Wyatt
Somehow, breaking out of a black site had been surprisingly easier than he had expected. After shorting out the power it was just a matter of fighting his way to the door, and then running like hell.
He'd never pegged Agent Christopher much one for breaking the rules, always rigid in her determination to get the job done. But perhaps her loyalties were no longer simply characterized by her ties to the government, especially if the NSA had been infiltrated by Rittenhouse. No, it was clear her true allegiance was with the team, with the only people she could trust in a world where it suddenly seemed like anyone could be the enemy. After all, she was the driving force that held the team together, and the look in her eyes when she'd left that paperclip sitting on the table had been unmistakable.
I trust you, had been the words left unsaid in her expression as she willed him to pull himself together and fight back. To get off his ass and do something. It had been the jumpstart he needed, although hearing that Lucy and Rufus might be in danger from Rittenhouse was easily incentive enough.
However, even with the considerable amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins as he punched his way to freedom, Wyatt couldn't deny the overwhelming feeling of weariness and sheer pain that threatened to overwhelm him. It was taking every ounce of effort he had to compartmentalize his feelings just long enough until he found somewhere safe enough to completely unravel from the events of the past two days. It still hadn't quite hit him, everything that had happened.
Coming back to the present and hearing Lucy's voice confirming his worst fears had been nothing short of devastating.
It was like losing Jess all over again, his grief suddenly as fresh and raw as it had been the same night he'd gotten that call from the sheriff, telling him that his wife's body had been found in the bushes on the side of the road, right where he'd left her.
No matter what he did, whether it be sending Back to the Future telegrams or even interfering in an ill-advised one-night stand fated to produce a serial killer, none of it mattered.
What would Jessica think of you? He thought bitterly to himself as the face of the young bartender flashed in his mind. His stomach did an involuntary flip at the fact that he had, essentially, murdered an innocent person, however by accident. He hadn't meant for it to happen, but he should have known that the risks of someone getting hurt on his little joyride would be too high to ignore.
With a pang of shame, Wyatt realized he was essentially no better than Flynn, the calculated maniac hell bent on bringing his own wife and child back to life, only to fail time and time again, and take multiple innocent lives in the process. Who were either of them to decide which lives were worth more than others, to play God and take people off the face of the Earth in order to bring back someone who was already dead? And had it really been worth it? Going to all that trouble, only to come back to the same reality anyway. The one where, as he'd said in the Alamo, everyone he cared about was gone.
For some cruel, inexplicable reason, it seemed like the universe was determined to keep him from ever being happy again. As if letting him save the one person he loved most in the world was just too much to ask, a dream that could never be allowed to be fully realized. Even more ironic then to have him be one of the few people in the world that knew time travel was real, as fate teasingly dangled the possibility of a second chance before his eyes in the form of a literal time machine, only to snatch away that hope as quickly as it had come.
It seemed he was destined to fail the ones he loved, or at least that's how it felt.
It was with these thoughts in mind that he sat on the edge of the bed in a shabby motel room he'd broken into, head in his hands, absorbed in thoughts he couldn't get away from no matter how hard he tried. The faces of everyone he cared about were rotating in a relentless loop behind his eyelids, the faces of the people he'd let down the most.
And yet, as Lucy and Rufus appeared in his mind's eye, he realized with a jolt that they could be in danger right now, and he wouldn't even know it.
Not everyone he cared about was gone. He couldn't say that was true anymore.
Even though they weren't really there, Wyatt could still hear the bubbling of Lucy's laughter as she listened to Rufus declare his undying love for Chocodiles, or the confident ebb of her voice as she thoroughly briefed them on whatever historical debacle they'd gotten themselves mixed up in. He could see Rufus' shy smiles as Wyatt half-heartedly teased him over his poorly disguised crush on Jiya, could hear the pilot's voice dripping with sarcasm as he prepared the lifeboat for another jump and the many near-death experiences that would come along with it.
As surely as if they were standing before him, Wyatt could catalogue everything he cherished about his two partners in a list that had no end. Despite not being a very 'touchy-feely' sort of guy, even he couldn't deny the overwhelming sense of love he felt for the two people he trusted most in the world. And suddenly it was all very clear to him. He knew what he had to do.
Without warning, self-loathing was transformed into steely determination, almost as if a new sense of purpose was permeating his being. He had to get back to them.
He might have failed them, might have abandoned them, but it wasn't too late to make things right. He saw now that while he might not have a second chance with Jessica, he did have a second chance with the team. He would never be able to go back and change what happened to her; it was clear that his past could not be undone. So, it was time to focus on the present, on the people who depended on him most.
The present isn't perfect but it's ours. The conviction of Lucy's voice echoed reassuringly in his mind, urging him to pick up the pieces.
Rufus and Lucy needed him now, and he intrinsically knew that he was the only one who could protect them. This, this was his second chance.
A chance to make things right.
And maybe. A small voice in his head said. A chance to explore something new with a certain historian.
Wyatt had to fight the urge to snuff that thought out as quickly as it materialized in his brain. It made him feel wrong, guilty even, as if admitting his growing feelings for Lucy only days after essentially losing his wife all over again made him the shallowest person in the world. As if it was an affront to Jessica's memory, evidence that he was unaffected by her loss and able to move on at the drop of a hat. And that was the farthest thing from the truth.
Yet, he was moving on, he realized with a start, as some tension deep inside him finally started to peacefully unravel. Although failing to bring Jessica back had hurt like a merciless kick to the gut, it had also brought him an odd, unexpected sense of closure. He had done everything one could do. He'd searched for her killer for years, had gone back in a damn time machine to prevent the monster from ever even being born. He had tried, to the last shred of any possibility, he had tried. Tried and failed.
Jessica would always hold a place in his heart, without question. She had helped make him into the man he was, had been his entire world up until the day she died. There was no forgetting someone like that. But he didn't want to forget her. He just thought that maybe, after subjecting himself to loneliness for so long, maybe he deserved to be with someone who made him whole again. To be happy.
Maybe Jessica would want him to move on.
He wasn't looking to jump into anything at that very moment, not wanting to rush into a full-fledged relationship just yet. He could acknowledge he might not be quite ready. But maybe just the possibility of not tamping down the feeling of longing whenever Lucy Preston waltzed or stumbled into the room. Not mentally scolding himself every time he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, when he traced the lines of her lips with his eyes and wondered if they were as soft as they looked.
If he could just open himself up to her and be receptive. Could show that he was open to whatever this budding chemistry between them was, and tell her that wherever it was going, he'd be happy to sit back and enjoy the ride.
It was suddenly very important to him that she knew how he felt, remembering how well, or rather, badly, their last conversation had gone. Watching her cry at the foot of the staircase as she whispered a tearful goodbye had twisted Wyatt's heart in more ways than one. He had known that coming to her house and telling her what he was about to do was something that couldn't be taken back. He had basically told her that as long as he got Jessica back, he didn't care if he got kicked off the team, didn't care about the missions or what happened to her and Rufus. Shame enveloped him in its stifling grip as he remembered her wishing him good luck, knowing that he might be coming back to an entirely different reality, one where they may have never met. Suddenly he was overcome by the urge to kick himself, because the idea that he nearly sacrificed knowing Lucy and being on the team entirely made his stomach flip with momentary panic. He couldn't lose them too.
The thought of never having met Lucy Preston made his heart ache, as he clung to the idea of whatever possibilities existed between them, even if they hadn't been fully realized. Although, she might not even feel the same way about him, he considered, especially not after choosing his wife over his loyalty to the team.
He'd left them. He'd left her, and he was abruptly overwhelmed by the need to apologize. To assure Lucy that he wasn't going anywhere ever again, no matter what.
With these promises on the tip of his tongue, Wyatt descended the stairs into the musty, underground storage facility that Agent Christopher had instructed him to rendezvous at the next morning. She had sounded relieved, but not in the least surprised when he'd called her from a payphone shortly after his escape. He was glad Denise trusted him enough to bring him back into the loop, to help bring down Rittenhouse for good.
The basement was dimly lit, but it didn't take him long to spot Agent Christopher and Rufus speaking in hushed tones beside a stack of wooden crates. The conversation stopped abruptly as they heard footsteps approach from around the corner, but as soon as Wyatt came into view they both visibly exhaled.
"Boy, am I glad to see you." Rufus said sincerely, clapping Wyatt on the back.
"I knew you'd make it out of there." Agent Christopher added, giving Wyatt a small smile as she briefly let herself relax.
He was glad to see them safe, his burdens suddenly feeling lighter in the company of friends.
It was nice not having to be alone anymore.
Yet the one person he wanted to see most was nowhere to be found, and he felt a sense of dread creeping in.
"Where's Lucy?"
Lucy
Oddly enough, the first thing Lucy felt when she awoke wasn't anything in the realm of fear, anxiety, or panic. No, Lucy Preston was annoyed.
Of course, there was the initial shock of waking up in a place she didn't recognize, but that was quickly overshadowed by a sense of pure and utter frustration as she recalled the events of the previous night.
I need you, he had said. The total earnestness of the confession still puzzled her, especially considering that he had decided that the best way to impart his sincerity was by slipping a rufie into her tea when she wasn't looking. Not exactly the best first impression in whatever partnership he was trying to foster, she thought grudgingly.
Her head was still pounding from the after effects of the drug as she slowly sat up and tried to gage where Flynn had taken her. It didn't look anything like his last hide out, the empty church where he'd held her before their disastrous mission to the Chicago World's Fair. She shuddered at the memory of her encounter with H. H. Holmes, and the subsequent brush with death that she'd only narrowly escaped. She'd been lucky, what with the heroic and timely arrival of Wyatt and Rufus to rescue her, but she often wondered when her luck would run out. Or, considering where she was, if it already had.
Judging by the stacks of marked wooden creates, shipment ledgers, and assorted metal car parts littering the room, it seemed that the place was some sort of abandoned manufacturing facility, as she'd been unceremoniously dumped into what looked like a storage closet turned makeshift bedroom. To her dismay, she found that there were no windows in her prison and had to fight both her claustrophobia and her disappointment that there was no way to escape. It looked like she wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon unless it was in the mothership with Flynn, and she was already exhausted just thinking about wherever or whenever he might drag her off to. The thought of enduring another time-travelling ordeal almost made her want to drift back to sleep as she laid her head back down on the pillow she'd been using. She was resting on a small cot tucked into the back corner of the room with a thin blanket draped over her and was somewhat pleasantly surprised by the gesture. At least Flynn had the decency not to leave her prey to the cold.
However, it was with a start that she realized she wasn't in just any old bedroom. It was Flynn's. She was sure of it. His personal effects had been left strewn about the place, but she wasn't surprised to find there was very little he actually owned, as his present lifestyle didn't leave much room for the care of material possessions. The first give away was the clothes she found tucked away at the foot of the bed. There were heaps of them, all carefully folded and arranged inside an open footlocker that was probably older than she was. She could see suits from every decade and century, with touches of his signature burgundy color accenting each cravat and tie. She supposed he kept the clothes out of practicality, hoping to reuse them if they ever went back to a similar time period. Something about the thought made Lucy unbearably tired. She dreaded thinking about how long this game of cat and mouse would go on, as clearly Flynn was prepared to keep on time-travelling interminably. She'd be lying if she said she didn't cherish the thrill of crossing paths with a number of her historical heroes, but she could do without the near-death experiences and pressure of saving the word on a daily basis. Needless to say, she would praise the day that she never had to clamber inside the lifeboat again with all its nausea inducing side effects. But she knew she wouldn't be abandoning time travel anytime soon, not if Flynn had anything to say about it.
Other than the clothes there wasn't much to look at, just some crumpled up notes, assorted files, shell casings (but no guns), and a pile of books all resting on a desk opposite to the cot. Giving the books a precursory glance, she realized they were all history texts, and was briefly startled to see one of her own works staring back at her. It was one of her debut research projects as an assistant professor at Stanford titled Lincoln's Last Hours. How ironic and unsettling it was, she thought, that he would take the time to read a book about the man he shot himself, and a book she wrote nonetheless. The rest of the books, all of different historical periods, she understood to be for tactical advantage in the field. But this one, it just seemed odd. Did it mean he felt guilty, remorseful? Was it just a contrived morbid curiosity, as he read about the mysterious unknown assassin, which was in reality himself? Or maybe he bought it before their mission to 1865. She may never know, but it still troubled her to think about, bringing on a renewed sense of anxiety at the thought of her intelligent, calculating, though at times maniacal and murderous adversary. She felt she would never definitively understand him, his true nature always something of an unfathomable mystery.
Yet, out of everyone, it was her who knew him best. Who got to peer behind the curtain and gaze into a broken soul with depths that had no end, and she wasn't always able to make sense of what she saw.
There was nothing else in the small space around her, and yet she somehow knew this was where he existed in the moments between their fateful encounters, that this was the bed where nightmares of his family plagued him night after night, just as nightmares of Amy had begun to creep their way into her unconscious mind as of late.
Although there was one object she had noticed to be missing from his room, and she didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
The journal was nowhere to be found, probably tucked into Flynn's coat pocket, where she noticed he normally kept it close at hand. He carried that thing around like a bible and worshipped it like one too. She was almost glad he hadn't left it for her to peruse, not sure if she would ever be ready to read the secrets of its pages. She was a firm believer that no one should really know what the future had in store, however tempting it may be.
Furthermore, she knew how much stock Flynn put in the journal, and couldn't help but wonder why she would ever write something that would cause so much destruction, so much chaos. She knew it was the reason he trusted her so implicitly, being the driving force behind his entire crusade. It was also why he sought her out time and time again, since according to him they were allegedly destined to work together. Or according to the journal, depending on perspective. Whether she liked it or not she was starting to see the truth in that prediction more and more, despite the fact that Flynn would have to coerce her to make it come true.
All of a sudden, the door to her little cell was flung open. And just as surely as if she'd summoned him with the very thought of his name, he appeared.
Flynn stood in the doorway casually with his arms crossed as he held her gaze with an amused smile, his outward persona completely different than the last time she had found herself at his mercy. After John Rittenhouse had escaped he'd been positively incensed, frenzied even, as the chance to bring his family back to life had slipped through his fingers. Or, more accurately, been obstructed by Lucy's intervention. Although his mania had died down a touch once they returned to the present and began preparing for the next attempt, his anger toward her had been an ever-present danger. A condition through which she had to carefully tread until her escape. However, this time he seemed an entirely different character altogether. Gone was the violent, rage filled murderer, replaced by something more relaxed and cavalier, if that undying smirk of his was any indication. He seemed more human to her, she realized, even if that meant an arrogant, witty, obnoxious human. But a human just the same. However, she reminded herself that facades could be deceiving, and the sleeping snake of his inner rage could be triggered at any moment. She still had to be cautious.
Seeing that Lucy wasn't going to make the first move in their exchange, Flynn took the lead, sauntering inside and closing the door behind him, his eyes never leaving her own. Outside she could hear the door being locked by his henchman, and she mentally cursed Flynn for being so annoyingly thorough about everything. There would be no escape, at least, not here.
She briefly tensed as Flynn began to approach her, but relaxed as she watched him take a seat in the desk chair across from her, leaning back contentedly as he pierced her with his stare.
"Did you sleep well?" Flynn asked politely. Again, the urge to smack him was palpable and none too easily repressed.
"Wasn't as if I had much of a choice." She bit back, glaring at him pointedly. If he was trying to be cordial it wasn't working. She wouldn't let him off the hook so easily, but he probably already knew that.
Flynn only smirked in reply before shrugging half-heartedly, as if to acknowledge that he probably deserved some outright hostility after last night's turn of events. He simply continued to watch her intently, opting to let Lucy take the reins for now on whatever this conversation was supposed to be.
"So, we're really doing this whole kidnapping thing again, huh?" She asked dryly, her shoulders slumping as she looked toward the locked door wistfully.
"It seems to be the only way I can get you to cooperate, so yes."
"Right, because things went so well for you the first time." She sneered, unable to help herself.
To her surprise, he chuckled in response. "Ah yes, outwitting me with Harry Houdini. I have to admit that was pretty clever."
As ever, his double-edged compliments always caught her off guard, so she simply looked away, unsure of what to say. The silence between them stretched, but Flynn seemed comfortable enough to watch her as she attempted to fathom a reply.
"So why did you bring me here?" She finally asked.
"Because I think I'm very close to finally bringing an end to all of this." He answered gravely, his eyes narrowing in determination.
That caught her attention.
"Why didn't you tell me that last night?" She demanded, standing up from the cot. "I would have lead with that over breaking into my house for cryptic late-night conversations."
"I didn't break in." He interjected. "I knocked."
Now was not the time for semantics, even if he did seem thoroughly amused by her growing irritation.
"Whatever. Answer the question." She ordered sternly, crossing her arms in an attempt to look intimidating. It wasn't working.
"I didn't tell you," Flynn began, leaning forward over his knees. "Because I had to be sure you wouldn't tip off Agent Christopher about my plan."
"Well you don't have to worry about that now." She grumbled bitterly, wondering if the team had already noticed she was missing, if they were looking for her. It was impossible to know, but Flynn seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts as his gaze softened.
"No." He conceded. "But I am sorry that I had to resort to certain measures to bring you here. I know it didn't do much to garner your trust."
Her head snapped up sharply as brown eyes locked with green, each searching for something in the other's depths. It was the first apology she could ever remember hearing from him, and to say she was gob smacked would have been an understatement. She did her best to retain a neutral composure under his scrutiny, even if she knew he could see right through it.
She was glad, if nothing else, that he seemed to be aware of the insanity of his whole operation, but it didn't change the facts of what had been done.
"Apologizing doesn't make it right." She said quietly, holding his gaze.
For Flynn's part he took her reproach in stride, simply nodding his agreement as he stood from his chair, pacing as he prepared to delve into his would-be plan to take down Rittenhouse for good. It seemed that silent acquiescence was the closest thing to full blown regret she was going to get out of Flynn. He clearly had more pressing matters at hand.
"What if I told you that there was a way to eliminate every member of Rittenhouse all in one fell swoop." He said. The very statement alone seemed to key him up in anticipation as he radiated with his own conviction. Lucy nearly rolled her eyes.
"I'd say you were desperate and probably lying."
He actually had the nerve to laugh. "Believe me Lucy, this is very much real."
"Care to elaborate?" She said skeptically.
"You see, every twenty-five years Rittenhouse holds a summit where all of its members briefly convene in the same location for twenty-four hours." He explained. "It's next to impossible to find out when the next one will be, but lucky for us we aren't looking to attend a meeting in this century anyway."
"And where did you learn all this?" Images of a so-called Rittenhouse convention were swirling in her mind as she pictured an assemblage of old men dressed in corporate black-tie attire, all giving off a bland air of cartoonish villainy. She was sure her estimation couldn't be any farther from the truth.
"You remember Julian Charvet, the man Lindbergh was supposed to contact after landing in Paris? Let's just say he had an unexpected run in with yours truly." A wicked grin graced his lips.
"You were listening to our conversation." She surmised irritably, realizing she'd been playing into Flynn's game all along.
Flynn shrugged. "You got him to talk over a bottle of absinthe. Your way seemed better than the alternative."
Lucy didn't even want to contemplate what doing things his way would entail, though she could imagine it would be anything but merciful. She supposed she should be grateful she got to Lindbergh before Flynn could beat him to a pulp.
"So, he told you when the summit is going to be?" She questioned, Flynn's plan starting to come together in her mind.
"No, unfortunately not." He scowled. "But he did tell me about someone who could point us in the right direction."
"Wait, let me just get this straight." Lucy cut him off as understanding began to set in. "You want to go back to one of these meetings and what, kill every last one of them?"
Flynn could only stare back in reply as the weight of her words settled in the air, but his silence was answer enough.
"You can't be serious." She blustered, backing away from him slightly. "You're talking about killing dozens, maybe hundreds of people. Changing history in ways we can't possibly predict."
"Wouldn't be anything I haven't done before." He countered brusquely. She could tell he was trying to be sarcastic, nonchalant even, but she wasn't fooled. Despite his poorly controlled killing spree through history, she knew he took no pleasure in taking people's lives. Or at least, she hoped he didn't.
"There has to be another way." She protested, her voice cracking slightly. "I'm not a killer."
"You don't have to be, that's my job." He returned stonily, the icy quality of his words cutting her like a knife.
A cold, detached numbness settled over Lucy as the gravity of the situation began to set in, along with the realization that she really had no say in what was about to happen. She was going to be implicit in the outright murder of all of Rittenhouse. The very thought of so much death threatened to overwhelm her, the fact that she would share in the blame for the spilling of so much blood. How much would change? How many people would disappear from reality if they succeeded? How many more people would lose their sisters, mothers, or fathers as a consequence of what Flynn had planned?
What would Amy think of her? She thought dejectedly. Her long-lost sister's face materialized in her mind's eye, making Lucy's heart ache as she reached for her locket out of habit, only to find it wasn't there. She was suddenly alarmed as she registered the lack of its comforting weight around her neck, panicking at the thought of having lost the last piece of Amy she had left.
"Looking for this?" She heard Flynn say, looking up to see him dangling the golden locket from his fingertips, just out of her reach.
"Give it back." Her voice shook with uncontrolled rage as she felt hot tears pricking her eyes. It was as if Flynn was holding her very heart in his hands and threatening to squeeze it into submission at any given moment. But she refused to let him see her cry; it was a vulnerability she couldn't afford.
"I'll give it back when this is all over." He said smoothly before tucking the locket back into his jacket pocket.
"If you think a necklace is enough to make me turn a blind eye to mass murder then you really don't know me very well." Even if the thought of losing her last pictures of Amy did break her heart, she knew she couldn't let herself me bought so easily with such a petty bribe. She was better than that.
"I know you better than you think." He said in a low voice before stepping into her personal space. "Which is why I know the only way to get you to cooperate is to threaten the two people you care for most."
She gulped, struggling to suppress a shiver at the unguarded threat in his words, feeling utterly trapped by his proximity. His eyes were the coldest she'd ever seen them, utterly detached. He was a man on a mission and would not be stopped.
"Listen to me." She started shakily, reaching out for the human part of him that had been exposed to her only moments ago. "It doesn't have to be like this, Flynn. Agent Christopher knows about Rittenhouse. She can help us, we can work together. We can find another way-"
"No, you listen to me." He said dangerously, craning his neck to look down at her. "We are going to find out where the summit is, and we are going to destroy Rittenhouse, together. If I so much as see Wyatt and Rufus, I won't hesitate to take the shot. That is, unless you do as I ask. Your help for their lives. It's a pretty fair trade, don't you think?"
He was so close to her, practically had her backed into a literal corner as she internally mulled over his ultimatum. On one hand, there was no guarantee that Flynn would be able to hurt Wyatt and Rufus at all, seeing as he didn't have them conveniently waiting in the wings of the Murder Castle like the last time he used her friends against her. Not only that, Lucy wasn't even sure Wyatt would be coming to her rescue at all, considering he was kicked off the team after his little joy ride to the 1980's. Unless Agent Christopher had managed to break him out, there was a chance that Wyatt's role in the fight against Rittenhouse was over. And she didn't know whether to feel relieved for his safety or completely abandoned.
However, she knew without a doubt that Rufus would follow, either accompanied by a fugitive Wyatt or some other army operative to take his place. And just because Flynn didn't have them now didn't mean he couldn't easily get ahold of them if he wanted to. He'd jumped them before, back in 1972, he could do it again. And they would be extremely vulnerable if they didn't have Lucy there to guide them, making them even easier targets. Sitting ducks just waiting to be shot dead by Flynn's careful aim. No, there were too many doubts, too many uncountable variables, too many things that could go wrong and leave Rufus (and whoever was with him) dead in the process. There really was no choice, it had already been made for her.
"So what's it gonna be Lucy, are you going to help me or not?" He asked, a faint air of amusement coloring his voice as he repeated the same phrase he'd used to compel her help back in 1893. Odd, how she found herself right back where she started, talking to a stubborn brick wall of a man who wouldn't change course for anything.
Unwilling to say out loud that yes, she was going to help him murder through time, she managed a jerking nod of her head, averting her eyes from his imploring gaze. But it seemed he was looking for the satisfaction of a verbal response. He reached out a hand and caught her chin with his calloused fingers, gently tipping her head up and forcing her to look him in the eye. There was nowhere to hide from him.
"Lucy?" Amazing how a wealth of questions could simply be summed up in saying her name. She held her breath a moment, afraid to say the words out loud, because she knew once she accepted that everything would become all too real. The silence dragged on, and eventually she let out a defeated sigh.
"Yes." She ground out reluctantly. "Yes, I'll help you."
Satisfied, a small smirk curled his lip before he finally let go of her chin, opting to take hold of her upper arm instead as he began to lead her toward the door. Her gut instinct was to resist his touch, but she realized it would be a pointless struggle. She'd already surrendered her right to fight back, she thought bitterly.
"Where are we going?" She asked nervously, chancing a look up at him through her eyelashes as he called for one of his lackeys to unbolt the door. He looked positively triumphant, as if things had gone exactly as he predicted, and she hated him for it.
"October 17th, 1931. Chicago. Seems like that city just can't get enough of us." He replied as the door swung open and she was guided through an empty hallway, her mind already racing with possible historical scenarios. They were accompanied by two of Flynn's nameless goons as they trudged toward a hangar where the mothership was waiting. It seemed they weren't wasting any time, as Flynn was already preparing to jump.
"Al Capone's tax evasion trial?" She guessed, looking at him sidelong. "What could you possibly want there?"
He grinned at the how quick she'd figured out his target, but wasn't deigned to answer her question just yet.
"Come on Professor, let's go save the world." Flynn said playfully as he pulled her along with him towards the time machine, ready to embark on what could be their last mission to bring down Rittenhouse. To finally put an end to everything by doing the unthinkable.
