[ He can't quite help it – his eyes still narrow with learned mistrust. He's on an unfamiliar ship, with unfamiliar people – who, regardless of how much they might look like his team, might act like his team, absolutely are not his team. Half-remembered episodes of Star Trek float to mind, of evil doppelgangers running rampant through a so-called "good" universe.

Hard to say who is whom. As much as he doesn't rule out the possibility of this being some twisted mirror universe, they're also well within their rights, he thinks a little wryly, to assume he's the evil one.

Unconsciously, his dominant hand folds into a fist before he lets out a slow breath, forcing tension out of his frame. Nothing about his posture screams relaxed, but neither is he poised to spring. ]

The sooner the better.

[ It's as close to a "thank you" as he might be able to manage.

His jaw clenches again as he regards her. ]

I don't know what I can tell you to make you believe me, and neither do I enjoy the idea of the two of us prowling around one another, waiting for a false move until we can get this... sorted.

[ Because by his estimations, he thinks he can handle the majority of these Guardians – assuming, of course, they're of similar skill to the Guardians of his universe. It's this Gamora that's the wild card – so wildly different and so sickeningly familiar, all at once. ]

I can only swear on my loyalty to my own team that I won't harm any of you without provocation. I know that means nothing to you, but it means everything to me.