[ There's less bite in this than there should be for a comment from Rose. She saw how he reacted to losing Rocket, there's no way his group isn't family to him the way the Titans are to her. Losing them hurts. ]
How're the cops up there anyway? Back home we have Green Lanterns, but there's like... only one left or something.
[ His version of it sounds... nice, actually. It doesn't push him completely in the box of being a hero and not killing or stealing, no pressure to be anything other than what he is. She knows what she is: a natural-born killer. She can try to be something else, but the monster's always there. ]
Yes, he has a team. [ He says it with the Dumb Voice. The one that drops down a few notes a gets a little throaty, but there's a thread of amusement there. After all, who'd expect a dumbass like him to have a team, much less claim it as his own?
He sure as fuck never would. ]
We've got the Nova Corps, and there's-- less of them, now. Still enough to do the normal police thing. And all cops are assholes, but, you know, pretty sure it comes with the territory. Like, I think it's on the minimum requirements. "Must be able to run a mile in no more than six minutes. Must be a gigantic fucking douchenozzle. Good Samaritans need not apply."
There was a pretty big battle. The insane guy I mentioned earlier had a lot of back-up. Thinned out their numbers a lot by the time everything was said and done with.
What about your Green Lantern dude? Said there was just one guy left?
[ Well it's not like she was trying for subtle, but she does consider her words carefully. ]
Yeah, I kind of — quit the assassin business, wondering what to do next.
[ She loves the Titans, but the fact remains is that Haven... feels a lot more comfortable than that world of good people and lack of transaction in relationships. It's still weird to her, and she knows the condition for staying is no killing -- it's a rule she can't follow. ]
[ He's quiet for a second, but then he starts slowly, ] A friend of mine was in a similar situation.
[ Would it be weird to talk about Gamora's history? Like, she's not here (and if Peter gets his way, she never will be), but still. It's not really his story to tell. ]
[ The statement reruns in her head like one of those old tapes Kon had that got stuck when you put them in the player and froze on a scene, she dissects it cleanly looking for a hint of insincerity, a con, something. It's not just another job: this is a place in someone's home, with their family. She has one, but it's built on a promise Tim made to Dick, one she's always believed is tenuous. She's walked away from them before, when their jagged edges chafed against hers; the world Tim and Cassie and Kon and Bart come from and live in is so different from her own. None of them learnt as children that the collarbone was one of the easiest to break and most painful to mend. Even Eddie, he tried, but - he wasn't Khaji or Damian. They weren't made to be the finest instruments of destruction the world had seen. ]
[ Fuck, she was still calling herself Ravager, wasn't she? And out there? In space? Nobody knew Deathstroke. Nobody cared about her father or her reputation or the fact that the blood came up to her elbows. Nobody to tell her where the line was, because Quill's line matches hers. She doesn't have to kill. But she doesn't have to spare the bastards either. It was just the way of the world up there: infinite. A world of survivors, great and small. Her world. ]
[ She should answer with something flippant; the long pause has already betrayed her. ]
[ The pause makes him a little nervous. It's hard to tell what is or isn't a touchy topic for most people, and he worries that he's said the wrong thing. It wouldn't be the first time he's stuck his foot in his mouth, after all, and it definitely won't be the last. But maybe she wasn't looking for an invitation -- maybe she was looking for someone to talk her out of a lifestyle of killing?
-- Which would be totally fucking disingenuous, coming from one Peter goddamn Quill. He may be a habitual liar, he may bend the truth when it's convenient for him (or even when he just feels like it), but he would never claim to be a saint. He may not have a criminal record anymore, but that doesn't mean he's not still a crook, not still an asshole. He may not kill often, but he doesn't have compulsions against it. Not when it gets results.
And, hey. His team consists of the deadliest assassin in the galaxy, two thugs, a maniac, and a thief with delusions of grandeur. He doesn't give a shit what sort of record someone has, as long as they're not looking to keep adding to it.
He's more relieved than he'd ever admit when she finally speaks; he worried that she had hung up on him. ]
Sword, actually. [ The answer is quick (and he wouldn't admit it, but there's even a touch of fondness there). He adds wryly, ] And I'd bet my life savings that she would totally kick your ass.
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[ There's less bite in this than there should be for a comment from Rose. She saw how he reacted to losing Rocket, there's no way his group isn't family to him the way the Titans are to her. Losing them hurts. ]
How're the cops up there anyway? Back home we have Green Lanterns, but there's like... only one left or something.
[ His version of it sounds... nice, actually. It doesn't push him completely in the box of being a hero and not killing or stealing, no pressure to be anything other than what he is. She knows what she is: a natural-born killer. She can try to be something else, but the monster's always there. ]
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He sure as fuck never would. ]
We've got the Nova Corps, and there's-- less of them, now. Still enough to do the normal police thing. And all cops are assholes, but, you know, pretty sure it comes with the territory. Like, I think it's on the minimum requirements. "Must be able to run a mile in no more than six minutes. Must be a gigantic fucking douchenozzle. Good Samaritans need not apply."
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Yeah, you called it. [ casually, ] Shame. He's kinda cute.
[ Rose Wilson, deadly assassin, incurable gossip. ]
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[ Sweetly, ] Does Star-Lord want to die in his sleep?
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[ moving on!! ]
What happened to these Nova guys anyway?
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What about your Green Lantern dude? Said there was just one guy left?
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Yeah, one guy. Some freaky cosmic entity or something wiped them all out.
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Your cop friend here?
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[ Said softly, as she looks at the ground. She never thought about it that way before. ]
He isn't. Probably better that way.
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After a beat, he tries for a brighter tone, ]
So. You gonna tell me what the job advice was about?
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Yeah, I kind of — quit the assassin business, wondering what to do next.
[ She loves the Titans, but the fact remains is that Haven... feels a lot more comfortable than that world of good people and lack of transaction in relationships. It's still weird to her, and she knows the condition for staying is no killing -- it's a rule she can't follow. ]
It's nice being a free agent.
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[ Would it be weird to talk about Gamora's history? Like, she's not here (and if Peter gets his way, she never will be), but still. It's not really his story to tell. ]
You could always take up, like, crocheting.
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Yeah?
[ It's not pushing. She doesn't really need to hear it, but it's... freeing to know she's not the only one facing this. ]
Hey, what're you good at?
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Dancing. Singing. Looking handsome. Existing.
[ A pause, then he adds, ] Being humble.
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I was looking for a straight answer, actually.
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Tell you the truth? Most of my skills fall strictly in the ne'er-do-well realm. Pickpocketing. Conning. Backroom dealing.
I dunno. Shit like that. Nonconventional upbringing.
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Join the club. My idea of passing time was stringing up drug dealers and slavers and beating the shit out of them.
[ They were selling to kids :| ]
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[ He hesitates -- because he knows what the odds are of it actually happening, what with different worlds being a thing, but-- ]
You know. We've always got room for more stabby, flippy, scary folks.
If you can withstand the constant raccoon funk, anyway.
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[ The statement reruns in her head like one of those old tapes Kon had that got stuck when you put them in the player and froze on a scene, she dissects it cleanly looking for a hint of insincerity, a con, something. It's not just another job: this is a place in someone's home, with their family. She has one, but it's built on a promise Tim made to Dick, one she's always believed is tenuous. She's walked away from them before, when their jagged edges chafed against hers; the world Tim and Cassie and Kon and Bart come from and live in is so different from her own. None of them learnt as children that the collarbone was one of the easiest to break and most painful to mend. Even Eddie, he tried, but - he wasn't Khaji or Damian. They weren't made to be the finest instruments of destruction the world had seen. ]
[ Fuck, she was still calling herself Ravager, wasn't she? And out there? In space? Nobody knew Deathstroke. Nobody cared about her father or her reputation or the fact that the blood came up to her elbows. Nobody to tell her where the line was, because Quill's line matches hers. She doesn't have to kill. But she doesn't have to spare the bastards either. It was just the way of the world up there: infinite. A world of survivors, great and small. Her world. ]
[ She should answer with something flippant; the long pause has already betrayed her. ]
[ He means what he says. ]
This friend of yours. Knives or guns?
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-- Which would be totally fucking disingenuous, coming from one Peter goddamn Quill. He may be a habitual liar, he may bend the truth when it's convenient for him (or even when he just feels like it), but he would never claim to be a saint. He may not have a criminal record anymore, but that doesn't mean he's not still a crook, not still an asshole. He may not kill often, but he doesn't have compulsions against it. Not when it gets results.
And, hey. His team consists of the deadliest assassin in the galaxy, two thugs, a maniac, and a thief with delusions of grandeur. He doesn't give a shit what sort of record someone has, as long as they're not looking to keep adding to it.
He's more relieved than he'd ever admit when she finally speaks; he worried that she had hung up on him. ]
Sword, actually. [ The answer is quick (and he wouldn't admit it, but there's even a touch of fondness there). He adds wryly, ] And I'd bet my life savings that she would totally kick your ass.
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[ And then her brain catches up with what she's saying no it was supposed to be a maybe #tsunderelyfe ]
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Good thing he's not camera. Rose would probably want to punch her screen with how fucking goofy he looks. ]
Hey, don't come cryin' to me when Gamora hands your ass to you on a silver platter, Ravager.
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Who's to say we won't decide to be friends and come kick your ass, huh?
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