Once the coordinates were locked in, the Waverider shot off through the timestream, carrying a cabin full of cheerful passengers singing their way back to the Time Masters' Council Headquarters—the fabled citadel that existed outside of all known timelines.
They called it The Vanishing Point.
Rip Hunter, finally victorious, proudly dragged a handcuffed Vandal Savage toward his former employers. Just before docking, he'd even injected Vandal with some rejuvenation serum—nothing magical, just enough to make him look less like a frail octogenarian. After all, dragging in a wrinkled old man hardly screamed "epic triumph." If he was going to get his job back, his trophy needed to look presentable.
Thea could barely hold back a laugh. Rip's little stunt was about to create one spectacular misunderstanding.
The Time Masters' Council liked to present itself as a godlike authority that ruled time itself. The name sounded majestic. The reality was… bureaucratic farce.
They called themselves "Masters," but there were hundreds of them—each one a self-important desk jockey with the same title. Rip used to be one of them. None of them ever left headquarters; they just sat in tiered circular rows around a massive hall, gossiping and congratulating each other.
Below them were the so-called "elite operatives," commanding the few time ships that still functioned—less than ten in total. The Waverider had once been among them.
And beneath that layer were the foot soldiers: a dozen underpaid guards armed with laser rifles, whose daily duties consisted of guarding doors and serving tea to the pompous old men above.
A perfectly inverted pyramid of inefficiency. Ninety percent of the organization was made up of loafers waiting for promotions.
Thea knew how this story went. The Council would soon release Vandal Savage, betray Rip Hunter, and arrest him for insubordination. Those same hapless guards would even try to seize the Waverider and detain its crew.
Normally that was fine—it needed to happen to set off the timeline where the Council got blown sky-high. But there was one problem: she was on board.
With her current power, those dozen guards wouldn't last three seconds. If she accidentally vaporized them, history would derail before it even began.
Better to disappear for a while.
"I'll take a walk," she told the team casually, slipping away as Rip marched off to his "meeting."
The Vanishing Point existed in temporal stasis—a place where time itself was frozen solid. Sunlight and moonlight meant nothing here. Thea couldn't absorb a single photon. Fortunately, the residual time energy that filled the space was faint but usable; she could draw it in, molecule by molecule.
Not that she knew what it was good for—but hey, free energy was free energy.
With a thought, her body shimmered into invisibility. No chants, no gestures—just willpower. The spell wrapped around her automatically now, the result of months of refined control.
No one saw her as she wandered the sterile halls.
"Ugh, what a depressing color palette," she muttered, glancing around. White. Gray. More white. It was like someone had sucked the soul out of the place. "Honestly, blowing this dump up is probably the right choice."
After circling the complex twice, she still hadn't found what she was looking for—the legendary Oculus, the machine that supposedly "observed all of time." Despite the mystical name, it was pure technology. No divine energy, just wires and arrogance.
She was debating whether to brainwash a senior officer to ask for directions when a small procession caught her eye.
"Rip Hunter? And… who's the crusty old villain leading him around?"
Didn't matter. Judging by the setup, she'd just stumbled into the classic villain-monologue sequence—captured hero, smug superior, ominous speeches.
Perfect timing. She followed quietly, invisible, striding behind them like she owned the place. The beauty of magic: no sensors, no scanners, no logic.
After winding through several corridors, they stopped before a massive door. The old man—bald, sharp-nosed, with the kind of face that practically screamed "antagonist"—motioned the guards aside and led Rip inside.
"What is this place?" Rip asked, glancing around. "I don't recall ever being here before."
"This," the old man said proudly, "is the Hall of the Oculus—the chamber that observes all that was, is, and ever shall be."
Thea nearly snorted aloud. Really? A handful of mortals bragging about mastering past, present, and future—subjects even gods avoided claiming mastery over. What were they, toddlers pretending to be fate?
The man—Druse, if she remembered the name correctly—launched into a pompous monologue about destiny and order. Rip's face grew paler with every sentence. Finally satisfied with his own brilliance, Druse ordered the guards to return Rip to his cell, planning to bring him back out later for another round of "look how clever I am."
As he smirked at his own reflection, Thea dropped her invisibility.
Druse's eyes widened. Before he could speak, she flicked her wrist. A single mind-suggestion spell—and his will collapsed like wet paper.
Thea grinned. "Well, that was easy."
She couldn't help but marvel at the contrast. Months ago, she'd needed three days to subdue both leaders of the Court of Owls. Now, with one thought, a high-ranking Time Master folded instantly. The sheer difference in her power was intoxicating.
No time to revel in it, though. Rip's crew might be stronger now—if they burst in early, it would ruin everything. Thea got to work, pressing her glowing palm to Druse's temple and reading his memories.
A few moments later, she frowned.
The Oculus wasn't their invention. It had been given to them—by someone, or something, outside of time. They'd searched countless eras trying to find the point where it appeared and failed completely.
That… was unsettling. It reeked of divine interference.
Not a minor deity, either—this had the fingerprints of a major god, one capable of walking through timelines like doors.
Nope. Not her problem. She'd let fate's chosen idiots—Rip and company—deal with that cosmic landmine. She had something far more practical to accomplish.
Employment.
Yes, technically she already had credentials. But officially joining the Council's registry would make her presence "canonical" in the timeline. If this base was blown up later, she'd be free—untethered from their rules forever.
Controlling Druse's body like a puppet, she used his access codes to log into the central database and file her "new employee record."
"Perfect," she murmured. "I'm now officially a Time Master."
The entry propagated instantly through the system. On paper, she was now a registered operative with arrest authority over temporal anomalies—which technically included the Speedsters. Catching them would be… another matter entirely.
But that wasn't her real goal.
"Now," she said with a sly smile, "raise my clearance for the Waverider's onboard AI, Gideon. Full administrative control."
The base's central computer could override all subordinate ship systems—including Gideon. Even though Gideon had developed self-awareness, she couldn't ignore root-level commands.
That kind of access was priceless.
And Druse, completely enthralled, nodded eagerly.
"No problem, my lady."
He typed for a few seconds, then looked up with a servile smile.
"It's done, mistress."
Thea patted his shoulder, her eyes gleaming. "Good boy."