Sara, as it turned out, was extremely lucky.
She'd started later than the others—and of everyone present, she had the closest bond with Thea. After all, Thea had crossed half the world and risked her life to rescue the 2008 version of her. No matter how she looked at it, betraying her savior would've been unconscionable.
So although she appeared to charge with the rest of the team, her pace told the real story—three steps forward, two steps back, keeping a safe distance.
The light burst never even reached her. Using the bulky body of Heat Wave as a moving shield, she managed to avoid the worst of the flash. It still stung her eyes, but she could at least make out the webbing stretching across the field—and with one nimble roll, slipped past it.
Ray Palmer, for all his comedic tendencies, had genuinely earned his PhD. His Atom suit was no joke—at the last possible instant, he shrank to sub-atomic size and zipped through the gaps between threads.
The fused hero Firestorm wasn't so lucky. Whether it was the mental lag of two minds sharing one body or just bad coordination, the result looked bizarre. His eyes rolled white, literally showing only the whites—no metaphor, no anime effect, just full white-eyed weirdness.
Thea had no idea how he could even process visual input like that, but one thing was clear—the flash hadn't worked on him.
Firestorm blazed forward, a walking torch cutting straight through the webs, leaving behind a smoldering man-shaped hole in the silk.
Captain Cold lingered at the perimeter, hesitating. Save his partner first? Or gang up on Thea? Decisions, decisions.
Sara, meanwhile, wanted no part of this. She pretended to be an eighty-year-old grandma shuffling along at a leisurely pace, adding absolutely nothing to the fight.
In the end, the only two who actually reached Thea were Ray Palmer and Firestorm—one overconfident, one overcooked.
Both were dangerous in theory, so Thea didn't let her guard drop.
Still, neither fought smart.
Ray's "knightly spirit" blinded him to common sense. His suit had ranged weapons, but the man insisted on close combat—because apparently, nothing says "heroic" like punching a trained assassin with a PhD.
He didn't stand a chance.
Thea barely paid him attention, deflecting half-heartedly while keeping her focus on Firestorm circling overhead—and on Captain Cold, who was finally making his move from the flank.
Firestorm's flight looked impressive but was clumsy in practice. His propulsion relied on raw flame thrust, which made speed easy and maneuverability impossible. To an observer, he streaked through the sky like a meteor; to Thea, he looked like a badly steered rocket.
If her hoverboard were still intact, she'd have danced circles around him.
"Dr. Palmer," she called lightly, dodging a blast of fire that scorched the ground beside her, "how sturdy is that armor of yours?"
"Very! My suit's made of—uh—wait, what are you—AH!"
Before he could finish boasting, Thea's cybernetic arm powered to full output. She seized his arm, spun three times in place, and hurled him like a discus straight toward the flaming blur above.
Firestorm's two halves—the earnest young man and the cranky old physicist—had about one shared brain cell between them at the moment. Seeing Ray flying toward them, their first instinct was to catch him.
Exactly what Thea had been counting on.
Their synchronization was always their weakest link. Even in the "original" timeline, they'd once been famously separated by a single arrow—shot, incidentally, by none other than her dear father, Malcolm Merlyn.
These two just hadn't learned that lesson yet.
Thea aimed, drew, and loosed.
Her arrow streaked straight into Firestorm's chest—its enchantment sparking a split-second dissonance between the two linked minds. One tried to veer left, the other right.
The result: both blinked in confusion as their fusion collapsed mid-air.
Fortunately, Ray was still nearby. He expanded mid-fall and grabbed them before they pancaked into the ground. Even so, all three landed in an ungraceful heap.
Groaning, they tried to recombine—slapping their palms together again and again.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Nothing happened.
Thea watched out of the corner of her eye, lips twitching.
Figures. You can't have all those powers without a cooldown. Super-strength, flight, energy conversion, immunity to pain—what are you, Superman?
Every skill came with limits. Knowing theirs gave her an edge—and now, with Firestorm temporarily "on cooldown," her biggest threat was gone.
Her gaze turned to the one person still approaching—Sara Lance.
"How strange," Sara said, slowing to a stop and tightening her grip on her staff. "You're… stronger than I remember."
She wasn't wrong.
Thea hadn't shown any obvious superhuman powers—her earlier "flashbang" looked like mere gadgetry, and her bow work was still her signature—but something about her presence radiated danger. Sara could feel it in her bones: this woman could kill her, easily, if she chose to.
Thea rolled her eyes. Oh please. What, you think I'm like those two birdbrains—reincarnated a hundred times and still weak as kittens?
She didn't bother explaining. Instead, she simply lifted her hand in a graceful "after you" gesture.
Sara tilted her head, circling cautiously. "I've never actually fought you before. Judging by your stance, you trained with the League too… So, you've already reconciled with Malcolm?"
Her mind raced to fill the gaps. On her timeline, Thea shouldn't have known her father yet. But the movements—the precision—there was no mistaking it.
So that's the anomaly, Sara realized. She met him early.
Satisfied with her theory, she felt oddly calm.
Thea neither confirmed nor denied it. It didn't matter.
For once, she'd found an opponent who wasn't a metahuman, alien, or robot—a purely human fighter. It would've felt disrespectful to rely on tech.
She stowed her bow, silently disabled her prosthetic assist, and drew her sword.
Sara mirrored her with her staff. They exchanged a nod—the unspoken salute of League assassins—and engaged.
This fight was nothing like Thea's brutal duel with Talia al Ghul. Neither woman carried killing intent.
Thea held the clear advantage—in height, reach, strength, speed, and skill—but not by a ridiculous margin. Sara's technique was sharp, her instincts honed by countless missions.
At first, she thought experience would compensate. It didn't.
Thea's counters came too fluidly, too efficiently.
Ironically, Sara's adventures with the Legends had dulled her edge—too many aliens, too many gadgets. She'd forgotten the rhythm of fighting a true martial artist.
Within seven or eight exchanges, she was already being pushed back.
Thea knew her every move—the League's style, its openings, its tempo. Sara wasn't on Malcolm's level, nor Talia's, and definitely not hers.
Still, Thea held back. She admired the woman Sara would become—the unyielding captain who'd lead the Legends through time itself. Out of respect, she intended to end this match in a draw.
Sensing the shift, Sara regained some ground, fighting with renewed confidence.
From the sidelines, Ray Palmer blinked owlishly at the duel—fascinated, oblivious, and still rubbing his sore shoulder—until Captain Cold yelled,
"Sara! Need a hand?!"
Only then did Ray remember, oh right, this was still a battle.
He sighed and started jogging toward them, slow and awkward as ever, to join the fray.