The transport's interior was all function, no comfort. Bare metal walls. Utilitarian seating. The kind of vessel designed to move troops efficiently, not pleasantly.
The infiltration team filled the cramped space with controlled energy.
The Avengers contingent was small but potent: Steve with his shield mag-locked to his back, Natasha running through mental checklists, Scott and Hope going over their shrinking tech for the third time.
The Jedi brought their own particular gravitas. Aayla Secura sat with the stillness of deep water, Quinlan Vos radiated casual confidence that didn't quite hide his readiness, and Barriss Offee kept to herself in a corner, head bowed, arms wrapped around her middle.
The clones dominated by numbers. Commander Bly and his three ARC troopers maintained their gear with mechanical precision. Delta Squad and the Bad Batch—Clone Force 99—occupied opposite sides of the transport, each team protective of their own methods and reputation.
The fleet had dropped them at the edge of the Loronar system. Now they were coasting toward the hyperspace lane that would take them directly into hostile territory.
"Visual contact," Tech announced from his position at the sensor array. "Automated cargo freighter, designation B-7271, bearing three-one-seven mark nine. Trajectory matches intelligence reports."
Right on schedule. The decrepit transport ship was making its regular supply run to the Citadel, completely unaware it was about to acquire some unwanted passengers.
"FRIDAY, Karen," Natasha said quietly. "You're up."
"Already on it," FRIDAY's voice responded through the comms. "Accessing the freighter's navigation system now. Karen is mapping entry points."
"Found one," Karen chimed in. "Hull breach on the starboard side, approximately three meters aft of the primary cargo hold. Looks like meteor damage they never bothered repairing."
"Because why fix a ship when you can just throw droids on it?" Scott muttered.
They matched velocity with the freighter, sliding close enough to make the jump. One by one, they transferred across the void—Jedi using the Force to guide themselves, clones using magnetic grapples, Avengers using various combinations of tech and nerve.
Once everyone was aboard and the freighter jumped to hyperspace, the real waiting began.
Most of the team threw themselves into preparation. ARC troopers checked and rechecked their equipment—blasters, thermal detonators, emergency medical kits. Delta Squad did the same with their specialized gear. The Bad Batch, characteristically, seemed perfectly relaxed despite the coming storm.
In the midst of all this focused activity, two people sat slightly apart from the rest.
Steve stared at nothing, his expression distant. The kind of look Natasha recognized from their early days together—when the weight of decisions made and consequences faced threatened to drown him.
Aayla noticed too.
She rose from her meditation, moved across the cargo hold with Jedi grace, and settled beside him. "Are you alright?"
Steve blinked, coming back to the present. "Hmm? Sorry, Aayla. I was..." He shook his head. "Did you say something?"
"You look troubled." Her voice was gentle, pitched only for his ears. "It's the same expression you wore when you first learned what Ultron had done to this galaxy."
Steve's gaze drifted away again. "Do I?"
Aayla's expression flickered—uncertainty warring with determination. "Do you remember what we promised each other? After Master Kili's funeral?"
That got his full attention. Steve's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise and something warmer flickering across his face.
"We said we'd always talk to each other," Aayla continued softly. "When things got too heavy to carry alone. That we'd be there for each other."
A gentle push in the Force nudged his shoulder. Not hard—barely more than a touch—but enough to make the point.
Steve noticed Aayla's lips were pursed in what might have been a pout if Jedi Masters pouted.
He sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. When he looked up to meet her eyes, the walls were down. "I'm still wrestling with it. The guilt. Knowing that Ultron is here—tearing apart this galaxy—because of us."
Aayla's brow furrowed. She reached out, her hand finding his. The touch was warm, grounding. "Steve, you can't blame yourself for this."
"Can't I?" There was an edge to his voice—frustration directed inward. "We fought Ultron on Earth. Destroyed a whole city doing it. I thought that was the end." His jaw tightened. "But it escaped. Came here. Now it's trying to conquer an entire galaxy, and who knows what it'll do if it succeeds? We had a chance to stop it permanently. We failed."
"Steve—"
"How many people has it killed? How many worlds has it devastated? All because we didn't finish the job."
Aayla's other hand came up to his cheek, gentle but firm, making him look at her. "Listen to me. You cannot carry the weight of every consequence. The galaxy is vast, and the Force moves in ways we cannot predict or control." Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone. "Ultron made its own choices. You fought with everything you had. That's all anyone can ask."
"It's not enough."
"It has to be." Her voice was still gentle, but there was steel beneath. "Because the alternative is drowning in guilt for things you cannot change. And I won't let you do that to yourself."
Steve was quiet for a long moment. "You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's necessary." Aayla's hand moved from his cheek to clasp his other hand, so she held both. "Some things cannot be changed, Steve. The past is fixed. But you can choose how to carry it. Let it crush you, or let it make you stronger."
She squeezed his hands. "The only way forward is forward. Not backward. Not standing still."
Steve looked down at their joined hands. Calloused fingers intertwined—his from wielding a shield, hers from years of lightsaber practice. Both marked by war. Both choosing to reach out anyway.
"Let's face the future together," Aayla said softly.
Neither of them noticed the attention they'd attracted.
Natasha watched from across the cargo hold, her expression neutral but her eyes knowing. She caught Bly's gaze and tilted her head fractionally toward the couple.
The clone commander's mouth quirked in a smile. He'd served under General Secura for years. Knew her tells. Recognized what he was seeing.
Quinlan Vos had turned around completely, leaning against the bulkhead with a grin that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying the show. As Aayla's former master, he probably felt entitled.
Natasha and Bly exchanged a look—silent agreement that this was absolutely something they'd be teasing their respective commanders about later.
For now, they let the moment be.
"How's Barriss doing?" Steve asked, grateful for the subject change even if he wasn't quite ready to release Aayla's hands.
Aayla glanced toward her fellow Jedi. Barriss sat alone, hunched in on herself, radiating discomfort in the Force. "Nervous. Like many of us. But..." She frowned. "Something more."
Steve followed her gaze. Barriss looked small, isolated, despite being surrounded by allies. "Has she talked about it?"
"Luminara mentioned it before we left." Aayla's voice dropped further. "Said Barriss has been experiencing disturbances. Force-related. They're affecting her more deeply than expected."
"Disturbances?" Steve's tactical mind immediately went to threats. "What kind of disturbances?"
"It varies between individuals." Aayla's thumb traced absent patterns on the back of his hand—probably unconscious. "For some, it's like drowning. A weight pressing down from nowhere. Others feel disconnected, afraid to look inward. The symptoms manifest differently."
"Sounds almost like a disease."
"It can feel that way." Aayla's expression was troubled. "But Force disturbances are... have you ever felt something grab your soul? Pull at the very core of who you are?"
Steve blinked. The phrasing sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"We're about to exit hyperspace." Quinlan's voice cut through the moment, calm and professional.
Steve and Aayla's eyes met. They were still holding hands—her grip gentle but present, his steady and grounding.
Aayla seemed to realize it at the same moment Steve did. A faint flush colored her cheeks—visible even with her blue skin tone. But she didn't let go immediately. Instead, she squeezed once, offering comfort and taking it in equal measure.
"For luck," she said softly.
Steve smiled—genuine warmth breaking through the guilt and worry. "For luck."
Then they released each other and stood, joining the rest of the team as everyone moved into position.
The transport shuddered slightly as it dropped from hyperspace.
Through the viewport, the Citadel loomed—a monument to ancient cruelty now serving modern tyranny.
Time to get to work.