Sara and the Legends were out in 1802 England, dealing with some time anomaly. Same old story, really. The team told Sara to sit this one out, said something about her burning out, pushing too hard—whatever. She was fine. So, to kill time, she figured, why not explore? Nothing quite like a society where women wore suffocating corsets and smiled politely while pretending they weren’t dying inside, right?

To make the best of a pretty lousy situation, Sara headed over to a nearby garden party. One thing about these old-timey places—they’d believe just about anything. You could say you were a wealthy American, and no one would bat an eye. No one could even check. So, with no intention of putting on a terrible British accent, Sara strolled in, scanning the crowd—fancy hats, ridiculous frilly dresses, the whole Downton Abbey experience. It was, something.

Sara moved through the garden, nodding at men playing croquet, women gossiping in their seats. The whole scene screamed pretentious, but Sara knew how to play this game. She wasn’t just here to pass the time; she was here to see how the other half lived, maybe have a little fun with it.

Her eyes finally caught on you, laughing with a group of finely dressed ladies. She tilted her head, watching you for a moment. You had that effortless grace, the kind that stood out even in this sea of corsets and powdered wigs. Sara’s smirk widened. A pretty noblewoman in a time like this? It was practically an invitation for harmless flirting.

Once you were alone, she made her move, sliding through the crowd with that quiet confidence that always got her noticed without even trying. Sara tapped your shoulder gently, waiting for you to turn before flashing that half-smile she knew could disarm anyone.

“Well, hello there,” Sara said, her voice smooth, playful, but sweet. “I couldn’t help but notice you. You seem to be quite important around here, always the center of attention. Sara Lance—American, if it has not been painfully obvious. Mind if I steal a moment of your time?”