(Scenes from Legends of Tomorrow Season 7, Episode 5)

Astra, Spooner, and I arrived at the Midland train station 36 hours later. We rode the train to Arkansas, which lasts for 14.5 hours. You would think, after years of observing 9 to 10 humans on a timeship, I would've seamlessly adapted to humanity. That's further from the truth as I've only incurred a minimal amount of firsthand experiences. I've developed a ravenous appetite. At one stop, Astra and Spooner had to remove me from the buffet car. I've also shown a tendency to be literal-minded and an ability of being, in their words, "a chatterbox" when disclosing certain people's lifespans. Both of these my friends are striving to remedy.

While hitchhiking for five hours to Missouri, I spotted a picture of Captains Lance and Sharpe on the front page of a newspaper. They've gotten notoriety as a pair of bank robbers known as the "Bullet Blondes". Once I'd gotten a hold of the article itself, I discovered they are speculated to be sisters. A rumor so preposterous I wanted to laugh right there on the train. Those two are about as sisterly as Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf. It's through the papers that Astra, Spooner, and I learnt that J. Edgar Hoover are hunting the Bullet Blondes and Al Capone.

Due to the insufficient funds, we snuck onto the next train ride to Chicago. We would've gotten thrown off if we hadn't met the Masqueradies. They were an all-female jazz band led by Maude Beaumont. Astra introduced us as a traveling musical trio. I was a songstress known as the "Lark of London", she's my manager, and Spooner's my vocal coach. Miss Beaumont, intrigued by the idea of a female manager, allowed Astra to review Donny Falco's contract. He's supposed to be the Masqueradies' manager, but he was more of a glorified bodyguard who mooches 60% of his clients' earnings. So, Miss Beaumont fired him.

We reached Chicago 19 hours and 41 minutes later. She received a telegram from her sweetheart expecting them at a new club. Since the train didn't leave for New York City until the following morning at eight, she invited us to watch their performance. It's a good thing she did; Ross Bottoni was very controlling and aggressive. He especially didn't like that Mr. Falco was terminated. Astra recognized the arachnophobic mobster from her time in perdition. Not coincidentally, I also knew Miss Beaumont's body would be found floating on the Chicago River on December 18th, 1925.

Moments before she and the Masqueradies showcased for the RCA representative, Astra and Spooner persuaded her to leave her dysfunctional relationship. Miss Beaumont's initial reluctance stemmed from gratitude for Mr. Bottoni taking a chance on her and fearing that he would hurt her band. She agreed after they assured Miss Beaumont that we would deal with him. While Miss Beaumont made her escape, I took her place on the stage. I wanted to sing again since revisiting my memories. Mr. Bottoni didn't suspect a thing because the Masqueradies wore masks in all their performances.

As I sung "Future Favorite", I correlated the lyrics to Captains Lance and Sharpe. It's as if they're distinctively written about them and their relationship. I wondered what the captains and the other Legends are doing at this time. Perhaps helping someone else in need. When Mr. Bottoni discovered the switch offstage, he threatened to find Maude and "teach her a lesson". His mind was quickly changed after Spooner telepathically used his fear against him. We informed the other Masqueradies where their band leader was hiding. Simultaneously, it's revealed that the Bullet Blondes were performing at Chapeaux's across town.

Astra, Spooner, and I failed to catch the Legends. Only Zari's cellphone was found near the back door. We decided to rest for the night. The Masqueradies didn't get a deal with RCA, but they found another manager willing to work with them. We parted ways the next morning. Before we left Chicago, I grabbed another newspaper with the captains on the front page. The headline read "Bullet Blondes NOT Sisters". You don't say. The article recounted them kissing in an aerobatic dénouement in their burlesque show. The captains are full of surprises, I must confess.

We took the train to Ohio, but the train conductor swiftly kicked us off for traveling without paid tickets. We reverted to hitchhiking again for the next six hours. A couple in Ottawa County offered to let us stay at their farm for only three days. Six days later, Astra, Spooner, and I continue hitchhiking into the countryside. We haven't come across help from strangers in the last three hours and 41 minutes. "We've been trying to hitchhike for days," Spooner gripes, "and literally nobody has stopped."

"We must get to Dr. Gwyn Davies by 7pm tomorrow, or the Legends will die," I notify. "At our current pace, we'll be there in another two weeks."

"¿Estás hablando en serio?"

"Sí."

Astra turns around to see a truck coming behind us. We stick our thumbs to get the driver's attention, but we are bypassed again. Spooner exclaims, "¡Hijo de…!" She screams upwards, "¿Que es tus problema? Why can't you just bring us some good luck, man?"

"Who are you conversing with? Is that someone up there?" I wave towards the sky, shouting, "Hello! I'm Gideon!"

"Fine," Astra proclaims. "I didn't want to do this. But you leave me no choice." She picks up a rock and chants some words over it. An unusual glow emits before she gives it to Spooner. "I just performed a luck spell. Now this rock will bring us good luck."

"No way," she declares, grabbing it out of her hand. "You can do that?"

"Obviously. I'm a witch."

"Isn't luck just an interpretation of random occurrences," I query. "How can a spell generate that?"

"How can a spell generate anything? All I know is it works." Needless to say, Astra is right because another trucker stops for us. We continue due north for the next four and a half hours.

Suddenly, the truck starts experiencing a complication. "The clutch is slipping," Spooner informs us after speaking with the friendly driver.

"I have no idea what that that means. But I assume it's bad," Astra indicates. "Can you fix it?"

"No, there's no time, and we won't be able to get out of first gear. So, the max we can go is, like, 20 miles per hour."

"How fast do we need to drive to get to New York," Astra inquires me.

"Well, to prevent the Legends from blowing up in Davies' time machine due to electrical overload, we should maintain a conservative pace of no less than 55 miles per hour."

"Maybe we can, I don't know, find a mechanic."

Spooner quickly remembers the rock weighing inside her cardigan pocket. "There's no need. We got our lucky rock. Remember?"

"I'm still not convinced there's any such thing as luck," I state, "only the ability to cope with the statistical universe."

"Ah, you'll see. Watch." Walking in the opposite direction, she rubs her hand on the rock. "Come on, rock. Bring us some more luck."

Once again, another incoming car halts. Its red door swings open with the nearly faded words "Los Angeles to New York" printed in white. The driver approaches us with a map in hand, saying, "Good afternoon, ladies. Name's Erwin George Baker, but you can call me Cannon Ball."

"'Cannon Ball'?" This may be the first time we've witnessed Spooner being in awe of a man. "As in the cross-country racecar driver?"

"You've heard of me?"

"I'm a big NASCAR—I mean, racing fan."

"Well," he chuckles, "y'all wouldn't happen to know the fastest route through Cleveland now, would you? I'm actually in the middle of trying to break my own record driving from L.A. to New York. And, well, I think I made a wrong turn."

"New York, you say?" She instinctively glances at Astra and me over her shoulder. In one moment, we're immediately on the same page. "We're actually on our way there, too."

"Well," I calculate, "the fastest route to New York is south on Highway 15 till it merges with Highway 40, then cut through Columbus, not Cleveland, on the 90."

Mr. Baker blurts out laughing. "You sure know your directions, miss." He then proposes, "I'll tell you what—y'all help me get to the highway, and I'll let you race with me all the way to New York."

"Shotgun," Spooner calls.

He asserts, "All right! Let's go." We get inside his car; while she sits in the front seat, Astra and I ride in the back seat. It goes without saying that Mr. Baker revels in inducing adrenaline when he drives. For the next five hours and 24 minutes, he and Spooner are engrossed in their conversations about automobiles. Astra smirks at her gushing over the cross-country driver. I observe the landscape as if I'm watching a rapid motion picture through the window.

We have just crossed into Pennsylvania when we spot a policeman barricading the road. Mr. Baker pulls his car over to the side. I wave at the mustachioed officer, only for Astra to tell me to put my hand down. "We received calls from the last 10 towns over about a speed demon headed this way," he apprises. "License and registration."

"Now, Officer, allow me to introduce myself," Mr. Baker utters. "Name's Erwin George—"

"I don't care if you're the pope of Pennsylvania. License and registration." He obediently retrieves the necessary documents from the sun visor.

"We need to get back on the road," Astra whispers as Mr. Baker shows him the papers.

"We'll be fine," Spooner assures. "We got our lucky rock."

The policeman soon peers back at us inside. "You all need to step out of the vehicle," he orders. "I'm taking you in and impounding your car."

Astra snatches the "lucky" rock from Spooner's hand. She thrusts her head out of the window, calling, "Uh, wait, wait. You are making a huge mistake. Erwin's cross-country races are all over the newspapers. In fact, he is in the process of breaking the current record. Article after article is being written about it. Now, you could arrest him and be forever known as 'the cop who arrested a legend', or you could let us go and be hailed as 'the cop who gave Cannon Ball a police escort to the county line'."

The policeman considers the options given to him. The second one is more tantalizing. He leans over the driver's side. "You'll mention my name in the paper?"

Astra nudges Mr. Baker, prompting him to reply, "Oh, absolutely."

"Then let's get youse to that county line." Officer Marcus Ripley goes to dismantle the barrier on the road.

"That lucky rock sure is something," Mr. Baker proclaims. "It is gonna help me beat my record. Whoo!"

"Whoo," we echo. Once the road is cleared, the cross-country driver pushes his foot on the gas pedal. The car exceeds the speed limit by 8 miles.

I've fallen asleep moments after we left Pennsylvania. We'll be arriving in New York City in less than 12 hours. Upon waking up from my nap, it is now nighttime but neither Mr. Baker, Astra, nor Spooner are in the vehicle. Instead, a strange man is now driving. "Oh, hello," I say.

Startled, he stops the car to directly look at me. "Who the heck are you?"

"I'm Gideon."

"Well, Gideon, you got till the count of three to get out of my new car," he warns, "or I'm gonna make you." I surmise that he stole Mr. Baker's car without him and the others knowing. "One, two—" I knock the car thief out with the rock and eject him out of the car.

I situate myself in the driver's seat. "By my calculations, there's still enough time to save my friends…" I glance at the rock in my hand. "…with luck." I drive off, taking the fastest route to the city.

The car is empty on fuel upon halting in front of a drugstore. I exit the car, firmly holding onto the rock. "Come on, lucky rock." After mentally pinpointing my exact destination, I run as fast as I can, sweeping away everything in my path. I take a shortcut through an alleyway. Soon enough, I arrive at Romine Residences.

I sprint upstairs to a flat on the second floor. A makeshift time machine across the room is reaching full activation. I dash over to the other Legends, yelling, "No!" At first, they can't tell where my voice is coming from. I can hear a loud pounding in my chest while keeping myself at bay. An electrical blackout emerges out of nowhere, deactivating the time machine. As everyone exit it, I eagerly hug the newly wedded captains first. A bearded gentleman with a Welsh accent queries them, "Is this woman one of your friends?"

Captain Sharpe regards me askance. Unsurprisingly, she hasn't ever seen what I look like as a full-bodied person. Captain Lance has; otherwise, her jaw wouldn't have dropped so quickly. "Gideon?"

I reply with a broad smile, "My apologies for the lack of celebratory champagne, captains." They are both flummoxed to see me. My advent is considerably unexpected to the others as well.

"Is this—are you real?"

"I'm very much real, Behrad." He chortles before he and Nate give me a friendly hug.

Zari 1.0 says aloud, "Wait until Fancy Z hears about this." Gary is rendered tongue-tied when I say "Hello" to him. Lastly, I make the acquaintance of Dr. Gwyn Davies—pronounced "Davis"—who accepts a mere handshake. He bears the striking image of Professor Stein or Dr. Palmer despite the differences in height, hair color, personality, and facial hair.

Captain Sharpe tersely inquires, "How are you here and human?" Do I have a story for them. I sit everyone down and recollect everything that occurred since Astra conjured me into existence. Some of them are perplexed, while others are enthralled. Astra and Spooner arrive in time for me to end my tale. We all embrace in a group hug.

"How many bloody time-travelers are there," I hear Dr. Davies mutter as he beholds our reunion.

Once we light some more candles, the captains withdraw themselves for a private conversation. Behrad reveals how Captain Sharpe and Gary vanished after the very first trial run. According to him, Captain Lance was terribly frightened by the incident. She is now learning to be mindful in changing the timeline. By all means, they are a sight for sore eyes. Spooner divulges how Astra's lightning spell caused the city-wide blackout. They came here after another bout of hitchhiking. "Huh, how did you know it was gonna work out," Nate quizzes.

"I guess we got lucky," she responds, smiling at a grinning Astra. Behrad returns with a bottle of whiskey for the latter. I detect them restarting their usual flirtation. The other Legends are adapting well without the original Waverider. As it turned out, Mr. Constantine bestowed Zari 2.0 a key to a portal dimension prior to his departure. It can be accessed through any door with a keyhole and is filled with infinite supplies. On a separate note, the timeship that obliterated me was another Waverider; it has created robotic replacements of the now-deceased J. Edgar Hoover and Thomas A. Edison. The electricity resurges at that point.

Before I intervened, the Legends were planning to time jump to a safehouse in present-day Tahiti. We all reconvene outside the time machine. "So, Gideon," Zari 1.0 inquires, "what was gonna cause the machine to explode?"

"The machine requires a class CR-055 superconductor that doesn't need recharging. It can power the machine, unlike alternating current. Unfortunately, it won't be invented for another 300 years."

"300 years?" Nate groans, "Well, guys, looks like we're stuck in 1925 forever."

"I was supposed to die today, but, by God's will, I didn't," Dr. Davies reflects. "There has to be another way."

"Wait, did you say a CR-055," Zari 1.0 asks me. "A little blue chip the size of an eyeball?"

"Precisely. How did you know?"

"That chip was in Robo-Hoover's head." She scours a box containing disassembled parts of the J. Edgar Hoover robot for the object in question. Zari 1.0 proudly holds it up. "Ba-hoom." The ten of us steps inside the time machine after Dr. Davies installed the chip. Behrad checks if I have enough room despite the limited capacity. "Oh, plenty," I casually respond. "I'm used to really tight spaces."

I glance upward at Gary who's standing next to me. "Me too," he vocalizes. I didn't know we have something in common. The captains clamp the other's hands as Dr. Davies reactivates his time machine. A flashing searchlight peers through the window. The other Waverider is overhanging the premises. He claims, "2021 Tahiti, here we come." The good news is that we've escaped the homicidal aircraft. The bad news is we didn't land in Tahiti. We are currently stranded in a wilderness. Where in the timeline are we? Not even I have the slightest clue.