt knew Spitzer was the one who had rescued Lucy from her accident, and understood that Emma was obliquely threatening Lucy. Rage burned through him but he couldn't react, lest he prove Emma right about how far he would go to save his team.

Eventually the fire subsided, allowing his brain to function normally, Wyatt realized there was one large hole in Emma's plan.

"Unless you send a 16-year old back, you can't actually stop him from saving Lucy," he stated with as much bravado as he could muster, stalling while he fought to come up with a way to invalidate Emma's leverage.

The pilot's confident expression didn't so much as crack. "You know I don't have to be at the actual scene to keep it from happening. Thanks to the time machine, I can visit Spitzer at a more…impressionable…age."

She walked her finger up the Polaroid until it was pointing at Henry's head. "If you do not agree to help me, Henry will break young Spitzer's arm, maybe even dislocate his shoulder. Medicine is so…unpredictable back then; things don't always heal correctly. It won't affect his job or his life but it should be able to keep him from being able to pull a certain sophomore from a sinking vehicle."

"You can't guarantee that," Wyatt shot back, more out of disbelief than real objection. It was unusual how imprecise Emma's plan was, not at all like the ones she'd put into motion over the last few jumps through time…which meant there was bound to be a way to both not give Emma what she wanted and to save Spitzer.

Even as he considered that though, the churning gears in Wyatt's brain were slowing to a halt, all settled on the same verdict: despite how terrible the possibility of working for Emma was, he was going to do what she asked to save Lucy's life—there were too many variables in play to make another decision. He'd just work one problem at a time and hope that sometime between now and actually doing whatever she wanted him to do, he could find a way to not actually do what she wanted him to do.

That whole thought process had taken only a split second and, when he refocused, Emma had just started speaking again. "True," she said, shifting her weight back onto her heels, "but do you really want to bet Lucy's life on it?"

From the look on her face, Emma knew what his answer was going to be.

"I need a guarantee you won't hurt Spitzer or the rest of my team while I'm working for you," replied Wyatt, ignoring the way his stomach clenched at those last few words.

"You don't get to make the demands," Emma snapped, her eyes flashing. After a moment though, she shrugged, the edges in her posture slackening. "But I want our adventure to go smoothly so..." She held up her hand like she was taking an oath in court. "I promise not to hurt Spitzer, Rufus or Lucy while you're working for me," she recited with almost mechanical inflection.

Wyatt wasn't fond of the qualification but he knew it was the best he was going to get in his current situation. He sighed, then held up his hands. "What do you need from me?"