CHAPTER 2: WELCOME TO THE DYSFUNCTIONAL TIME MACHINE
The ramp into the Waverider was less a grand entrance and more a utilitarian metal slide, looking like it had seen better days and possibly a few too many alien encounters. Adam jogged up it, a wide grin plastered across his face, practically vibrating with a mixture of excitement and sheer disbelief. 'Holy actual crap. I'm on the Waverider. The Waverider! It smells faintly of ozone, old coffee, and… is that Mick's stale cigar smoke already? Perfection.'
Rip Hunter, still looking like he was perpetually 0.7 seconds away from a nervous breakdown, merely gestured vaguely ahead with a weary sigh. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Stiels. Try not to touch anything that glows. Or blinks. Or smells faintly of temporal displacement."
Adam ignored him, already scanning the cavernous interior of the ship. It was exactly as he remembered from the show – a chaotic blend of futuristic tech, salvaged historical artifacts, and enough blinking lights to induce an epileptic fit. The command center, with its myriad screens and central console, was humming with low energy.
Sara Lance, ever the watchful hawk, followed him in, her expression still a mix of professional assessment and nascent amusement. "So, 'The Anomaly.' What exactly are your other superpowers, besides getting stabbed and making things float?"
Adam turned to her, striking a mock heroic pose. "Well, for starters, I can quote every episode of The Office from memory. I can make a mean grilled cheese. And I have an uncanny ability to find the single most inconvenient parking spot in any given city. Also, I can regenerate, move objects with my mind, and subtly influence the thoughts of others with eye contact and verbal suggestion. You know, the usual party tricks." He winked. "The parking thing is probably the most dangerous, though. City planners fear me."
Before Sara could respond, a gruff, gravelly voice cut through the air. "Another damn metahuman? As if one Firestorm wasn't enough."
Adam's head swiveled. There he was. Mick Rory. Leaning against a bulkhead, arms crossed, a lit cigarillo clutched in his beefy hand, his eyes burning with their characteristic disdain for… well, everything. He looked exactly as advertised: a walking, breathing, fire-starting curmudgeon.
'Oh, Mick. My man. You glorious, grumpy bastard. This is going to be so much fun. I can practically taste the resentment.'
Adam beamed, walking straight up to the pyromaniac. "Mick Rory! The one, the only. Your reputation precedes you. They say you have a heart of gold, buried under several layers of sarcasm, arson, and questionable personal hygiene."
Mick took a slow drag from his cigarillo, exhaling a plume of smoke directly into Adam's face. "They say wrong. I like fire. And beer. That's it."
Adam coughed dramatically, waving a hand in front of his face. "Phew! Charming. You know, they have these things called 'air filters' in the future. You should look into them. Really cuts down on the whole 'smelling like a burning dumpster fire' aesthetic."
Mick's eyes narrowed. "You got a death wish, pretty boy?"
"Nah," Adam said cheerfully. "Just a wish for a better ventilation system. And maybe a desire to see if I can make you smile. Just once. I'm willing to bet a lifetime supply of your favorite, terribly unhealthy snack that you crack within a week."
"You lose," Mick growled.
"We'll see," Adam chirped, already mentally designing the "milk incident."
A younger, more eager voice piped up from the console. "Wow! You really just regenerated that fast? That's incredible! What's the cellular mechanism behind it? Is it an accelerated mitotic rate? Or a unique application of quantum entanglement at a molecular level?"
Adam turned to see Ray Palmer, the eternally optimistic genius, practically bouncing with scientific curiosity. He was in his civvies, a slightly rumpled shirt, but his eyes were alight with the familiar sparkle of a man who genuinely loved science.
'Ray! My science bro! This is going to be an instant connection. He's the only one who'll get my obscure sci-fi references.'
"Ray Palmer, I presume?" Adam extended a hand. "Adam Stiels. And honestly, I have no idea. One minute I'm roadkill, the next I'm basically Wolverine, but with more sarcasm and less brooding. If I had to guess, I'd say it's probably 'magic' or 'cosmic mumbo jumbo.' Science usually requires, you know, consistent rules and predictable outcomes. My life has neither."
Ray eagerly shook his hand. "Fascinating! So, it's not nanotechnology? Or some form of extremophile adaptation?"
"Nope. Just pure, unadulterated plot device, my friend," Adam said conspiratorially. "But hey, if you want to run some diagnostics, poke me with a stick, extract some DNA, be my guest. Just try not to get too gross with it. I have a delicate constitution, despite being unkillable."
A distinguished, older gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard, who had been observing from a distance, cleared his throat. "I must say, Captain Hunter, that this individual seems… incredibly flippant, given the circumstances."
Adam turned to face Professor Martin Stein, half of the Firestorm matrix, who looked every inch the refined intellectual. Next to him stood Jefferson "Jax" Jackson, the other half, a young man with an athletic build and a much more open, friendly expression than Stein's.
'Professor Stein. The voice of reason. Who will, no doubt, quickly become the voice of exasperation when it comes to me. And Jax, the younger brother I never knew I needed. This is great.'
"Professor Stein, I presume?" Adam bowed slightly, a theatrical flourish. "And Jax. The legendary Firestorm duo. It's an honor. Really. Though, Professor, I prefer 'unburdened by the crushing weight of existential dread' to 'flippant.' It has a better ring to it, don't you think?"
Stein's eyebrows rose, a clear sign of mild offense. "Young man, we are on a mission of vital importance. The very fabric of time is at stake. This is not a laughing matter."
"And yet," Adam countered, "we're all standing here in a giant time machine, which, if we're being honest, sounds like the premise of a B-grade sci-fi comedy. I think a little levity is precisely what's needed. Otherwise, we'll all just end up like Rip here, constantly looking like someone just told him his favorite puppy got run over by a rogue timeline anomaly."
Rip, who had been listening with a long-suffering expression, just groaned. Sara, however, let out a small, almost imperceptible huff of amusement.
Jax, meanwhile, grinned. "He's got a point, Professor. Lighten up a little."
"Jax!" Stein admonished, though a faint hint of a smile touched his lips for a moment.
Just then, a figure emerged from a darker corner of the ship, leaning against a pillar, a cold gun casually holstered at his hip. Leonard Snart. Captain Cold. The master thief, the cool, calculating strategist. His eyes, cold and assessing, locked onto Adam.
'And the man himself. Leonard Snart. This is the moment. The battle of wits. The clash of cool. I've been waiting for this.'
Snart slowly pushed off the pillar, his signature smirk playing on his lips. "So, you're the new variable, huh? Heard you got yourself stabbed. Impressive. For a civilian."
Adam grinned back, meeting Snart's gaze unflinchingly. "And you're Captain Cold. The guy who thinks an ice gun is a legitimate form of problem-solving. It's so gloriously inefficient. But you pull it off with such panache, I have to give you credit."
Snart's smirk widened slightly. "Panache. I like that. So, what's your angle, Anomaly? You just going to let yourself get hit by trains and call it a Tuesday?"
"Only if it's a particularly boring Tuesday," Adam replied. "My angle, Captain, is mostly to avoid becoming a historical footnote while also making sure history doesn't become a complete dumpster fire. And maybe, just maybe, to annoy Mick Rory as much as humanly possible."
Mick grumbled from his corner. "Still think you got a death wish."
Snart chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "I like him. He's got spirit. Or he's completely insane. Hard to tell the difference these days."
Rip clapped his hands together, forcing an end to the introductions. "Alright, everyone. If we're done with the introductions and the subtle threats of bodily harm, perhaps we can focus on the mission at hand. As you are all aware, Vandal Savage has been manipulating history for millennia. My goal, our goal, is to stop him before he plunges the world into darkness."
As Rip launched into his standard exposition, Adam leaned against the console, feigning rapt attention. 'Oh, I know all about Vandal Savage. Immortality, cults, trying to ruin history. Been there, read that, saw the miniseries. The question isn't 'what' he's doing, it's 'how' are we going to stop him without screwing up the timeline even worse? And more importantly, how do I subtly nudge events without setting off a temporal paradox alarm louder than Mick Rory's last explosion?'
He felt a familiar tingling in his fingers, a faint hum of energy just beneath his skin. He glanced down at the console. A small, stray screw was resting on the surface. Without conscious thought, he focused, barely breathing. The screw vibrated, then lifted a millimeter, wobbled, and settled back down.
'Baby steps, Adam. Baby steps. Don't go trying to move the whole ship just yet. You'll just end up short-circuiting something important and getting a very stern lecture from Professor Stein about the delicate balance of scientific instrumentation.'
Rip continued, projecting images of historical atrocities linked to Savage on the main screen. "Our first lead on Savage's current whereabouts points to a small village in Norway, circa 762 AD. A Viking settlement, to be precise. Savage has often used such isolated communities to establish early power bases."
Adam raised a hand. "Wait, Vikings? So, lots of beards, horned helmets, and questionable hygiene? Are we talking historically accurate, or the cool, movie-version Vikings?"
Rip pinched his nose again. "Mr. Stiels, I assure you, historical accuracy is paramount. And I believe the horned helmets are largely a modern embellishment."
"Damn," Adam muttered. "There goes my fantasy of teaching them how to play Dungeons & Dragons."
Sara gave him a look. "You're not serious."
"Oh, I'm deadly serious about my D&D," Adam replied with a smirk. "It's a fantastic way to develop strategic thinking, character role-playing, and an unhealthy obsession with dice. Also, a good way to kill time when your spaceship is traversing the chronological pathways."
The rest of the team exchanged glances. Ray looked intrigued, Mick looked bored, Snart looked amused, and Stein looked like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.
'This is it. My new life. My new family. A bunch of misfits, criminals, and academic types, all crammed into a flying tin can, trying to save a timeline they barely understand. And me, the guy who knows too much, can't die, and has an unshakeable urge to make things interesting. This is going to be epic. Or a spectacular disaster. Probably both.'
As Rip continued his briefing, Adam allowed his gaze to drift around the bridge. He looked at Sara, cool and deadly, a survivor trying to find her place. He looked at Mick, the brute with a surprisingly complex inner world. Snart, the calculating criminal who would eventually do the right thing. Ray, the optimistic genius. Jax and Stein, the unlikely duo. This was his chance. A second chance. A chance to belong, to make a difference, and maybe, just maybe, to have a little fun while the fate of the universe hung in the balance.
The weight of knowing the future pressed on him, a constant hum in the back of his mind. He knew about Snart's sacrifice, about Ray and Nora, about Zari and Nate, about the endless string of disasters and triumphs. He knew how messy it would get. He knew about the heartbreaks. And he knew about the triumphs. 'Do I tell them? Do I warn them? Or do I let fate play out, hoping I can nudge things in the right direction without breaking everything? One wrong word, one misplaced piece of information, and the whole tapestry could unravel. No, better to stick to the script, mostly. Be the chaos they need, not the spoiler they don't.'
He caught Sara's eye again. She was watching him, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. He gave her a confident, charming smile. She responded with a slight tilt of her head, a hint of something resembling a challenge.
'Game on, Canary. This time, I'm not just watching from the sidelines.'