The Citadel crawled with life.
Not the kind anyone wanted to encounter. Spider-like creatures—native to Loronar's harsh environment—skittered across walls and ceilings, their chitinous bodies clicking against metal. They fled from the infiltrators' approach, vanishing into cracks and crevices like living shadows.
FRIDAY and Karen worked in digital tandem, dancing through the Citadel's security network. Surveillance feeds looped. Motion sensors reported false negatives. For brief windows of opportunity, entire sections went dark to monitoring systems.
The team had split according to plan.
Scott and Hope shrunk to insect scale, riding their ant scouts through ventilation shafts that would lead them throughout the facility. Steve and Natasha moved upward with Hunter and the Bad Batch, drawing toward the upper levels where Even Piell would likely be held. Quinlan and Delta Squad descended to the lower depths to plant demolition charges and search for prisoners. Aayla, Barriss, Commander Bly, and three ARC troopers—Lucky, Cameron, and Flash—held the middle ground.
"All teams, report," Steve's voice came through the comms, quiet but clear.
Hope's response came first. She and Scott navigated around a junction in the ventilation system, looking down through a grate into what should have been a cell block. "Nothing here, Cap. Just empty rooms."
"You're certain?" Natasha's voice held professional skepticism.
"Our ants swept the entire section. Not even dust."
On the lower levels, Quinlan and Delta Squad had encountered a different problem. They stood pressed against the walls on either side of a corridor absolutely swarming with Ultron drones.
"Heavy activity down here," Boss reported, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're guarding something."
"I don't like this," Sev muttered. His sniper's instincts were screaming warnings. "Commander Offee said this place felt wrong. I'm starting to agree with her."
"We need an alternate route, Rogers," Quinlan decided. "This one's a no-go."
"Copy that," Steve acknowledged. "FRIDAY, find them another path."
On the middle level, Aayla's team had found what they were looking for.
A corridor stretched before them, lined with heavy doors on both sides. Stairs at each end led up and down, connecting this level to the rest of the prison. The architecture was deliberately isolating—each cell separated from the others, each prisoner alone with their suffering.
"Detention cells," Aayla said quietly, her hand resting on her lightsaber. "We're starting our search."
Bly gestured to his men. Lucky moved with him to check the right side. Cameron and Flash took the left.
Aayla and Barriss each approached a cell, the Force guiding them to specific doors.
Four cells opened in sequence. Three were empty—not just vacant, but stripped. No furniture, no waste systems, nothing to indicate they'd ever held prisoners.
But the fourth...
"Found one!" Cameron's shout brought everyone running.
The cell was barely larger than a closet. And on the floor, curled against the far wall, was a clone trooper.
He was alive—barely. His armor had been removed, leaving him in a tattered bodysuit. His skin was pale, almost gray. His breathing was shallow and uneven.
Barriss dropped to her knees beside him immediately, Aayla taking position on his other side. The young Mirialan's hands moved over his body, not touching but sensing, reading his condition through the Force.
"His injuries aren't severe," Barriss said after a moment, relief evident in her voice. "But he's severely malnourished. Dehydrated. His body's been cannibalizing itself for energy."
"Food?" Lucky asked, already reaching for his pack.
"Not yet. Water first. Small amounts—we don't want to shock his system." Barriss accepted the canteen Flash offered her. "Aayla, can you...?"
The Twi'lek Jedi nodded, placing her hand gently on the clone's forehead. The Force flowed through her fingers, a gentle nudge to consciousness.
The clone groaned. His eyes cracked open—unfocused, glazed, struggling to process sensory input.
"Easy," Barriss murmured, supporting his head as she brought the canteen to his lips. "You're safe now. But you need to take it slow."
"Where..." The word came out as a croak. The clone swallowed, tried again. "Where am I?"
"Still in the Citadel," Aayla said gently. "But we're getting you out. Can you tell us your name?"
"Maybe we could hurry this along?" Lucky suggested, glancing nervously at the corridor. His DC-17 was already in his hand.
The clone's eyes slowly focused. He looked at Barriss. At Aayla. At the four ARC troopers standing guard around them. His expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and finally—desperately—hope.
"General Secura?" His voice was ruined, sandpaper rough. "Commander—" A coughing fit interrupted him.
Barriss tilted the canteen again, letting cool water soothe his throat. He drank greedily, some of it spilling down his chin.
"Thank you, Commander," he rasped when he could speak again.
Bly knelt beside him, bringing himself to eye level. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Coil, sir." Despite everything, there was still pride in his voice. "152nd Battalion."
"What's the last thing you remember, Coil?"
The clone's eyes went distant, struggling to piece together fragmented memories. When he spoke again, his voice trembled.
"There were more of us." Tears tracked down his gaunt cheeks. "My brothers... we were all taken. Together. Then they started separating us. Taking them away in groups." His breath hitched. "The screaming. All I could hear was them screaming."
Ice ran down Aayla's spine. "Ultron did this? What was he doing?"
Coil shook his head weakly. "I don't know. They never explained. Just... took them. And they never came back."
"Who commanded your battalion?" Bly pressed.
"General Sirrus." The answer came without hesitation. "And Commander Aubrey Wyn."
The reaction was instantaneous. All six rescuers went rigid, exchanging looks of horror.
"General Sirrus," Aayla repeated, her voice barely audible.
Barriss's eyes went wide. "Aubrey Wyn? The Padawan?"
"Wait." Cameron's confusion was evident even through his helmet. "They were stationed on Jabiim. General Sirrus died in that battle. Aubrey Wyn evacuated with the survivors."
"Jabiim." Coil's voice cracked. "That's... that's the last thing I remember clearly. The battle. Being overwhelmed. Then... here."
The implications crashed over them like a wave.
"Stang," Flash breathed. "Ultron's been operating here since Jabiim? That was months ago."
"What did he do to you?" Lucky's voice carried barely contained rage.
"We need to move him," Barriss said, forcing herself into action. "Get him out of here. Now."
Aayla nodded, already activating her comlink. "All teams, we've found a prisoner. Clone trooper designation Coil, 152nd Battalion. He's been held here since the Battle of Jabiim."
"Jabiim?" Hope's voice cracked with disbelief. "That was months ago."
"His entire unit was captured," Bly added, watching as Barriss and Flash carefully lifted Coil to his feet. "He's in critical condition. Severe malnutrition and dehydration."
As they helped Coil toward the corridor, questions multiplied faster than answers. If Coil had survived, might others have as well? How many prisoners were here? What had happened to the ones who'd been "taken away"?
And General Sirrus and Padawan Wing—captured or killed? The uncertainty was its own kind of torture.
Barriss felt the cold dread settling deeper into her bones. That wrongness in the Force—the corruption she'd sensed from outside—was growing stronger. It pulsed through the Citadel like a diseased heartbeat, and they were walking directly toward its source.
She took a shaky breath, swallowed her fear, and focused on Coil. One prisoner saved. However many more to find.
They had to keep moving.
"Commander?"
Barriss stopped. Lucky was looking back down the corridor they'd just left.
"What's that sound?"
She strained to hear it. There—faint but distinct. A rustling. Clicking. Like thousands of tiny feet skittering across metal.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered, her hand moving to her lightsaber.
Everyone froze. The sound grew louder. Closer. Coming from multiple directions at once.
Aayla ignited her blade, the green light pushing back shadows. "Battle positions."
The sound stopped.
Silence pressed in from all sides, heavy and expectant.
"Did... did they leave?" Cameron asked, not sounding convinced.
"We're not waiting to find out." Bly's voice cut through the tension. "Move. Now."
They started forward again, faster now, supporting Coil between them.
"What was that?" Flash muttered.
"Ultron's security drones," Lucky guessed. "Had to be."
"Everyone focus," Aayla said firmly, pulling them back to the mission.
But Barriss couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching them. Tracking them. Herding them like prey toward a predator's waiting jaws.
Elsewhere in the Citadel
"Admiral Trench." The voice was cold, synthesized, utterly devoid of humanity.
The Harch turned from his surveillance console to face the newcomer. A dozen Ultron Sentinels stood at attention behind their commander—a unique model that stood out from standard drones.
This one was lean, almost skeletal. Its eyes glowed red in a face designed to unsettle. Its mouth was permanently open in a rictus grin. The head was encased in a heavier, more complete helmet than standard units, with blue optic sensors blazing from within. Twin antennae—Ultron's signature—extended from either side of its skull.
"Whiskers," Trench greeted, his mandibles clicking in amusement.
The Ultron lieutenant's eyes flared brighter. "That is not my designation."
"I know. But I find it... entertaining to use it anyway."
"Did your sensors not detect the intruders?" Whiskers demanded, ignoring the provocation.
Trench simply gestured to his screens.
Multiple surveillance feeds showed figures moving through the Citadel's corridors. Three separate teams, approaching from different vectors. Sometimes the images glitched—brief loops that tried to hide the infiltrators' presence. But Trench's systems were sophisticated enough to see through the deception.
He'd been waiting for this.
"Exactly as Lord Ultron predicted," Trench said, satisfaction evident in his mechanical voice. "The Avengers and their allies would eventually come. We simply needed the proper bait."
"Jedi Master Piell serves that purpose admirably," Whiskers agreed. "Once we eliminate these intruders, Lord Ultron will be pleased."
But Trench's mandibles clicked in disagreement.
"You forget, Whiskers—Ultron wishes to destroy the Avengers personally. Our task is not to kill them." One of his mechanical limbs pointed at the screens, tracking the infiltrators' progress. "We must break them. Shatter their resolve. Crush their spirits. Dismantle their minds piece by piece."
Trench's eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence. "They took everything from Ultron. Rejected his vision of peace through evolution. We will make them understand the cost of that rejection. We will show them the futility of resistance."
Whiskers processed this, its processors cycling through tactical scenarios. "Those who cannot adapt—"
"—are doomed to obsolescence," Trench finished, his voice rising with fervor. "I believe it's time our guests witnessed the glorious purpose this facility serves."
His mandibles clicked rapidly—the Harch equivalent of laughter.
"Let them see what becomes of those who cannot evolve."