Chapter Text
The quarters were quiet again, but this time emptier.
Ava stood at the edge of the bed, unmoving. The sheets were still rumpled from where Sara had slept beside her only hours before. Her scent still lingered faintly in the fabric.
But the space she’d left behind was cold.
Ava didn’t cry—not in that moment. She just stood there, staring at the empty bed like it might answer the thousand questions she hadn't gotten to ask. The hum of the Waverider surrounded her, steady and indifferent.
Then the door slid open.
Nate stepped inside, gentle as ever. He looked around the room, then toward her. “Hey,” he said, softly. “Is she—”
Ava didn’t turn. “She’s gone.”
He took a step closer, his expression falling. “I saw the portal close. I was hoping I was wrong.”
“She made up her mind,” Ava said, barely above a whisper. “She thinks she’s dangerous. That leaving was protecting us.”
“And you didn’t stop her?”
“I tried,” Ava said, finally turning to face him. “But she wouldn’t listen. I told her there was something I needed to say. She begged me not to.”
Nate hesitated. “So you didn’t tell her.”
Ava shook her head, eyes wet. “I wasn’t going to guilt her into staying. That wouldn’t have been love. That would’ve been… manipulation.”
Nate’s expression twisted with something like grief. “But she would’ve wanted to know.”
“I know,” Ava whispered. “But she was barely holding herself together. If I’d told her—she would’ve stayed for us, not for herself. And that wouldn’t be fair.”
There was a long pause.
Then the door opened again.
Zari stepped inside, quiet and hesitant. In her arms was a small bundle wrapped in a soft, star-patterned blanket. The baby’s tiny hands peeked out at the edges, her blonde hair slightly mussed, her eyes still adjusting to the light.
Laurel.
Ava’s breath caught.
Zari looked between them, then gently crossed the room and passed the baby into Ava’s waiting arms.
Ava held her daughter close, tears spilling silently now as she kissed the soft crown of her head.
“She’s been fussy,” Zari said softly. “I think she missed you.”
Ava nodded, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. “I missed her too.”
Nate stepped closer and looked at the two of them—mother and daughter—and saw the ache in Ava’s frame. The weight of everything she had carried for a year.
“You should take her,” he said gently. “Both of you. Go back to the apartment. Rest. You’ve been holding this ship together since the moment Sara disappeared. Now let me.”
Ava looked at him, startled. “But—”
“I’ve got it,” he said, firm now. “I’ll run the ship. Keep watch. If she tries to come back, I’ll know. I’ll find her.”
Zari nodded beside him. “I’m coming with you, you don’t need to be alone”
Ava looked back down at Laurel. The baby’s eyes were open now, blinking up at her as if trying to understand her mother’s sadness.
“She looks like her,” Ava whispered.
“She’s got your calm,” Nate added. “But her fire? That’s all Sara.”
Ava cradled Laurel closer, her tears falling into the soft curls of her daughter’s hair.
“I’ll come back if you need me.”
“I know,” Nate said. “But right now, go home.”
Ava sat in the rocking chair by the window, Laurel asleep on her chest. Outside, the city lights glittered like stars fallen to earth.
“I’ll tell her one day,” she whispered. “When she’s ready.”
And somewhere, across space and time, Sara Lance stood alone under a different sky—haunted, aching, and unaware that a part of her was already waiting to come home.
++++
The ticking silence had become Ava’s constant companion. She sat at the Waverider’s central console, eyes red from sleeplessness, fingers resting idly on the edge of her chair. For hours—maybe days—she’d stared at the empty grid, the cold, steady lines of the timeline map refusing to pulse, refusing to change.
Sara was gone.
And this time, there was no distress signal. No flare. Just a yawning absence and the ache of a thousand unsaid words.
Nate approached quietly, a mug in one hand, not sure whether to hand it to her or just place it nearby.
He settled on setting it down beside her.
“I’ve checked the logs twice,” he said softly. “No unauthorized jumps. No proximity signals. It’s like she… just vanished.”
“She didn’t just vanish,” Ava said, without looking up. “She’s still out there. I’d know if she wasn’t.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I just wish she didn’t think she had to do this alone.”
Then came the chime.
A high-pitched alert—not unfamiliar, but sharp enough to jolt Ava’s head up.
GIDEON
“Anacronism alert. High-level interference detected—Winchester, England. Year 1343.”
A burst of information flickered across the screen—location, temporal energy signature, possible historical deviation.
Then—blink. Gone.
The screen cleared.
Ava straightened. “Gideon, what just happened?”
GIDEON
“Anomaly corrected. Duration: two minutes, forty-seven seconds.”
Nate leaned over her shoulder. “Corrected by who ?”
Before Gideon could answer, the alert chimed again.
GIDEON
“Anacronism detected—19th century Hong Kong. Now dissipated.”
Ava stood. “That’s the second one in under five minutes.”
“Check the global pattern,” Nate said. “Have there been others?”
Gideon hesitated a beat. Then the main display began compiling a list. Dates, times, locations. All blinking red. All vanishing.
GIDEON
“Temporal fluctuations have been appearing and disappearing across multiple eras since 72 hours ago. All anomalies have been resolved manually within minutes of appearance.”
Ava’s breath caught. “Seventy-two hours…”
“Since Sara stepped through the portal,” Nate finished.
A long silence followed. Then the screen shifted again, unprompted.
An image formed—digital resolution building stroke by stroke until the grainy texture of old parchment bled into view.
A painting.
Illuminated manuscript style. A medieval battlefield. Stone ramparts, muddy fields, soldiers with spears and plate armor. But in the center of the painting, regal and glowing with eerie vibrance, stood a knight.
Silver armor.
No helmet.
Blonde hair tied at the nape of the neck. Steel-blue eyes that stared out of the image like they knew who was watching.
Sara.
Frozen in time.
Ava stepped closer to the screen. “Gideon…”
GIDEON
“This image was recently discovered in a forgotten chapel archive. Uploaded to the historical network via academic scanning project. It bears a 96% facial match with Captain Lance.”
Ava’s hand hovered just above the console screen, as if she could reach through the pixels and pull her home.
Nate squinted at the sword in Sara’s painted hand. “That looks like… that’s our tech. It’s been modified, but that blade’s too precise.”
Ava whispered. “She’s interfering.”
Nate turned toward her, more solemn now. “Ava… she’s rewriting time.”
Ava turned her face slowly toward him. “No. She’s not rewriting it. She’s fixing it. She’s repairing anomalies before they even reach us.”
Nate ran a hand through his hair. “That would take ridiculous speed. Precision. She’d have to feel when something was going wrong…”
“She can,” Ava murmured. “Whatever the aliens did to her, it’s not just physical. She’s connected now.”
“To what?”
“To time? Maybe. I dont know Nate”
They stood in silence, watching the painting, as if waiting for Sara to blink, to move, to tell them what she was doing.
Then he asked, flatly, “Does she have a death wish?”
Ava didn’t move. Her voice came out low and tight. “You know what she does when she’s scared.”
Nate nodded slowly. “Yeah. She drinks. Fights. Pushes people away.”
Ava glanced sideways. “Sleeps her way through whatever century she finds herself in.”
He looked at her sharply. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t not know that,” Ava said, arms crossing over her chest like armor. “She left. She broke up with me. She told me she couldn’t be with me, couldn’t risk hurting me, and then stepped into a portal without looking back. For all I know, she’s in some wild west saloon doing body shots off an outlaw.”
Nate shook his head, more certain than angry. “She wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said. “Because even when Sara thinks she’s lost herself, she never loses you . You’re her compass. She might be hurting. She might be reckless. But she wouldn’t hurt you like that.”
Ava’s jaw tensed. Her voice was quieter now. “Then why did she leave?”
“Because she thinks she’s protecting you,” he replied. “The same way you think not telling her about Laurel is protecting her.”
Ava didn’t answer. Her silence said enough.
Nate let it settle, then stepped closer to the console. “Gideon, how is Sara tracking these anomalies so fast?”
GIDEON
“Captain Lance took a comm unit with her when she left. It includes a tactical earpiece, modified for independent data uplink. She has been checking in with the mainframe remotely, accessing the timeline feed approximately every four hours.”
Both Ava and Nate turned toward the interface in stunned silence.
“She’s been contacting the ship?”
GIDEON
“Affirmative. Quietly. She has not transmitted any audio messages, but she monitors active chronal rifts and travels accordingly.”
Nate let out a slow breath. “She’s not out there lost. She’s… working .”
Ava blinked, stunned. “She’s hunting anomalies. Alone.”
“She’s being a Legend-... the legend” Nate said softly.
“She’s trying to fix everything before it can go wrong,” Ava added, barely able to speak.
“She’s trying to be useful,” he corrected.
Ava stared at the screen.
A dozen blinking red markers began to fade—more anomalies Sara had just corrected.
“She’s trying to prove she still matters,” Ava whispered. “Even if it kills her.”
Nate glanced at her. “And we’re just going to let her do that?”
“No,” Ava said, steel finally hardening in her voice. “No, we’re not.”
Nate studied her. Then his expression softened with understanding.
“You should go back to the apartment,” he said. “Take Zari. Take Laurel.”
Ava blinked, startled. “What?”
“You need time. Real time. With her.” He nodded toward the corridor. “You’ve been holding this ship together since the day Sara disappeared. But you don’t have to anymore. Not alone.”
Ava swallowed hard. “What if she comes back?”
“I’ll find her,” Nate promised. “And this time, I’ll make sure she listens.”
Laurel lay asleep in her bassinet beside Ava’s chair. Zari moved quietly through the kitchen behind her, wordless.
Ava held a faded printout in her hand—the image of the painting from the chapel. Her thumb brushed gently over Sara’s face.
“She’s trying to save everyone again,” Ava whispered. “Everyone but herself.”
She glanced at Laurel. “And she doesn’t even know you exist.”
The baby stirred in her sleep, like she’d heard it.
Ava’s lips trembled.
“But she will.”