Sara was already halfway out the Waverider's cargo bay when she turned back, a knife twirling casually in her fingers.
"You'll be fine," she said, mostly to Amaya. "They're grown adults."
"Questionable," Amaya muttered.
"Okay, emotionally stunted adults with the attention span of toddlers." Sara corrected with a smirk. "But still adults."
Amaya crossed her arms. "What exactly is this 'personal business' in Starling City?"
Sara's expression flickered. "Old ghosts. I'll be back in 48 hours, tops. Just keep the team from rewiring the ship with chewing gum and bad ideas."
"That feels… optimistic."
Sara just winked. "Good luck, Captain."
And with that, she was gone.
Hour 1:
Things were fine. Amaya had made a schedule. A roster. Even assigned chore duties.
By some miracle, they agreed to it.
Sure, Ray had added glitter to the cleaning bots. And sure, Mick immediately set his on fire out of principle. But still—progress.
Hour 3:
They landed in 1897 London for what Nate described as "a low-stakes curiosity check-in." Translation: absolutely destined to become a flaming trainwreck.
Amaya had given one instruction.
"Do not draw attention to yourselves."
Cut to: Ray accidentally flying his A.T.O.M. suit directly into Big Ben.
"Technically," Ray panted over comms, "it was already leaning. I just… accelerated the process."
Hour 5:
Mick had turned the galley into a brewery.
Jax and Stein were arguing over whether Shakespeare was actually a time-traveling alien.
Nate was giving unsolicited historical walking tours.
And someone—Amaya had suspicions but no proof—had taught Gideon how to make passive-aggressive remarks.
"Perhaps you'd like to reroute power from the containment field," Gideon deadpanned after another minor explosion, "since no one on this ship appears to value containment anyway."
Amaya's head hit the control panel with a thunk.
Hour 18:
The ship reeked of burnt toast, ozone, and despair.
Amaya had finally corralled everyone into the briefing room by threatening to turn the ship around and strand them in 13th century Mongolia.
"Guys," she said, rubbing her temples in a perfect Sara impression, "I'm not trying to be your mom. I'm trying to stop you from creating yet another international incident."
"You sound just like Sara," Jax whispered to Stein.
"I heard that," Amaya snapped.
Hour 30:
They'd time-hopped twice to fix the ripple from the Big Ben incident, once to return Ray's stolen monocle, and once because Mick insisted on finding "the best pie in the timeline."
Amaya was… tired.
Not physically, exactly. But in that soul-deep, "please, someone else drive this clown car" kind of way.
She stood alone on the bridge, arms crossed, watching stars blur past the viewport.
When she heard the soft sound of boots behind her, she didn't turn.
"Let me guess," she said flatly. "The ship's on fire."
"Nope." Sara's voice, dry as ever. "Miraculously flame-free."
Amaya turned to find her leaning casually against the doorway, looking way too pleased.
"You left for two days," Amaya groaned. "And in that time, we almost blew up Big Ben, Mick started fermenting something I'm pretty sure is illegal in twelve countries, and Gideon may be gaining sentience."
Sara raised a brow. "That's actually… not bad."
Amaya blinked. "Not bad?"
Sara shrugged. "The last time I left them unsupervised, they sparked a gladiator uprising and accidentally taught Julius Caesar how to use Instagram."
A beat.
"…You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
Amaya stared at her, genuinely baffled. "How do you do this? How do you keep them—us—in line?"
Sara just smiled, crooked and tired and full of something deeper than snark.
"I don't." She walked past Amaya, patting her shoulder. "I just steer the chaos."