[ Little decisions, little choices, little hesitations, can impact the world in huge ways. Choosing to skip a dental appointment, choosing to turn right, choosing to speak up when it's easier to stay silent, can profoundly alter the course of history.
In one reality, a heart monitor shrieks in a quiet hospital, and afterward, a small boy runs out, collapsing on the damp grass.
In another, a heart monitor shrieks, while an alien army razes the Earth.
In hundreds of thousands of realities, the Guardians of the Galaxy come together. The members may be different, their catalysts and purposes and goals may change, but in many universes, they exist.
There are at least three thousand realities where the Guardians of the Galaxy are called in to put down a cult – and in most of them, they call themselves the Pure Beyond. The cult believed that their universe was beyond saving, that utopia must exist somewhere else, and were determined to tear down the walls of reality to find it, no matter how many people they might kill along the way.
In at least a dozen universes, Peter Quill snorts as the team examines building schematics. "I mean, is it even worth it to take these guys down? There's no way multiple universes exist. It's just a thought exercise, right?"
In a dozen other universes, it's Rocket who asks those questions, and Peter Quill glares at him. "Thanos thought it was possible. He did not make a habit of chasing after fairytales."
In most of the other universes, the Guardians of the Galaxy ignore the call. Apparently they collectively thought this was a fool's errand, as well.
The Guardians who determine that the Pure Beyond are dangerous – or, at least, worth the trouble for the paycheck – charge in. In some of those realities, the Guardians of the Galaxy are a well-oiled machine, are astoundingly successful in suppressing the cult with hardly any trouble. In some others, the Guardians are dismantled or destroyed, devastated by the loss of some or all of its members.
In at least eight realities, the Guardians fight, tooth and nail, and are slowly gaining the upperhand, making their way to the heart of the compound to take down its leader. In some of those realities, Drax cackles, driven by his battle-high as he breaks the skulls of two cultists. Rocket and Kraglin are similarly eager for bloodshed, eager to test their new guns and explosives. Groot flits between them all, flinging cultists to and fro with reckless abandon, while Mantis subdues cultists with a press of her hand.
In at least two realities, Peter Quill turns to Gamora and says, "I thought this was gonna be harder."
In at least another two, Peter Quill turns to Gamora and says, "Don't let your guard down."
They battle their way to the heart of the cult. In these realities, the Pure Beyond's leader calls themselves the Harbinger – a dangerous being, rumored to have even more dangerous magics at his fingertips. When the Guardians arrive, the Harbinger sneers (much like a Saturday morning cartoon villain, most of the Peters think). They sic their most fearsome defenders on the Guardians, and unsurprisingly, they have yet another fight on their hands.
In at least two realities, the Guardians defeat the Harbinger and his lackeys without issue.
In at least four realities, the Guardians suffer heavy casualties. In half of those, they manage to wrangle success from the jaws of defeat; the other half does not.
And in two others—
It's funny, how decisions can echo, how reality can fold in on itself over and over and over.
Events play out the same in both realities: the Harbinger realizes beyond all logic, they're losing. They realize the Pure Beyond is falling to shambles around them, with their followers collapsing in sprays of blood, falling to the Guardians. The Harbinger slips on an ancient ring and performs a series of complicated hand movements. They had been saving this for themselves and their followers, but special exceptions could be made – for instance, banishing the Guardians to another dimension.
The Harbinger focuses on the closest Guardian, uttering a few arcane words.
In both worlds, Peter shouts, "Gamora!"
In both worlds, he bodily shoves her out of the way.
In both worlds, the magical blast hits Peter directly, and he disappears in a thunderous explosion—
—only to reappear, disoriented and reeling and changed, though he's quick to recover.
In the one reality, Peter manages to turn his trip into a spin, and a fireball wreathed in lightning escapes his blaster, punches a hole into the Harbinger's gut. He fires off at least a half dozen other shots, obliterating more and more mass from the Harbinger’s body. The battle ends, and he sags, relieved and exhausted.
In another reality, Peter rebounds and snarls, light catching on the silver scars carved into his brow, curling around the outside corners of his eyes, running over the bridge of his nose. He lunges forward to drive his sword into the Harbinger's heart, who gasps, eyes wide and mouth working like a fish out of water. Peter follows the cultist to the floor before resting his boot against the Harbinger's chest, yanking his sword free. The battle ends, then, and he flicks his sword, divesting it of excess blood. With the room quiet, he lifts his gaze from the Harbinger's body and finds the other Guardians staring at him.
In both realities, Peter Quill's gaze falls on Gamora, lips parting to ask, "Are you hurt?" Except she's staring at him, too.
And in one reality, he sees Gamora in a familiarly styled leather jacket, with her arms slack at her sides, blasters held loosely in her hands. She gapes at him, eyes wide and staring, lips parted, and face clear of scars. He sees the open confusion mixed with outrage and fear on her face, as clear as day.
And in another reality, he sees silver scars high on the swell of her cheeks, etched into her brow. And in her hand, he sees Godslayer, similarly dripping with blood. For a few, long, endless seconds, they all stare at one another. Peter's hand reflexively tightens around Godslayer's hilt, and he thinks he sees Gamora's hand do the same.
In one reality, Rocket asks, "Where the hell did you get those guns?"
In another reality, Rocket asks, "When the hell did you get a sword?"
And the tension breaks.
They have no option but to take Peter aboard their new ship, the recently christened Benatar, as they head to their other ship, the Quadrant. He's not sure if they've folded him in out of loyalty to the other Peter, or to the idea of Peter; he can't quite tell. They'll get this figured out, they tell him. They'll get him back to where he belongs, and, hopefully, find out where their Peter got banished to. Rocket fiddles with the ancient ring, stolen off of the Harbinger's cooling corpse, and claims he knows a guy who probably knows a guy who might have a connection to another guy. Drax wonders aloud if the Collector might have information worth trading for.
He's surprised when the team breaks off, going their separate ways and leaving him alone in the common area. Even now, he's cautious and wary, keeping his hand a twitch away from where Godslayer sits in its holster at his hip. If he were in their position, he doubts he would be so trusting to allow a stranger free rein of their ship, even if he wears a familiar face.
... Ah. No. There is someone in his position, in a matter of speaking.
His gaze falls again to Gamora. This entire time, they've been keeping their distance, have been regarding one another with cool, level gazes. Now, though, the two of them stand in the common area.
A muscle in his jaw jumps, head tilting slightly to one side as he thinks. Slowly, he sits at the table, and the flick of his gaze silently invites her to take a seat, as well.
(He notes that the table is covered in half-full, stained glasses, wrappers, and the guts of various weapons. His Guardians and these Guardians seem to have that in common.)
For a few seconds, he watches her warily, then dryly, ]
[ Life as a child of Thanos left little room for dreams. Death, blood, brutality – it was all she ever knew in the aftermath of her home's destruction. She fought, she grew, she survived, and it wasn't long before her new father rewarded her success with knowledge. She learned more about his plans for the future, for the power to bend reality to his will.
But his stories of conquest had an unexpected consequence: they left Gamora with the curious seeds of imagination. Though she did her best not to allow herself the weakness of dreaming about impossible futures, quiet moments let her wonder, What if?
What if Thanos had never come to her planet?
What if her parents had lived to see her grow and mature?
What if she was free?
These fantasies carried Gamora through her worst trials. Through modifications, battles, and cruelty beyond measure, Gamora would let her mind wander to the realities her father promised laid just out of reach. He described the barrier between worlds like it was a shroud, waiting to be cast aside to reveal a shiny, perfect dimension, all for the taking. What novelty, the comfort of having something so close and yet, out of reach.
She dreamed of these other universes, even if they morphed as she grew older, took on more realistic shapes. She no longer fantasized about leaping to a new dimension, released of her father's shackles, but instead, she yearned only to be free.
Little did she realize how very deeply that yearning ran – soul-deep, echoing between realities.
Give me my freedom – or I will take it for myself.
And take it she did.
An opportunity fell into her lap with Ronan, and Gamora saw her opening to escape. The fact that it brought her to the Guardians of the Galaxy and dropped her, headfirst, into a new family? That she didn't anticipate. She was equally unprepared for how important the Guardians became to her, how they patched the holes in her heart that had been abandoned for so long. Rapidly, those idiots turned into the most pivotal people in her life – and she'd die to keep them safe.
Which is why Gamora takes it very seriously when they're faced with the Pure Beyond.
Too much of the cult's rhetoric reminded her of her father's aspirations. Thanos had even explored the more arcane elements of the Harbinger's plan, but as a scientist at heart, the tyrant had opted to pursue other avenues to conquering reality itself. When Rocket tries to cast doubt on the importance of accepting the mission, Gamora shuts him down promptly.
"We're doing this."
Fighting through the Pure Beyond is a trial, but this battle doesn't feel different – not at first. The Guardians push forward with haphazard but impressive vigor, controlling the tide of the fight until the very last moment—
When Peter shoves her out of the way of the Harbinger's final, desperate act. Gamora hits the ground, rolling free of the explosion, before she's almost instantly scrambling to her feet, screaming Peter's name. Terror rings in her ears, a fear gripping her throat she hasn't felt in ages, but as soon as the smoke clears, she sees the telltale shape of his shoulders. Confusion and relief sweep through her, but the comfort she feels evaporates the second she sees a familiar sword in his hand and a glimmer of silver high on his cheek.
The face that greets her is one she knows by heart, but the light in his eyes?
It feels like the wrong kind of familiar.
They have to take the new Peter with them, if only because swapping him through whatever strange dimensional portal brought him here might be how they get their own Peter back. Gamora doesn't like that necessarily, but what choice do they have?
Something about seeing Peter look so himself and yet wrong gets to Gamora. She keeps her distance, mostly observing him silently from afar – which ironically seems to be exactly what he's doing. They track each other like apex predators with an eye on their prey – or, perhaps, their equal. Watching, defending territory, defending themselves.
When the others finally disperse, Gamora is left with Peter, a hovering tension refusing to dissipate between them. She weighs the options of just not saying anything at all, but she accepts the silent invitation for what it is, dragging out her chair before plopping down opposite him.
[ He doesn't laugh, exactly, but there's a hint of it – the narrowing of his eyes, the slightly sharper exhale.
Even sitting he appears alert – back straight, gaze sharp. He keeps one hand on the table – a placating gesture, one that implies he's unarmed, though a deceitful one. After all, his other hand rests on his thigh, close to Godslayer at his hip. Even with all the consolations these Guardians have shown him, even as familiar as they all may be, he doesn't expect this good will to last.
He doesn't know this Gamora, but there are echoes that are horribly familiar – the measuring glares, the hovering that borders on wary prowling. He can practically see the scales tipping one way then another in her eyes. He knows she must be appraising his skills, his strengths.
Mostly because he's doing the same. ]
I imagine this is the part where I try to gain your trust by telling you something only Peter Quill will know. Or something only Gamora will know.
[ Never mind that he's from an alternate universe – there's no guarantee that he would know something that the Peter Quill or Gamora of this universe knows. ]
[ A fact of which Gamora is already keenly aware – and why she hasn't bothered trying to get that very information out of Peter yet. ]
What purpose would that serve? You're clearly not my Quill, and whatever shape you share of his has the potential to reach no further than your skin.
[ Her gaze flicks to the edge of the table pointedly. ]
And our commonalities could begin and end with that sword.
[ What worries her isn't how similar this Peter is to the one she knows – but rather what potential deviations rest under the surface. She can predict Peter and she can predict herself; she can't predict who Peter could become without the most basic anchors of his life before. ]
[ Gamora's gaze follows Peter's hands, hawklike, but she seems... if not pleased, sated by demonstration, mild as it might seem to anyone else. She knows she owes him nothing, especially since, as he points out, he's at a distinct disadvantage – if by numbers alone. She doesn't have to give him a single damn thing, but she still sets her own hands on the table, mirroring Peter's posture.
The corner of her lips lifts in a smile, humorless. ]
It would be very stupid for you to try, at this point.
[ Gamora continues to scrutinize him, allowing a moment of silence to drag after Peter's declaration.
But then, ]
We'll get you back home.
[ Partially, because it's the right thing to do. But mostly? Because she's almost certain that's the only way they're getting their Peter back. And if nothing else, it's the best lead they currently have. ]
[ 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.
[ Gamora continues to follow every shift and movement of his body, but instead of it seeming to put her on further alert, she's taking careful stock of Peter's mannerisms. There's a familiarity to him, so distinctly Quill that she can't lose sight of him through the silver scars and hardened edges. He's Peter, she thinks, but with her father's fingerprints all over him. ]
It means enough.
[ It means that she's not going to demand Peter remain in shackles or a locked room his entire stay, so... that's probably better for his overall comfort. ]
But now I need to know who you are.
[ Where do the differences begin and where do similarities end between him and her Peter. ]
[ He can't help it this time – a puff of air escapes him, something that shares a few distant relatives with a laugh. ]
What, do you want my life story? "I was born on mild day in February"?
[ He takes a slow breath, shaking his head. By his reckoning, he can't see how dragging his personal history into the light might help anything. The past should stay firmly in the past, and knowing him won't help them figure out their current predicament.
But he also needs this Gamora to stop staring at him like he might draw a blade at any given opportunity, because if she doesn't, then he genuinely might. He understands her wariness – knows that if he had encountered someone like her back home, had been forced to accept her company, he would absolutely act the same way.
His next breath is more resigned, and while his gaze doesn't drift from her, he instead focuses on a point over her shoulder. ]
I answer a question, you answer a question. Fair?
[ Even if he knows he's in no position to bargain. Still, it's worth a try. ]
[ Peter is, of course, not obligated to share his history, and Gamora is slightly convinced he may end up denying her entirely. He's technically within his rights to do so – but that won't help ease the tension between them.
That bargain, however? ]
Fair.
[ Because as much as Peter is clearly in the least advantageous position, Gamora also knows it won't necessarily be productive for the both of them to keep treating each other like snarling beasts until Peter goes home. ]
How old were you when Earth fell?
[ She posits the question so that Peter can correct her if the assumptions are incorrect – but she's already leapt to a few conclusions of her own about this Peter's past. ]
[ Of course, that question makes his gaze snap right back to her. Straight to the point then, he supposes, though his jaw clenches with resignation. ]
Eight.
[ Which is enough to answer her question, and he nearly leaves it at that. Their bargain, after all, hadn't been particularly specific, but—
That'll hardly engender the tolerance (not trust; he doubts they'll achieve that much) he's hoping to attain, will it? ]
... He was after the Infinity Stones. He was led to believe that Terra housed at least two.
[ The words come slowly, reluctantly, but he still forces them out. ]
They eluded his grasp, assuming they were ever there to begin with, so rather than his usual mercy— [ and the word drips with poison ] —he razed the planet.
[ A beat, then he adds a little more levelly, ]
It probably won't surprise you that my question for you is similar.
[ Though Gamora keeps her expression carefully cool and composed, her heart aches with what Peter shares. Her Peter may have had a rough life, but he was spared these horrors – and she finds an odd irony behind her own relief in knowing the awful could-have-beens that were avoided.
That doesn't make it easier to see the potential grief before her eyes.
She listens, thumb absently twisting a ring around her finger occasionally. She's not nearly as intent on withholding everything with the current truce between them, so she doesn't hesitate in her reply. ]
He culled my people early in his conquests.
[ Flat, a cold statement of fact.
Unlike Thanos's bold claims, her planet did not survive well after the murder of half its inhabitants. She never tried to look for or return to her homeplanet, and she considered there to be no point when the Nova Corps' records reflect that she is the only surviving member of her race. How odd that a completely random murder of a significant population didn't solve their hunger crises or cure the diseases ravaging a fairly undeveloped society.
It's almost like Thanos's plan was not well thought-out.
Like a badly written plot or something.
How odd.
She flicks her fingers once, a dismissive little wave. ]
I was young. [ She doesn't remember how her age was recorded before Thanos, and after, it didn't matter much: she was a weapon at six, just as she would have been a weapon at nine.
[ The vague answer is familiar enough – something in line with what his own Gamora has told him. How her planet was similarly razed, how young she had been. His empathy is written in the details: in the minute softening of his gaze, in the subtle press of his lips, in the slightest downward turn of the corners of his mouth.
I'm sorry, though he doesn't speak it aloud.
He wouldn't wish Thanos' attentions (not affections, as Thanos would consider them) on even his worst enemies, but he sees the evidence of it on her for himself – the control in her posture, the silver scars etched into her skin, the Godslayer like a damning brand. It's difficult seeing Gamora like this. She's a different woman entirely, he knows, but he can hardly imagine her without her easy smiles, her relaxed posture, the look in her eyes when she glances his way, like he had hung every star in the sky.
At her next question, he doesn't smile, but there's a wry twist to his mouth. As if to ask, "Is there truly an escape from Thanos?"
But he understands the spirit of the question, and his answer is relatively rehearsed. The Nova Corps had a lot of questions for the nascent Guardians, after all, after the smoke had cleared around the wreck of the Dark Aster. ]
Thanos assigned me to assist a Kree zealot named Ronan the Accuser. He was searching for an Infinity Stone on Thanos' behalf. I was meant to assist, but...
[ He trails off, grappling with the words, before he ultimately settles on, ]
... I decided otherwise.
It's how I met the others, and the Gamora of my world. We've been a team ever since.
[ Gamora has no idea why she finds comfort in the familiar details, the similar origin, but she really does. Perhaps it's because she knows how wildly different they could be, but this feels like a shorter gap left between them.
She nods at this, a faint curl in her lips finally. ]
Then it seems you and I walked very similar paths in our realities.
[ This time, she's not only referring to Thanos: it's confirmation about her choices and own team's origin. ("Me too.") ]
[ The answer gives him pause – not for the words themselves, but what she leaves unspoken. It spurs him to reevaluate her, to take in his surroundings a little more closely.
Arrogant of him to think of himself and his situation as unique. Thanos had believed in multiple universes, in the way a reality would split at every crossroads. Why shouldn't these Guardians have encountered the same situation? An Infinity Stone lying in wait, and the fanatics seeking to lay claim to them. He wonders, not for the first time, what became of the Infinity Stones on Earth; wonders if they were ever truly there, or if Thanos wasted his time on a wild goose chase.
(And reluctantly, he thinks there must, too, be thousands different universes that sprang from his chase after the Orb – a universe where he followed his father's wishes, where he found the Infinity Stone on Ronan's behalf and delivered it to the Mad Titan. A universe where he wrested the stone from Gamora's hands on Xandar and left her behind. A universe where the Guardians never formed.
He doesn't think he'd like those universes.)
Eventually, he lets out a breath. ]
That takes care of my next question, then.
[ Still, it's his turn, and he's within his rights to question her. It eases something in him, though, to know that they came from similar circumstances, and that need to probe isn't quite as keen.
His gaze flicks to her hair, to the single, thin beaded braid – something he had noticed earlier.
Now's as good a time as any, he expects, though either pride or stubbornness keeps the words from flowing easily. ]
Those beads.
[ He falters, jaw clenching. Like ripping off a bandage, he tells himself. Do it quick.
His gaze flicks off to a spot over her shoulder. ]
[ Gamora isn't sure what question she expected from Peter, but that isn't it. Genuine surprise slips past her composure, the pointedness of it making her reach up to brush her fingertips along the braid.
A pang of nostalgia (and accompanying concern for her Peter) rises in her gut, and that's probably why she slips, ]
[ The misstep catches him slightly off-guard, and for a second he looks not quite apologetic, but something broaching dangerously close. He expects this Gamora wants him here even less than he does. Given the magic the Harbinger was wielding, given how little they know of it, he's lucky to have arrived in a universe that was at least a little familiar.
Who knows where the Peter Quill of this reality ended up?
If these Guardians are lucky, he is somewhere safe.
... But if these Guardians have the type of luck his Guardians have, he probably isn't.
He falls silent for a breath again, uncertain. Then, tentatively, ]
The Gamora of my world has beads like that. She didn't learn how to braid them in.
[ Another hesitation, as his gaze flicks to the doorway, satisfying himself with the fact that the other members of the Guardians weren't soon to arrive. He's a little bitter to realize that even so far removed from home, he's too proud to admit he does something as frivolous as braid.
It's why he lowers his voice. ]
I tried, but I could tell it wasn't quite right.
[ There had been a slight frown on Gamora's face, he remembers – not of disapproval, but of thoughtfulness. Like knowing something in a room was out of place, but not knowing what it was. She had thanked him, nevertheless, and had satisfied herself with his method, but the perfectionist in him demanded that satisfactory wasn't enough. ]
[ Gamora can't help how she bristles, braced for— what? Retaliation, latching onto a shred of weakness? But Peter doesn't look for an advantage, doesn't mock or deride her, which is why the tension eases back out of her shoulders.
She chews on how she wants to respond, warring with her instincts to treat this Peter like hers, but after another moment of hesitation, ]
I can teach you.
[ It's too late to take the offer back once she makes it, and she continues. ]
[ He nods, the movement quick and almost curt to mask his hesitation and the defensiveness he might feel for wasting a question on something as fatuous as hair styling. But the beads are important to his Gamora, had been one little bit of culture that she had managed to protect, and it was as important to him as it was to her to help preserve that tradition.
If nothing else comes out of this ridiculous situation, at least he'll have that. Optimistic of him, he thinks, to assume he'll get back home. ]
I'd like to learn.
[ Which is his way of saying "please" and "thank you."
Although there will probably be time for that later, as they're traveling to— was it Knowhere? Was it to whoever Rocket's mysterious contact may be? These Guardians hadn't seemed particularly set on their destination, which hardly comes as a surprise. There aren't very many possible leads for dealing with magic quite like this – save for uprooting any stray cultists that might have gone to ground after the Guardians' assault.
(How would that go, anyway? What would they even say? "Hello, idiot zealot. Your now-deceased leader put a spell on our friend. On pain of dismember or death, would you happen to know how to undo it?") ]
[ She doesn't smile, not quite (it's still too early to trust his intentions), but the agreement stirs an odd warmth and relief that makes the vulnerability sting less. ]
That it is.
[ It doesn't help that she finds herself wanting to know everything about Peter's universe and yet nothing at all. The pain of "what-ifs" is so rarely worth the detour, but her curiosity truly gets the better of her. ]
Your Gamora. What was her life instead?
[ Knowing that she had the same beads doesn't feel like it bodes well for a happy childhood of loving parents and a planet spared Thanos's wrath – but Gamora can't shake the need to discover the truth. ]
[ He hesitates for a breath, his quick frown betraying his uncertainty. This isn't exactly his story to tell, but here he is anyway, having to tell it. He decides to paint in broad strokes. ]
Thanos came to her planet. Killed her people. Gamora managed to escape and found a Ravager ship. I imagine the Ravager captain must have been feeling merciful that day, since he brought her aboard and escaped the massacre.
She was handed off to another Ravager captain. Aleta, I believe.
[ Well, he says "I believe," but he knows it with certainty, memorizes every story and detail and brief glimpse into her past that Gamora offers him. ]
She was raised with them, but when she received the assignment to retrieve the Orb, she left.
[ "Aleta." A name she's only passingly familiar with, but she's drawn to the revelation of her life as a Ravager, intrigued by the similarities and divergences. She wonders if the passing shred of mercy was Yondu's outstretched hand – or rather, his tractor beam that brought that young girl aboard.
A twinge in her chest. Envy? Regret? She knows a life as a Ravager isn't a pretty one, but she'd have traded the torment of Thanos for a roughnecked childhood in a second. But—
The reminder of "if not Gamora, whom?" sits directly across the table from her. And Gamora finds she would rather wear those scars herself than see them etched into Peter's history.
A muscle in her jaw tics once, but then she nods, betraying little else in her expression. ]
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🔫 THIS IS A STICK-UP 🔫 GIMME UR ROLESWAP STARTER AND NOBODY GETS HURT
let's all stay calm and not do anything rash
In one reality, a heart monitor shrieks in a quiet hospital, and afterward, a small boy runs out, collapsing on the damp grass.
In another, a heart monitor shrieks, while an alien army razes the Earth.
In hundreds of thousands of realities, the Guardians of the Galaxy come together. The members may be different, their catalysts and purposes and goals may change, but in many universes, they exist.
There are at least three thousand realities where the Guardians of the Galaxy are called in to put down a cult – and in most of them, they call themselves the Pure Beyond. The cult believed that their universe was beyond saving, that utopia must exist somewhere else, and were determined to tear down the walls of reality to find it, no matter how many people they might kill along the way.
In at least a dozen universes, Peter Quill snorts as the team examines building schematics. "I mean, is it even worth it to take these guys down? There's no way multiple universes exist. It's just a thought exercise, right?"
In a dozen other universes, it's Rocket who asks those questions, and Peter Quill glares at him. "Thanos thought it was possible. He did not make a habit of chasing after fairytales."
In most of the other universes, the Guardians of the Galaxy ignore the call. Apparently they collectively thought this was a fool's errand, as well.
The Guardians who determine that the Pure Beyond are dangerous – or, at least, worth the trouble for the paycheck – charge in. In some of those realities, the Guardians of the Galaxy are a well-oiled machine, are astoundingly successful in suppressing the cult with hardly any trouble. In some others, the Guardians are dismantled or destroyed, devastated by the loss of some or all of its members.
In at least eight realities, the Guardians fight, tooth and nail, and are slowly gaining the upperhand, making their way to the heart of the compound to take down its leader. In some of those realities, Drax cackles, driven by his battle-high as he breaks the skulls of two cultists. Rocket and Kraglin are similarly eager for bloodshed, eager to test their new guns and explosives. Groot flits between them all, flinging cultists to and fro with reckless abandon, while Mantis subdues cultists with a press of her hand.
In at least two realities, Peter Quill turns to Gamora and says, "I thought this was gonna be harder."
In at least another two, Peter Quill turns to Gamora and says, "Don't let your guard down."
They battle their way to the heart of the cult. In these realities, the Pure Beyond's leader calls themselves the Harbinger – a dangerous being, rumored to have even more dangerous magics at his fingertips. When the Guardians arrive, the Harbinger sneers (much like a Saturday morning cartoon villain, most of the Peters think). They sic their most fearsome defenders on the Guardians, and unsurprisingly, they have yet another fight on their hands.
In at least two realities, the Guardians defeat the Harbinger and his lackeys without issue.
In at least four realities, the Guardians suffer heavy casualties. In half of those, they manage to wrangle success from the jaws of defeat; the other half does not.
And in two others—
It's funny, how decisions can echo, how reality can fold in on itself over and over and over.
Events play out the same in both realities: the Harbinger realizes beyond all logic, they're losing. They realize the Pure Beyond is falling to shambles around them, with their followers collapsing in sprays of blood, falling to the Guardians. The Harbinger slips on an ancient ring and performs a series of complicated hand movements. They had been saving this for themselves and their followers, but special exceptions could be made – for instance, banishing the Guardians to another dimension.
The Harbinger focuses on the closest Guardian, uttering a few arcane words.
In both worlds, Peter shouts, "Gamora!"
In both worlds, he bodily shoves her out of the way.
In both worlds, the magical blast hits Peter directly, and he disappears in a thunderous explosion—
—only to reappear, disoriented and reeling and changed, though he's quick to recover.
In the one reality, Peter manages to turn his trip into a spin, and a fireball wreathed in lightning escapes his blaster, punches a hole into the Harbinger's gut. He fires off at least a half dozen other shots, obliterating more and more mass from the Harbinger’s body. The battle ends, and he sags, relieved and exhausted.
In another reality, Peter rebounds and snarls, light catching on the silver scars carved into his brow, curling around the outside corners of his eyes, running over the bridge of his nose. He lunges forward to drive his sword into the Harbinger's heart, who gasps, eyes wide and mouth working like a fish out of water. Peter follows the cultist to the floor before resting his boot against the Harbinger's chest, yanking his sword free. The battle ends, then, and he flicks his sword, divesting it of excess blood. With the room quiet, he lifts his gaze from the Harbinger's body and finds the other Guardians staring at him.
In both realities, Peter Quill's gaze falls on Gamora, lips parting to ask, "Are you hurt?" Except she's staring at him, too.
And in one reality, he sees Gamora in a familiarly styled leather jacket, with her arms slack at her sides, blasters held loosely in her hands. She gapes at him, eyes wide and staring, lips parted, and face clear of scars. He sees the open confusion mixed with outrage and fear on her face, as clear as day.
And in another reality, he sees silver scars high on the swell of her cheeks, etched into her brow. And in her hand, he sees Godslayer, similarly dripping with blood. For a few, long, endless seconds, they all stare at one another. Peter's hand reflexively tightens around Godslayer's hilt, and he thinks he sees Gamora's hand do the same.
In one reality, Rocket asks, "Where the hell did you get those guns?"
In another reality, Rocket asks, "When the hell did you get a sword?"
And the tension breaks.
They have no option but to take Peter aboard their new ship, the recently christened Benatar, as they head to their other ship, the Quadrant. He's not sure if they've folded him in out of loyalty to the other Peter, or to the idea of Peter; he can't quite tell. They'll get this figured out, they tell him. They'll get him back to where he belongs, and, hopefully, find out where their Peter got banished to. Rocket fiddles with the ancient ring, stolen off of the Harbinger's cooling corpse, and claims he knows a guy who probably knows a guy who might have a connection to another guy. Drax wonders aloud if the Collector might have information worth trading for.
He's surprised when the team breaks off, going their separate ways and leaving him alone in the common area. Even now, he's cautious and wary, keeping his hand a twitch away from where Godslayer sits in its holster at his hip. If he were in their position, he doubts he would be so trusting to allow a stranger free rein of their ship, even if he wears a familiar face.
... Ah. No. There is someone in his position, in a matter of speaking.
His gaze falls again to Gamora. This entire time, they've been keeping their distance, have been regarding one another with cool, level gazes. Now, though, the two of them stand in the common area.
A muscle in his jaw jumps, head tilting slightly to one side as he thinks. Slowly, he sits at the table, and the flick of his gaze silently invites her to take a seat, as well.
(He notes that the table is covered in half-full, stained glasses, wrappers, and the guts of various weapons. His Guardians and these Guardians seem to have that in common.)
For a few seconds, he watches her warily, then dryly, ]
I appreciate you not attacking me.
🔫 NOW PUT THE BUNNY IN THE BOX
But his stories of conquest had an unexpected consequence: they left Gamora with the curious seeds of imagination. Though she did her best not to allow herself the weakness of dreaming about impossible futures, quiet moments let her wonder, What if?
What if Thanos had never come to her planet?
What if her parents had lived to see her grow and mature?
What if she was free?
These fantasies carried Gamora through her worst trials. Through modifications, battles, and cruelty beyond measure, Gamora would let her mind wander to the realities her father promised laid just out of reach. He described the barrier between worlds like it was a shroud, waiting to be cast aside to reveal a shiny, perfect dimension, all for the taking. What novelty, the comfort of having something so close and yet, out of reach.
She dreamed of these other universes, even if they morphed as she grew older, took on more realistic shapes. She no longer fantasized about leaping to a new dimension, released of her father's shackles, but instead, she yearned only to be free.
Little did she realize how very deeply that yearning ran – soul-deep, echoing between realities.
Give me my freedom – or I will take it for myself.
And take it she did.
An opportunity fell into her lap with Ronan, and Gamora saw her opening to escape. The fact that it brought her to the Guardians of the Galaxy and dropped her, headfirst, into a new family? That she didn't anticipate. She was equally unprepared for how important the Guardians became to her, how they patched the holes in her heart that had been abandoned for so long. Rapidly, those idiots turned into the most pivotal people in her life – and she'd die to keep them safe.
Which is why Gamora takes it very seriously when they're faced with the Pure Beyond.
Too much of the cult's rhetoric reminded her of her father's aspirations. Thanos had even explored the more arcane elements of the Harbinger's plan, but as a scientist at heart, the tyrant had opted to pursue other avenues to conquering reality itself. When Rocket tries to cast doubt on the importance of accepting the mission, Gamora shuts him down promptly.
"We're doing this."
Fighting through the Pure Beyond is a trial, but this battle doesn't feel different – not at first. The Guardians push forward with haphazard but impressive vigor, controlling the tide of the fight until the very last moment—
When Peter shoves her out of the way of the Harbinger's final, desperate act. Gamora hits the ground, rolling free of the explosion, before she's almost instantly scrambling to her feet, screaming Peter's name. Terror rings in her ears, a fear gripping her throat she hasn't felt in ages, but as soon as the smoke clears, she sees the telltale shape of his shoulders. Confusion and relief sweep through her, but the comfort she feels evaporates the second she sees a familiar sword in his hand and a glimmer of silver high on his cheek.
The face that greets her is one she knows by heart, but the light in his eyes?
It feels like the wrong kind of familiar.
They have to take the new Peter with them, if only because swapping him through whatever strange dimensional portal brought him here might be how they get their own Peter back. Gamora doesn't like that necessarily, but what choice do they have?
Something about seeing Peter look so himself and yet wrong gets to Gamora. She keeps her distance, mostly observing him silently from afar – which ironically seems to be exactly what he's doing. They track each other like apex predators with an eye on their prey – or, perhaps, their equal. Watching, defending territory, defending themselves.
When the others finally disperse, Gamora is left with Peter, a hovering tension refusing to dissipate between them. She weighs the options of just not saying anything at all, but she accepts the silent invitation for what it is, dragging out her chair before plopping down opposite him.
With an equally dry tone, ]
That can still change.
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Even sitting he appears alert – back straight, gaze sharp. He keeps one hand on the table – a placating gesture, one that implies he's unarmed, though a deceitful one. After all, his other hand rests on his thigh, close to Godslayer at his hip. Even with all the consolations these Guardians have shown him, even as familiar as they all may be, he doesn't expect this good will to last.
He doesn't know this Gamora, but there are echoes that are horribly familiar – the measuring glares, the hovering that borders on wary prowling. He can practically see the scales tipping one way then another in her eyes. He knows she must be appraising his skills, his strengths.
Mostly because he's doing the same. ]
I imagine this is the part where I try to gain your trust by telling you something only Peter Quill will know. Or something only Gamora will know.
[ Never mind that he's from an alternate universe – there's no guarantee that he would know something that the Peter Quill or Gamora of this universe knows. ]
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What purpose would that serve? You're clearly not my Quill, and whatever shape you share of his has the potential to reach no further than your skin.
[ Her gaze flicks to the edge of the table pointedly. ]
And our commonalities could begin and end with that sword.
[ What worries her isn't how similar this Peter is to the one she knows – but rather what potential deviations rest under the surface. She can predict Peter and she can predict herself; she can't predict who Peter could become without the most basic anchors of his life before. ]
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An impasse.
[ He regards her levelly for a moment but at length, he forces both hands flat on the table. It's as vulnerable as he plans to allow himself to be. ]
I don't intend to cause you or any of your team any harm.
[ Not that she has any reason to believe him. Not that he has much reason to believe any of them, aside from his desire to return to his home.
(He thinks of that heart stopping moment, seeing Gamora in danger.
He hopes desperately she came out of that fight unscathed.) ]
You all have me at a disadvantage, anyway.
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The corner of her lips lifts in a smile, humorless. ]
It would be very stupid for you to try, at this point.
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[ His own expression isn't quite a smile, but isn't quite the grim expression he's been wearing for the majority of his time here. ]
If you and yours don't truly intend to help me return, I'll find my own way.
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But then, ]
We'll get you back home.
[ Partially, because it's the right thing to do. But mostly? Because she's almost certain that's the only way they're getting their Peter back. And if nothing else, it's the best lead they currently have. ]
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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.
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It means enough.
[ It means that she's not going to demand Peter remain in shackles or a locked room his entire stay, so... that's probably better for his overall comfort. ]
But now I need to know who you are.
[ Where do the differences begin and where do similarities end between him and her Peter. ]
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What, do you want my life story? "I was born on mild day in February"?
[ He takes a slow breath, shaking his head. By his reckoning, he can't see how dragging his personal history into the light might help anything. The past should stay firmly in the past, and knowing him won't help them figure out their current predicament.
But he also needs this Gamora to stop staring at him like he might draw a blade at any given opportunity, because if she doesn't, then he genuinely might. He understands her wariness – knows that if he had encountered someone like her back home, had been forced to accept her company, he would absolutely act the same way.
His next breath is more resigned, and while his gaze doesn't drift from her, he instead focuses on a point over her shoulder. ]
I answer a question, you answer a question. Fair?
[ Even if he knows he's in no position to bargain. Still, it's worth a try. ]
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That bargain, however? ]
Fair.
[ Because as much as Peter is clearly in the least advantageous position, Gamora also knows it won't necessarily be productive for the both of them to keep treating each other like snarling beasts until Peter goes home. ]
How old were you when Earth fell?
[ She posits the question so that Peter can correct her if the assumptions are incorrect – but she's already leapt to a few conclusions of her own about this Peter's past. ]
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Eight.
[ Which is enough to answer her question, and he nearly leaves it at that. Their bargain, after all, hadn't been particularly specific, but—
That'll hardly engender the tolerance (not trust; he doubts they'll achieve that much) he's hoping to attain, will it? ]
... He was after the Infinity Stones. He was led to believe that Terra housed at least two.
[ The words come slowly, reluctantly, but he still forces them out. ]
They eluded his grasp, assuming they were ever there to begin with, so rather than his usual mercy— [ and the word drips with poison ] —he razed the planet.
[ A beat, then he adds a little more levelly, ]
It probably won't surprise you that my question for you is similar.
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That doesn't make it easier to see the potential grief before her eyes.
She listens, thumb absently twisting a ring around her finger occasionally. She's not nearly as intent on withholding everything with the current truce between them, so she doesn't hesitate in her reply. ]
He culled my people early in his conquests.
[ Flat, a cold statement of fact.
Unlike Thanos's bold claims, her planet did not survive well after the murder of half its inhabitants. She never tried to look for or return to her homeplanet, and she considered there to be no point when the Nova Corps' records reflect that she is the only surviving member of her race. How odd that a completely random murder of a significant population didn't solve their hunger crises or cure the diseases ravaging a fairly undeveloped society.
It's almost like Thanos's plan was not well thought-out.
Like a badly written plot or something.
How odd.
She flicks her fingers once, a dismissive little wave. ]
I was young. [ She doesn't remember how her age was recorded before Thanos, and after, it didn't matter much: she was a weapon at six, just as she would have been a weapon at nine.
And since that was an answer: ]
How did you escape?
hell yeah drag the russos
I'm sorry, though he doesn't speak it aloud.
He wouldn't wish Thanos' attentions (not affections, as Thanos would consider them) on even his worst enemies, but he sees the evidence of it on her for himself – the control in her posture, the silver scars etched into her skin, the Godslayer like a damning brand. It's difficult seeing Gamora like this. She's a different woman entirely, he knows, but he can hardly imagine her without her easy smiles, her relaxed posture, the look in her eyes when she glances his way, like he had hung every star in the sky.
At her next question, he doesn't smile, but there's a wry twist to his mouth. As if to ask, "Is there truly an escape from Thanos?"
But he understands the spirit of the question, and his answer is relatively rehearsed. The Nova Corps had a lot of questions for the nascent Guardians, after all, after the smoke had cleared around the wreck of the Dark Aster. ]
Thanos assigned me to assist a Kree zealot named Ronan the Accuser. He was searching for an Infinity Stone on Thanos' behalf. I was meant to assist, but...
[ He trails off, grappling with the words, before he ultimately settles on, ]
... I decided otherwise.
It's how I met the others, and the Gamora of my world. We've been a team ever since.
i'm not salty, what's salty 👀
She nods at this, a faint curl in her lips finally. ]
Then it seems you and I walked very similar paths in our realities.
[ This time, she's not only referring to Thanos: it's confirmation about her choices and own team's origin. ("Me too.") ]
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Arrogant of him to think of himself and his situation as unique. Thanos had believed in multiple universes, in the way a reality would split at every crossroads. Why shouldn't these Guardians have encountered the same situation? An Infinity Stone lying in wait, and the fanatics seeking to lay claim to them. He wonders, not for the first time, what became of the Infinity Stones on Earth; wonders if they were ever truly there, or if Thanos wasted his time on a wild goose chase.
(And reluctantly, he thinks there must, too, be thousands different universes that sprang from his chase after the Orb – a universe where he followed his father's wishes, where he found the Infinity Stone on Ronan's behalf and delivered it to the Mad Titan. A universe where he wrested the stone from Gamora's hands on Xandar and left her behind. A universe where the Guardians never formed.
He doesn't think he'd like those universes.)
Eventually, he lets out a breath. ]
That takes care of my next question, then.
[ Still, it's his turn, and he's within his rights to question her. It eases something in him, though, to know that they came from similar circumstances, and that need to probe isn't quite as keen.
His gaze flicks to her hair, to the single, thin beaded braid – something he had noticed earlier.
Now's as good a time as any, he expects, though either pride or stubbornness keeps the words from flowing easily. ]
Those beads.
[ He falters, jaw clenching. Like ripping off a bandage, he tells himself. Do it quick.
His gaze flicks off to a spot over her shoulder. ]
How did you braid them into your hair?
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A pang of nostalgia (and accompanying concern for her Peter) rises in her gut, and that's probably why she slips, ]
You—
[ —and then corrects herself, ]
... He taught me.
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Who knows where the Peter Quill of this reality ended up?
If these Guardians are lucky, he is somewhere safe.
... But if these Guardians have the type of luck his Guardians have, he probably isn't.
He falls silent for a breath again, uncertain. Then, tentatively, ]
The Gamora of my world has beads like that. She didn't learn how to braid them in.
[ Another hesitation, as his gaze flicks to the doorway, satisfying himself with the fact that the other members of the Guardians weren't soon to arrive. He's a little bitter to realize that even so far removed from home, he's too proud to admit he does something as frivolous as braid.
It's why he lowers his voice. ]
I tried, but I could tell it wasn't quite right.
[ There had been a slight frown on Gamora's face, he remembers – not of disapproval, but of thoughtfulness. Like knowing something in a room was out of place, but not knowing what it was. She had thanked him, nevertheless, and had satisfied herself with his method, but the perfectionist in him demanded that satisfactory wasn't enough. ]
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She chews on how she wants to respond, warring with her instincts to treat this Peter like hers, but after another moment of hesitation, ]
I can teach you.
[ It's too late to take the offer back once she makes it, and she continues. ]
So you can show her when you return.
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If nothing else comes out of this ridiculous situation, at least he'll have that. Optimistic of him, he thinks, to assume he'll get back home. ]
I'd like to learn.
[ Which is his way of saying "please" and "thank you."
Although there will probably be time for that later, as they're traveling to— was it Knowhere? Was it to whoever Rocket's mysterious contact may be? These Guardians hadn't seemed particularly set on their destination, which hardly comes as a surprise. There aren't very many possible leads for dealing with magic quite like this – save for uprooting any stray cultists that might have gone to ground after the Guardians' assault.
(How would that go, anyway? What would they even say? "Hello, idiot zealot. Your now-deceased leader put a spell on our friend. On pain of dismember or death, would you happen to know how to undo it?") ]
The ball is in your court now, I think.
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That it is.
[ It doesn't help that she finds herself wanting to know everything about Peter's universe and yet nothing at all. The pain of "what-ifs" is so rarely worth the detour, but her curiosity truly gets the better of her. ]
Your Gamora. What was her life instead?
[ Knowing that she had the same beads doesn't feel like it bodes well for a happy childhood of loving parents and a planet spared Thanos's wrath – but Gamora can't shake the need to discover the truth. ]
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Thanos came to her planet. Killed her people. Gamora managed to escape and found a Ravager ship. I imagine the Ravager captain must have been feeling merciful that day, since he brought her aboard and escaped the massacre.
She was handed off to another Ravager captain. Aleta, I believe.
[ Well, he says "I believe," but he knows it with certainty, memorizes every story and detail and brief glimpse into her past that Gamora offers him. ]
She was raised with them, but when she received the assignment to retrieve the Orb, she left.
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A twinge in her chest. Envy? Regret? She knows a life as a Ravager isn't a pretty one, but she'd have traded the torment of Thanos for a roughnecked childhood in a second. But—
The reminder of "if not Gamora, whom?" sits directly across the table from her. And Gamora finds she would rather wear those scars herself than see them etched into Peter's history.
A muscle in her jaw tics once, but then she nods, betraying little else in her expression. ]
Your question.
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