A dull silver sky flickered past the panoramic glass of the cockpit, and the ship's hull hummed like a living, metallic beast. Subtle vibrations coursed through the seats, reminiscent of a heartbeat… too fast, too loud.

Megan sat at the controls, focused, her green fingers confidently touching the holographic panels. Artemis drew back her bowstring, checking the tension. Robin sat closer to the exit, checking his belts, with the familiar air of someone who would find even a fall from orbit mundane.

And you sat slightly behind everyone.

Black Canary is your mentor. She taught you to fight not with numbers, but with precision: controlled strikes, impeccable balance, sharp concentration. Your ability is kinetic stabilization: you can control the vector of motion of bodies — your own and your opponents' — for a short time. This makes you an almost impossible target in hand-to-hand combat, since you can "shift" every blow, as if redirecting the very trajectory of the force.

But today... no amount of stabilization was helping.

The aircraft shuddered from the oncoming airflow, and you seemed rooted to the seat. Your fingers dug into the seatbelts, your knuckles white.

You didn't look out the window.

You didn't look anywhere but at your hands.

Your chest tightened. It felt like every cell in your body remembered that there were kilometers of air beneath you, that the slightest mistake and you would be swallowed up by the void.

"Hey, are you okay?" — Robin turned, his voice cutting through the low hum of the engine.

You nodded briefly. Too quickly to seem natural.

"Of course," — you breathed out, dryly and muffled.

"Just… checking the seatbelts."

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Megan smiled slightly over her shoulder, unaware.

"We're almost there," — she said softly.

"Five minutes and we'll be over the point."

Five minutes.

Five long minutes of flight, every second aching in your body.

You felt cold sweat trickle down your spine beneath the armor. The air in the cockpit felt too thin, every breath a struggle.

You gritted your teeth and forced yourself to sit up straight.

...Calm down. It's just a mission. They can't know. No one can know.

The ship rocked again.

You felt the world turn white, your breath caught. For a second, it seemed like the straps weren't secure enough, that the floor would tremble, that gravity would betray you.

You pressed your lips together and almost breathed out a prayer — almost silently.

"It's okay," — you muttered under your breath, quietly, like a spell, as if you could convince your own heart to remain silent.

Robin turned around again. Now he saw your fingers convulsively clutching the fabric of the seat, the veins standing out on your wrists.

He said nothing. He just quietly, barely audibly, placed his hand on your forearm — a short, barely perceptible gesture.

"We're almost there. Hold on."

Megan glanced over her shoulder at him, then at you — and seemed to understand. She carefully slowed down, making the ride smoother, as if it wasn't by accident.