[ Attachment, as Yondu always liked to remind him, was a dangerous thing. You build a foundation, and it's liable to crack when the ground shakes, liable to become weak with age. Better to live like air. Better to always be on the move, to not be tied down to anyone or anything.
But his Ravager instinct had died down, ever since the mess with the Infinity Stone. Peter had become less selfish, somehow; he let the barriers he had built for twenty-six years come crashing down for four assholes, four goddamn idiots. And now he had friends. And turning a new leaf had put him on a new path, had led him to Kasumi, and goddamn, is he glad it did. He's never met anyone like her -- witty, clever, gorgeous -- and when friendship started to turn to something more, he had thought, Fuck it, and finally grew roots, wrapped them around the people most important to him. His life was going fan-fucking-tastic. He was the happiest he had been in twenty-six long years.
He should've known it was coming, when everything was going so well.
Peter had been separated from the group after celebrating a job well done. He was dragged into a dark alleyway and slammed against a wall, a Ravager pinning his arms on either side. He hardly knew what was happening until a familiar whistle echoed against the walls, and the sharp tip of Yondu's arrow nicked the skin of his throat. He went rigid in the Ravagers' hands, head tipped back and breath held as Yondu grinned at him.
"You owe me a debt, boy," the Centaurian said. And when Peter sneered, ready to throw back some smart-ass response, Yondu whistled again, and the tip dug further into Peter's skin. He could feel something warm flowing down his neck, catching in the collar of his shirt, and wisely kept his mouth shut.
"You owe me, boy," Yondu repeated, and the grin disappeared. "You owe me big. And I'm gonna get what I'm owed, d'you hear? Either from you or your--" and here Yondu sneered, voice dripping with distaste -- "your friends."
At Peter's unimpressed look, Yondu drew closer, crossing his arms. And when he said, "I hear you got yourself a girl, Quill," Peter's heart sank.
By now it's been a few months, and Peter's come to think of this as conscription, working with the Ravagers again. Like serving in a shitty, pointless war -- and he even has a standard issue uniform again. The red leather duster with the flame insignia on the upper arm. Like comin' home, ain't it, Quill? Yondu said, slapping him on the shoulder. And much like serving in a war, there's no end in sight; seeing as how he promised Yondu something upwards of four billion units, Peter's pretty much stuck here. Which is about what he expected a year or two ago, before all the shit with Ronan, so, really, it's not so bad.
And hey, he thinks, better that he's here on the Eclector than Yondu taking it out on the others, right? Better than taking it out on Kasumi. And at least Yondu had let him send a quick message to everyone to keep them from mounting a rescue mission. Promise I'm fine. Back when I can be. Talk to you soon. A little vague on details, sure, but with Yondu breathing down his neck as he spoke, there wasn't much else he could say.
They don't let him take the good jobs anymore, for obvious reasons, so he's stuck playing lookout most of the time. Today he finds himself on a mining colony that reminds him a bit of Knowhere; the other Ravagers are mounting some bank heist, and he's supposed to let them know if the authorities pass by. He's leaning his shoulder against the lip of an alleyway, ankles crossed, and he's-- clearly doing a pretty bad job of keeping an eye out, since he's mostly fiddling with his Walkman. ]
[ "Promise I'm fine. Back when I can be. Talk to you soon." were too few words to go on for months without knowing anything else about Peter's situation. Just how soon is soon, Quill? was what Kasumi thought every time she checked to see if maybe, just maybe, he'd sent an update. But she dealt with it, for a little while, trusting that he'd make good on his word.
That is, until she found out that he wasn't on the Milano with the rest of the Guardians. It had been, thankfully, Gamora that she inadvertently reached when she sent a message through the private comm, poking around for an update in case he could spare the time. And it was Gamora who had to break it to her: "...Goto, he's not with us. We were separated a few months ago. We thought you knew."
That's when Kasumi's heart sank--why hadn't she bothered to confirm this when she got the message months ago, instead of assuming the it meant that he was going to be away with the Guardians for a while? Gamora, and probably the rest of the Guardians, were probably the only living individuals in this galaxy at that point to have ever witnessed Kasumi in a panic. Even if it had been a veiled, controlled panic over the comm channel, it was still panic and they weren't sure how to deal with her--only knew to answer her questions. "We're certain the Ravagers took him," they said.
"Ravagers?" Kasumi paused. There had been a job, sometime ago, before Peter disappeared, during which she may or may not have swiped a target just a split second before the Ravagers; her contact had warned her that she'd be pissing them off, but at the time, Kasumi didn't particularly care. "So? They can join the club." were her exact words to the contact. Then it was "Damn it!" over the comm, startling the other Guardians, as she realized she gave them reason to track her down and--god, Peter, I'm so sorry. It was too easy to connect the dots and come to the very possible conclusion that she had been used as leverage, if they really did take him, of which Kasumi had been convinced at that point.
What followed then was a mad frenzy of data gathering, calling in a few favors, and even asking for help from the Shadow Broker, just to find out where exactly the Ravagers would be and when, and how Peter was doing. The latter hadn't turned up anything, and when Liara noticed that the typically enigmatic and playful thief was clearly perturbed and asked if she was okay, all Kasumi could say was, "No news is good news."
It had been somewhat of a challenge to coordinate this entire effort with the rest of the Guardians, somehow, despite the fact that they were all mutually invested in finding Peter (even if some of them would not like to admit as much out loud), but all that matters to her is that they're on the mining colony now, and Kasumi's somehow convinced them that letting her scout ahead while they wait at the Milano, while the more prudent course of action, is the best way to ensure this whole operation goes smoothly.
She's cloaked and grace under pressure doesn't even begin to describe her level of focus. While the initial shock of him being gone certainly sent her into a panic, it's more than enough for her to know that he's alive and she can actually do something about it. Still, she has to very consciously keep herself from leaping out of cover and out of her cloak when she finally, finally spots him in an alley, looking bored as hell.
Instead, she nestles herself in the shadows of the alley, just to make sure that none of the other Ravagers see her deactivate the cloak before she says, very quietly from behind Peter: ]
[ It's been a couple weeks since the weirdness at the warehouse, and Peter and Charlie have scarcely said a word to each other.
While Charlie has been trying to figure out if there was anything remotely genuine about those strange, stolen moments where everything was wonderful and complete and right, Peter seems to have stopped giving a fuck and cranked the flirting up to eleven.
And the thing that bothers Charlie is that he's bothered by it. It's become abundantly clear that Peter Quill doesn't do feelings, and seems to have no regard for anyone else around him. It's infuriating. Charlie's asked himself again and again why he's still hung up on this asshole, and he has no answer, which only seems to annoy him more.
And so Charlie Maxwell, with his infinite well of patience and understanding, has reached his breaking point. Sitting in the corner of some dingy bar that's nearly identical to all the other dingy bars the team seems to frequent, silently seething as he watches Peter lean on the bar and flirt shamelessly with some long-legged lady with pink skin.
He refuses to watch Peter charm his way into someone else's bed again. Refuses to let him continue to ignore him.
He's not even subtle about it. He sketches a spell with quick, angry motions, drawing arched eyebrows from the others at the table who aren't too wasted to notice the glowing marks hovering in front of him.
The glass in Peter's hand, fresh from the bartender and nearly completely full, jerks out of his hand, splashing its contents all over the bar and Peter's prospects. Charlie just leans back in his chair with a look of bitter, petty satisfaction. ]
Well, whatever. It'll be fine, as long as he just keeps using nicknames.
She laughs behind her hand as the bartender leaves another tumbler of some emerald-colored alcohol, and Peter can barely remember what joke it was he'd just told as he pulls the glass closer. He lifts it by the glass's lip, holds it between his fingertips. He's-- he feels really fucking distracted. He's off his game tonight, but -- was it Drulyara? -- seems to be playing along with him well enough. There's something sharp in her gaze that he finds compelling, like she knows more than she's letting on.
It also helps that she's seriously easy on the eyes. Curves in all the places he finds attractive, and-- she's blonde. He's been going for a lot of blondes, lately. He tries not to examine that too closely.
(Because he's been running from this problem the only way he knows how. He doesn't know what's happening with him, but all he can fucking think about, lately, is him, and that blissful feeling on the rooftop, that completeness. He can only think about how much he wants to experience it again, but he's terrified of what it means.
Because Peter Jason Quill does not do relationships. And he hates that some weird, alien trigger has decided on-- what? A boyfriend? A mate? A soulmate? What? -- for him, before his mind even has a chance to catch up.
Because Peter knows what love looks like. It's lonely and sad. It's a quiet house and an extra seat at the dinner table, "just in case." It's watching the night sky every time there's a meteor shower, waiting with bated breath, and heading back inside disappointed. It's reliving the same stories through rose-colored lenses. It's wasting away on sheets that aren't your own, in a room that smells of disinfectant and antiseptic, still holding out hope that they'll be there for you.
And thanks, but no thanks. Peter doesn't want any of that.)
He smiles, leans in close. Hey, Beautiful, what would you say to finding somewhere more private? You know, get to know each other on a more... personal level?
She hums thoughtfully and leans in as well. His breath hitches, and he thinks she's coming in for a kiss, but instead--
"Do you remember what my name is, darling?"
Oh, fuck.
Of course I do, and he says it with a laugh. What kinda asshole do you take me for?
"What is it, then?"
Shit, shit, shit. He ventures a guess, but says it with utmost confidence: Dahylia.
It's at that moment that the glass flies out of his hand, and the two of them yelp in surprise. The emerald liquid sloshes on the bartop, and Peter fucking seethes. He knows exactly what happened, and Lord help him, he's going to fucking throttle that guy--
Peter's distracted from his rage when the blonde harumphs and gathers up her things. "It's Preela," she tells him sharply, "you prick." And then she glares daggers at him as he sweeps out of the bar.
He apologizes to the bartender, who's glaring at him too as he wipes up the mess, and leaves him a big tip. He breathes, in and out -- once, twice, a million fucking times, -- and his hands are clenched into shaking fists as he tries to calm himself down. He is not going to let that guy get to him. Absolutely not. He is not going to give Charlie that satisfaction. He is not going to go over there and tell him off. He is not. He absolutely. Is. Not.
But then he's at Charlie's table before he realizes it, hands splayed on the surface as he leans in. ]
[ So sometimes life with the Guardians is rough; sometimes jobs go south (way south), sometimes jobs are just few and far between; sometimes they only have enough fuel to get them to the next station, where they're forced to split up and take local bounties and beat the tar out of criminals for cash.
Sometimes taking local bounties also means setting elaborate traps. Staging illicit deals or trades of goods; pretending to be some sort of hacking wizard to catch out some crime syndicate or other; flirting with a really hot chick to get her to bring you back to her den of terrors, then having the team bust in at the last second to arrest her.
A day or two later, and Peter's wrists are still raw from the rope burns. (Because for a second there, he honestly thought the guys wouldn't show up at all. For a second, he honestly thought he was on his own, and only realized, as the woman's knife was swinging down, how very screwed he was.
But Gamora swooped in, blocked the blow and knocked the woman the fuck out, and Peter had nearly kissed the Zehoberi once she'd untied him.
But he didn't. Of course he didn't. Because he's pretty sure Gamora would have gladly stabbed him in place of their serial killer.)
The only consolation is that they have enough cash now to take get some much-needed supplies, which the group has sent Gamora and Peter to purchase. Apparently sending Peter on his own for the supply runs is out of the cards after the last time he was nearly arrested by local law enforcement -- evidently, while the Nova Corps had wiped their records, not everyone had gotten that memo.
They're nearly done -- just the matter of picking up the last packages of MREs and various snacks -- when Peter frowns, shifting the bags in his arms as he turns and sniffs.
There's something-- salty in the air. Buttery, but light. And it's seriously familiar, instantly bringing to mind movie theaters and sticky floors and dark rooms filled with seats and watching raptly as Bruce Willis single-handedly fought off a group of high-class robbers--
Holy shit, it's popcorn. ]
Hey. Do you smell that? Please tell me you smell that.
[ It's saying a whole fucking lot about Peter Quill's luck that even something as basic as shopping can go so goddamn wrong.
The two of them were just getting a deal on fuel; Peter knew a guy who'd get them set up with a nice discount, and once that was done, they were supposed to get some parts for the Milano. Only that was scrapped, because Peter had the distinct feeling that not only were they being watched, they were being followed. And a quick glance around yielded a couple of revelations: 1.) They were being followed by at least two Kree, and 2.) Those guys did not give a fuck that Peter noticed.
So that was a bad sign. That basically spelled Trouble, capital T. But, okay, nothing the two of them couldn't handle, right?
Wrong.
Peter nodded Charlie into a side alley, figuring that if it was going to come to blows, it would be best to do it away from civilians. No need to get anyone caught up in the crossfire, right? And that was the first mistake of the day, because a third Kree is already waiting there for them; and when Peter tries to turn them back around, who should appear but Kree One and Kree Two?
The fight was short but brutal, and Peter's pretty sure they put at least one of the guys out of commission. Maybe two. But it was hard to tell, really, because suddenly there's a sharp crack against his ribs, then to the side of his head, and then the ground is rushing up to meet him, and he thinks he hears someone calling his name except it's muffled, like there's cotton in his ears, and everything goes black.
He's not sure how long he's out, but when he comes to, he's face down on cold, unyielding concrete. His head aches, and it hurts to breathe, and fuck, today just really isn't his day. Trying to push himself up makes him quickly realize that his wrists are bound tightly behind his back, and he distantly thinks, I hope this is fun rope, not bad rope, although judging by his injuries, he knows it's the latter.
Rolling onto his good side, he takes stock of the situation. Blasters are gone, it seems like. Helmet attachment and his jet attachments, too. Thank god he left his Walkman on the Milano, today, otherwise he'd flip the fuck out. By the looks of it, he's in some kind of loading dock. Ramps. Crates. Pallets. Carts. So that's a thing. He can figure out how to use that, somehow, once his brain stops trying to explode out of his skull. Man, this is gonna be an awesome story to tell--
Oh, fuck. ]
Charlie!
[ His voice is hoarse, scratchy, and he does nothing to hide his panic.
Shit. Shit. How could he forget? (Oh, right, he had his brains rattled. Still, that shouldn't give him a pass.) His body protests as he hauls himself up into a kneel, and he groans when the room starts spinning, trying to topple him back over. He can't tell if he imagined the way his ribs grate, but either way, that seriously can't be good, right? ]
[ Charlie is... well, it's safe to say he's not doing well.
Peter had still been out when Charlie came to, and while they'd bound his wrists, they'd neglected to secure his fingers. He could still cast, and then it was a simple matter of getting his and Peter's bindings off. Getting out had been another issue, with Peter down for the count and Charlie feeling rather like he'd been used as a pinata.
When one of their captors walked in and found Charlie up walking around, it had gone to hell pretty quickly. Charlie threw everything he could at them, crates and carts, everything. But while Charlie had a lot of stuff on his side, what he didn't have was the luxury of time. Spells any more complex than flinging stuff around took precious seconds he could not afford, and he was quickly overwhelmed.
He'd gotten a few good blows in, but they beat the shit out of him for it. One of them even deigned to step on his hands- the way they rest awkwardly where they're bound behind his back is a pretty sure sign that they're broken. He's lying near Peter, sucking in ragged, shallow breaths. His face is bloodied and bruised, and the rest of him isn't in very good shape either.
He makes a quiet, pained noise when Peter calls his name. Still here. Still conscious, but barely. ]
[ It has been a very long few weeks. Charlie has been healing, recovering from the beating delivered by a trio of Kree maniacs- and while it sure has't taken as long as it would have with Earth's brand of medicine, a few weeks without the use of his hands has felt like a lifetime.
He did a lot of thinking, mostly. Making mental notes and adjustments for projects he had going around the ship, thinking of ways to keep shit like that from happening again.
And even after that, he had to ease into things. Slowly working out the kinks in dormant muscles with little exercises and minimal casting. (Though that didn't stop he and Peter from spending quite a while making sure the other knew how grateful they were to be alive and in one piece.) It was a long, slow process, which left Charlie feeling more like dead weight than anything, but things are returning to normalcy by degrees.
Which is when Peter approaches him one day with a job- a job at a very large estate that will involve dancing and socializing and wearing a suit. (But also gathering information on the owner of said estate for a business rival, but that was hardly important.) While Charlie put on an act of being annoyed- saying it was fine, but Peter owed him a real, actual date one day for the love of God- he was actually a little thrilled. Growing up, he actually enjoyed all of the parties and galas and honest-to-God balls his parents would force him to attend. He was good at dancing and being charming, and for a few hours at least he didn't feel like such a failure.
He wanders into the common area of the Milano just as he's finishing buttoning his jacket. He's got no idea where the hell they dug this suit up, but it fits perfectly. (He probably has Gamora to thank for that.) ]
[ For someone who's made a living out of being a liar and a social chameleon at times, one would think that Peter would be at home at a high-class party. Elegant men and women with no shortage of things to steal, plenty of drinks, dancing -- it would seem the exact sort of thing Peter would love.
As it is, he's not a huge fan. Sure, he's crashed an occasional shindig or two, scoped out mansions or acted as a bodyguard, but there's a lot of posturing that he doesn't like. A lot of politics. And Peter's used to being one of only a handful of liars at any given time. At these sorts of things? It's him and over half the guests.
But, hey, at least he can take Charlie along. If nothing else, he'll have company at this stupid thing. It's not the date they had planned that afternoon in the hospital, and that sucks, but it's close. A warm-up date, maybe?
Peter's already in the common area, dressed and ready to go -- and feeling more than a little exposed without his helmet attachment or his guns. He's trying to figure out if there's any way to sneak in a weapon without being overly obvious when Charlie enters. He turns and-- ]
Yeah, just let me--
[ --suddenly realizes, Oh fuck Charlie's fucking hot. How the hell did he forget that?
And oh, hey, one more thing: how do words work again? ]
[ One of the biggest mistakes most people make when meeting Peter Quill is assuming that he's an open book. He may wear his emotions on his sleeve, and he may not have much of a filter when it comes to speaking, but keeping his past under tight lock and key has become a matter of course.
So one of the awkward things about being in a relationship, such as it is, is that Peter dances around the topic of his history with a surprising amount of grace. Topic changes. Redirects. Jokes. Charlie's been a lot more forthcoming with his past than Peter has with his -- which is saying a whole lot, considering Peter doesn't have much of a past to share in comparison.
The thing of it is, there are certain aspects of Peter's life that he'd rather forget. Like how the Ravagers once had him convinced when he was ten years old that on certain planets, shadows came to life and ate the souls of unsuspecting children. Or how once, when he was twenty-one, he'd gotten swindled out of his clothes during a game of Ellusian Ten. More recently, he refuses to talk about the fact that his former mentor and adopted family probably wants to kill him.
After all, they lost a lot of good men that day, and because of Peter, the only profit the Ravagers saw for it was a PR coup with the Nova Corps.
At this point, the Guardians haven't had any run-ins with the Ravagers, which is just as well to Peter. He has no clue what might happen whenever they do, though he's narrowed it down to a choice few scenarios. For one, Yondu might simply demand the Guardians pay him back the billions of units they promised him. For another, he could rope the Guardians into a job, coerce them into helping under pain of death. Or, he might kidnap Peter, force him to work and work and work until they miraculously break even.
Peter's bet? An arrow whistled straight through his throat, without even a chance to speak.
They have time between assignments, and despite previous experience, Charlie and Peter are out on their own for another supply run. They've just finished arranging for the goods to be sent to the ship when Peter thinks he sees a familiar flash of red in the crowd. He turns a little, eyes scanning the area and-- there it is again. At least five guys, and--
He catches the briefest glimpse of blue, and the color drains from his face.
He murmurs, ] Oh, fuck me.
[ He grabs Charlie's shoulders and physically turns him around. ]
Go back to the ship. Tell the guys to put the Milano on lock-down. If you don't hear from me in an hour, take off without me. Got it?
[ If there's one thing that Charlie has learned about the enigma that is Peter Jason Quill, it's that he has this weird desire to Deal With Things by himself. Sometimes that's all well and good, some things are personal and need to be dealt with by oneself. Sometimes, though, they involve shitty plans for escaping terrible situations, or stuff Peter just doesn't want other people to see, in which case, he makes dumbass calls that make no sense and will likely get him hurt or worse.
Charlie is not much of a fan of the latter, which is why he doesn't make a move to go anywhere. ]
[Ai Thao has made herself at home on Peter Quill's spaceship, the Milano after their action packed and harrowing heist. She's seated herself next to the tiny treelike creature that's napping in its pot while warming her hands with a cup of sweet and dark coffee. She's taking it easy now that they don't have to face any immediate danger within the deepness of space. It's been fun and all and while Ai would love to explore more, she's about due for a return trip to Earth.
She seems content, with her coffee and examining baby Groot.]
[ Peter slides into a seat across from her, once his own mug of coffee is ready. (Black and just a touch of whatever sweetener they have out here at the ass end of the galaxy.) ]
Well, I guess he's magical in the way that, like, rainbows are magical? But nah, he's 100% Groot. Alien.
[ Desert planets are a dime a dozen, it seems like, but this one is particularly out of the way. It's only recently come up on the universe's radar, having been isolated for a long, long time. But after the near-destruction of every human on the planet and the timely arrival of a fleet of ships, things seem to be looking up for this place. Spaceports have been opened, technology was finally catching up, though most of the planet remains largely lawless.
Well, no. It's largely desert. But there are a lot of small towns that are largely lawless. This place is just a huddle of buildings, crowded against an outcropping of rocks in a sea of sand. Barely enough to be called a town. But there's an inn, a bar, a place to park your spaceship, and no shortage of people willing to do less-than-honest things to make a little money. What more could you want?
Perhaps a little bizarrely, the bar in question also seems to have a resident musician. A resident jazz musician, taking up space on a small raised platform that passes for a stage, playing away on his saxophone. ]
[ One of the nice things of being a former criminal is that you're not particularly fussed about what jobs you get or where the money's coming from. Sure, some of the seriously immoral shit gets thrown right out (they're not touching anything that has to drugs or slave trafficking, for instance), but the Guardians don't mind work that falls more on the black side of the grey-morality-spectrum, especially when it comes at a profit.
And on this planet, practically every job fell more to one side than the other.
Which is just as well for them, considering their methods and execution could, on occasion, be a little-- rough, which has gotten them into hot water more than once. So it comes as a relief to end up in a place where jobs can be completed by "any means necessary." Gives them the chance to get it out of their system -- or at the very least, that's the hope. They've decided to go with the divide and conquer approach, this time around. Lets everyone stretch their legs, be their own boss. (And they almost always realize how spoiled they are for working as a team, in the end.)
Peter's at the bar with a celebratory drink, squinting at the musician thoughtfully. Mostly because he's pretty sure that's a saxophone, and he's pretty sure he hasn't seen one anyplace except Earth. Which is weird. Like, a cool weird. Like running into an old friend you haven't seen for ages and catching up over coffee. It also helps that the musician is, like, fucking killing it. Peter had entered the bar in between sets, and when he first spotted it, he was sure it was going to be a disaster -- just some dude messing around on a foreign instrument with no clue as to how it should sound. But, no, he was proven wrong, and it's a nice little surprise after a day of hard work.
His own job had been little more than an escorting a shipment of rations -- at least at first blush. But there's good money to be made in the sale of food stuffs and water filters, so naturally there were also bandits and guns and shooting, and Peter was glad for the distraction after hours of staring at crates. Sure, he didn't manage to wrangle all of the assholes to ship them off to whatever passed as jail here, but he got most of them, and the shipment got where it needed to go. And that's what he should really be worried about, right?
Actually, no, what Peter should actually be worried about is the gang of bedraggled, singed, and above all angry men who are passing by the bar, being yelled at by what Peter would later describe as a wall of solid brick, much to Drax's confusion. The doors to the establishment are wide open, allowing in what little breeze there is to brush through the stuffy room, and the flash of maroon is unmistakable to the men -- especially since half of their fellows had recently been captured by the man wearing it. The bandits are quick to point him out, and soon the giant man is ducking into the bar, tapping Peter on the shoulder. When Star-Lord turns, he's picked up by the collar of his shirt, and flung bodily into a set of tables.
Sorry about the interruption, jazz guy. Just-- play around it or something? ]
[ It doesn't take Rose long to disappear; she'd appreciated what Peter had done more than he probably realized but she couldn't jeopardize him or the others any more than she already had. He could say it was fine six ways to Sunday but there were the constant what ifs that plagued her brain until she couldn't take it anymore. Once the tracker was out, she hung around for a few days and was a pretty fun stowaway. She took part in the ideas tossed around to take down Hiromitsu, hung out with Groot a lot, and naturally never said or did anything indicative of her plans to leave. Then one night she vanished without a trace.
She didn't even leave a note. What a jerk.
Rose had always like to listen and people had always liked to talk. She was a natural at saying nothing about herself yet finding out more than her fair share about other people from watching, listening, and knowing just how much a smile makes a difference. Turns out there was a job for that sort of talent. An informant. She unfortunately couldn't work with law enforcement due to her circumstances but she could freelance. The galaxy was full of information just waiting to be discovered and shared; secrets, she quickly learned, have a surprisingly high value.
But she also quickly learned that she couldn't live on secrets alone. While she may have gotten a little rusty and it was dangerous to throw herself into a ring again, it's the only way she really knows to get some fast cash. There was only so much money in information-sharing. Most people wanted to pay her in knowledge in return and that was fine but it didn't fill her stomach or pay her way to the next planet. It didn't keep her moving.
She was smart enough to cover her tracks. Careful not to draw too much attention or get caught. So picking up a challenge or two in some shady system in her down time didn't hurt.
Only it kind of did.
Everything always comes in threes. That's the saying, isn't it?
Three cracked ribs. Three missing teeth. Three inches of her hair chopped off (though only on one side). Three very large, nasty bruises on her person that are indicative of a deeper problem below the surface. Only one shiner, thankfully, but she only has two eyes to be blackened in the first place. Thank the gods she didn't have more or else she might really have had three black eyes.
All things considered, it isn't a bad outcome for a fight as harrowing as that one. Rose does her best to power through the pain - just as she always has - but judging from the way her vision swims and breathing is more a wheezing, she isn't doing as well as she's trying to pretend she is. Maybe she'll just lean against this wall to think her options over. It's totally not for stability or anything. Nope. Not in the slightest.
Don't mind her as she slumps against said wall and slooowwwllllyyyy starts to slide down it. She's totally fine. Totally. Just -
[ It hadn't been as difficult as he'd thought to get the team to accept their new charge; in fact, after he had explained the situation to them, they'd seemed pretty eager to help, in their own ways. Gamora never considered herself a gentle person, but she was kind to Rose. Drax was fatherly in a way he hadn't been in some time. Rocket -- well, he was gruff, as was his way, but he at least didn't actively make Rose feel unwelcome, which was really as close to "nice" as he got. And Groot was Groot. The guy was the most generous person Peter had ever met, save for Mom. It was little wonder that Rose found herself gravitating to the guy as much as she had. Peter entertained thoughts that maybe Rose could stay; she fit in pretty well, after all, and she was a hell of a fighter (though she was mum about where she learned her skills). But more than that, Peter just liked talking to her, reminiscing about Earth and talking about movies and TV shows, singing half-remembered songs.
And then one night they docked, went to celebrate a job well done. Rose had stayed behind, saying she wasn't feeling well, and while Peter offered to stay to keep her company, she declined, told him to have fun. It's only in retrospect that he realized he should have pressed more, because when they came back, she and what few possessions she had (mostly small trinkets the team had gotten her while they were out and about) were gone. He wonders still if it was something he said, or something the others had done, or if maybe something from her past had caught up with her. He had scoured the ship, looking for any clues, but-- no. The ship was clean. Rose walked off, locked the ship up behind her as he'd taught her, and disappeared.
Sadly, that's about par for the course in the strange life of one Peter Jason Quill. People flit in and out of his life. The only constant had been the Ravagers, before, who only seemed to tolerate him, and the Guardians, now, who were just one big fluke. Everyone else either wanted something from him or expected him to be dead soon. He wonders, Which category did Rose fall under?
Life moved on, though, and Peter along with it. There wasn't time to mope, not when the Guardians had to make a living; so they picked up jobs, took up contracts, went after bounties. All the while, though, Peter kept an eye out for that flash of blonde hair. Just in case, he thought. Maybe she's in trouble. Or maybe she's not, and I can say hi. Or maybe I can ask her just what the hell I did to make her leave? The Nova Corps is keeping them busy, feeding them what little information they've received in their ongoing investigation into Hiromitsu. The Guardians decided early on that if they were going to take down that slave ring, they needed to do it right, through the proper legal channels -- otherwise they risked the chance of getting it wrong, cutting off a limb that would only regenerate down the line. As luck would have it, though, the investigation found them a few leads, not all of them tied directly to Hiromitsu. They managed to bust a few weapons dealers, a handful of drug traffickers, and more recently, they've taken to cracking down on illegal fighting rings.
The Guardians of the Galaxy are busting into the building just as Rosie is limping out -- but Peter still catches sight of her as the door swings shut. He's nearly about to run after her when the shooting starts, and then everything's a blur -- fighting viciously and dirty to end things as soon as possible, because Peter's got shit to do, douchelords, can we hurry this up, please?
The second the last man falls, Peter leaps over the table he had taken cover behind (ignoring the alarmed shouts from his teammates telling him to wait) and bursts through the door leading to the back alley. The heavy metal door slams against the brick of the wall, the noise echoing through the narrow streets. ]
--Rose!
[ Evidently she didn't make it too far, since he finds her at the mouth of the alley. He rushes over and kneels in front of her, pressing the switch behind his ear to retract his helmet. The mask withdraws from his face, leaving blue light in its wake, to reveal a very concerned Peter staring down at her. He hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, examining what injuries he can see on the surface. ]
Rose, hey-- [ His voice is gentle but shaky -- obviously panicked and worried. ] Hey-- long time no see, huh? Eyes on me, okay? Can you do that for me?
[Ai Thao has more or less proven herself to be a fairly valuable asset when it came to assisting Peter "Star-Lord" Quill on his man (mis)adventures in the vastness of space. She's been able to see and experience so many things outside of the tiny blue home planet she knows as Earth and honestly, it's been liberating in a fascinating way she's not sure she's able to put into words. That isn't to say this space travel doesn't have its downsides...
Like trying to be polite to aliens who are trying to get to know her TOO well while they trying to locate a contact that would give them information in a rather popular and crowded bar. Ai's strayed behind Peter after being held up by a particular tall blue fellow.]
"Don't see too many Terran 'round these parts. Whaddya say? I'll buy you a drink. Two even!"
Ah... I-I'm not old enough for that.
[18... So close, but so far...]
"No need to worry about arbitrary rules like that, c'mon!"
[ Peter pulls ahead, not realizing Ai's predicament, and he spots the contact some paces away. He turns to look back at her and nod towards the man, but--
Well, shit. She's not there.
He has a sort of mini panic attack at that moment as he weaves his way back through the crowd, bumping into more than a few drunk assholes on the way. (Those that don't apologize find their pockets slightly lighter.) When he spots Ai and her new blue friend, he breathes a sigh of relief, even despite the obvious discomfort on her face. ]
There you are. [ He shoves past the blue alien, who lets out an outraged squawk. Peter opts to ignore him. ] I told you to stick close by, kid. Some of the folks out here are really shady.
[ He turns to the blue alien with a bright grin, gratitude written on his every feature. ]
Thanks so much for keeping an eye on her, sir. It was kind of you. Now, we've wasted enough of your time. Have a lovely night.
[ And he takes Ai's hand and sweeps past the stranger without so much as a glance back. ]
[ It's about time that things caught up to Kasumi.
She should have known there was something suspicious about this last tech run for the Crucible project. It had taken her to a derelict research station further out in the fringes of the Milky Way in Batarian space, which was already a red flag; that area of the galaxy was generally known to be a Reaper fest, being the first door the giant cuttlefish figuratively kicked down in their mass arrival from dark space. But the scientists and engineers on the project were adamant about recovering tech from the derelict station, citing its importance in the completion of the Crucible, and Kasumi found herself unable to turn it down. It's why she's called on the Guardians to help her on this job--not only is it incredibly dangerous, but she knows both she and Peter would rest easier if they went into the thick of it together.
Kasumi gets there first, because of course she does, but mostly it's because of her being relatively closer from her last job. It had been her who insisted on making the rendezvous at the station, rather than on some asteroid belt or anywhere prior to the job, if only by virtue of their respective flight vectors. Meeting up beforehand would have added days of travel to the overall job, and with the galaxy on the brink of destruction, they don't really have the luxury of time.
She will, however, come to regret this decision upon her arrival. It's quiet... too quiet, she thinks, even for an abandoned station. She does her standard run of checks before the Guardians arrive--cursory reconnaissance, really--checking schematics of the place, looking for heat signatures, locating the tech, anything, only to find nothing. It's not until she finds a secure comm frequency that she stumbles across radio chatter, and she's shocked to find that there's even any to begin with.
"Alpha team, what's your status? Any word?"
"Not yet. We haven't seen a thing since we picked up on a new arrival."
One of the voices sounds Batarian, giving her a degree of unease. Not because she has anything against Batarians, but because of her graybox. The Alliance black ops raid--the intel in Keiji's graybox--is one of humanity's best kept secrets at the moment, but Kasumi wouldn't be surprised if what little Batarians are left have made it their personal mission to exact revenge on the Alliance after what Shepard did. The other sounds--human, maybe? It wouldn't surprise her to know that a few humans have turned heel to join that cause, either. Extremists come in all shapes, sizes, races.
"If you can't see anything, then chances are it's the guest of honor. We'll get what we need from her soon enough."
"Yeah. It's time the Alliance paid for their crimes against Batarians and against the entire galaxy."
That's when it hits her. The people here really are out for Alliance blood, and--this--
This is a fucking trap.
"Beta team, any sign on her backup?"
"No, sir."
And she's inadvertently sent the Guardians, sent Peter into an ambush.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
When a highly-encrypted message comes through the Milano's emergency comms, flagged specifically for one Peter Jason Quill, a.k.a. Star-Lord, it doesn't come from the Nova Corps, this time. It doesn't come from Kasumi Goto, either. It comes through the Shadow Broker, a feat in and of itself, because--since when does the Shadow Broker personally deliver messages, much less to a crew like the Guardians?
The voice on the audio message, at least, is familiar. Because in this case, it is Kasumi's, and her voice is calm, level, but there would be no denying a current of veiled panic that runs beneath:
"Peter--love, I'm going to need you to stay calm and listen to what I'm about to say very carefully. I'm sending this through the Broker so there's no way to track this transmission--do not proceed with the rendezvous as planned. We've been had. There's something--a group here, with stealth tech to hide heat signatures, so I don't know how many of them there are, but... Please, don't come. Stay where you are, I'll figure out how to get out of here and find you, okay? They said something about wanting revenge against the Alliance--I think they want my graybox. So just--please, don't--"
[ When the message comes through, Peter at least has the presence of mind to keep calm, as she instructs. He listens to it all the way through with Gamora at his side -- they both had run to retrieve the message when the emergency alarm sounded through the ship.
When the feed cuts off, the silence in the comm room is deafening.
It's so absolute, that even Gamora with her nerves of steel jumps in surprise when the console shatters beneath Peter's fist.
The Milano was docked at a station when Kasumi's message came through, the crew readying itself to depart, but Gamora belays that, tells them the mission is compromised. After Peter had haphazardly bandaged his hand, he grabs his gear and makes a hasty exit. He's fast when he wants to be be, slippery, and Gamora loses sight of him in the crowd of refugees. They only realize he's left the station when Rocket patches into the station's security comms, a woman's calm voice reporting an injured Nova Corps officer and his missing patrol ship.
"Please, don't come."
Like hell he was staying put.
To Peter's credit, he's a damn good thief. Certainly not anywhere near Kasumi's caliber, but he was good enough all the same. And more than that, he knows his ships -- an old hobby from his teenage years that never quite went away. He knows Nova Corps ships have rudimentary cloaking and aside from that, were small enough to typically read as a blip on most ship's radars. He knows, too, that they aren't meant for deep space travel, as he's pushing it to do now, and that this ship will only be good for a one-way trip. Good enough, he thinks. It will have to do.
It has to do.
He ignores every wave from the Milano, every chirp in his ear signaling another message from his team. This is suicide, they said the first time he let them through. Turn around. Come back to us. You're not thinking straight, Quill.
He absolutely was, though, which they didn't seem to understand. There's a strange, icy sort of clarity in his mind telling him that if Kasumi doesn't make it out of that fucking station alive, then he's damn well making sure that no one will.
The ship dies on him at last, though he's not too far from the station when it does. It's for the best, anyway, since he had already planned to ditch it. Coat zipped, gloves on, mask deployed, he opens the ship's canopy and floats through the void, using his jets to close the distance between himself and the station. It's quick work to find himself an entrance -- a trash chute that opens readily after Peter clamps a device against the doors -- and when he enters the station properly, he switches to the private line he shares with Kasumi.
No voice, though. Just a texted message that reads, ]
["Have you seen the Dirty Dozen," the cops and government people asked, over and over again. "¿Has visto al Dirty Dozen?" This deal they were offering, that, legally, wasn't happening, was apparently going to be like that. In exchange for cleaned records, a band of five criminals would be trained and sent to infiltrate the operations of a South America-based crime-lord called "the Accuser".
This large, tan and tattooed man, legally, also wasn't handcuffed to a table in a private room in K____ prison; he was in his cell, serving his lifetime sentence. His name, according to his file, was once Arturo Dieguez. He was a Nevada native, a real-estate agent, and an amateur saxophone player; some years ago, he had a wife (Iveth) and daughter (Amarissa). A drive through the Mojave Desert ended with the family car being riddled with bullet-holes. Only the father came out alive. According to Dieguez, they had stumbled on some sordid business linked to an associate of "the Accuser" (but there wasn't enough evidence to prove his claim). After that point, Dieguez quit his job, trained, and joined underground fighting rings, under the name "el Durante" (the stubborn one, the durable one), whereupon his twenty-two counts of voluntary manslaughter and six counts of GBH took place. These men had it coming, he claimed, for their links to "the Accuser". His parents were undocumented, from an unidentified country, but he was born stateside. Nothing else was known.
He understood English, yet, for some undisclosed reason, refused to speak it; el Durante lived up to his title and paid no attention to the cops and government people and, instead, acted as if he didn't understand what they were offering. That was why one of the other criminals, being offered this same deal, had been sent to this legally non-happenstance.
As he'd greeted the others, el Durante sat, back-straight, and looked this fellow criminal in the eyes as he entered.]
[ Peter just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Peter frequently happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And by frequently, we mean pretty much 100% of the time, if his word was anything to go by. (Incidentally, his word tended to be untrustworthy -- he had always been gifted with a silver tongue; given enough time, he could talk his way out of more than his share of problems. Too bad it didn't tend to work when he was already caught red-handed.) His first mistake involved running and running and running when he wasn't quite ten, fleeing from a cold hospital room, where alarms were blaring and people were crying, and he had been screaming, over and over, begging and shouting and cursing.
(Please. I'll do anything. I promise. Please, bring her back.)
He ran, because he didn't know what else to do. He hid, because he didn't want to be found. He stole, because he needed to eat.
But eventually he ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time once again. He picked the wrong pocket. And after nursing the hand-shaped bruise on his wrist and surviving the loudest, angriest, most swear-filled lecture of his life detailing every mistake he made in the process of trying to snatch the man's wallet, Peter finds himself learning the ropes under the wing of one York Dixon.
For almost thirty years, anyway, before Peter finally decided (without any input from his mentor, of course) he could fly solo. Naturally, this led to his most recent mistake.
(His life is full of those.)
Peter ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, stumbling into a warehouse to steal some valuable gear or other; apparently the warehouse was a premiere destination, because he also happened to stumble upon a drug deal in the making, and suddenly the building was swarming with cops and feds, and despite his swearing up, down, front, back, and sideways that he had nothing to do with whatever deal was happening that night, it was a little more difficult to explain away the whole breaking and entering thing.
Then, one day, a slightly overweight cop wandered to his holding cell -- Inspector Day. Peter recognized the man, had run to him more than a few times over the course of their respective careers. Quill had no clue why the cop seemed to have a soft spot for him, though he suspected it had something to do with Day having watched him grow up, like Peter was some weird, delinquent, surrogate son. And that was fine, Peter figured, since it tended to help more than hinder.
The cop leaned against the bars, beckoned Peter close with a wave and a furtive look around. He said, "I think they're gonna cut you a deal." At Peter's dubious look, the inspector shrugged and asked sheepishly, "You ever seen The Dirty Dozen?"
("I don't like your chances," was what his court-appointed lawyer told him -- a thin, balding man with watery eyes and a birdlike nose. "The evidence is quite incriminating, Mr. Quill. Off the record? I advise you to take their offer.")
Peter's conversation with Inspector Day ended with a huge sigh, and he replied, "You're lucky I really like movies."
But what they don't tell Peter was that they were apparently using his gift of gab to convince the others they were looking to recruit. Somehow, he succeeded in getting the demolitions expert on board -- a squirrely little guy who had watched him with his beady little eyes the entire time, clever hands somehow fashioning a weapon out of wire and steel nicked from the issued bed frame. His nickname was a little on the nose, Peter thought in retrospect, but Lord knows Peter sure as hell wasn't going to point it out. And with Rocket on the team, that earned them more muscle in the form of Gideon; guy didn't talk much, but he seemed decent.
The next stop was this-- el Durante guy, and Peter only knew of him. Even running in different criminal circles, el Durante’s reputation preceded him, and a trail of blood, guts, and way too many loosened teeth followed; given his first look at the dude, Peter could totally believe all the stories he had heard. The cell door slammed shut behind him (but not before the federal agent could say, oh, so encouragingly, "Good fucking luck, kid"), and suddenly he was faced with one of the deadliest men in Nevada.
...One of the deadliest men in Nevada who seemed to only speak Spanish. ]
... Well, shit. [ More murmured than spoken, and Peter sagged back against the door, pulling a hand down his face. ]
Um. [ He peeked out between his fingers, voice muffled by his palm when he dredged up his patchwork knowledge of the language. ] ¿Hablas... inglés?
[ Penny Polendina is a robot. She was built in secret and kept in relative isolation for most of her life. She is capable of immense feats of strength and her combat skills are impressive. She is the next generation of synthetic soldier.
She’s also a teenage girl. She’s naïve and perhaps a little too trusting. Her enthusiasm comes off as a little strange sometimes, but her cheerful attitude is infectious. She is friendly, but has only ever had one real friend.
And lastly, she is the first synthetic being able to generate an Aura- the manifestation of one’s soul- so she is much, much more than just a machine. She’s alive.
There’s been some problems, however, including Penny’s destruction during a fighting tournament held by the nations of Remnant- through no fault of her opponent, but that was another story. Penny’s true nature was kept a secret from everyone, even her own teammates, and as she lay in pieces on the arena floor, people began to ask themselves what use would the military have for a robotic soldier that looked and behaved like a normal girl. It wasn’t long after that that chaos erupted, and the city was overwhelmed by monsters. However, just before Penny shut down, her father, her inventor, was able to transfer her data, her very being, into an auxiliary body.
Professor Polendina made arrangements to have Penny taken to another facility off-world, but the situation on Remnant was too delicate and the military under too much scrutiny to take her themselves. He had to call in outside help, and he was more than willing to pay a heavy sum to ensure secrecy and that his daughter would be kept safe.
Penny protested, of course. There were people out there who needed her help, not least of which was her friend, Ruby. Her father, strict as ever, told her that she would not be going back to the city of Vale, or Beacon Academy, or maybe even Remnant, ever again. Penny isn’t stupid enough that she doesn’t realize that if she’d just listened to her father in the first place, that maybe none of this would have happened.
So with a suitcase full of her meager belongings and the bravest expression she can muster, she waits for her transport to come pick her up. ]
[ Peter's used to taking odd jobs. Steal something here, escort something there, and guard it with your life; as long as it paid well, Peter would probably get it done. He'd complain the entire time, sure, but that was nothing new; the work would be completed, and Peter got paid, and everyone was happy.
So here he was, taking a job. Babysitting, it seemed like; Peter was hardly the type of person to whom one should entrust a child, what with him practically being one, himself, but he'd kept his mouth shut on that front when numbers were bandied out. He'd just have to grin and bear it, he decided. Teenagers were probably easier than kids, anyway, right?
The Milano has hardly touched down when the bay door's lock disengages, turning to allow the doors to part. Peter stands at the threshold, leaning forward with a hand braced against the bulkhead and peering out. When he catches sight of her, his head tilts to one side, and he puts on winning smile. He shouts to be heard over the idling engines. ]
[ These past few months have been eventful for the Guardians, to say the least. A whole lot of tracking down leads, shutting down illegal rings, helping people who need helping — it's been fulfilling work, sure, but it's tiring.
They take a much needed break at long last, hopping off on some middle class station that didn't have a seedy corner to its name, and the team is glad for that little bit of normal, at least for now. The others hop off the ship and go their separate ways, glad for the reprieve from the cramped space of the Milano and from one another, while Peter stays behind. It's his ship, after all. It's one of the few places that simply feels like home.
It also allows Peter to play his mixed tapes at full blast — Awesome Mix, Volume 2, tonight, which means "I Want You Back" blares over the ship's speakers as he dances and sings along.
He may not be entirely aware that he's not alone. ]
[ Eventful is one word for it. Exhausting is another and probably the one Rose would use rather than the former. It's been... more than she ever could have hoped for, but that doesn't necessarily make it any easier. So she, like everyone, is thankful for the little breath they get to take.
Instead of going off ship though, Rose settles in. She's not an introvert by any means - the rest of the Guardians know that much by now - but she does enjoy her solitary moments. Too many are bad for her, which they also know, but once in a while doesn't hurt.
She was actually hoping for said solitude but seems the universe (or just Peter Quill) has different plans for her. Music instead floods the ship and pulls her out of whatever wistful thought she'd been currently on. Of course she knows who's responsible and wanders silently towards the very source... only to snort in amusement soon as she sees him.
He doesn't dance often. At least not seriously. She still isn't entirely sure this is serious, but it's... more heartfelt than whatever she has witnessed. Heartfelt but obviously still comical enough to make her snicker. His moves aren't bad, not by any means. In fact, it's quite the opposite. It seems fun. Carefree. ...But still really, really funny perhaps because it was so unexpected. ]
[ So, what is it with New Mexico and spaceships anyway? Maybe the aliens who (allegedly) crashed there were nice guys who aimed for the desert instead of a city. Better a few dead jackrabbits, snakes and scorpions than people, right? (Especially scorpions. Fuck those things.)
Well, whatever the draw was, something fell out of the sky and landed smack in the desert. Considering it wasn’t too far from McCree’s old haunting ground, and also considering McCree’s old cronies from the Deadlock Gang were very interested in finding whatever it was, the sharpshooter has been tasked by the higher-ups to check it out.
Goodie.
McCree doesn’t much like being back in town, but he keeps to himself during the day, taking care to stay out of sight. Some of the places around here still have his wanted poster hanging on the wall, and that’s a headache he doesn’t need. Once the sun sets, he climbs into an old Jeep and heads out to the location of the crash, as near as their satellites could figure.
With any luck, he’ll just find a chunk of rock and call it a day. ]
[ So here's the thing they gloss over about escape pods: They're not meant for flying. They are, in fact, meant for landing – for crashing, in a lot of cases – while securing the passengers within, keeping them safe.
But try telling that to one Peter Jason Quill, who made it a hobby to coax at least a few miles out of any ship he could manage to hot-wire, ever since he was old enough to knowingly break the law. And considering his choices had been to either stay on a failing ship full of Bad Guys, falling its way toward the moon, or to take his chances on a tiny escape pod and fly towards a planet where he knows he'll be able to breathe, it wasn't a difficult decision to make.
He tossed himself and the data he'd stolen into the tiny pod, made some adjustments on the fly, and— hey, it worked. If he hadn't been burning his way through Earth's atmosphere, Peter would've pat himself on the back for a job well done.
The impact carves him a sizable crater in the dry sands, nearly destroys the hull of his tiny ship, but the pod does its job and keeps him mostly intact. He thinks wryly to himself that he's literally The Man Who Fell to Earth, but the thought is chased away by the pain of the injuries he's sustained. He manages to trigger the distress beacon just before he falls unconscious, which saves him from suffering through the heat of the day, and he wakes just as the sun begins its descent behind the horizon.
So here he is: a former outlaw turned part-time hero, sitting in a busted pod in a deep, wide crater in the middle of the desert. (Also, there might possibly be a hole in the bottom of the sea.) Probably safer to stay inside, but after nearly an hour of staring, the narrowness of the space starts to eat away at him. The door jams and resists, but after a strong kick, it finally swings upward. He crawls out to sit on the edge of the hatchway. His left arm throbs in warning – broken, maybe – and he braces it against his side as he takes in his surroundings. Sand and brush and rock formations and a sky turning pink as the sun sets.
Nothing left to do but wait, he guesses. Wait, and not die – in that order. ]
[Dieguez once believed that those who compared their lives to films really had no lives. Such fiction, he believed, possessed too neat a structure and too small a cast. In the few films he'd had the patience to watch, the characters' motivations were incredibly clear-cut and every interaction simply existed to move the plot forward. The film's story would conclude too neatly, unless some storylines were left unresolved for a sequel or, if the director was feeling particularly ambitious, a "volume two".
Life was not so well-planned, due to divine mismanagement or poor improv by the players involved.
Take, for instance, Operation Zechariah. Although much was taught in their ten weeks of training (in fact, far exceeding their expectations), none of it adequately prepared them for the type of affair Taurino Teran held in "the middle of nowhere, South America" (as Rocket referred to the large tents assembled by Teran's large, seaside manor). Sure, they had been informed that the soiree was to be a plen air wedding, honoring the union of Teran's daughter (Carina) and her betrothed (a Michael Korvac), and, yes, they verbally accepted this intel and assured the military personae that they were more than capable of attending the affair under the guise of Galenia's guests. (Galenia, as far as the other wedding attendees were to know, had been in prison and managed to escape with the aid of their bizarre company. A technical truth, as many great lies are.)
Now, it was another thing to dress their motley crew in rented suits and send them into this field.
They endured the lengthy ceremony admirably. Their criminal backgrounds were more than sufficient in allowing them to navigate through Teran's terrifying guest list (which welcomed the likes of a Gene Khan, Victor Von Doom, Georges Batroc, Ophelia Sarkissian, and other names that were typically graced with less-than favorable associations that were, unfortunately, unsupported by physical evidence and/or living/social witnesses). Dieguez even managed to look the Accuser in the eyes, shake his hand, and state that he was now working with Galenia because it had been difficult for a person, with his history, to find any other jobs; how he managed such a feat without murdering the man where he stood (which would have foolishly compromised them before the eyes of Teran, his guest list, and the Accuser's terrifying bodyguard) was beyond him. Understandably, after he had practiced such infuriating restraint, Rocket and Gideon did not need to overexert themselves in convincing el Durante to join their inebriation come reception-time.
The mission was meant to be clear-cut. They'd go in, find a way to isolate the Accuser from the rest, capture or kill him, and rendezvous with a helicopter on the mansion's roof at exactly 21:09. Simple enough. All they had to do was blend in, wait for and/or force the Accuser to separate from his bald protectoress (another daughter of the same death-obsessed cult that had forcibly taken Galenia and created Gomorrah). Dieguez knew it would have benefitted the five of them if they followed these orders. It would have made for an incredibly neat little narrative.
After a drink or ten, the three of them most definitely were no longer blending in; to the bride's mortification and the fascination of Teran's increasingly loquacious security personnel, they were possibly accomplishing the exact diametric opposite via Dieguez very loudly struggling to get out of Gideon's hold and equally loudly challenging Rocket.
Ten weeks of military bonding and training. Undone in a short conversation. With this lot, such a thing did not feel terribly out of place.]
Edited (to change/add a detail, to explain why they aren't also going after the Mandarin, Doctor Von Doom, Batroc the Leaper, or Viper. ) 2016-07-01 10:33 (UTC)
In addition to being a renowned thief (at least in his own mind), Peter was also an accomplished conman (again, in his own mind), which meant he knew how to manipulate and read body language, knew when and how to smile, knew what words to say to defuse a situation. He used words as tools, considered them malleable little things, and could charm and talk his way out of more than a few charged situations.
In short? Peter Quill was a liar.
He and Galenia easily moved through the crowds, the former turning up the charm and wearing an easy smile, the latter leveraging her reputation like a weapon and playing up the femme fatale angle. Gideon and Rocket seemed to be doing alright, and even Dieguez managed to hold it together, and for a little while there, Peter really thought they might be able to manage this impossible mission.
While the other three were pounding back drinks, Peter and Galenia found themselves a secluded little area to compare notes – using coy, obfuscated language in case anyone was listening – and suddenly a kind word or two led to the two of them brushing closer together. And maybe Peter drank a few too many himself, because he inched forward, ducking down slowly to catch Galenia’s mouth with his, and—
A lot of things happened at once. First, a knife found its way to his throat, pushing him back, and Peter found himself wondering just where the hell Galenia was hiding that. Before she could murder him, however, the cacophony of glass shattering and tables toppling caught their attention. Something cold plummeted in Peter’s gut, and a glance at Galenia showed him she felt the same sensation, and together they rushed to the scene.
They arrived just as Dieguez had apparently wrestled his way out of Gideon’s grip, and shoved him away. Somehow, Peter found himself standing between two veritable titans, hands held up to keep the two of them at bay. ]
[ as predicted, gamora heals just fine. the wound closes over, and though she has to give herself time before she's back to full health, it's only a matter of days before she's at her proper strength. she makes a point of demonstrating for quill, too, just to ensure he doesn't come bothering her with his silly, overbearing concern (even if a small, tiny, minuscule piece of her warms at the gesture). she wants to move beyond the incident, given that she's no longer physically affected, and she's set on letting it go, as she has with all of her previous injuries; it's just another on the long list of seemingly mortal wounds that she's survived.
however, what she doesn't let go is the fact that quill needs to invest time into honing his reflexes. in comparison to the team as a whole, he's the slowest, the least durable in immediate combat, and, well, he could do with something more formal to keep him up to par. not that he's a poor fighter, by any means, but gamora has higher (probably the highest) standards, and after such a painfully close call, she wants to see peter adhering to said standards, at least a bit more.
it's why she insists that he train with her, at least until he has a firmer grasp of what he needs to polish on his own time. she wants to know that he's improving, that he's getting better and more refined, so that she doesn't have to—
—worry.
that's what it is, if she's honest. not that she sees reason to inform quill, to cue him in to her reasoning beyond "to make you less of a risk to the rest of us", but she wants to see quill safe. training, getting better, faster — it's the only way she can think to provide quill with the tools to protect himself.
she won't always be there to push him out of the way, after all, and the other possible outcomes are unacceptable.
however, just because she's doing something to help him, doesn't mean she's going to make it easy.
in the milano's cargo bay, they've cleared away a space that's usable, and while it's not much, it's enough. there's area to engage each other, and gamora finds herself actually enjoying it — even if she's not properly fighting him. if she was fighting, he wouldn't stand a chance, but for now, she's trying to make a point.
and that point being, he needs to improve. that this is critical to his survival.
of course, the way she chooses to make said point isn't necessarily the kindest method she could employ.
when quill comes at her, all she does is duck out of his direct path, stick out her foot, and watch with a vaguely amused look as his foot collides with her ankle and he goes down.
she steps forward, leaning over him with her eyebrow quirked, her hair falling over her shoulder as she considers the prone terran laying on the cargo bay's steel floor. ]
Have I proven my point, or do you require further demonstration?
[ Peter probably should've seen it coming, really, Gamora telling him in no uncertain terms that the two of them were going to start training. Part of him is surprised it didn't come earlier in the formation of their team, really, when the name Guardians of the Galaxy sort of stuck, when they all came to the tacit agreement that maybe they should stick together, when they were presented with a newly repaired Milano and all filed onto the ship without complaint.
Because he knows he's something of the weak link, here. Rocket is modded to hell and good with tech. Drax is practically a brick wall incarnate. Gamora is the galaxy's deadliest assassin. Groot is nigh indestructible, as they found out after his stint with shattering into a bajillion pieces. And Peter...
... well. He owns the ship.
He can hold his own just fine in a fight, though, against normal dudes; he managed just fine in the clusterfuck of the Dark Aster, after all. What the Ravagers lacked in any kind of formal training, they made up for in decades of experience in bar brawls and morally suspect jobs. So Peter knows how to throw a punch, knows how to duck one, too. Knows how to fight fucking dirty, if necessary, using his teeth and nails and occasional under-the-belt kicks that a more honorable person would find reprehensible. But Peter's a survivor, and he's going to damn well survive.
It's when they start running into other folks just as big and burly as Drax, or just as well trained as Gamora, that things get a little touch and go for him. Usually Peter's happy to keep his distance, taking potshots where he can, but sometimes—
—sometimes he ends up in dingy, rundown clubs, with a laser sight flickering on his chest.
A liability, a small part of him whispers, and Gamora only confirms it: to make you less of a risk to the rest of us.
Peter complains, still, because of course he complains. He bitches about nearly everything. But god damn, was Peter not prepared for how that comment stung.
So here they are now, sparring in the cargo bay. Gamora is taking it easy on him, which Peter supposes is kind of the point. He knows how she fights; he's seen it over and over again during the course of their work. He experienced it firsthand on Xandar, but even while Peter was in her way, she still held back, even then. She didn't have aims to kill him at the start, even though it would have neatly solved all her problems.
(Peter, rather foolishly, had thought he handled himself pretty well. Sure, it took a whole lot of distractions for him to get the upper hand, but he made it out alright. It's only later that he realizes that if she had really set her mind to it? He'd be dead at least twenty times over, just from that fight alone.)
And when Peter fights, he tends to depend on his tools, his wits, his speed. Strip that away from him, match him with someone who's just better than him, and you get this:
Peter, swinging at Gamora – only instead of Gamora, it's empty air. And how did she move so fa—
Only he can't finish that thought, because the momentum of his swing takes him over her waiting foot, trips him up entirely, and he twists as he falls. His back slams into the deck, knocks the breath from his lungs, and he stares up at the overhead in a daze. And isn't this a familiar sight, Gamora staring down at him, her hair cascading over her shoulder, only instead of frustrated and angry, like that day on Xandar, she mostly looks smug. ]
... Point made.
[ This, on something of a wheeze. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, rubbing at the back of his head, feeling for any bumps. ]
Should we have, like, laid practice mats down or something?
[ it's something you learn after enough years as a private investigator: sometimes people just go missing.
of course, jessica's usually the one finding those missing people, no matter how gone they seem to be, but there's the occasional case that just leads to a dead-end — the wrong kind. it always comes up feeling awkward or somehow off, like a painting hung askew or a word with all the letters in the a different order: you look at it, at all the evidence, and something isn't the way it's supposed to be.
frustrating, is what it goddamn is, and those rare and inevitably futile cases keep her up sometimes.
but she's also come (grudgingly) to accept it.
when someone seems to just vanish into thin air, when she reaches the end of the metaphorical line, she has no choice. it's how inexplicable it all is that really unsettles her, but what the hell can she even do about it, other than write it off, let her client know that there's no trail to follow (none), and try to move on? she's seen the pattern in more than just her own cases, but—
eventually you just explain it away. try to come up with something logical, like the body just hasn't been found or maybe they've somehow managed to buy their way to antartica — whatever the fuck it is.
it's too weird, otherwise. almost unnatural.
but maybe that's just the way the universe works, right? things that can't always be explained or understood, because it comes and goes with the sort of convoluted complexities that will leave any normal person grasping at straws, scrabbling for comprehension when all they'll come away with is empty air.
jessica's reached that place with a few of the disappearances.
she just never expected to be one of them.
when she wakes, it's with the most killer headache of her life.
did i really drink that much? is about the first coherent thought she manages. because what the fuck?
also why is the floor so hard?
passed out in an alley? nope, doesn't smell like shit. passed out at the bar? nope, would have gotten kicked out. passed out in her apartment? still no, because she doesn't have steel goddamn floors.
she takes a second to process that, finally cracking open an eye as she comes to terms with the fact that her cheek is resting on something cold and metal, rather than wood or carpet (or, preferably, her bed). she slowly lifts her head, squinting at her surroundings.
crates. boxes. her first impulse is to think "warehouse," but no, too small for that. everything is enclosed, a little cramped, and definitely metal, with a low hum that fills the space (and does absolutely zero favors for her throbbing head). ]
Where in the fuck...?
[ grimacing, she presses a hand to her forehead, sitting up and looking around. she can hear voices overhead, and she's automatically on high alert.
...or she would be, if her head didn't feel like it was going to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't stay still.
shit.
with a royal fuckload of effort, she drags herself to her feet, biting back the groan of accompanying discomfort. a step forward, and she stumbles, catching herself on a nearby crate — only to knock it right the floor.
...double shit.
the voices above her cut off immediately, and all she can think is, "so much for the element of surprise, dumbass." ]
[ Here's what Peter knows about life in general: shit happens.
Apparently the same life lesson extends to surviving out in space, too. When deals go south, when jobs go pear-shaped, when that priceless artifact you're sent to find turns out to be some sort of weapon of mass destruction? Shit happens. So much.
This time, the job entailed transporting goods – foodstuffs, mostly, and some medicines. Some other assholes saw fit to try and take it from the Guardians, which meant dogfights in space and Peter piloting the Milano with all the recklessness the Ravagers had taught him, brow wrinkled and lips pressed together and that flicker of excitement in his eyes. When their tail's firepower proved to be too intimidating to try and outrun, Rocket shouts out a suicidal plan.
Flying straight into a nearby electromagnetic storm to lose their pursuers.
They argued over it for a few precious seconds, but as a shot singed a path across the wing of the Milano, Peter shouted a curse and veered toward the storm.
The storm, thankfully, didn't kill them as they thought it would. Didn't crush the hull with all the ease of wadding up a sheet of foil. It did fuck with the power a bit, made the lights flicker and die, only to come back to life with a brief hum. The Milano's scanners go fucking nuts, too, but given the nature of ion storms, everyone ignores the frankly ridiculous energy readings they get.
The ship judders once, twice, then a third time, but they manage to fly out of the storm without incident. They take a calming breath, then immediately start pointing fingers as to whose fault everything was.
Thankfully, the heavy, metallic clatter of their cargo interrupts them – the turbulence likely jostled the crates – and all eyes go to Peter.
"Right, yeah," he grumbles, "don't worry, everyone. Don't bother getting up. I'll take care of it."
Peter's still grumbling, in fact, when he finally trudges down the ladder to the cargo bay. He hops down the last few steps, takes two steps into the area, and blinks as he glances up.
... Then blinks again.
Then, yeah, pretty much just stares. ]
... Um.
[ There are a lot of questions Peter should ask, right now, as he stares at the woman in his cargo bay. Like, Who the hell are you? or How the fuck did you get on my ship? or What in the fuck? But he doesn't. What he says instead is, ]
where at first the guardians had tripped over each other in less than stellar attempts to work together, now they fell into the rhythm of fighting side-by-side in a genuinely admirable way. they watched each others' backs, kept everyone safe whenever possible, and generally found ways to accommodate one teammate's weaknesses with another's strengths. it worked, even if it shouldn't have — and gamora is grateful for it.
that doesn't mean they don't (often) find themselves in tight spots. it's like they're some universal magnet for trouble — which could easily come from a level of notoriety that still catches gamora off guard some days — and when something should be relatively painless?
it tends to be the opposite.
they should really keep a running tally on the milano of jobs gone wrong, or maybe start coughing up a few units any time one of them says anything along the lines of, "well, this should be a piece of cake." (and at least drax, by this juncture, realizes that the cake is not an actual cake, but rather a representation of a painless mission.
"but i would like to partake of this celebratory dessert."
"not...the point here, buddy.")
this most recent "piece of cake" turns out to be a bounty with a few more associates than their intel informed them.
one or two men turns into twenty, thirty, and then gamora loses count. they seem to be everywhere at once, and the team's attention keeps jumping from point to point, which makes everything—
—chaotic.
gamora moves from one enemy to the next, cutting down each without so much as flinching, but she keeps being drawn in eight different directions at a time while trying to keep an eye on the other guardians. she lost track of drax, has no idea where groot and rocket have ended up, but she hears over the comm:
"gamora, three on your left—"
she spins to meet the oncoming combatants, slicing through the first, the second—
until the third brings an incredibly heavy, incredibly vicious club down on her sword arm.
her vision momentarily swims with the pain, but gamora swings on instinct, drawing a knife from her boot with her unbroken arm and plunging it directly into the enemy's throat. the man joins the other two on the ground, gurgling and coughing on blood until gamora stomps on his neck. he goes completely still, and she reaches down to retrieve her knife — and godslayer, where it had fallen from her hand on impact. her arm is bent at a completely unnatural angle, and gamora finds cover to forcefully shove the splintered bone back into alignment.
a few sharp curses spill into the comm (under her breath, but largely still audible), and gamora holds her damaged arm against her chest as she throws herself back into the fight.
(because like hell she'll sit this out.)
that was hours ago, and gamora only reluctantly allowed quill to help her splint her arm. it will heal eventually, but keeping it stable and aligned will make the process easier.
...but until then, it's still incredibly painful.
the rest of the ship is quiet, and she's certain most of the others have gone to bed. she, however, can't seem to sleep, and she sits in the common area with a box of knives that need cleaning — though that has been momentarily abandoned.
she's trying to braid her hair where it falls in a dark curtain over her shoulder. she's combed through it already, but every time she reaches up with both hands, the still-healing arm starts to shake, shrieking with protest as she tries to maneuver her fingers through the three segments, tries to weave them in and out, but— she can't seem to steady herself.
she tries once, and then a second time, but this third time, she grits her and forces her shaking hand to grab another section of hair.
...this is embarrassingly difficult, she's starting to realize. ]
[ At this point, Peter’s pretty sure they need to ban the phrase, “It’ll be easy,” or any variations thereon. Or start up a collection or something, every time someone says “easy,” “simple,” “painless,” or anything else, like a swear jar – that one might be better, just so they can pad their “someone got their dumbass thrown in jail, and now we have to pay bail” fund.
That particular fund gets depleted quite often, unfortunately. And Peter would rather not put on, like, a bake sale to line their coffers.
(Though making Rocket go door to door wearing a little beret and a sash, trying to sell cookies? Kind of a hilarious mental image.)
Peter’s not sure how it is that their intel is so fucked up as to neglect mentioning more than three dozen men, but it is, and it does, and the ensuing fight is fucking brutal. Teamwork is still a new concept to the Guardians, which means that when the fight breaks out, they get separated pretty easily – in spite of Peter’s shouted command, Stay together!
Easier to watch each other’s backs that way.
It logically follows that no one listens to him.
It’s like herding cats, in the end, his focus frayed in trying to keep an eye on everything at once. It’s purely incidental that he manages to claim higher ground; evading some dickwad with an oversized mallet led to a quick jump, and a burst from the jets attached to his boots lets him clamber over the railing to a second level platform. Makes it easier to shout out warnings and keep everyone apprised of the state of the battlefield.
( “Rocket, watch your fire. Almost took me out just then, you asshole. Drax— Shit! Fuck, that was close— Drax, five incoming from the hallway. Gamora, three on your left—” )
He sees when it happens, and he shouts Gamora’s name when it does, moves to leap down from his vantage point, though he’s not sure what the fuck he plans to do. A blade slices through the air to his left, and Peter reels back to avoid getting his head chopped off. The sword clashes and sparks against the metal railing, barring Peter’s way. And by the time Peter’s taken care of that sword-wielding douchebag, Gamora is darting into cover, setting the broken arm. Her curses make Peter flinch bodily in sympathy, and he manages a quick, “You okay?” while shooting fuckmooks in the face. He receives a curt response in the affirmative.
Doesn’t believe it for a second, of course, and worry gnaws at him. Still, there’s little they can do about it while men still stand, and so Peter keeps fighting, trying to end the battle that much faster.
Later, convincing Gamora to let him help with her arm proves to be the much more difficult fight.
Hours later, he’s exhausted, but still wired, mind buzzing and replaying the day’s events. Today had been bad. Thanks to his training sessions with Gamora, Peter managed to not return to the Milano with a knife in his gut or a bullet in his heart, but he didn’t come through unscathed. He’s got one hell of a killer headache, thanks to a blow to the head – his helmet took the brunt of the damage, but it still rung his bell pretty badly; he’s got the bruising along his left cheekbone to prove it. And more punches and kicks had landed on him than not, which means his torso is a mess of sickly green and purple splotches.
Today had been bad, he thinks again, and that icy tendril of fear still grips his throat. Because skill and dumb fucking luck managed to see all of them through, but what if it hadn’t? Rocket nearly got squashed by a mallet. Drax nearly got run through by a sword. Peter nearly got peppered with bullets and blaster burns (and some of that was nearly friendly fire, which is another fucking problem entirely). And Gamora— well, if that club had gone for her head instead of her arm—
His mind scampers away from that thought.
It was a fucking mess today. Maybe even worse than their usual messes, and it rouses something dark and cold in his chest.
Some fucking team, he thinks. Some fucking leader, and that thought is bitter, makes bile rise in his throat.
He thinks, Is this really working?
When he finds Gamora in the middle of her third attempt, his headphones are fixed over his ears, his Walkman clipped securely to his belt. Awesome Mix Vol. 2, tonight.
He spies her grimace as her fingers grasp at her hair, and he tugs his headphones down to hang around his neck.
(Listen to the wind blow, just audible over the little speakers. Watch the sun rise—) ]
random scenario meme; angst → separation
But his Ravager instinct had died down, ever since the mess with the Infinity Stone. Peter had become less selfish, somehow; he let the barriers he had built for twenty-six years come crashing down for four assholes, four goddamn idiots. And now he had friends. And turning a new leaf had put him on a new path, had led him to Kasumi, and goddamn, is he glad it did. He's never met anyone like her -- witty, clever, gorgeous -- and when friendship started to turn to something more, he had thought, Fuck it, and finally grew roots, wrapped them around the people most important to him. His life was going fan-fucking-tastic. He was the happiest he had been in twenty-six long years.
He should've known it was coming, when everything was going so well.
Peter had been separated from the group after celebrating a job well done. He was dragged into a dark alleyway and slammed against a wall, a Ravager pinning his arms on either side. He hardly knew what was happening until a familiar whistle echoed against the walls, and the sharp tip of Yondu's arrow nicked the skin of his throat. He went rigid in the Ravagers' hands, head tipped back and breath held as Yondu grinned at him.
"You owe me a debt, boy," the Centaurian said. And when Peter sneered, ready to throw back some smart-ass response, Yondu whistled again, and the tip dug further into Peter's skin. He could feel something warm flowing down his neck, catching in the collar of his shirt, and wisely kept his mouth shut.
"You owe me, boy," Yondu repeated, and the grin disappeared. "You owe me big. And I'm gonna get what I'm owed, d'you hear? Either from you or your--" and here Yondu sneered, voice dripping with distaste -- "your friends."
At Peter's unimpressed look, Yondu drew closer, crossing his arms. And when he said, "I hear you got yourself a girl, Quill," Peter's heart sank.
By now it's been a few months, and Peter's come to think of this as conscription, working with the Ravagers again. Like serving in a shitty, pointless war -- and he even has a standard issue uniform again. The red leather duster with the flame insignia on the upper arm. Like comin' home, ain't it, Quill? Yondu said, slapping him on the shoulder. And much like serving in a war, there's no end in sight; seeing as how he promised Yondu something upwards of four billion units, Peter's pretty much stuck here. Which is about what he expected a year or two ago, before all the shit with Ronan, so, really, it's not so bad.
And hey, he thinks, better that he's here on the Eclector than Yondu taking it out on the others, right? Better than taking it out on Kasumi. And at least Yondu had let him send a quick message to everyone to keep them from mounting a rescue mission. Promise I'm fine. Back when I can be. Talk to you soon. A little vague on details, sure, but with Yondu breathing down his neck as he spoke, there wasn't much else he could say.
They don't let him take the good jobs anymore, for obvious reasons, so he's stuck playing lookout most of the time. Today he finds himself on a mining colony that reminds him a bit of Knowhere; the other Ravagers are mounting some bank heist, and he's supposed to let them know if the authorities pass by. He's leaning his shoulder against the lip of an alleyway, ankles crossed, and he's-- clearly doing a pretty bad job of keeping an eye out, since he's mostly fiddling with his Walkman. ]
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That is, until she found out that he wasn't on the Milano with the rest of the Guardians. It had been, thankfully, Gamora that she inadvertently reached when she sent a message through the private comm, poking around for an update in case he could spare the time. And it was Gamora who had to break it to her: "...Goto, he's not with us. We were separated a few months ago. We thought you knew."
That's when Kasumi's heart sank--why hadn't she bothered to confirm this when she got the message months ago, instead of assuming the it meant that he was going to be away with the Guardians for a while? Gamora, and probably the rest of the Guardians, were probably the only living individuals in this galaxy at that point to have ever witnessed Kasumi in a panic. Even if it had been a veiled, controlled panic over the comm channel, it was still panic and they weren't sure how to deal with her--only knew to answer her questions. "We're certain the Ravagers took him," they said.
"Ravagers?" Kasumi paused. There had been a job, sometime ago, before Peter disappeared, during which she may or may not have swiped a target just a split second before the Ravagers; her contact had warned her that she'd be pissing them off, but at the time, Kasumi didn't particularly care. "So? They can join the club." were her exact words to the contact. Then it was "Damn it!" over the comm, startling the other Guardians, as she realized she gave them reason to track her down and--god, Peter, I'm so sorry. It was too easy to connect the dots and come to the very possible conclusion that she had been used as leverage, if they really did take him, of which Kasumi had been convinced at that point.
What followed then was a mad frenzy of data gathering, calling in a few favors, and even asking for help from the Shadow Broker, just to find out where exactly the Ravagers would be and when, and how Peter was doing. The latter hadn't turned up anything, and when Liara noticed that the typically enigmatic and playful thief was clearly perturbed and asked if she was okay, all Kasumi could say was, "No news is good news."
It had been somewhat of a challenge to coordinate this entire effort with the rest of the Guardians, somehow, despite the fact that they were all mutually invested in finding Peter (even if some of them would not like to admit as much out loud), but all that matters to her is that they're on the mining colony now, and Kasumi's somehow convinced them that letting her scout ahead while they wait at the Milano, while the more prudent course of action, is the best way to ensure this whole operation goes smoothly.
She's cloaked and grace under pressure doesn't even begin to describe her level of focus. While the initial shock of him being gone certainly sent her into a panic, it's more than enough for her to know that he's alive and she can actually do something about it. Still, she has to very consciously keep herself from leaping out of cover and out of her cloak when she finally, finally spots him in an alley, looking bored as hell.
Instead, she nestles herself in the shadows of the alley, just to make sure that none of the other Ravagers see her deactivate the cloak before she says, very quietly from behind Peter: ]
It's boring without me around, huh?
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hello I'm here to be terrible
While Charlie has been trying to figure out if there was anything remotely genuine about those strange, stolen moments where everything was wonderful and complete and right, Peter seems to have stopped giving a fuck and cranked the flirting up to eleven.
And the thing that bothers Charlie is that he's bothered by it. It's become abundantly clear that Peter Quill doesn't do feelings, and seems to have no regard for anyone else around him. It's infuriating. Charlie's asked himself again and again why he's still hung up on this asshole, and he has no answer, which only seems to annoy him more.
And so Charlie Maxwell, with his infinite well of patience and understanding, has reached his breaking point. Sitting in the corner of some dingy bar that's nearly identical to all the other dingy bars the team seems to frequent, silently seething as he watches Peter lean on the bar and flirt shamelessly with some long-legged lady with pink skin.
He refuses to watch Peter charm his way into someone else's bed again. Refuses to let him continue to ignore him.
He's not even subtle about it. He sketches a spell with quick, angry motions, drawing arched eyebrows from the others at the table who aren't too wasted to notice the glowing marks hovering in front of him.
The glass in Peter's hand, fresh from the bartender and nearly completely full, jerks out of his hand, splashing its contents all over the bar and Peter's prospects. Charlie just leans back in his chair with a look of bitter, petty satisfaction. ]
that drink was expensive god damn you
Shit.
What was it?
Deyreen? Daneeya? Shit.
Well, whatever. It'll be fine, as long as he just keeps using nicknames.
She laughs behind her hand as the bartender leaves another tumbler of some emerald-colored alcohol, and Peter can barely remember what joke it was he'd just told as he pulls the glass closer. He lifts it by the glass's lip, holds it between his fingertips. He's-- he feels really fucking distracted. He's off his game tonight, but -- was it Drulyara? -- seems to be playing along with him well enough. There's something sharp in her gaze that he finds compelling, like she knows more than she's letting on.
It also helps that she's seriously easy on the eyes. Curves in all the places he finds attractive, and-- she's blonde. He's been going for a lot of blondes, lately. He tries not to examine that too closely.
(Because he's been running from this problem the only way he knows how. He doesn't know what's happening with him, but all he can fucking think about, lately, is him, and that blissful feeling on the rooftop, that completeness. He can only think about how much he wants to experience it again, but he's terrified of what it means.
Because Peter Jason Quill does not do relationships. And he hates that some weird, alien trigger has decided on-- what? A boyfriend? A mate? A soulmate? What? -- for him, before his mind even has a chance to catch up.
Because Peter knows what love looks like. It's lonely and sad. It's a quiet house and an extra seat at the dinner table, "just in case." It's watching the night sky every time there's a meteor shower, waiting with bated breath, and heading back inside disappointed. It's reliving the same stories through rose-colored lenses. It's wasting away on sheets that aren't your own, in a room that smells of disinfectant and antiseptic, still holding out hope that they'll be there for you.
And thanks, but no thanks. Peter doesn't want any of that.)
He smiles, leans in close. Hey, Beautiful, what would you say to finding somewhere more private? You know, get to know each other on a more... personal level?
She hums thoughtfully and leans in as well. His breath hitches, and he thinks she's coming in for a kiss, but instead--
"Do you remember what my name is, darling?"
Oh, fuck.
Of course I do, and he says it with a laugh. What kinda asshole do you take me for?
"What is it, then?"
Shit, shit, shit. He ventures a guess, but says it with utmost confidence: Dahylia.
It's at that moment that the glass flies out of his hand, and the two of them yelp in surprise. The emerald liquid sloshes on the bartop, and Peter fucking seethes. He knows exactly what happened, and Lord help him, he's going to fucking throttle that guy--
Peter's distracted from his rage when the blonde harumphs and gathers up her things. "It's Preela," she tells him sharply, "you prick." And then she glares daggers at him as he sweeps out of the bar.
He apologizes to the bartender, who's glaring at him too as he wipes up the mess, and leaves him a big tip. He breathes, in and out -- once, twice, a million fucking times, -- and his hands are clenched into shaking fists as he tries to calm himself down. He is not going to let that guy get to him. Absolutely not. He is not going to give Charlie that satisfaction. He is not going to go over there and tell him off. He is not. He absolutely. Is. Not.
But then he's at Charlie's table before he realizes it, hands splayed on the surface as he leans in. ]
What the fuck is your problem, man?!
boo hoo cry me a river
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Sometimes taking local bounties also means setting elaborate traps. Staging illicit deals or trades of goods; pretending to be some sort of hacking wizard to catch out some crime syndicate or other; flirting with a really hot chick to get her to bring you back to her den of terrors, then having the team bust in at the last second to arrest her.
A day or two later, and Peter's wrists are still raw from the rope burns. (Because for a second there, he honestly thought the guys wouldn't show up at all. For a second, he honestly thought he was on his own, and only realized, as the woman's knife was swinging down, how very screwed he was.
But Gamora swooped in, blocked the blow and knocked the woman the fuck out, and Peter had nearly kissed the Zehoberi once she'd untied him.
But he didn't. Of course he didn't. Because he's pretty sure Gamora would have gladly stabbed him in place of their serial killer.)
The only consolation is that they have enough cash now to take get some much-needed supplies, which the group has sent Gamora and Peter to purchase. Apparently sending Peter on his own for the supply runs is out of the cards after the last time he was nearly arrested by local law enforcement -- evidently, while the Nova Corps had wiped their records, not everyone had gotten that memo.
They're nearly done -- just the matter of picking up the last packages of MREs and various snacks -- when Peter frowns, shifting the bags in his arms as he turns and sniffs.
There's something-- salty in the air. Buttery, but light. And it's seriously familiar, instantly bringing to mind movie theaters and sticky floors and dark rooms filled with seats and watching raptly as Bruce Willis single-handedly fought off a group of high-class robbers--
Holy shit, it's popcorn. ]
Hey. Do you smell that? Please tell me you smell that.
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do the thing!!!
The two of them were just getting a deal on fuel; Peter knew a guy who'd get them set up with a nice discount, and once that was done, they were supposed to get some parts for the Milano. Only that was scrapped, because Peter had the distinct feeling that not only were they being watched, they were being followed. And a quick glance around yielded a couple of revelations: 1.) They were being followed by at least two Kree, and 2.) Those guys did not give a fuck that Peter noticed.
So that was a bad sign. That basically spelled Trouble, capital T. But, okay, nothing the two of them couldn't handle, right?
Wrong.
Peter nodded Charlie into a side alley, figuring that if it was going to come to blows, it would be best to do it away from civilians. No need to get anyone caught up in the crossfire, right? And that was the first mistake of the day, because a third Kree is already waiting there for them; and when Peter tries to turn them back around, who should appear but Kree One and Kree Two?
The fight was short but brutal, and Peter's pretty sure they put at least one of the guys out of commission. Maybe two. But it was hard to tell, really, because suddenly there's a sharp crack against his ribs, then to the side of his head, and then the ground is rushing up to meet him, and he thinks he hears someone calling his name except it's muffled, like there's cotton in his ears, and everything goes black.
He's not sure how long he's out, but when he comes to, he's face down on cold, unyielding concrete. His head aches, and it hurts to breathe, and fuck, today just really isn't his day. Trying to push himself up makes him quickly realize that his wrists are bound tightly behind his back, and he distantly thinks, I hope this is fun rope, not bad rope, although judging by his injuries, he knows it's the latter.
Rolling onto his good side, he takes stock of the situation. Blasters are gone, it seems like. Helmet attachment and his jet attachments, too. Thank god he left his Walkman on the Milano, today, otherwise he'd flip the fuck out. By the looks of it, he's in some kind of loading dock. Ramps. Crates. Pallets. Carts. So that's a thing. He can figure out how to use that, somehow, once his brain stops trying to explode out of his skull. Man, this is gonna be an awesome story to tell--
Oh, fuck. ]
Charlie!
[ His voice is hoarse, scratchy, and he does nothing to hide his panic.
Shit. Shit. How could he forget? (Oh, right, he had his brains rattled. Still, that shouldn't give him a pass.) His body protests as he hauls himself up into a kneel, and he groans when the room starts spinning, trying to topple him back over. He can't tell if he imagined the way his ribs grate, but either way, that seriously can't be good, right? ]
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Peter had still been out when Charlie came to, and while they'd bound his wrists, they'd neglected to secure his fingers. He could still cast, and then it was a simple matter of getting his and Peter's bindings off. Getting out had been another issue, with Peter down for the count and Charlie feeling rather like he'd been used as a pinata.
When one of their captors walked in and found Charlie up walking around, it had gone to hell pretty quickly. Charlie threw everything he could at them, crates and carts, everything. But while Charlie had a lot of stuff on his side, what he didn't have was the luxury of time. Spells any more complex than flinging stuff around took precious seconds he could not afford, and he was quickly overwhelmed.
He'd gotten a few good blows in, but they beat the shit out of him for it. One of them even deigned to step on his hands- the way they rest awkwardly where they're bound behind his back is a pretty sure sign that they're broken. He's lying near Peter, sucking in ragged, shallow breaths. His face is bloodied and bruised, and the rest of him isn't in very good shape either.
He makes a quiet, pained noise when Peter calls his name. Still here. Still conscious, but barely. ]
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oh my god this is so fucking long sorry
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time for wizard mcfancypants
He did a lot of thinking, mostly. Making mental notes and adjustments for projects he had going around the ship, thinking of ways to keep shit like that from happening again.
And even after that, he had to ease into things. Slowly working out the kinks in dormant muscles with little exercises and minimal casting. (Though that didn't stop he and Peter from spending quite a while making sure the other knew how grateful they were to be alive and in one piece.) It was a long, slow process, which left Charlie feeling more like dead weight than anything, but things are returning to normalcy by degrees.
Which is when Peter approaches him one day with a job- a job at a very large estate that will involve dancing and socializing and wearing a suit. (But also gathering information on the owner of said estate for a business rival, but that was hardly important.) While Charlie put on an act of being annoyed- saying it was fine, but Peter owed him a real, actual date one day for the love of God- he was actually a little thrilled. Growing up, he actually enjoyed all of the parties and galas and honest-to-God balls his parents would force him to attend. He was good at dancing and being charming, and for a few hours at least he didn't feel like such a failure.
And hey, he cleans up nice.
He wanders into the common area of the Milano just as he's finishing buttoning his jacket. He's got no idea where the hell they dug this suit up, but it fits perfectly. (He probably has Gamora to thank for that.) ]
So. Ready to go?
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As it is, he's not a huge fan. Sure, he's crashed an occasional shindig or two, scoped out mansions or acted as a bodyguard, but there's a lot of posturing that he doesn't like. A lot of politics. And Peter's used to being one of only a handful of liars at any given time. At these sorts of things? It's him and over half the guests.
But, hey, at least he can take Charlie along. If nothing else, he'll have company at this stupid thing. It's not the date they had planned that afternoon in the hospital, and that sucks, but it's close. A warm-up date, maybe?
Peter's already in the common area, dressed and ready to go -- and feeling more than a little exposed without his helmet attachment or his guns. He's trying to figure out if there's any way to sneak in a weapon without being overly obvious when Charlie enters. He turns and-- ]
Yeah, just let me--
[ --suddenly realizes, Oh fuck Charlie's fucking hot. How the hell did he forget that?
And oh, hey, one more thing: how do words work again? ]
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meeting the parents?!?!?!
So one of the awkward things about being in a relationship, such as it is, is that Peter dances around the topic of his history with a surprising amount of grace. Topic changes. Redirects. Jokes. Charlie's been a lot more forthcoming with his past than Peter has with his -- which is saying a whole lot, considering Peter doesn't have much of a past to share in comparison.
The thing of it is, there are certain aspects of Peter's life that he'd rather forget. Like how the Ravagers once had him convinced when he was ten years old that on certain planets, shadows came to life and ate the souls of unsuspecting children. Or how once, when he was twenty-one, he'd gotten swindled out of his clothes during a game of Ellusian Ten. More recently, he refuses to talk about the fact that his former mentor and adopted family probably wants to kill him.
After all, they lost a lot of good men that day, and because of Peter, the only profit the Ravagers saw for it was a PR coup with the Nova Corps.
At this point, the Guardians haven't had any run-ins with the Ravagers, which is just as well to Peter. He has no clue what might happen whenever they do, though he's narrowed it down to a choice few scenarios. For one, Yondu might simply demand the Guardians pay him back the billions of units they promised him. For another, he could rope the Guardians into a job, coerce them into helping under pain of death. Or, he might kidnap Peter, force him to work and work and work until they miraculously break even.
Peter's bet? An arrow whistled straight through his throat, without even a chance to speak.
They have time between assignments, and despite previous experience, Charlie and Peter are out on their own for another supply run. They've just finished arranging for the goods to be sent to the ship when Peter thinks he sees a familiar flash of red in the crowd. He turns a little, eyes scanning the area and-- there it is again. At least five guys, and--
He catches the briefest glimpse of blue, and the color drains from his face.
He murmurs, ] Oh, fuck me.
[ He grabs Charlie's shoulders and physically turns him around. ]
Go back to the ship. Tell the guys to put the Milano on lock-down. If you don't hear from me in an hour, take off without me. Got it?
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Charlie is not much of a fan of the latter, which is why he doesn't make a move to go anywhere. ]
What's going on?
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tl;dr i'm sorry
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Pretend "Dancing in the Moonlight" is playing....
[Ai Thao has made herself at home on Peter Quill's spaceship, the Milano after their action packed and harrowing heist. She's seated herself next to the tiny treelike creature that's napping in its pot while warming her hands with a cup of sweet and dark coffee. She's taking it easy now that they don't have to face any immediate danger within the deepness of space. It's been fun and all and while Ai would love to explore more, she's about due for a return trip to Earth.
She seems content, with her coffee and examining baby Groot.]
Are you sure he's not magical...?
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Well, I guess he's magical in the way that, like, rainbows are magical? But nah, he's 100% Groot. Alien.
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Well, no. It's largely desert. But there are a lot of small towns that are largely lawless. This place is just a huddle of buildings, crowded against an outcropping of rocks in a sea of sand. Barely enough to be called a town. But there's an inn, a bar, a place to park your spaceship, and no shortage of people willing to do less-than-honest things to make a little money. What more could you want?
Perhaps a little bizarrely, the bar in question also seems to have a resident musician. A resident jazz musician, taking up space on a small raised platform that passes for a stage, playing away on his saxophone. ]
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And on this planet, practically every job fell more to one side than the other.
Which is just as well for them, considering their methods and execution could, on occasion, be a little-- rough, which has gotten them into hot water more than once. So it comes as a relief to end up in a place where jobs can be completed by "any means necessary." Gives them the chance to get it out of their system -- or at the very least, that's the hope. They've decided to go with the divide and conquer approach, this time around. Lets everyone stretch their legs, be their own boss. (And they almost always realize how spoiled they are for working as a team, in the end.)
Peter's at the bar with a celebratory drink, squinting at the musician thoughtfully. Mostly because he's pretty sure that's a saxophone, and he's pretty sure he hasn't seen one anyplace except Earth. Which is weird. Like, a cool weird. Like running into an old friend you haven't seen for ages and catching up over coffee. It also helps that the musician is, like, fucking killing it. Peter had entered the bar in between sets, and when he first spotted it, he was sure it was going to be a disaster -- just some dude messing around on a foreign instrument with no clue as to how it should sound. But, no, he was proven wrong, and it's a nice little surprise after a day of hard work.
His own job had been little more than an escorting a shipment of rations -- at least at first blush. But there's good money to be made in the sale of food stuffs and water filters, so naturally there were also bandits and guns and shooting, and Peter was glad for the distraction after hours of staring at crates. Sure, he didn't manage to wrangle all of the assholes to ship them off to whatever passed as jail here, but he got most of them, and the shipment got where it needed to go. And that's what he should really be worried about, right?
Actually, no, what Peter should actually be worried about is the gang of bedraggled, singed, and above all angry men who are passing by the bar, being yelled at by what Peter would later describe as a wall of solid brick, much to Drax's confusion. The doors to the establishment are wide open, allowing in what little breeze there is to brush through the stuffy room, and the flash of maroon is unmistakable to the men -- especially since half of their fellows had recently been captured by the man wearing it. The bandits are quick to point him out, and soon the giant man is ducking into the bar, tapping Peter on the shoulder. When Star-Lord turns, he's picked up by the collar of his shirt, and flung bodily into a set of tables.
Sorry about the interruption, jazz guy. Just-- play around it or something? ]
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wow hi hello I had an idea i hope that's ok if not just let me know \o\
She didn't even leave a note. What a jerk.
Rose had always like to listen and people had always liked to talk. She was a natural at saying nothing about herself yet finding out more than her fair share about other people from watching, listening, and knowing just how much a smile makes a difference. Turns out there was a job for that sort of talent. An informant. She unfortunately couldn't work with law enforcement due to her circumstances but she could freelance. The galaxy was full of information just waiting to be discovered and shared; secrets, she quickly learned, have a surprisingly high value.
But she also quickly learned that she couldn't live on secrets alone. While she may have gotten a little rusty and it was dangerous to throw herself into a ring again, it's the only way she really knows to get some fast cash. There was only so much money in information-sharing. Most people wanted to pay her in knowledge in return and that was fine but it didn't fill her stomach or pay her way to the next planet. It didn't keep her moving.
She was smart enough to cover her tracks. Careful not to draw too much attention or get caught. So picking up a challenge or two in some shady system in her down time didn't hurt.
Only it kind of did.
Everything always comes in threes. That's the saying, isn't it?
Three cracked ribs. Three missing teeth. Three inches of her hair chopped off (though only on one side). Three very large, nasty bruises on her person that are indicative of a deeper problem below the surface. Only one shiner, thankfully, but she only has two eyes to be blackened in the first place. Thank the gods she didn't have more or else she might really have had three black eyes.
All things considered, it isn't a bad outcome for a fight as harrowing as that one. Rose does her best to power through the pain - just as she always has - but judging from the way her vision swims and breathing is more a wheezing, she isn't doing as well as she's trying to pretend she is. Maybe she'll just lean against this wall to think her options over. It's totally not for stability or anything. Nope. Not in the slightest.
Don't mind her as she slumps against said wall and slooowwwllllyyyy starts to slide down it. She's totally fine. Totally. Just -
Give her a minute. ]
sorry for how long this is orz
And then one night they docked, went to celebrate a job well done. Rose had stayed behind, saying she wasn't feeling well, and while Peter offered to stay to keep her company, she declined, told him to have fun. It's only in retrospect that he realized he should have pressed more, because when they came back, she and what few possessions she had (mostly small trinkets the team had gotten her while they were out and about) were gone. He wonders still if it was something he said, or something the others had done, or if maybe something from her past had caught up with her. He had scoured the ship, looking for any clues, but-- no. The ship was clean. Rose walked off, locked the ship up behind her as he'd taught her, and disappeared.
Sadly, that's about par for the course in the strange life of one Peter Jason Quill. People flit in and out of his life. The only constant had been the Ravagers, before, who only seemed to tolerate him, and the Guardians, now, who were just one big fluke. Everyone else either wanted something from him or expected him to be dead soon. He wonders, Which category did Rose fall under?
Life moved on, though, and Peter along with it. There wasn't time to mope, not when the Guardians had to make a living; so they picked up jobs, took up contracts, went after bounties. All the while, though, Peter kept an eye out for that flash of blonde hair. Just in case, he thought. Maybe she's in trouble. Or maybe she's not, and I can say hi. Or maybe I can ask her just what the hell I did to make her leave? The Nova Corps is keeping them busy, feeding them what little information they've received in their ongoing investigation into Hiromitsu. The Guardians decided early on that if they were going to take down that slave ring, they needed to do it right, through the proper legal channels -- otherwise they risked the chance of getting it wrong, cutting off a limb that would only regenerate down the line. As luck would have it, though, the investigation found them a few leads, not all of them tied directly to Hiromitsu. They managed to bust a few weapons dealers, a handful of drug traffickers, and more recently, they've taken to cracking down on illegal fighting rings.
The Guardians of the Galaxy are busting into the building just as Rosie is limping out -- but Peter still catches sight of her as the door swings shut. He's nearly about to run after her when the shooting starts, and then everything's a blur -- fighting viciously and dirty to end things as soon as possible, because Peter's got shit to do, douchelords, can we hurry this up, please?
The second the last man falls, Peter leaps over the table he had taken cover behind (ignoring the alarmed shouts from his teammates telling him to wait) and bursts through the door leading to the back alley. The heavy metal door slams against the brick of the wall, the noise echoing through the narrow streets. ]
--Rose!
[ Evidently she didn't make it too far, since he finds her at the mouth of the alley. He rushes over and kneels in front of her, pressing the switch behind his ear to retract his helmet. The mask withdraws from his face, leaving blue light in its wake, to reveal a very concerned Peter staring down at her. He hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, examining what injuries he can see on the surface. ]
Rose, hey-- [ His voice is gentle but shaky -- obviously panicked and worried. ] Hey-- long time no see, huh? Eyes on me, okay? Can you do that for me?
never be sorry c':
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Like trying to be polite to aliens who are trying to get to know her TOO well while they trying to locate a contact that would give them information in a rather popular and crowded bar. Ai's strayed behind Peter after being held up by a particular tall blue fellow.]
"Don't see too many Terran 'round these parts. Whaddya say? I'll buy you a drink. Two even!"
Ah... I-I'm not old enough for that.
[18... So close, but so far...]
"No need to worry about arbitrary rules like that, c'mon!"
[HALP...]
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Well, shit. She's not there.
He has a sort of mini panic attack at that moment as he weaves his way back through the crowd, bumping into more than a few drunk assholes on the way. (Those that don't apologize find their pockets slightly lighter.) When he spots Ai and her new blue friend, he breathes a sigh of relief, even despite the obvious discomfort on her face. ]
There you are. [ He shoves past the blue alien, who lets out an outraged squawk. Peter opts to ignore him. ] I told you to stick close by, kid. Some of the folks out here are really shady.
[ He turns to the blue alien with a bright grin, gratitude written on his every feature. ]
Thanks so much for keeping an eye on her, sir. It was kind of you. Now, we've wasted enough of your time. Have a lovely night.
[ And he takes Ai's hand and sweeps past the stranger without so much as a glance back. ]
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to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die
She should have known there was something suspicious about this last tech run for the Crucible project. It had taken her to a derelict research station further out in the fringes of the Milky Way in Batarian space, which was already a red flag; that area of the galaxy was generally known to be a Reaper fest, being the first door the giant cuttlefish figuratively kicked down in their mass arrival from dark space. But the scientists and engineers on the project were adamant about recovering tech from the derelict station, citing its importance in the completion of the Crucible, and Kasumi found herself unable to turn it down. It's why she's called on the Guardians to help her on this job--not only is it incredibly dangerous, but she knows both she and Peter would rest easier if they went into the thick of it together.
Kasumi gets there first, because of course she does, but mostly it's because of her being relatively closer from her last job. It had been her who insisted on making the rendezvous at the station, rather than on some asteroid belt or anywhere prior to the job, if only by virtue of their respective flight vectors. Meeting up beforehand would have added days of travel to the overall job, and with the galaxy on the brink of destruction, they don't really have the luxury of time.
She will, however, come to regret this decision upon her arrival. It's quiet... too quiet, she thinks, even for an abandoned station. She does her standard run of checks before the Guardians arrive--cursory reconnaissance, really--checking schematics of the place, looking for heat signatures, locating the tech, anything, only to find nothing. It's not until she finds a secure comm frequency that she stumbles across radio chatter, and she's shocked to find that there's even any to begin with.
"Alpha team, what's your status? Any word?"
"Not yet. We haven't seen a thing since we picked up on a new arrival."
One of the voices sounds Batarian, giving her a degree of unease. Not because she has anything against Batarians, but because of her graybox. The Alliance black ops raid--the intel in Keiji's graybox--is one of humanity's best kept secrets at the moment, but Kasumi wouldn't be surprised if what little Batarians are left have made it their personal mission to exact revenge on the Alliance after what Shepard did. The other sounds--human, maybe? It wouldn't surprise her to know that a few humans have turned heel to join that cause, either. Extremists come in all shapes, sizes, races.
"If you can't see anything, then chances are it's the guest of honor. We'll get what we need from her soon enough."
"Yeah. It's time the Alliance paid for their crimes against Batarians and against the entire galaxy."
That's when it hits her. The people here really are out for Alliance blood, and--this--
This is a fucking trap.
"Beta team, any sign on her backup?"
"No, sir."
And she's inadvertently sent the Guardians, sent Peter into an ambush.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
When a highly-encrypted message comes through the Milano's emergency comms, flagged specifically for one Peter Jason Quill, a.k.a. Star-Lord, it doesn't come from the Nova Corps, this time. It doesn't come from Kasumi Goto, either. It comes through the Shadow Broker, a feat in and of itself, because--since when does the Shadow Broker personally deliver messages, much less to a crew like the Guardians?
The voice on the audio message, at least, is familiar. Because in this case, it is Kasumi's, and her voice is calm, level, but there would be no denying a current of veiled panic that runs beneath:
"Peter--love, I'm going to need you to stay calm and listen to what I'm about to say very carefully. I'm sending this through the Broker so there's no way to track this transmission--do not proceed with the rendezvous as planned. We've been had. There's something--a group here, with stealth tech to hide heat signatures, so I don't know how many of them there are, but... Please, don't come. Stay where you are, I'll figure out how to get out of here and find you, okay? They said something about wanting revenge against the Alliance--I think they want my graybox. So just--please, don't--"
And then the feed cuts off. ]
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When the feed cuts off, the silence in the comm room is deafening.
It's so absolute, that even Gamora with her nerves of steel jumps in surprise when the console shatters beneath Peter's fist.
The Milano was docked at a station when Kasumi's message came through, the crew readying itself to depart, but Gamora belays that, tells them the mission is compromised. After Peter had haphazardly bandaged his hand, he grabs his gear and makes a hasty exit. He's fast when he wants to be be, slippery, and Gamora loses sight of him in the crowd of refugees. They only realize he's left the station when Rocket patches into the station's security comms, a woman's calm voice reporting an injured Nova Corps officer and his missing patrol ship.
"Please, don't come."
Like hell he was staying put.
To Peter's credit, he's a damn good thief. Certainly not anywhere near Kasumi's caliber, but he was good enough all the same. And more than that, he knows his ships -- an old hobby from his teenage years that never quite went away. He knows Nova Corps ships have rudimentary cloaking and aside from that, were small enough to typically read as a blip on most ship's radars. He knows, too, that they aren't meant for deep space travel, as he's pushing it to do now, and that this ship will only be good for a one-way trip. Good enough, he thinks. It will have to do.
It has to do.
He ignores every wave from the Milano, every chirp in his ear signaling another message from his team. This is suicide, they said the first time he let them through. Turn around. Come back to us. You're not thinking straight, Quill.
He absolutely was, though, which they didn't seem to understand. There's a strange, icy sort of clarity in his mind telling him that if Kasumi doesn't make it out of that fucking station alive, then he's damn well making sure that no one will.
The ship dies on him at last, though he's not too far from the station when it does. It's for the best, anyway, since he had already planned to ditch it. Coat zipped, gloves on, mask deployed, he opens the ship's canopy and floats through the void, using his jets to close the distance between himself and the station. It's quick work to find himself an entrance -- a trash chute that opens readily after Peter clamps a device against the doors -- and when he enters the station properly, he switches to the private line he shares with Kasumi.
No voice, though. Just a texted message that reads, ]
your cavalry has arrived.
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Human AU, for reals this time! LMK if you want something changed, clarified, etc.
This large, tan and tattooed man, legally, also wasn't handcuffed to a table in a private room in K____ prison; he was in his cell, serving his lifetime sentence. His name, according to his file, was once Arturo Dieguez. He was a Nevada native, a real-estate agent, and an amateur saxophone player; some years ago, he had a wife (Iveth) and daughter (Amarissa). A drive through the Mojave Desert ended with the family car being riddled with bullet-holes. Only the father came out alive. According to Dieguez, they had stumbled on some sordid business linked to an associate of "the Accuser" (but there wasn't enough evidence to prove his claim). After that point, Dieguez quit his job, trained, and joined underground fighting rings, under the name "el Durante" (the stubborn one, the durable one), whereupon his twenty-two counts of voluntary manslaughter and six counts of GBH took place. These men had it coming, he claimed, for their links to "the Accuser". His parents were undocumented, from an unidentified country, but he was born stateside. Nothing else was known.
He understood English, yet, for some undisclosed reason, refused to speak it; el Durante lived up to his title and paid no attention to the cops and government people and, instead, acted as if he didn't understand what they were offering. That was why one of the other criminals, being offered this same deal, had been sent to this legally non-happenstance.
As he'd greeted the others, el Durante sat, back-straight, and looked this fellow criminal in the eyes as he entered.]
¿Te atreves? [You dare?] Me conoces, ¿sí? [You know me, yes?]
sry about the length!
Peter frequently happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And by frequently, we mean pretty much 100% of the time, if his word was anything to go by. (Incidentally, his word tended to be untrustworthy -- he had always been gifted with a silver tongue; given enough time, he could talk his way out of more than his share of problems. Too bad it didn't tend to work when he was already caught red-handed.) His first mistake involved running and running and running when he wasn't quite ten, fleeing from a cold hospital room, where alarms were blaring and people were crying, and he had been screaming, over and over, begging and shouting and cursing.
(Please. I'll do anything. I promise. Please, bring her back.)
He ran, because he didn't know what else to do. He hid, because he didn't want to be found. He stole, because he needed to eat.
But eventually he ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time once again. He picked the wrong pocket. And after nursing the hand-shaped bruise on his wrist and surviving the loudest, angriest, most swear-filled lecture of his life detailing every mistake he made in the process of trying to snatch the man's wallet, Peter finds himself learning the ropes under the wing of one York Dixon.
For almost thirty years, anyway, before Peter finally decided (without any input from his mentor, of course) he could fly solo. Naturally, this led to his most recent mistake.
(His life is full of those.)
Peter ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, stumbling into a warehouse to steal some valuable gear or other; apparently the warehouse was a premiere destination, because he also happened to stumble upon a drug deal in the making, and suddenly the building was swarming with cops and feds, and despite his swearing up, down, front, back, and sideways that he had nothing to do with whatever deal was happening that night, it was a little more difficult to explain away the whole breaking and entering thing.
Then, one day, a slightly overweight cop wandered to his holding cell -- Inspector Day. Peter recognized the man, had run to him more than a few times over the course of their respective careers. Quill had no clue why the cop seemed to have a soft spot for him, though he suspected it had something to do with Day having watched him grow up, like Peter was some weird, delinquent, surrogate son. And that was fine, Peter figured, since it tended to help more than hinder.
The cop leaned against the bars, beckoned Peter close with a wave and a furtive look around. He said, "I think they're gonna cut you a deal." At Peter's dubious look, the inspector shrugged and asked sheepishly, "You ever seen The Dirty Dozen?"
("I don't like your chances," was what his court-appointed lawyer told him -- a thin, balding man with watery eyes and a birdlike nose. "The evidence is quite incriminating, Mr. Quill. Off the record? I advise you to take their offer.")
Peter's conversation with Inspector Day ended with a huge sigh, and he replied, "You're lucky I really like movies."
But what they don't tell Peter was that they were apparently using his gift of gab to convince the others they were looking to recruit. Somehow, he succeeded in getting the demolitions expert on board -- a squirrely little guy who had watched him with his beady little eyes the entire time, clever hands somehow fashioning a weapon out of wire and steel nicked from the issued bed frame. His nickname was a little on the nose, Peter thought in retrospect, but Lord knows Peter sure as hell wasn't going to point it out. And with Rocket on the team, that earned them more muscle in the form of Gideon; guy didn't talk much, but he seemed decent.
The next stop was this-- el Durante guy, and Peter only knew of him. Even running in different criminal circles, el Durante’s reputation preceded him, and a trail of blood, guts, and way too many loosened teeth followed; given his first look at the dude, Peter could totally believe all the stories he had heard. The cell door slammed shut behind him (but not before the federal agent could say, oh, so encouragingly, "Good fucking luck, kid"), and suddenly he was faced with one of the deadliest men in Nevada.
...One of the deadliest men in Nevada who seemed to only speak Spanish. ]
... Well, shit. [ More murmured than spoken, and Peter sagged back against the door, pulling a hand down his face. ]
Um. [ He peeked out between his fingers, voice muffled by his palm when he dredged up his patchwork knowledge of the language. ] ¿Hablas... inglés?
Don't worry, as long as we agree not to try to match each other's lengths we're good.
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lmk if this is okay!
She’s also a teenage girl. She’s naïve and perhaps a little too trusting. Her enthusiasm comes off as a little strange sometimes, but her cheerful attitude is infectious. She is friendly, but has only ever had one real friend.
And lastly, she is the first synthetic being able to generate an Aura- the manifestation of one’s soul- so she is much, much more than just a machine. She’s alive.
There’s been some problems, however, including Penny’s destruction during a fighting tournament held by the nations of Remnant- through no fault of her opponent, but that was another story. Penny’s true nature was kept a secret from everyone, even her own teammates, and as she lay in pieces on the arena floor, people began to ask themselves what use would the military have for a robotic soldier that looked and behaved like a normal girl. It wasn’t long after that that chaos erupted, and the city was overwhelmed by monsters. However, just before Penny shut down, her father, her inventor, was able to transfer her data, her very being, into an auxiliary body.
Professor Polendina made arrangements to have Penny taken to another facility off-world, but the situation on Remnant was too delicate and the military under too much scrutiny to take her themselves. He had to call in outside help, and he was more than willing to pay a heavy sum to ensure secrecy and that his daughter would be kept safe.
Penny protested, of course. There were people out there who needed her help, not least of which was her friend, Ruby. Her father, strict as ever, told her that she would not be going back to the city of Vale, or Beacon Academy, or maybe even Remnant, ever again. Penny isn’t stupid enough that she doesn’t realize that if she’d just listened to her father in the first place, that maybe none of this would have happened.
So with a suitcase full of her meager belongings and the bravest expression she can muster, she waits for her transport to come pick her up. ]
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So here he was, taking a job. Babysitting, it seemed like; Peter was hardly the type of person to whom one should entrust a child, what with him practically being one, himself, but he'd kept his mouth shut on that front when numbers were bandied out. He'd just have to grin and bear it, he decided. Teenagers were probably easier than kids, anyway, right?
The Milano has hardly touched down when the bay door's lock disengages, turning to allow the doors to part. Peter stands at the threshold, leaning forward with a hand braced against the bulkhead and peering out. When he catches sight of her, his head tilts to one side, and he puts on winning smile. He shouts to be heard over the idling engines. ]
I'm guessing you're Penny?
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They take a much needed break at long last, hopping off on some middle class station that didn't have a seedy corner to its name, and the team is glad for that little bit of normal, at least for now. The others hop off the ship and go their separate ways, glad for the reprieve from the cramped space of the Milano and from one another, while Peter stays behind. It's his ship, after all. It's one of the few places that simply feels like home.
It also allows Peter to play his mixed tapes at full blast — Awesome Mix, Volume 2, tonight, which means "I Want You Back" blares over the ship's speakers as he dances and sings along.
He may not be entirely aware that he's not alone. ]
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Instead of going off ship though, Rose settles in. She's not an introvert by any means - the rest of the Guardians know that much by now - but she does enjoy her solitary moments. Too many are bad for her, which they also know, but once in a while doesn't hurt.
She was actually hoping for said solitude but seems the universe (or just Peter Quill) has different plans for her. Music instead floods the ship and pulls her out of whatever wistful thought she'd been currently on. Of course she knows who's responsible and wanders silently towards the very source... only to snort in amusement soon as she sees him.
He doesn't dance often. At least not seriously. She still isn't entirely sure this is serious, but it's... more heartfelt than whatever she has witnessed. Heartfelt but obviously still comical enough to make her snicker. His moves aren't bad, not by any means. In fact, it's quite the opposite. It seems fun. Carefree. ...But still really, really funny perhaps because it was so unexpected. ]
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replies two weeks late w/starbucks. hands you some.
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lmk is this is okay!
Well, whatever the draw was, something fell out of the sky and landed smack in the desert. Considering it wasn’t too far from McCree’s old haunting ground, and also considering McCree’s old cronies from the Deadlock Gang were very interested in finding whatever it was, the sharpshooter has been tasked by the higher-ups to check it out.
Goodie.
McCree doesn’t much like being back in town, but he keeps to himself during the day, taking care to stay out of sight. Some of the places around here still have his wanted poster hanging on the wall, and that’s a headache he doesn’t need. Once the sun sets, he climbs into an old Jeep and heads out to the location of the crash, as near as their satellites could figure.
With any luck, he’ll just find a chunk of rock and call it a day. ]
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But try telling that to one Peter Jason Quill, who made it a hobby to coax at least a few miles out of any ship he could manage to hot-wire, ever since he was old enough to knowingly break the law. And considering his choices had been to either stay on a failing ship full of Bad Guys, falling its way toward the moon, or to take his chances on a tiny escape pod and fly towards a planet where he knows he'll be able to breathe, it wasn't a difficult decision to make.
He tossed himself and the data he'd stolen into the tiny pod, made some adjustments on the fly, and— hey, it worked. If he hadn't been burning his way through Earth's atmosphere, Peter would've pat himself on the back for a job well done.
The impact carves him a sizable crater in the dry sands, nearly destroys the hull of his tiny ship, but the pod does its job and keeps him mostly intact. He thinks wryly to himself that he's literally The Man Who Fell to Earth, but the thought is chased away by the pain of the injuries he's sustained. He manages to trigger the distress beacon just before he falls unconscious, which saves him from suffering through the heat of the day, and he wakes just as the sun begins its descent behind the horizon.
So here he is: a former outlaw turned part-time hero, sitting in a busted pod in a deep, wide crater in the middle of the desert. (Also, there might possibly be a hole in the bottom of the sea.) Probably safer to stay inside, but after nearly an hour of staring, the narrowness of the space starts to eat away at him. The door jams and resists, but after a strong kick, it finally swings upward. He crawls out to sit on the edge of the hatchway. His left arm throbs in warning – broken, maybe – and he braces it against his side as he takes in his surroundings. Sand and brush and rock formations and a sky turning pink as the sun sets.
Nothing left to do but wait, he guesses. Wait, and not die – in that order. ]
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AU! Lemme know if you want anything changed, clarified, etc.
Life was not so well-planned, due to divine mismanagement or poor improv by the players involved.
Take, for instance, Operation Zechariah. Although much was taught in their ten weeks of training (in fact, far exceeding their expectations), none of it adequately prepared them for the type of affair Taurino Teran held in "the middle of nowhere, South America" (as Rocket referred to the large tents assembled by Teran's large, seaside manor). Sure, they had been informed that the soiree was to be a plen air wedding, honoring the union of Teran's daughter (Carina) and her betrothed (a Michael Korvac), and, yes, they verbally accepted this intel and assured the military personae that they were more than capable of attending the affair under the guise of Galenia's guests. (Galenia, as far as the other wedding attendees were to know, had been in prison and managed to escape with the aid of their bizarre company. A technical truth, as many great lies are.)
Now, it was another thing to dress their motley crew in rented suits and send them into this field.
They endured the lengthy ceremony admirably. Their criminal backgrounds were more than sufficient in allowing them to navigate through Teran's terrifying guest list (which welcomed the likes of a Gene Khan, Victor Von Doom, Georges Batroc, Ophelia Sarkissian, and other names that were typically graced with less-than favorable associations that were, unfortunately, unsupported by physical evidence and/or living/social witnesses). Dieguez even managed to look the Accuser in the eyes, shake his hand, and state that he was now working with Galenia because it had been difficult for a person, with his history, to find any other jobs; how he managed such a feat without murdering the man where he stood (which would have foolishly compromised them before the eyes of Teran, his guest list, and the Accuser's terrifying bodyguard) was beyond him. Understandably, after he had practiced such infuriating restraint, Rocket and Gideon did not need to overexert themselves in convincing el Durante to join their inebriation come reception-time.
The mission was meant to be clear-cut. They'd go in, find a way to isolate the Accuser from the rest, capture or kill him, and rendezvous with a helicopter on the mansion's roof at exactly 21:09. Simple enough. All they had to do was blend in, wait for and/or force the Accuser to separate from his bald protectoress (another daughter of the same death-obsessed cult that had forcibly taken Galenia and created Gomorrah). Dieguez knew it would have benefitted the five of them if they followed these orders. It would have made for an incredibly neat little narrative.
After a drink or ten, the three of them most definitely were no longer blending in; to the bride's mortification and the fascination of Teran's increasingly loquacious security personnel, they were possibly accomplishing the exact diametric opposite via Dieguez very loudly struggling to get out of Gideon's hold and equally loudly challenging Rocket.
Ten weeks of military bonding and training. Undone in a short conversation. With this lot, such a thing did not feel terribly out of place.]
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In addition to being a renowned thief (at least in his own mind), Peter was also an accomplished conman (again, in his own mind), which meant he knew how to manipulate and read body language, knew when and how to smile, knew what words to say to defuse a situation. He used words as tools, considered them malleable little things, and could charm and talk his way out of more than a few charged situations.
In short? Peter Quill was a liar.
He and Galenia easily moved through the crowds, the former turning up the charm and wearing an easy smile, the latter leveraging her reputation like a weapon and playing up the femme fatale angle. Gideon and Rocket seemed to be doing alright, and even Dieguez managed to hold it together, and for a little while there, Peter really thought they might be able to manage this impossible mission.
While the other three were pounding back drinks, Peter and Galenia found themselves a secluded little area to compare notes – using coy, obfuscated language in case anyone was listening – and suddenly a kind word or two led to the two of them brushing closer together. And maybe Peter drank a few too many himself, because he inched forward, ducking down slowly to catch Galenia’s mouth with his, and—
A lot of things happened at once. First, a knife found its way to his throat, pushing him back, and Peter found himself wondering just where the hell Galenia was hiding that. Before she could murder him, however, the cacophony of glass shattering and tables toppling caught their attention. Something cold plummeted in Peter’s gut, and a glance at Galenia showed him she felt the same sensation, and together they rushed to the scene.
They arrived just as Dieguez had apparently wrestled his way out of Gideon’s grip, and shoved him away. Somehow, Peter found himself standing between two veritable titans, hands held up to keep the two of them at bay. ]
What the hell are you guys doing?
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I want to save the Rocket backstory for later. Now doesn't seem opportune for him to bring it up.
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are u ready for quill to get knocked on his ass
however, what she doesn't let go is the fact that quill needs to invest time into honing his reflexes. in comparison to the team as a whole, he's the slowest, the least durable in immediate combat, and, well, he could do with something more formal to keep him up to par. not that he's a poor fighter, by any means, but gamora has higher (probably the highest) standards, and after such a painfully close call, she wants to see peter adhering to said standards, at least a bit more.
it's why she insists that he train with her, at least until he has a firmer grasp of what he needs to polish on his own time. she wants to know that he's improving, that he's getting better and more refined, so that she doesn't have to—
—worry.
that's what it is, if she's honest. not that she sees reason to inform quill, to cue him in to her reasoning beyond "to make you less of a risk to the rest of us", but she wants to see quill safe. training, getting better, faster — it's the only way she can think to provide quill with the tools to protect himself.
she won't always be there to push him out of the way, after all, and the other possible outcomes are unacceptable.
however, just because she's doing something to help him, doesn't mean she's going to make it easy.
in the milano's cargo bay, they've cleared away a space that's usable, and while it's not much, it's enough. there's area to engage each other, and gamora finds herself actually enjoying it — even if she's not properly fighting him. if she was fighting, he wouldn't stand a chance, but for now, she's trying to make a point.
and that point being, he needs to improve. that this is critical to his survival.
of course, the way she chooses to make said point isn't necessarily the kindest method she could employ.
when quill comes at her, all she does is duck out of his direct path, stick out her foot, and watch with a vaguely amused look as his foot collides with her ankle and he goes down.
she steps forward, leaning over him with her eyebrow quirked, her hair falling over her shoulder as she considers the prone terran laying on the cargo bay's steel floor. ]
Have I proven my point, or do you require further demonstration?
step on him!!!
Because he knows he's something of the weak link, here. Rocket is modded to hell and good with tech. Drax is practically a brick wall incarnate. Gamora is the galaxy's deadliest assassin. Groot is nigh indestructible, as they found out after his stint with shattering into a bajillion pieces. And Peter...
... well. He owns the ship.
He can hold his own just fine in a fight, though, against normal dudes; he managed just fine in the clusterfuck of the Dark Aster, after all. What the Ravagers lacked in any kind of formal training, they made up for in decades of experience in bar brawls and morally suspect jobs. So Peter knows how to throw a punch, knows how to duck one, too. Knows how to fight fucking dirty, if necessary, using his teeth and nails and occasional under-the-belt kicks that a more honorable person would find reprehensible. But Peter's a survivor, and he's going to damn well survive.
It's when they start running into other folks just as big and burly as Drax, or just as well trained as Gamora, that things get a little touch and go for him. Usually Peter's happy to keep his distance, taking potshots where he can, but sometimes—
—sometimes he ends up in dingy, rundown clubs, with a laser sight flickering on his chest.
A liability, a small part of him whispers, and Gamora only confirms it: to make you less of a risk to the rest of us.
Peter complains, still, because of course he complains. He bitches about nearly everything. But god damn, was Peter not prepared for how that comment stung.
So here they are now, sparring in the cargo bay. Gamora is taking it easy on him, which Peter supposes is kind of the point. He knows how she fights; he's seen it over and over again during the course of their work. He experienced it firsthand on Xandar, but even while Peter was in her way, she still held back, even then. She didn't have aims to kill him at the start, even though it would have neatly solved all her problems.
(Peter, rather foolishly, had thought he handled himself pretty well. Sure, it took a whole lot of distractions for him to get the upper hand, but he made it out alright. It's only later that he realizes that if she had really set her mind to it? He'd be dead at least twenty times over, just from that fight alone.)
And when Peter fights, he tends to depend on his tools, his wits, his speed. Strip that away from him, match him with someone who's just better than him, and you get this:
Peter, swinging at Gamora – only instead of Gamora, it's empty air. And how did she move so fa—
Only he can't finish that thought, because the momentum of his swing takes him over her waiting foot, trips him up entirely, and he twists as he falls. His back slams into the deck, knocks the breath from his lungs, and he stares up at the overhead in a daze. And isn't this a familiar sight, Gamora staring down at him, her hair cascading over her shoulder, only instead of frustrated and angry, like that day on Xandar, she mostly looks smug. ]
... Point made.
[ This, on something of a wheeze. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, rubbing at the back of his head, feeling for any bumps. ]
Should we have, like, laid practice mats down or something?
that's what she's here for t b h
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idefk with this mess lmk if i need to edit??
of course, jessica's usually the one finding those missing people, no matter how gone they seem to be, but there's the occasional case that just leads to a dead-end — the wrong kind. it always comes up feeling awkward or somehow off, like a painting hung askew or a word with all the letters in the a different order: you look at it, at all the evidence, and something isn't the way it's supposed to be.
frustrating, is what it goddamn is, and those rare and inevitably futile cases keep her up sometimes.
but she's also come (grudgingly) to accept it.
when someone seems to just vanish into thin air, when she reaches the end of the metaphorical line, she has no choice. it's how inexplicable it all is that really unsettles her, but what the hell can she even do about it, other than write it off, let her client know that there's no trail to follow (none), and try to move on? she's seen the pattern in more than just her own cases, but—
eventually you just explain it away. try to come up with something logical, like the body just hasn't been found or maybe they've somehow managed to buy their way to antartica — whatever the fuck it is.
it's too weird, otherwise. almost unnatural.
but maybe that's just the way the universe works, right? things that can't always be explained or understood, because it comes and goes with the sort of convoluted complexities that will leave any normal person grasping at straws, scrabbling for comprehension when all they'll come away with is empty air.
jessica's reached that place with a few of the disappearances.
she just never expected to be one of them.
when she wakes, it's with the most killer headache of her life.
did i really drink that much? is about the first coherent thought she manages. because what the fuck?
also why is the floor so hard?
passed out in an alley? nope, doesn't smell like shit. passed out at the bar? nope, would have gotten kicked out. passed out in her apartment? still no, because she doesn't have steel goddamn floors.
she takes a second to process that, finally cracking open an eye as she comes to terms with the fact that her cheek is resting on something cold and metal, rather than wood or carpet (or, preferably, her bed). she slowly lifts her head, squinting at her surroundings.
crates. boxes. her first impulse is to think "warehouse," but no, too small for that. everything is enclosed, a little cramped, and definitely metal, with a low hum that fills the space (and does absolutely zero favors for her throbbing head). ]
Where in the fuck...?
[ grimacing, she presses a hand to her forehead, sitting up and looking around. she can hear voices overhead, and she's automatically on high alert.
...or she would be, if her head didn't feel like it was going to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't stay still.
shit.
with a royal fuckload of effort, she drags herself to her feet, biting back the groan of accompanying discomfort. a step forward, and she stumbles, catching herself on a nearby crate — only to knock it right the floor.
...double shit.
the voices above her cut off immediately, and all she can think is, "so much for the element of surprise, dumbass." ]
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Apparently the same life lesson extends to surviving out in space, too. When deals go south, when jobs go pear-shaped, when that priceless artifact you're sent to find turns out to be some sort of weapon of mass destruction? Shit happens. So much.
This time, the job entailed transporting goods – foodstuffs, mostly, and some medicines. Some other assholes saw fit to try and take it from the Guardians, which meant dogfights in space and Peter piloting the Milano with all the recklessness the Ravagers had taught him, brow wrinkled and lips pressed together and that flicker of excitement in his eyes. When their tail's firepower proved to be too intimidating to try and outrun, Rocket shouts out a suicidal plan.
Flying straight into a nearby electromagnetic storm to lose their pursuers.
They argued over it for a few precious seconds, but as a shot singed a path across the wing of the Milano, Peter shouted a curse and veered toward the storm.
The storm, thankfully, didn't kill them as they thought it would. Didn't crush the hull with all the ease of wadding up a sheet of foil. It did fuck with the power a bit, made the lights flicker and die, only to come back to life with a brief hum. The Milano's scanners go fucking nuts, too, but given the nature of ion storms, everyone ignores the frankly ridiculous energy readings they get.
The ship judders once, twice, then a third time, but they manage to fly out of the storm without incident. They take a calming breath, then immediately start pointing fingers as to whose fault everything was.
Thankfully, the heavy, metallic clatter of their cargo interrupts them – the turbulence likely jostled the crates – and all eyes go to Peter.
"Right, yeah," he grumbles, "don't worry, everyone. Don't bother getting up. I'll take care of it."
Peter's still grumbling, in fact, when he finally trudges down the ladder to the cargo bay. He hops down the last few steps, takes two steps into the area, and blinks as he glances up.
... Then blinks again.
Then, yeah, pretty much just stares. ]
... Um.
[ There are a lot of questions Peter should ask, right now, as he stares at the woman in his cargo bay. Like, Who the hell are you? or How the fuck did you get on my ship? or What in the fuck? But he doesn't. What he says instead is, ]
... Hey there?
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"i should use one of ur meme links" N A H also lmk if i need to edit o b v s
where at first the guardians had tripped over each other in less than stellar attempts to work together, now they fell into the rhythm of fighting side-by-side in a genuinely admirable way. they watched each others' backs, kept everyone safe whenever possible, and generally found ways to accommodate one teammate's weaknesses with another's strengths. it worked, even if it shouldn't have — and gamora is grateful for it.
that doesn't mean they don't (often) find themselves in tight spots. it's like they're some universal magnet for trouble — which could easily come from a level of notoriety that still catches gamora off guard some days — and when something should be relatively painless?
it tends to be the opposite.
they should really keep a running tally on the milano of jobs gone wrong, or maybe start coughing up a few units any time one of them says anything along the lines of, "well, this should be a piece of cake." (and at least drax, by this juncture, realizes that the cake is not an actual cake, but rather a representation of a painless mission.
"but i would like to partake of this celebratory dessert."
"not...the point here, buddy.")
this most recent "piece of cake" turns out to be a bounty with a few more associates than their intel informed them.
one or two men turns into twenty, thirty, and then gamora loses count. they seem to be everywhere at once, and the team's attention keeps jumping from point to point, which makes everything—
—chaotic.
gamora moves from one enemy to the next, cutting down each without so much as flinching, but she keeps being drawn in eight different directions at a time while trying to keep an eye on the other guardians. she lost track of drax, has no idea where groot and rocket have ended up, but she hears over the comm:
"gamora, three on your left—"
she spins to meet the oncoming combatants, slicing through the first, the second—
until the third brings an incredibly heavy, incredibly vicious club down on her sword arm.
her vision momentarily swims with the pain, but gamora swings on instinct, drawing a knife from her boot with her unbroken arm and plunging it directly into the enemy's throat. the man joins the other two on the ground, gurgling and coughing on blood until gamora stomps on his neck. he goes completely still, and she reaches down to retrieve her knife — and godslayer, where it had fallen from her hand on impact. her arm is bent at a completely unnatural angle, and gamora finds cover to forcefully shove the splintered bone back into alignment.
a few sharp curses spill into the comm (under her breath, but largely still audible), and gamora holds her damaged arm against her chest as she throws herself back into the fight.
(because like hell she'll sit this out.)
that was hours ago, and gamora only reluctantly allowed quill to help her splint her arm. it will heal eventually, but keeping it stable and aligned will make the process easier.
...but until then, it's still incredibly painful.
the rest of the ship is quiet, and she's certain most of the others have gone to bed. she, however, can't seem to sleep, and she sits in the common area with a box of knives that need cleaning — though that has been momentarily abandoned.
she's trying to braid her hair where it falls in a dark curtain over her shoulder. she's combed through it already, but every time she reaches up with both hands, the still-healing arm starts to shake, shrieking with protest as she tries to maneuver her fingers through the three segments, tries to weave them in and out, but— she can't seem to steady herself.
she tries once, and then a second time, but this third time, she grits her and forces her shaking hand to grab another section of hair.
...this is embarrassingly difficult, she's starting to realize. ]
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That particular fund gets depleted quite often, unfortunately. And Peter would rather not put on, like, a bake sale to line their coffers.
(Though making Rocket go door to door wearing a little beret and a sash, trying to sell cookies? Kind of a hilarious mental image.)
Peter’s not sure how it is that their intel is so fucked up as to neglect mentioning more than three dozen men, but it is, and it does, and the ensuing fight is fucking brutal. Teamwork is still a new concept to the Guardians, which means that when the fight breaks out, they get separated pretty easily – in spite of Peter’s shouted command, Stay together!
Easier to watch each other’s backs that way.
It logically follows that no one listens to him.
It’s like herding cats, in the end, his focus frayed in trying to keep an eye on everything at once. It’s purely incidental that he manages to claim higher ground; evading some dickwad with an oversized mallet led to a quick jump, and a burst from the jets attached to his boots lets him clamber over the railing to a second level platform. Makes it easier to shout out warnings and keep everyone apprised of the state of the battlefield.
( “Rocket, watch your fire. Almost took me out just then, you asshole. Drax— Shit! Fuck, that was close— Drax, five incoming from the hallway. Gamora, three on your left—” )
He sees when it happens, and he shouts Gamora’s name when it does, moves to leap down from his vantage point, though he’s not sure what the fuck he plans to do. A blade slices through the air to his left, and Peter reels back to avoid getting his head chopped off. The sword clashes and sparks against the metal railing, barring Peter’s way. And by the time Peter’s taken care of that sword-wielding douchebag, Gamora is darting into cover, setting the broken arm. Her curses make Peter flinch bodily in sympathy, and he manages a quick, “You okay?” while shooting fuckmooks in the face. He receives a curt response in the affirmative.
Doesn’t believe it for a second, of course, and worry gnaws at him. Still, there’s little they can do about it while men still stand, and so Peter keeps fighting, trying to end the battle that much faster.
Later, convincing Gamora to let him help with her arm proves to be the much more difficult fight.
Hours later, he’s exhausted, but still wired, mind buzzing and replaying the day’s events. Today had been bad. Thanks to his training sessions with Gamora, Peter managed to not return to the Milano with a knife in his gut or a bullet in his heart, but he didn’t come through unscathed. He’s got one hell of a killer headache, thanks to a blow to the head – his helmet took the brunt of the damage, but it still rung his bell pretty badly; he’s got the bruising along his left cheekbone to prove it. And more punches and kicks had landed on him than not, which means his torso is a mess of sickly green and purple splotches.
Today had been bad, he thinks again, and that icy tendril of fear still grips his throat. Because skill and dumb fucking luck managed to see all of them through, but what if it hadn’t? Rocket nearly got squashed by a mallet. Drax nearly got run through by a sword. Peter nearly got peppered with bullets and blaster burns (and some of that was nearly friendly fire, which is another fucking problem entirely). And Gamora— well, if that club had gone for her head instead of her arm—
His mind scampers away from that thought.
It was a fucking mess today. Maybe even worse than their usual messes, and it rouses something dark and cold in his chest.
Some fucking team, he thinks. Some fucking leader, and that thought is bitter, makes bile rise in his throat.
He thinks, Is this really working?
When he finds Gamora in the middle of her third attempt, his headphones are fixed over his ears, his Walkman clipped securely to his belt. Awesome Mix Vol. 2, tonight.
He spies her grimace as her fingers grasp at her hair, and he tugs his headphones down to hang around his neck.
(Listen to the wind blow, just audible over the little speakers. Watch the sun rise—) ]
... What are you doing?
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