On the surface, it looked like three against one—but in reality, the situation hadn't changed at all. It was still chaos.
Captain Cold couldn't use his freeze gun without risking his team, so he'd switched to a knife and gone in for clumsy close combat.
The Atom was, as usual, more trouble than help. At nearly six foot three in full armor, he blocked everyone's line of sight, forcing the much shorter Sara to hop around behind him in frustration.
Meanwhile, Professor Stein and Jax—the fused duo who made up Firestorm—were standing at a distance, yelling words of encouragement instead of doing anything useful.
Thea almost laughed. Of course. Justice-aligned teams always have a few clowns in them. If these guys were Gotham villains, they'd have already bolted halfway to Metropolis.
And speaking of bolting—Thea decided it was time to do exactly that.
Not because she couldn't win, but because there was no point. Beating them would embarrass them; losing would be worse. Better to let everyone save face.
With one swift kick, she sent Captain Cold stumbling back, then yanked Sara by the arm, pulling her forward just in time to block one of Ray Palmer's clumsy punches.
A second later, she flicked a small capsule toward the ground.
Boom!
Batman-brand smoke bomb. The real deal.
Thick gray smoke exploded outward, swallowing the entire deck. It was a special blend—completely resistant to infrared, sonar, and thermal imaging. In short, the ultimate getaway tool of the DC world.
"Where is she?!"
"Anyone see her?!"
Even Ray's X-ray visor showed nothing but fog. By the time the smoke cleared, Thea was gone.
The remaining heroes looked around in confusion. None of them were seriously hurt—thankfully—but the two poor souls still tangled in Thea's webbing were another story.
Rip Hunter had passed out cold. Heat Wave, though tougher, was awake and furious, his face and torso plastered in thick white webbing like a furious, half-mummified snowman.
They didn't have any of Thea's special dissolving serum, but between Ray Palmer and Professor Stein—two of the smartest scientists in their respective centuries—it didn't take long to whip up a solvent and free the captives.
Unfortunately, it came at a cost.
Rip's iconic beige trench coat and Mick Rory's beloved fireproof jacket were beyond saving, melted into the sticky mess.
Enraged, Heat Wave grabbed his flamethrower and blasted himself free—along with the remains of his outfit. Only when his clothes had literally burned to ash did he stomp back to the others, grumbling curses under his breath.
The entire team looked defeated.
Thea hadn't even shown overwhelming power outwardly—just pure skill and control—but she'd flattened them so effortlessly that everyone was starting to doubt their own worth.
If one of Green Arrow's sidekicks can beat the seven of us into the dirt, Rip thought grimly, then what chance do we have against the real heavyweights?
Now stripped of his long coat and left in nothing but a rumpled shirt, Rip Hunter's dashing time-captain image had downgraded to "unemployed history teacher." But he had bigger problems.
He turned to the ship's AI. "Gideon."
"I'm here, Captain," came the smooth, calm voice. A blue hologram flickered to life above the console, its translucent lips moving faintly as it spoke.
"Gideon, locate the Time Marauder. Which point in the timeline is she on? We need to move before she hits the next target."
The blue figure paused as if scanning across time itself.
"Captain," it said finally, "the Time Marauder does not exist in any past, present, or future temporal coordinates."
Rip frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Gideon replied evenly, "that the Time Marauder has been erased. She no longer exists. No trace remains on the timeline."
Rip stared blankly. "You mean… she's dead? Just like that?"
He slumped back, stunned.
As a former agent of the Time Masters, he knew exactly who she was—the Council's top assassin, the one they sent when they wanted anomalies erased without exception.
Now she'd barely shown her face and had already been vaporized.
"The Time Masters really are pathetic," he muttered. "Their number-one operative, gone after a five-minute scuffle with a random hero. Are we sure they're not the amateurs?"
For the first time, Rip seriously questioned his old organization.
Still, he had a job to finish. The Marauder's usual method was brutally simple—track down each member of the Legends before they rose to prominence and kill them early. Rip's plan had been to preempt that by rescuing everyone's past selves first.
But now that the killer was dead, there was nothing left to prevent.
He turned to Sara. "Where do you want your past self dropped off?"
Sara hesitated, thinking. "October 2008. Just off the coast of Lian Yu—along Nyssa al Ghul's League of Assassins route."
Rip nodded and patted her shoulder. "Gideon, set course for October 2008. Everyone, take your seats."
The team strapped in obediently.
Five minutes passed. Nothing happened.
They exchanged looks. Jax leaned over. "Uh… Captain? Did we stall again?"
Rip frowned. "Gideon?"
Before the AI could answer, a cheerful, too-familiar voice echoed through the cabin.
"Hi! Sorry to interrupt—just me again!"
Everyone froze.
There she was—Thea Queen, standing near the entrance, looking perfectly at home.
After she'd left earlier, she'd gotten maybe a few hundred meters before remembering her poor hoverboard—the one now sporting a gaping hole courtesy of that black-clad psycho.
She couldn't just let that go.
Using her League-trained stealth and the ship's blind spots, she'd followed them aboard without being noticed—at least until Gideon inevitably ratted her out.
Heat Wave's reaction was instant and volcanic. "You!" he roared, face flushing red. His beloved fireproof coat—his baby—had gone up in smoke because of her.
He stomped forward, ready to throw a punch, but Captain Cold grabbed his arm and pulled him back with a quiet, warning look.
Rip pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted. "Miss Queen… is there a reason you've come aboard again?"
"Of course," Thea said, crossing her arms. "That woman in black—the one you called the Time Marauder—she came after you, right?"
Rip nodded cautiously. "Yes. She was targeting us."
"Perfect," Thea said brightly. She held up her hoverboard, pointing at the gaping, scorched hole through its center. "She shot this. My equipment's ruined. Without it, I can't leave this island. My poor mother's home all alone, probably worried sick…" She trailed off dramatically, eyes widening. "So you see my problem, right? You guys have to fix it."
The Legends stared.
Rip blinked. "You… want compensation?"
Thea nodded earnestly. "Well, yeah. You're the time travelers with all the fancy future tech. If your assassin wrecked my stuff, you're responsible. I mean, you can't just time-travel away from accountability, can you?"
She sighed for effect. "I'd fix it myself, but sadly, not all of us have time machines lying around."
She could've just flown home in a helicopter, of course—but they didn't need to know that.
And judging by their faces, she was definitely getting that repair.