Several years aboard the Wave Rider should have made Capt. Sara Lance used to colliding with the unknown. But there she was, sprawled out of her favorite chair, needing to somersault to land on both feet, and dodging falling debris before catching a dagger that almost went through her eye.

"Gideon," Sara spun the weapon about to stick into those responsible. "What. The. Hell?"

Captain, it appears we've collided with a temporal anomaly that fluctuated at our fre—

"Gideon," Sara muttered. "Former assassin who likes knives, Ava, and doesn't do science, remember?"

The hyper-intelligent AI made an unnecessary sigh, quickly coming up with a 'Sara-Lance-approved' definition.

We hit a blue police box and it's now currently in kitchen.

Sara blinked, once again confused by what her life has become since that lousy boat ride.

"Where's the team?"

The other Legends dealt with their latest chaos in different ways.

Charlie, fun-loving shapeshifter, turned into a giant spider she'd used occasionally to torment Gary at the Time Bureau and cling to the ceiling as the crash happened. She had no clue what was happening, but knew huge spiders tended to be the bigger gun most circumstances. The Shapeshifter counted on that being helpful while making her way towards the mysterious groaning noise.

Ray Palmer and Nora Darhk were in the middle of an uncertainty. She wanted to push their relationship in fun directions while Ray brought up hypotheticals of why that might complicate things. Magic and science were at odds in more ways than one when Nora was suddenly thrown off balance, only to be scooped up in Ray's surprisingly strong arms. Ray was about to set her down, but the spellcaster looked at him in a way that made him pause. Before he could say anything, she put a hand over his mouth.

"You talk too much, Palmer," she leaned in. "Interested?"

Ray grunted affirmatively, nodding. With a smirk, Nora waved her other hand and they flew onto the bed. From there, science along with magic were cast aside to make way for highly passionate chemistry.

There were days John Constantine wished he stayed in Hell. Present company being better than any thought deserved aside, his old habits called to him. Smoking chief among those vices. It seemed as if the whole universe conspired to never let a stick of accepted poison touch his lips again. The worst offender in this conspiracy, that damn AI. Despite being artificial, the Hellblazer knew Gideon to be a clever sprite worthy of either Fae Court, controlling all their lives in her tangled web of machinery.

However, for all technical prowess, Constantine still had a few tricks. He'd create bubble to conceal the smoke, condense into a small ball and expel it from the Wave Rider at leisure.

"Let's see you try and stop me now, you knock-off GPS."

Constantine decided on using the washroom, no one did laundry around that time. Clapping his hands together, eyes rolled back in concentration, he began channeling the chaotic energies of the unseen until through flesh and will he could con—

The crash made Constantine scramble his words, redirecting energy at the washing machine. Shadowy tentacles burst from the device.

"Oh, c-mmph!" John's mouth and limbs were wrapped up, pulling him towards a pair of blood-red eyes. Straining to reach his lighter, John wondered why no alarms were going off. Whether a lack of demon sensors or Gideon's trite cruelty, all Constantine knew was how badly a bit of fire might be helpful.

Behrad Tomaz swore never to make a bet with Mick Rory ever again. Said defeat had led him to become the sorter of Mick's fan mail. Since revealing himself to be Rebecca Silver, the Science-Fiction-Romance writer, Mick's fans had tripled. Some former acquaintances were now reading the series. Iris, Felicity, Dinah, and even a strange letter from Caitlin Snow that started as half-heartedly supportive and suddenly shifted penmanship and tone with threatening about some time with a bomb. The young Muslim man had seen many strange things since joining the Legends, telling his sister, Zari, about the adventures kept him grounded in hard times. Yet the recognition Mick, former and somewhat current menace to society, gave his fans was… perplexing.

"I mean, we're on a ship traveling through time and space every day, when did you arrange a spot for the letters?" Behrad said as he sorted each by country, state, and city.

"A writer finds time for their readers, because they found time for them." Mick said in his grizzled voice while thumbing through each letter with reading specs on.

Behrad smiled to himself, impressed by the pyromaniac's deeper wisdom, as he picked up a rather impressively enthusiastic letter by… Nyssa Al Ghul?

The crash struck the kitchen worst of all. Appliances fritzed from sudden power surges. Cabinets and drawers spilled out their contents everywhere. Mick grabbed the table for support, his eyes widened as letters started to spill off. A gust of wind coming Behrad's outstretched hand with the totem bracelet saved the pile. His other hand gripped the table to keep from flying into a wall, wondering what was making the strange groaning sound.

The answer came in the form of a blue police box, haphazardly taking shape five feet away.