Chapter 2

The entire world had ground to a halt.

An invisible rope had wrapped itself around Rip's chest and was squeezing so tightly for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Even his heart seemed to stop.

"You're lying," he said when he was finally able to draw breath.

"I'm afraid not," said the voice from the ceiling.

"You're lying," Rip repeated louder than before. "They're not dead. They can't be."

"Well, if that's what you want to believe," the voice replied, mockingly. "But as far as I'm concerned they are dead as dead can be."

Rip began to pace back and forth across his concrete cell, head bent, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. It was a lie, a trick, he told himself. It had to be. The Time Master was playing with him.

"I don't know why you're in such denial," the voice continued. "After all, you were there. You saw the whole thing. You watched them die."

Rip shook his head. "No, I..." What had he seen? What had really happened?

An explosion. Or had there been multiple explosions? The ground shaking. Things tumbling down from above. Encroaching flames and suffocating smoke. People yelling. Sara's panicked look. Ray in his Atom suit falling through the air.

Rip squeezed his eyes shut, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

Why couldn't he remember?

"Would you like me to tell you what happened?" the voice asked. "It was quite ingenious actually. I planned the whole thing myself. I suppose I could have gone with something a bit more fitting for a group of superheroes but killer robots are so hard to come by these days and simple is often best."

"What did you do?" Rip demanded.

"Do you remember Professor Nazari?"

Rip frowned confused by the non-sequitur. "What?"

"Professor Nazari. She taught twentieth century history at the academy. Surely you must remember her. A wonderful teacher. Her tests were legendary."

"Yes, of course, I remember her," said Rip, wishing the man would stop stalling. "I had her in my first year."

"You killed her too you know," the Time Master couldn't help reminding him. "But while she was alive, she used to always talk about the ouroboros of time, the patterns of history repeating themselves over and over again in a circle."

"Yes, yes, yes. History repeats itself. It was her favourite saying." Another twinge of guilt struck Rip as he recalled the professor. She had been one of his favourite teachers once upon a time.

"History does repeat itself," said the voice. "As Time Masters, we know this from experience. Even when people try to go back and change things, history tends to repeat." The man let out a sardonic chuckle. "And who am I to argue with history. Besides, it seemed appropriate. You blow up my friends so I blow up yours."

Cold fury filled Rip. "You bastard."

"I mean it's only fair."

"You bastard!" Rip cried and leaping forward, slammed a fist against the door.

It was a stupid move.

Grimacing, he drew his hand back rubbing it as pain radiated up his arm.

"Temper, temper, Captain," the voice chided.

Rip scowled. He needed to get a hold of himself, needed to stop letting the man get to him but it was hard. His heart was beating frantically and there was a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was still no proof that what the Time Master was saying was true, he told himself.

But you remember the explosion, don't you, said a quiet voice at the back of his mind.

Taking a deep breath, Rip did his best to regain his composure. "You set explosives in the factory," he said to his faceless jailer.

"Exactly," replied the voice. "Now you're remembering. I didn't want to make it too easy. A quick death just wouldn't do. So I set multiple small explosives around the building to bring it down instead of blowing you up instantly."

Things tumbling and crashing down from above, large chunks of concrete and timber, bits of the ceiling and walls. The building collapsing around them.

The memory made Rip shudder. It wasn't true, he told himself. They weren't dead. Bits of the man's story might be true but that didn't mean everything was. The explosions might have happened. The building might have fallen but everything else was lies.

"The idea," the voice elaborated, "was that you would be either crushed to death or become trapped and die excruciatingly slowly. The fires the explosions set off were just a bonus. What do you think is worse: slowly suffocating to death or being burnt alive? Both happened to members of your team by the way. Being burnt alive must be painful but to know you're going to die as you gasp desperately for air that isn't there..."

Rip took a shaky breath feeling sick.

"Do you want to know how each of them died?"

Swallowing, Rip closed his eyes and refused to answer. If the man wanted to upset him, see him suffer, see him break, then he wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"I think it was your Professor Stein who died first. He merged with the boy into that Firestorm being and they flew up to the ceiling, tried to blast a way clear for the rest of the team. It might have worked if they hadn't been hit by that falling pillar. The blow must have caused them to split apart because they were on their own when they came tumbling back down. The professor hit the ground head first, his precious brains spilling out over the floor for all to see. What a mess that was."

Unbidden an image of what the voice described appeared in Rip's head nauseating him even more. He pushed the image away.

"The boy survived though, or I should say, he survived the fall. All he got were a few broken bones. Is it true those two had a psychic connection? Maybe it's a good thing he died later on. I can't imagine what it would be like to feel someone else die inside your mind, to live on with that memory."

Rip grit his teeth until his jaw hurt, his hands clenching so tight his fingernails bit into his skin.

"That idiot billionaire tried to blast his way free too using that ridiculous suit of his, until the ceiling fell on him. It didn't actual kill him straight away, just trapped him. The weight of it was too much for even his precious suit to lift. Imagine being stuck like that, buried alive, trapped alone in the dark knowing you would die as the air ran out or the smoke suffocated you. I wonder how long it took. I wonder if he got to hear the others dying around him as he lay there all helpless."

The voice echoed off the walls drilling into Rip's brain, its words a relentless litany of horrors. He just wanted it to stop.

"It turns out choosing an automobile factory was a real good choice for this trap, all those toxic and oh so flammable chemicals around. I think some of them must have gotten on Mr. Snart because when it he caught on fire, he really caught on fire. Isn't that ironic? Someone calling themselves Captain Cold going up in flames. The other one, Mr. Rory, tried to save him and ended up on fire too. Burning together, screaming together, dying together. How romantic. The smell must have been quite something, all that roasting meat."

For a sickening moment, Rip thought he could smell it, the smoke, the burning flesh. He could even picture the moment in his mind, hear the screaming. Was he picturing it? Was it really just his imagination or was he remembering? Panic surged through him as he suddenly realized he could no longer tell.

"Now your dear Miss Lance might have actually managed to get away but she insisted on helping that boy. What was that silly name you used to call him? Oh, that's right. Jax. She should have just left him to die; then maybe someone would have survived."

"Shut up," Rip ground out between his gritted teeth.

"They almost made it. They even managed to find an exit, but fortunately, I was keeping an eye on them and I'm never one to leave things to chance, so I set off another bomb, one I'd been keeping in reserve for just such an eventuality. That's what finally got them. It didn't kill them instantly though. No, it just left them shattered and broken. They got to spend their final moments in agony with the terrifying knowledge they were going to die."

"Shut up," Rip repeated putting his hands over his ears.

"Struggling to breath as they bled out over the..."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Mercifully, the voice stopped.

Bent over, panting for air, Rip slowly let his hands fall from his ears. He was covered in sweat now, his heart pounding, his hands shaking as despair seemed to wash over him like a tidal wave large enough to drown him.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true, he told himself once more repeating it over and over like a mantra. The things the Time Master said were lies, lies meant to unsettle him, mess with head. He shouldn't let them get to him. If only he could think properly but his brain still felt so fuzzy, his thoughts sluggish. That damn sedative used to knock him out...

Drugged. He'd been drugged.

Understanding suddenly dawned as Rip gazed down at his trembling hands. His volatile emotions, his sluggish thoughts, the clamminess of his skin, the rolling nausea in his stomach... This was more than just the side effects of some sedative and a few manipulative words.

"What did you do to me?" he said, his voice cracking.

"Hmm?" the voice hummed casually.

White hot rage hit Rip. The man was playing with him. He knew exactly what Rip was talking about.

"What the hell did you do to me?!" Rip yelled.

"Oh," the voice replied. "Just gave you a little something to help facilitate our conversation, make things a bit more interesting."

Carried forth by his anger and a desperate need to get out of there, Rip jumped forward with a cry and began pounding on the door.

"Now, now," said the voice, patronizingly. "You don't want to leave, Captain. We haven't even got to the good bit yet."

Rip slammed his fist against the door one last time and then spun away, resuming a restless pacing of the confined space.

He needed to get control of himself. Now he knew a drug was effecting him, he needed to fight it. Taking several deep breaths, he tried to calm his rapid heartbeat, to get a reign on his emotions, but each time he started to make progress, he felt the control slip away and the feelings of panic and despair overwhelm him once more. The fact he knew they were partially drug induced didn't make them seem any less real.

He suddenly felt a deep desire for Gideon, to hear her soothing tones in his ear. He always knew he could count on her to be the voice of reason when he couldn't trust himself to be, but instead of her voice, he got this madman tormenting him.

"Don't you want to know what happened to you?" the voice asked. "Why all of your teammates, your friends, died and you survived?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me whether I want you to or not," Rip replied, bitterly.

"True," the voice admitted. "The truth of the matter is you were too busy saving your own skin to help them. I provided an escape route and you took it. As your friends were dying you were running away."

The words drew Rip to a halt. "No, that's not true. That's not possible. I would never..."

"Abandon them?" A derisive snort came over the speaker. "Like you didn't abandon the Time Masters and leave them to die? Like you didn't abandon your family to Vandal Savage?"

"Don't you dare bring them into this," Rip said pointing a finger at the ceiling, his voice filled with barely controlled fury.

"Who? Your wife and son? Miranda Coburn and little Jonas Hunter, the ones you left to be shot down in the ruins of London? How did it feel when you found out they were dead?"

Rip swallowed trying hard not to remember and failing.

He had been searching through the wreckage left by Savage's troops for hours when he finally found them and even then it had taken a second look for him to realize the crumpled forms were in fact his family. It was the pink of Miranda's shirt that first caught his eye. When he saw the small body lying beside the larger one, he had known it had to be them.

He fell onto his knees beside them praying to every god there was they were still alive but when he laid a hand to their necks to check for a pulse, he had found their bodies were already growing cold. There was nothing at first as he gathered the lifeless bodies into his arms, no thoughts or feelings at all, just a blank emptiness like his very soul had died along with them. Then a despair so dark he hadn't even known he was capable of feeling it had welled up inside his chest.

"I imagine it's bit like how you feel now," the voice continued breaking Rip free of the memory. "This seems to be a pattern with you. You abandon those you love and then they die, usually in fairly horrific circumstances."

The old despair threatened to wash over Rip once again but instead he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Through great effort, he managed to find a still point, a last fragment of calmness and stability in his mind, and he grabbed a hold of it. His grip wavered but he held on.

"No," he said, quiet but firm.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" asked the voice.

There was an intensity in Rip's eyes as he gazed up at the ceiling. "You're wrong."

"Really?" the voice said, mockingly.

"You almost had me believing you," said Rip, the corner of his lip curling up in a wry smile, "almost, but it seems you've told one lie too many."

"And what is that?"

"I would never"—Rip slashed a hand through the air—"never abandon my team."

For once, the voice didn't have an instant retort and several moments passed in silence.

Rip began to wonder if he'd finally succeeded in calling the man's bluff, if the voice would finally leave him alone. He had to admit based on the state of the man's sanity that seemed unlikely.

"All this denial can't be healthy, Captain," said the voice, starting up again.

Rip groaned and rolled his eyes. "The only thing I'm denying is your blatant lies."

He really needed to find a way out of there but his mind was still too clouded by the drug to think of one. He would just have to hold on until the others came to rescue him because they would come. They were alive and they would come for him. He had to believe that.

"All I've told you is the truth," the voice said.

"Yet to me it all sounds like lies," said Rip. "And given who you are and what you've done, there is absolutely no reason for me to trust you."

"Just because it's something you don't want to hear doesn't mean it isn't true." The voice's tone was so condescendingly sweet it made Rip feel ill. "Your friends did die and you did abandon them."

Rip glared up at the ceiling. "Yeah, well, where's your proof?"

Another pause, and then laughter, quiet at first but building to a crescendo.

"What?" Rip demanded.

The laughter ended with an audible gasp. "Oh, I always love this part."

The lines on Rip's forehead deepened. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You really didn't do a very good job of examining your cell, did you?"

Confused, Rip glanced around. He hadn't really explored his prison but then he'd been a little distracted and had assumed that since it was a prison, there wouldn't be anything to see. The room was about 300 square foot, quite roomy as far as prison cells went, with bare cement walls, floor, and ceiling, a real concrete box. The only things to break up the monotony were the reinforced door and the bare bulb on the ceiling which was doing a very bad job of providing light leaving darkness in all the corners.

One of those dark corners drew Rip's gaze. There was something there, a small shape among the shadows. He took a step towards it and found the corner was not as empty as he'd previously believed. An oddly shaped lump lay on the floor. He blamed the dim light and the effects of the drug for not having noticed it before.

"There you go," the voice said, sounding disturbingly happy. "I knew you'd find it. Why don't you take a closer look?"

With a feeling of foreboding, Rip knelt on the floor beside the lump. Once he was closer he was able to see it wasn't one thing but a collection of things haphazardly dumped together in a pile. All the objects were blackened and charred and smelled of smoke.

Rip swallowed. "What is this?"

"What you asked for," the voice smugly replied, "proof."

A slight tremor in his fingers, Rip picked up one of the objects. It was a shirt or it had been once. What was left was frayed and torn and covered in rust coloured stains.

Didn't Jax have a shirt like this? Had he been wearing it when they'd been searching the warehouse?

Rip shook his head. His memories were still too clouded. He couldn't be sure.

Reaching into the pile once more, he pulled out a scrap of leather. Though blackened, there was enough of the original colour left to tell it had once been white.

Growing alarmed, Rip began frantically digging through the pile. Many of the objects were too burnt to be identifiable but his hand eventually fell upon a twisted bit of metal and he pulled it out. The metal was attached to some circuits and wires and the paint it bore was a familiar shade of red.

Rip let his eyes fall shut. He didn't want to see anything more but one final object somehow drew him towards it. It sat at the back of the pile and was slightly larger than the rest. Whatever it was was covered by a bit of old, ragged cloth so he couldn't identify it.

Taking a deep breath, Rip took ahold of a corner of the cloth and pulled it back.

A blackened skull grinned up at him.

Rip scrambled backwards, pushing himself along the floor until his back hit the opposite wall.

Maniacal laughter filled the room but Rip barely heard it. He was too busy staring wide-eyed at the skull, its empty sockets gazing accusingly back at him. He sat there, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air until it became too much and he twisted to the side throwing up a stream of bile onto the floor.

"There's your proof!" the voice exclaimed. "Are you willing to believe me now?"

Rip collapsed bonelessly against the wall.

No, no, no, no. Please, God, no.

"Your friends are dead and it's all your fault."

They were dead.

Tears trailed down Rip's face as he continued to wheeze struggling to pull air through his constricting chest.

They were really dead.

He could remember now. He could see it all in his mind: Martin tumbling through the air, Ray trapped and yelling for help, Mick and Snart screaming as they burned, Sara and Jax writhing in pain, their bodies broken. It had happened just like the other Time Master had said.

And he was right. It was Rip's fault. It was all his fault. The team, his friends, were dead and he might as well have killed them. He had recruited them, led them right into a trap, and then abandoned them to die horrible deaths.

Other images flashed through his mind: Ray grinning, his face lit up with enthusiasm; Martin and Jax bickering good-naturedly, eyes rolling at each other's stubbornness; Leonard lazily lounging in a chair, head resting on his hand, one leg propped on top the other; Mick going through his food like he hadn't eaten in months; Sara twirling a bo staff in her hand, a smirk on her face and a teasing glint in her eye.

They were all gone now, his team, his friends, his family, and he was the one who'd killed them.

"Poor, poor Rip Hunter," the voice sneered. "Lost everything, have you? I'd have thought you'd be used to it by now."

Rip squeezed his eyes shut but the tears continued to fall.

He couldn't do it, not again. He couldn't get up and move on like he had before. Part of him was forever dead and buried in the ruins of London in 2166 and it seemed like the rest of him would die here.

"And you want to know the best bit?" the voice continued. "You know that little drug I gave you. Well, it has some interesting side effects. Soon enough you'll pass out and I'll give you another dose. That dose will make you forget everything that just happened, everything I told you. Do you know what that means?"

Rip listlessly raised his head to gaze up at the ceiling, his eyes dull and red rimmed.

"It means," the voice answered for itself, "that I get to tell you your friends are dead all over again. Isn't that wonderful? It's quite ingenious of me if I do say so myself. You see this isn't the first time I've told you, not at all. I'll leave you to wonder how many but I assure you I've done it multiple times in multiple different ways. I think I like this way the best though, making you remember how much you care about your friends and then telling you how each of them died in excruciating detail."

The words washed over Rip, the horror of them barely registering. A sort of numbness had come over him and everything around him felt distant and unreal. His heart was no longer racing. His lungs were no longer heaving. Even his tears had stopped, their remains drying against his cheeks. He was empty and drained with nothing left but a heavy weight in his chest.

They were dead.

The Legends were dead.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

"I've never really liked physical torture you see," said the voice. "Too messy. And it's so easy to accidentally kill someone, though I suppose with all the stress this will put on your body, your heart might give out eventually." The voice paused. "Hello? Are you still there?

Rip didn't answer. He was staring across at the skull, his mind blank, beyond even thought now.

"My, my. What happened to the snarky Captain Hunter of a few minutes ago?" A chuckle was heard. "Oh, I suppose we'll see him again later after your next dose. I think next time I won't even tell you anything, just let you find the remains of your friends on your own and see what happens. Who knows it might even... What was that?"

Some muffled noises came through the speaker, too low to make out.

"No, it can't be. How did you find me?"

A sharp scraping sound could be heard and more muffled noises.

"Stay back!" the voice yelled.

A thud and a crackling noise followed and then nothing.

Through all of this Rip didn't break his gaze from that of the skull, mesmerized by its empty sockets and death grin. Words meant nothing to him anymore so he didn't even notice when the voice stopped. He just sat there. It wasn't until he heard the bolt on the door being drawn back that he finally raised his head.

The metal door of his cell swung open with a loud creak, and as Rip watched, two ghosts entered the room.