AN: Written for Rip Appreciation Week on tumblr. It's a weird timey-wimey fic, but not, as some people might suspect, a fix-it. I'm pretty much ignoring all of season 3 at this point. They'll be about 7 chapters and half are already written so more should be up soon. Enjoy!

The time is out of joint; O curs'd spite,

That ever I was born to set it right!

- Hamlet

Chapter 1

All he could see was green, swirling, churning, shimmering green. It embraced him, carried him away like the currents of a river. He drifted along its flowing length, and drifted, and drifted, and drifted. There were voices crying out, yelling something, yelling at him? But they were so far away and he was lost in the swirling, churning, shimmering green.

Somewhere a clock ticked.

And the world shifted.

Half hidden in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, Michael peered out into the street.

The street was busy, full of horse drawn carriages, handsome cabs and loaded wagons rattling along, the hollow clip clop sound of iron shoes against cobbles echoing between the stone buildings. People, men in dark suits and hats, women wrapped in long dresses, strolled along the sidewalk drifting in and out of shops. Some strode with purpose, intent on their errands. Others meandered slowly, lost in their own thoughts. All were much too preoccupied to notice the small boy watching them.

Michael wiped a filthy hand across a filthy nose. He was seven, or so he believed, but so small most people assumed he was younger, and so pale and thin he looked like not much more than a pile of bones wrapped in rags. His clothing hung off him in multiple tattered layers. His shoes, which were several sizes too big, were held on with twine.

Taking a breath of the fetid air, he searched through the crowd.

Nowhere else in space or time smelled quite like Victorian London. It had its own unique stench, a combination of horse dung, coal smoke, and overflowing sewage, an odd thought to cross Michael's mind considering he had never been anywhere other than London in his short life.

This was all he knew.

This was all he remembered.

A ray of sunshine peeked through the gray clouds and glinted off the watch chain on the waistcoat of a portly gentleman rushing past. Michael took it as a sign and hurried after him, slipping easily through the bustling people and following behind the man as he waited for the right opportunity.

Eventually, the man stopped and took out his watch to check the time.

The sight of the watch was enough to start Michael salivating. He licked his lips as he briefly debated whether or not to go for the silk handkerchief poking out of the pocket above it as well. He decided, though, not to push his luck.

The gentleman upon seeing the time frowned, obviously not liking what he saw, and raised an arm to hail a cab.

This was what Michael had been waiting for. While the gentleman was trying to catch the eye of a cabbie, Michael drew nearer, and spotting a woman trying to pass by, shoved her towards him.

The woman cried out stumbling forward and the man automatically reached out to catch her. There was the expected amount of confusion as apologies were exchanged, and while they were busy doing that, Michael slipped around, and with deft fingers, reached between them, first detaching the chain from the waistcoat button hole, and then gently pulling the watch out of the pocket.

He swiftly dropped the watch into his own pocket and headed away from the gentlemen intent on disappearing into the crowd, moving quickly but not so quickly he would draw attention to himself.

He was sure he had gotten away with it. He was sure, but he had only taken half a dozen steps when a cry arose from behind him.

"Hey, you! Stop! My watch! He's stolen my watch!"

Michael ran.

A passerby tried to grab him, but he dodged out of the way, ducking and weaving. He wove in and out of the crowd hoping to get lost in it. The gentleman he'd stolen the watch from, however, didn't seem interested in giving up. The sound of his pounding footsteps and puffing lungs only grew closer.

Fortunately, no one knew these streets like Michael did.

There was an alleyway up ahead, and with a sharp turn, he headed down it. The alley was barely two feet wide and he nearly knocked over a man coming in the other direction, just managing to duck under his arm in time. Once through, he made another sharp turn, and then another diving into a deep doorway.

There he hunkered down and made himself as small as possible, lungs heaving heavily as he waited.

And waited.

A minute passed and another. The gentleman didn't appear. Once he felt it was safe enough, Michael uncurled his body and craned his neck out into the street checking both direction.

The coast was clear.

Grinning a self-satisfied grin, Michael pulled out the watch and ran his fingers across the smooth surface. It was a fairly plain watch, the face hidden by a hinged cover, but it was made of real silver and he knew a fellow or two who would give him enough for it to keep him in meat pies for a few weeks. His empty stomach growled in anticipation. He hadn't had anything to eat but a small bruised apple in two days.

Placing his fingers around the cover of the watch, he tried to pry it open so he could check the dial.

"Oy!" a voice cried out.

Heart pounding, Michael shoved the watch back in his pocket and looked up expecting to see the gentleman he had stolen the watch from. What he saw was much worse.

"There you are, Mickey," said a young man, giving him a leer as he leaned over him.

It was Samson, a solidly built youth with slicked back hair and a pockmarked face, several years older than Michael and just as filthy though with slightly less ragged clothes.

"Ain't seen you in awhile. What you been up to? Got anything for me?"

Michael quickly shook his head. "I ain't got nothing."

Samson's smirk grew wider. "Is that so?"

He dove for Michael grabbing at him. Michael tried to squirm away making use of his small size, but Samson was quick and soon had a solid grip on his arm.

"Let's see, shall we?" said Samson as he began groping through Michael's clothes.

It didn't take him long to find the watch.

"Holding out on me, eh?" Samson turned the watch over in his hands. "Not bad. Should be able to get a pretty penny out of it down at the pawn shop."

"That's mine!" Michael cried, struggling in the youth's grip.

"I'm sure that's what the geezer you stole it from thought too," said Samson, letting out a snort.

Rage built up in Michael.

Too many times had this happened. Too many times had he found something only to have someone larger and stronger take it away from him.

While Samson was intent on the watch, Michael used his free hand to reach into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out the knife hidden there. It was a rusty, somewhat dull blade, but it had helped fend off more than a few of the older boys, some who were even less gentle in their requests than this one.

Michael slashed upward, the blade catching Samson's arm.

Samson cried out and dropped the watch. He didn't, however, release his hold on Michael.

"You little wanker," said Samson, examining the cut on his arm which was beginning to seep blood. "You'll pay for that."

He raised his fist.

As the punches and kicks began to rain down, Michael curled into a ball, trying and failing to stifle his cries, praying it would be over soon. Through half closed lids, he spotted the watch nearby. The cover had burst open when it had hit the ground and the dial was now visible.

The time was...

He was back in the green again, the eternal swirling, churning, shimmering green. Maybe he had never left. Maybe he had always been there drifting aimlessly along the swirling streams. It was all he knew, all he had ever known. All else seemed mere shadows of dreams.

"Rip? Rip!" one of the voices called out growing loud enough for him to hear.

Who was Rip? He wondered

The green embraced him and he let it carry him away.

The clock ticked once more.

Michael Car... No, Rip Hunter sat in the library at the Time Master academy and fidgeted impatiently.

Rip Hunter, because that was his name now. He had chosen it a long time ago when he was still a teenager and dreaming about being a Time Master, but he had only been using it a year and sometimes it still felt strange to him, like it didn't quite fit. But the new name was a good thing. It was a way of making a new start and cutting all ties to the past. That was what you were meant to do as a Time Master, cut all ties and avoid all attachments so you couldn't be compromised. That was what you needed to do to serve the Council and protect the timeline which was what Rip wanted to do more than anything.

Of course, he was never going to be able to if his blasted study partner didn't show up soon. What he had done to be saddled with her of all people he'd never know.

Rip shuffled the books on the table in front of him and tapped his foot as he gazed around the library.

The Time Master library was immense, the study hall he currently sat in only a small part of it. Metal and glass made up most of the structure. Tall pillars led up to a high arching ceiling and multiple windows let streams of sunlight through giving the place the air of a metallic cathedral. The architecture was a mixture of the classical and the extreme modern like the library's contents which ranged from ancient scrolls and tablets to immense databases held on tiny crystals. As a child, Rip wouldn't have even been able to conceive of such a place. Now, it was almost normal.

Across the hall, he saw a woman enter the room. She gazed about, and upon seeing him, headed over with hasty footsteps.

"Sorry, I'm late," Miranda said as she took the seat across from him. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

"Not at all, Miss Coburn," said Rip, doing his best to keep his tone polite if not quite succeeding. "I've only been waiting for what? Ten? Twenty minutes?"

Miranda gave him a side long look, clearly detecting the irritation in his voice. "I lost track of the time. I was talking to Professor Nguyen about joining his squadron next year and I'm afraid we got somewhat absorbed in our discussion."

Rip's eyes widened. "You're joining the Flyers?" The Time Flyers were a group of the most elite timeship pilots at the academy. They did performances of aeronautical acrobatics throughout the year.

"That's my intention," Miranda replied, airily, "and considering I received one of the highest scores ever on my piloting test, my position on the team is pretty much assured."

Rip bristled. Piloting was an area in which Miranda had always managed to trounce him. He had done well enough on his piloting test, better than a lot of his classmates, but Miranda flew as if she were born to it. In most areas, she and Rip were fairly evenly matched, constantly vying for the top spot in the class, save for the flying and one other exception. Rip held a fair amount of satisfaction in the fact Miranda had never been able to beat him at the shooting range.

"Shall we get started then?" said Miranda as she pulled a tablet out of her bag.

The bag was full of books and tablets and various other things needed for her classes. Rip's bag was similarly stuffed though a lot less tidily as was evident by the things poking out of it. Miranda had always been much more organized than Rip. Another thing about her that infuriated him.

"The project is to choose a particular region and time period, and create a detailed plan for infiltration," Miranda continued.

Rip nodded and opened one of his history books. "Yes, I was considering various locations while I waited for you and I thought somewhere in the United States during the 19th or perhaps 20th century would be—"

"Really?" interrupted Miranda, eyebrows raised scornfully.

Rip flung his hands into the air in exasperation. "What?"

Placing her elbows on the table, Miranda leaned towards him. "You need to learn how to think outside the box, Mr. Hunter. Isn't infiltrating the 20th century a little too easy?"

"It's a time period I happen to be particularly interested in."

"That may be, but wouldn't you prefer something a bit more challenging?"

Rip's forehead furrowed. "Challenging?"

"Unless you don't think you're up to it," Miranda added, mockingly.

Rip grit his teeth, only just managing to keep his temper. "Not at all. What did you have in mind?"

"Well," said Miranda, "how about Greece? Perhaps the 5th century BC during the invention of the Athenian democracy? Infiltrating a time period that ancient during such an upheaval should prove a lot more interesting."

Rip didn't want to admit it, but that did sound quite appealing. Of course, he had no intention of being outdone.

"We could choose ancient Greece," he said as he rested his elbows on the table and leaned towards her, mirroring her pose. "If you think going to one of the most studied areas of the ancient world difficult, or we could go somewhere really challenging."

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "What did you have in mind?"

"West Africa," said Rip. "9th century, the Kingdom of Nri."

Miranda looked doubtful. "In case you've forgotten," she said and pointed a finger at her fair features, then his. "It would be nearly impossible for us to infiltrate such a place during that time period without drawing attention to ourselves."

Rip raised his eyebrows pointedly. "I thought you wanted a challenge."

Miranda stared at him a moment, and then nodded. "The Kingdom of Nri it is." Her eyes sparkled and her lips twisted into an impish smile. "I take back what I said earlier. I like the way you think, Mr. Hunter."

God, how he had always loved that smile, thought Rip, and then he blinked wondering where that thought had come from. He and Miranda had never been more than classmates and rivals. Entertaining such thoughts when attachments were so strictly forbidden by the Time Masters was practically treasonous.

He cleared his throat and quickly straightened up. "Uh, yes, thank you." He fumbled with the book in front of him as he tried to regain his composure. "We should really get to work."

"Of course," said Miranda. "How much time do we have left before our next class?"

Rip glanced at a clock hanging on the far wall.

The time was...

The green again. It was like a raging storm, pulling at him one moment, whipping around him the next, but there was something almost comforting about it, something almost familiar. He had stared into this abyss before, and now he had lost his way inside it, lost his way and lost himself.

How did you find yourself when you floated anchorless in a void of green?

The voices were calling again, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

Tick tock went the clock.

"Careful!"

A hand grabbed Rip's arm yanking him backwards and out of the path of a yellow minibus. The minibus rushed past, its driver waving his hand angrily and yelling something Rip was glad he couldn't make out.

"You'd better watch your step. The last thing I want is to have to tell the team I let our captain get run over by a bus."

Rip turned to gaze at his rescuer. "Thank you, Miss Lance. I guess my mind was somewhere else."

"I'll say," replied Sara, gazing at him over the top of her sunglasses. "What were you thinking about?"

What had he been thinking about? Rip wondered. He'd been thinking about Miranda, hadn't he? Recalling an old project they had worked on together during their academy days.

He gazed through the crowded street at the stream of yellow minibuses going by and the colourful umbrellas shading the line of market stalls.

Maybe it was this place that had brought the memory back to him. After all, Lagos wasn't that far from where the Kingdom of Nri had once stood though there was little left of it in 2011.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just concerned about the mission."

Sara shook her head. "You worry too much. You need to learn how to relax." She popped a puff puff into her mouth as if to demonstrate how.

She had acquired a bagful of the deep fried pastries from one of the vendors as they'd strolled past. Food was just one of the many things that could be purchased at the street market. Piles of goods covered the various tables, mounds of fruit and patterned cloth, brightly coloured plastic toys and beaded jewellery, stacks of DVDs and magazines. Normally Rip would have been tempted to acquire something new for his collection, but his mind was on other things.

"I have a very valid reason for concern," said Rip as they continued moving along the crowded street. "In case, you've forgotten we failed in our objective. We weren't able to retrieve the artifact and if anyone were to discover that that so called diamond is in fact an incredibly powerful 29th century dark energy generator, then—"

"Then it could permanently damage the timeline," Sara finished for him. "I know. It's not our fault the guy didn't want to sell. We should have known it wouldn't be so easy."

Rip let out a snort. "True, since when has anything we've ever done been easy."

He really had hoped bartering with the man who had acquired the diamond for his personal collection would work, but the man had refused despite the large amounts of gold Rip and Sara had offered. It seems the man already had plenty. His large mansion with its white walls and tall columns was a big contrast to the colourful and chaotic market they were currently walking through. Rip and Sara had been posing as wealthy foreign investors, and he was very aware of how their expensive clothing and the colour of their skin made them stand out, but Sara had insisted on travelling through the market on their way back to the ship.

"So we go with plan B," she said with a shrug.

Rip rolled his eyes. "Ah, yes. Plan B, thievery. I'm sure Mr. Rory will be ecstatic."

"It'll help keep his mind off things. You know how he's been since..." she trailed off.

"...since we lost Snart," Rip finished for her. He sighed. The loss was one he'd rather not think about, one of several. He gazed at Sara who was eating another one of the round puff puffs. "How are you managing? I know it's been difficult what with—"

"I'm managing," Sara said curtly, cutting him off, and then she sighed. "How are you... managing?" She had never been good at talking about feelings.

"I'm managing," Rip replied softly. He supposed it was all any of them could do after the loses they'd been dealt. "I'll feel better once this mission is over with though."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Like I said, you worry too much. This isn't our first heist and it's not like there's an army of meta-humans standing between us and our goal."

"I know. I just have a bad feeling about this."

Sara stopped walking and gazed at him with raised eyebrows. "I knew I shouldn't have let Ray show you Star Wars."

Rip gave her an exasperated look.

Sara smiled sweetly back at him and held out a pastry. "Puff puff?"

Rip sighed, but he took the offered treat.

"Seriously, Rip," said Sara as they continued on, Rip munching his pastry, "you have nothing to worry about."

"If you say so," Rip replied. "What time is it? We really should be getting back to the ship so we can plan our heist."

Sara pulled her phone out of her pocket. The phone was a few years ahead of its time but Rip didn't comment. The Legends had brought future tech to far worse time periods.

Taking off her sunglasses, Sara squinted at the phone. "It's..."

Green, so much green swirling around him, but there was something else too, something beyond the green. He could only just make it out. He tried focusing on it, but it remained elusive, there but not there, and yet he felt it was something, some place he should have known.

"Rip, can you hear me?"

That voice. He knew that voice too, or should have known it.

A name floated up out of memory. He opened his mouth to say it, but somewhere in the distance the clock ticked and he was taken away.

Phil Gasmer started up in bed and groaned.

"Not again."

Another one of those damn dreams.

He ran his hands over his face as he tried to recall what had happened in his latest nighttime vision. It was already fading. He, no not him, Rip Hunter had been in some sort of market with... a woman? It had been her again, hadn't it? S... S... The name was there on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite... Sandra? Maybe. She and Rip had been wandering through a market in... Africa?

Phil glanced over at the remains of the joint sitting in the ashtray on his bedside table and frowned.

What the hell had he been smoking last night?

The drugs were supposed to help stop the crazy dreams, but they just seemed to be making things worse. The dreams had been haunting him for what seemed like ages. Some were fairly benign like the one he'd just had, but others were pure night terrors. If only he could remember more clearly what happened in them. That would at least be something. Instead, he was plagued by these half-formed images, images he really wanted out of his head.

Phil pushed aside the covers and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Turning on his bedside lamp revealed the surroundings of his tiny cluttered apartment, its avocado green and pale yellow decor hidden beneath a mess of dirty laundry, half-finished food, and crumpled paper. He kicked one of the bits of paper aside. The increasing mounds of it were a testament to how well the writing of his thesis film was going.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He really didn't want to go back to sleep. He didn't want to have to put up with another one of those dreams. The last one still lingered on the edge of his brain.

Maybe a midnight snack would help, he mused. There should be something at least vaguely edible in his fridge.

He got to his feet, took a step forward, and promptly tripped falling flat on his face.

"God damn it!"

Groaning, he rolled onto his back.

What the hell had he tripped over?

He fumbled about on the floor through the scattered clutter until his fingers closed on something long and thin. He picked it up and held it in front of his face.

It was a piece of wood.

Phil groaned again.

Why did he still have this stupid stick? It wasn't much use for anything other than a back scratcher. He couldn't even remember where he had gotten it from.

Getting back up, he took the stick over to the trash can, but just as he was about to throw it out, he stopped.

He felt strangely reluctant to get rid of the thing though he couldn't say why. He turned the stick over in his hand. It was a pretty odd bit of wood actually. The one jagged edge made it look like it had been broken off something bigger. The rest was smooth like a pole or a broom handle or the shaft of a spear.

Furrows deepened in Phil's forehead.

A spear... Where had that idea come from? It was, of course, completely absurd, and yet... What if it was true? Imagine what would happen if someone really had a bit of wood that was actually part of an ancient spear, a magic spear, a spear of destiny.

Phil's eyes shone as ideas began percolating in his brain. The stick. Those bizarre dreams. The man who kept turning up in them, the one he'd called Rip Hunter, and that woman, Sandra...

"That's it!" he exclaimed, and then he quickly put his hands over his mouth and looked guiltily up at the ceiling.

No sound came from upstairs, his neighbour's sleep thankfully remaining undisturbed.

Trying to be a little more quiet, Phil headed for the corner of his apartment where his desk was buried and pulled a paisley patterned shirt off his typewriter. The keys gleamed invitingly up at him.

Paper!

He gazed desperately around the room.

Please say he hadn't used up all the paper.

Eventually, he was able to locate a few uncrumpled pieces. He threaded one into the typewriter and sat down.

His fingers wiggled in anticipation over the keyboard.

He was going to get all those dreams out of his head. He was going to get the dreams out and write his thesis film. Two birds with one stone.

But what to call it?

After staring at the blank paper a moment, Phil finally typed 'Legends of Tomorrow'.

He made a face. It wasn't great but it would have to do for now.

He began typing away, the keys clacking noisily, the words flowing out of his fingers and onto the page. It was as if a dam had broken loose in his head and all these ideas were finally spilling out.

Realizing it was probably going to be a long night, Phil glanced over at his alarm clock.

The dial said it was...

It pulled him away once more, the green, the shimmering green. It invaded his mind, invaded his very being pushing everything else away.

These glimpses he kept seeing... What were they? They felt important, and yet it was hard to focus on them. They were glimpses of a life. His life? But if they were, then who was he? Michael or Rip or Phil?

He tried to concentrate, but there seemed to be as much chaos inside his head as there was outside it.

Hoping for answers, he let himself drift away once more with the tick of the clock.