19806/GoG: Bounty on Calypsis V

GoG: Bounty on Calypsis V
Date of Scene:	05 January 2025
Location:	Calypsis V, Kree-Lar Sector
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Gamora, Rocket, Peter Quill

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Gamora has posed:
EXTERIOR - Calypsis V - Raining

Acidic rain hisses against the jagged black crystals rising from the ground. Each burst of lightning cuts through the dense fog, briefly illuminating the toxic green pools scattered across the landscape. The wreck of a Kree battleship looms ahead, half-sunken in one of the larger lakes. Its damaged cloaking tech flickers irregularly, creating bursts of shimmering distortion.

Drag marks cut through the mud, leading toward the wreck. A burned-out hull sits further down the slope, its sides warped and blackened. The scorch marks are fresh, the ground around it disturbed by movement. The trail leads to the ship's entrance, where narrow pathways snake through bubbling pools of toxic water. Motion sensors and concealed mines line one route, set to catch anyone cautious enough to spot the obvious but miss the hidden dangers.

The faint hum of failing tech cuts through the storm. The ship's corroded hull leans at an awkward angle, jagged edges rising from the acid lake like rusted fangs. A guard paces near the entrance, armed with a worn blaster and sticking close to a functioning floodlight mounted on the ship. They don't stray far, their movements deliberate but routine.

Gamora crouches behind a cluster of glowing crystals, Godslayer collapsed and clipped to her hip, her switchblade ready in her hand. Twin blades snap out silently, the faint glow of the weapon catching the light as she adjusts her grip. The storm rages overhead, lightning casting momentary shadows across the terrain. The acidic rain rolls off her cloak as she studies the path ahead, boots shifting slightly in the mud but never slipping.

The drag marks are partially washed away by the rain, but they run in a straight line toward the ship. Whoever left them had no time to conceal their tracks. The uneven terrain offers little cover, and the bubbling pools hiss with every raindrop. The guard's pacing mirrors the steady rhythm of the storm, their weapon occasionally catching a flash of light as they pass the floodlight.

The distorted shimmer of the cloaking field briefly exposes more of the ship's damage -- rusted panels, collapsed corridors, and jagged edges from battles long past. The wreck might have once been imposing, but now it's just a broken shell.

Inside, it is said that Zyra Korrin hides with her ragtag group of pirates and smugglers. Rumors are that she's fond of setting traps.

Gamora moves forward, each step careful to avoid the toxic pools that bubble louder as the storm intensifies. Meanwhile, the guard remains unaware, their focus locked on the path ahead.

Rocket has posed:
"No, Rocket, we don't wanna take the easy job on the planet where drugs are plentiful... it's too morally ambiguous, Rocket... kidnapping children for profit is immoral, Rocket..."

From several kilometers away, a familiar rodent-like individual stares down the extremely large scope of his extremely large sniper rifle. Scanning the bits of the ship exterior that can be made out when the cloaking field periodically distorts, Rocket has managed to map out a general idea of the ship's layout, though his itchy trigger finger has as of yet remained woefully unsatisfied.

It's somewhat impressive that he can hold the rifle steady, so twitchy is that particular finger. So twitchy that it seems to require far greater effort to keep the finger from tightening on the trigger than it does to maneuver the comically oversized sniper rifle around. But then, he is a confirmed psychopath, and the rifle is on a tripod.

So far, the acid rain has had minimal effect on the Guardians' resident curmudgeon. For not only is he completely encased in a gakked-out, hermetically sealed spacesuit, but he has thrown over that ensemble not one, but two raincoats, and a giant, floppy rubber hat. For one can never be too careful when one is covered in fur, and the weather is a bit damp. Especially when the dampness is also acid. Still, he looks all sorts of grumpy behind the transparent faceshield as the puddle around him continues to grow larger.

"I am Groot?"

A voice registers in his earpiece, causing Rocket's facial muscles to reflexively relax briefly, though he keeps his eye trained down the scope.

"Yeah, sure, this one pays way better. Nobody's debating that."

"I am Groot?"

"And sure, the kid weighed about fourteen gigaplonks."

"I am Groot..."

"I'm just sayin'... what I'm sayin' is... you know... I've had to itch my ass for an hour. Flarkin' spacesuit. Flarkin' rain... Anyway, you're still clear, Gammy. Negative boogies."

"I am Groot?"

"Right, I meant bogies."

Peter Quill has posed:
While it is true that Peter Quill's notion of right and wrong might be just a little... skewed - no doubt part of what happens when you are raised by a gang of cut-throat Ravagers - he does kinda draw the line at kidnapping. Especially kidnapping kids.

Of course some of that reluctance might have a little something to do with his own, personal experiences on that particular score and while he would like to think that things turned out not so bad in the grand scheme of things, it's still not a road that he wants to go down.

Or at least he didn't.

This particular job is making him doubt some of what he would consider his 'hard lines'. Of course it's not so much that his outlook has changed, that he has suddenly realized that credits are a whole lot more important then not taking children away from their parents. It's more of an issue that even compared to some of the places they have found themselves before, Calypsis V is a real shithole of a planet.

Sometimes he wears his mask before it is a decent way to obscure his features, sometimes because he hopes that - one day - someone recognizes him as the infamous Star-Lord. But on this particular mission that tell-tale look is firmly in place because Peter Quill would rather not have his face melted off. It's the only one that he has and he is fairly partial to it.

So yeah. It doesn't happen very often but for a change, Quill is much closer to coming down on Rocket's side of this particular debate then would normally be the case.

Approaching from the opposite side of the ship from Gamora, trying to maximize their chances of taking Zyra Korrin by surprise and making this particular mistake of a job go as smoothly as possible, Quill creeps along, pistols drawn, as he darts from bit of cover to the next bit of cover.

For all his seeming ineptness at times - at least some might accuse him of such - he's fairly good at this.

Or at least he is when he he isn't being slowly coated in falling acid on what might be the most depressing world he has ever had the misfortune of stopping on.

Spotting a sentry just up ahead, he crouches behind an outcropping of mostly slagged metal, pitted and worn away but the decidedly inclement weather and extends one of those weapons, drawing a bead on the... man? Creature? The whatever the hell it is.

But that's when Quill finally notices just how bad the acidic rain has damaged his jacket, little tendrils of steam rising up as each droplet eats away at the hardened material, leaving it looking decidedly pockmarked.

"Awww, man," he mutters, taking his eyes off the prize for a moment, his other hand - also armed - reaching over to bat at the droplets that cling to him as if he could somehow wipe them all away.

So by the time he finally turns his attention back to where it should be, the towering, walrus-like creature is standing practically right on top of him, a huge, metal staff-like weapon gripped in his hands.

And swinging straight for his head.

"Oh shit...!"

So much for the element of surprise.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora crouches low behind the crystalline spires, the acidic rain hissing faintly around her. Rocket's voice crackles in her earpiece, his commentary breaking through the storm. Her lips press together, her focus locked on the guard pacing near the ship's entrance. The glow of their blaster reflects faintly as they pass the floodlight, their movements steady and predictable. Her gaze tracks the drag marks leading toward the rusted hull panel ahead. Mines blink faintly in the rain, their placements meticulous.

She leans against the edge of a spire, balancing carefully as she studies the path. A narrow gap between two mines offers a way forward, though it demands exact movements.

Rocket's voice cuts in, and the faintest flicker of a smirk crosses her face. "Rocket," she murmurs into the comm, her tone softening slightly, "once we finish this, we can hit the hot springs on Vayrix. You can soak your itchy tail as long as you want."

The hum of the ship's damaged cloaking field pulses faintly through the storm, flickering briefly to expose jagged edges and corroded panels. The guard pauses near the floodlight, scanning the path ahead. Gamora stops, crouching lower as they turn away, her breathing even.

The storm muffles most sound, the rain falling steadily as Gamora inches forward. The rusted hull looms just ahead, its jagged edges framed by the faint glow of blinking mines. She pauses near the perimeter, watching the guard's pacing, every movement precise.

Static crackles suddenly in her comm, followed by Peter's sudden expletive. The words are barely audible over the sound of rain and wind, but the urgency is unmistakable.

In front of her, the guard's hand raises to their ear, their pacing halting abruptly as they stop to listen to something that was reported. Gamora moves without hesitation. She rises from her crouch and closes the distance with fluid precision.

Before the guard even notices her, she drives her switchblade into the base of their skill, the motion swift and silent. Their body stiffens briefly, then crumples to the ground. She crouches again, retrieving her blade as she surveys the area for additional threats.

She wasn't sure what the guard had heard, exactly. Had it been a confirmation that they were there? Was it just an announcement about an anomaly? What ever it was, it was definitely about Quill, but Rocket has better eyes on the overall picture.

"Quill," she hisses through the comm, her voice low but calm. "Report."

Rocket has posed:
From his vantage point at the top of an especially pointy hill, Rocket has an excellent view of the sloped landscape the unfortunate ship chose as its final resting place. A well chosen sniper hide, though that should come as little surprise from the perpetually overprepared rodent. But no amount of preparation can ever truly be enough, and no vantage point can ever be truly exhaustive. Which is why Rocket temporarily loses visual of the Guardians' third best dancer as he crouches behind a slagged metal outcropping.

Rocket's outer raincoat and only hat are starting to look pretty battle-damaged as he scans his sector. But like a trooper, he keeps his eye on overwatch, providing cover as Gamora takes down her target. Typically flawless execution, he can't help but admire as the guard's body goes limp, taking only the briefest of moments to watch as it crumples to the ground. The recordings from his sniper rifle are definitely going to get played back tonight after the mission is over. Maybe after a few drinks, in a hot spring on Vayrix...

But when the rifle's scope is trained back in the direction of his other teammate's path, Rocket lets out a whispered expletive of his own. Where Gamora's takedown of the guard was flawless, it looks like the other guard's takedown of Quill is about to be the same.

They really need to send Quill to Thanos for a couple years of torturous training sometime...

"Krutack!"

As the staff comes down to crush their backup pilot, a solid particle traverses the distance between Rocket's rifle and the Walrus-like creature's weapon. Struck by the energized particle, the staff is violently severed into two much shorter pieces, the top going off to fly in another direction. The guard is left holding only a stump not much longer than his his two fists stacked on top of each other.

Unfortunately, neither the shot nor the breaking of the staff are exactly silent. But it's storming outside, maybe they'll get lucky.

Maybe lots of other nice things will happen to them someday as well.

Rocket's position was carefully chosen to be out of the crew's normal path. And so far, nobody has happened to chance upon him in the little alcove of the pointy hill. But there are things on Calypsis V that are just as bad as the crew of a rusted out, wrecked ship. From inside the cave behind him, something slithers toward the strange-looking morsel with the sniper rifle. Something large, and slimy, making sluglike undulations as it moves forward. With a faint glow, the sluglike creature leaves a trail of slimy acid behind it as it creeps ever closer to the Guardians' eyes and ears.

Maybe something nice will happen, indeed.

Peter Quill has posed:
It is hard to know exactly just how screwed they are.

The problem, of course, is that Peter let himself get distracted. But really, who wouldn't? His beautiful jacket is going to need one hell of a patch job. On a good day it might very well protect it's wearer from a laser blast or two, but apparently no one ever thought to see how it would hold up against acidic rain on backwater, shithole moons.

Well now Quill can go back to the manufacturer and let them know - not as well as he'd would like.

While it might be understandable that his fashion emergency would cause a bit of a distraction, the fact remains that Peter did not see the sentry - or maybe it's the crew's pet, how the hell is he supposed to know - and thus does not know if the creature radioed in first. Did he spot Quill, or was he just checking out some unknown disturbace? Quill has no idea.

And really, Star-Lord has a bigger problem. Like the fact that he is about to have his head smashed in with that staff-thingy. Or worse, his mask smashed and his face, his beautiful face, exposed to the unforgiving elements of Calypsis V.

So he tries to do what any sane person would do. He tries to get out of the way.

The idea is a good one, it's that the execution is... lacking. The problem is that Quill tries to do two things at once, his respective instincts at war with one another. His initial one is understandable. Someone is towering over him while he is crouched down. He tries to crab-walk backwards, planting his feet on the ground to give himself the leverage to scamper away.

So far so good.

But some part of him realizes that you know what's quicker then crab-walking backwards? Activating your rocket boots and flinging yourself out of the way! Sure, his jacket will get all scuffed on the unforgiving terrain beneath him, but it's going to be a miracle if it survives anyway, right?

The fact of the matter is that he probably owes Rocket some thanks - not that the trash panda is gonna get it mind you - as that shot lashes out, shattering the staff before it can connect with him. By the time it swooshes past him, the shattered stump is far too short to connect and both Peter's mask and his face survive intact.

Of course Peter triggers his boots at that moment too, but with his knees bent, with his booted soles pressed firmly to the ground he is not propelled back. Instead his leg is propelled upward at a rather high rate of speed.

Right between Walrus-man's legs.

It's hard to read those tusked features. But the bellow that escapes him, that cuts even through the relentless falling rain and the world that seems to continually sizzle around them, definitely sounds pained and while it might be true that different species have their reproductive organs in different places, it seems like a safe bet this guy - and it seems likely that it is definitely masculine - keeps them right where you would expect, given the way he drops to his knees, clutching himself.

Without thinking about it, Peter triggers that other boot and his knee shoots up again, catching the unfortunate fellow beneath the chin, rocking his head back and sending him tumbling over to the ground, unmoving.

"I meant to do that," Peter mutters to himself, scampering to his feet and peering through the gloom, peering for some sign that they're about to have a swarm of angry criminals racing out to try and kill them.

"We're fine here. We're all fine here. How are you?" comes Quill's oh so helpful reply to Gamora's inquiry.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora pauses at the perimeter, crouched low behind the jagged spires as a guttural bellow cuts through the storm. The sound is deep and unmistakably pained, loud enough to carry over the rain's constant hiss. Her jaw tightens. Moments later, faint chatter crackles through the air as several guards nearby respond to the noise. The pacing around the wrecked ship shifts, footsteps quickening as shadows move through the gloom.

Her hand moves to her comm. "Quill," she says sharply, her voice low. "What was that? Did you do something?"

As she speaks, she watches another guard emerge, looking around as if for the source of the sound and starting to move in Quill's direction. Two others break off from their positions, cutting through the narrow paths that wind between bubbling pools and jagged terrain.

"Rocket," she says, switching channels. "Do you see this?" She knows he does, but the confirmation is instinctual, her voice steady even as the situation shifts.

From her position, she can't see how many are moving, but the way they're moving suggests coordinated action. It isn't a full alarm -- yet -- but their cautious approach makes it clear they're taking no chances.

Her gaze sweeps the path ahead, the rusted hull of the Kree ship looming larger as she edges closer. The mines flash faintly in the rain, their placement meticulous, and the toxic pools bubble ominously with every drop of acid. Another figure emerges from the shadows ahead, joining the movement toward Quill's direction. Gamora adjusts her grip on her switchblade, her movements deliberate as she tracks their approach, stalking them from behind and steadily gaining on the one closest to her.

"Quill," she hisses through the comm again. "If that was you, stay low. More are heading your way." She pauses, exhaling slowly to steady her tone. "Just... try not to make it worse."

A faint flicker of the ship's failing cloaking field distorts the area ahead. She pushes forward, slipping between two blinking sensors with precise movements. The guards continue their cautious advance, the tension in the storm mounting with every step.

Rocket has posed:
"D'ast! Now we're humped!"

As usual, the plan falls apart right at the beginning. It's what makes this particular team so very special. Rocket gets a lock on one of the guards, the itch in his trigger finger only partially relieved by the well-placed shot he took mere seconds ago. His restraint is admirable, as he brings up the guard's image on the 'Net and does a quick search for any active bounties. Disappointment is visible on his face as the search comes back almost completely negative. The bounty is barely worth the cost of the ammo it would take to cash it in.

"Say the word, and both these losers is gonna..." Medium-length pause. "... they're gonna be breathin' outta their neck holes, is what."

The other guard's bounty doesn't seem to be much more impressive. It's not that Rocket has major qualms about killing an innocent sentient, but he'd generally prefer to do his killing in exchange for units. That is, after all, the Bounty Hunter's Way. The more pragmatic concern, at the moment, is merely the complete amount of shit the mission will fall into if they alert the entire crew.

"But alls they're gonna do is hole up if we kill these bozos, and I don't feel like wasting anymore time on this krutackin' backwater. What we need is... some kinda plan. Actually..."

As the cloaking field distorts again, Rocket is hit with a sudden burst of inspiration. There, unless he misses his guess, is the ship's backup generator.

Rocket hasn't missed too terribly many guesses in his relatively short lifetime, so he lines up the shot while the field is still distorted. He compensates for the field's effect, and lightly squeezes the trigger with the familiar touch of an old lover.

A shot rings out, and the backup generator gets hammered by an oversized slug propelled by a magnetic rail nearly two meters long.

"Bull's Guy!"

But after the shot is released, Rocket feels something touching his leg. Even through the thick material of the spacesuit, he feels his leg being enveloped by something heavy and squishy. And warm. Very warm.

Also covered in acid.

He turns to look, eyes off the scope, and is absolutely horrified by the large sluglike creature that is gradually covering up his body. He doesn't even have time to pull out his backup blaster before he's completely engulfed.

"What the flark! We shoulda gone to the drug planet!"

Peter Quill has posed:
For just a moment, Quill straightens up, scampering up to his feet and proudly surveying the damage that his accidental boot to the groin slash knee to the face has wrought, a smug smile resting on his features, concealed as they might be by that mask that he wears.

"Not too shabby if I do say so myself," he says with a certain undeniable satisfaction on his face. Walrus-man is -absolutely- huge and by the time Quill is done telling the story later he will be at least three times bigger then he is now, again.

The fact that their plan is pretty much falling apart even as he says that doesn't seem to trouble Quill quite as much in the moment, though it might become more of an issue when that creeping scout party deployed from the main vanguard stumbles over him, but he will deal with that when it comes up.

Still, certain important questions remain. Questions that are absolutely essential to the completion of the mission. Questions that will haunt Peter if he can't get an answer to them. That will keep him up at nights. That will plague his dreams. Questions like...

Quill's voice cuts in over the comm again. "Hey, did you guys know that Walrus-Men had nards?" he asks, voice positively dripping with sincerity. He really wants to know if he's the only one that didn't know. "You'd think that's the kind of thing that they would cover off in, you know, school or whatever. Just in case you're ever confronted by one on some shit hole moon," he adds.

Then he decides that perhaps a little clarity is called for. As well as an answer to Gamora's question. "Oh, it's nothing. This huuuuuuuge Walrus-Guy tried to cave my head in. But I took care of him. Like a bad-ass. You should have seen it," he says, words positively dripping with enthusiasm.

That enthusiasm dies a little bit as his masked gaze swings back towards the derelict hulk and it's flickering cloaking shield. Or rather the small group of armed figures headed his way. No walrus-men - that he can tell - but they don't look happy to see him either. They seem to be gesturing - emphatically - and then a laser blast slices out, just barely missing his head.

"Well shit," comes that explative again and just seconds later Star-Lord is airborn, those pistols drawn as he makes himself a big old target in the rain soaked sky, starting to rain down return fire on the group below.

"So. Don't freak out or anything Gamora, but new plan," he says, keeping his tone conversational. Somehow. "I'm gonna make a scene and draw out as many of them as I can. I'll get them chasing me and lead them right into Rocket's sightline to take them out," he says. "While we do that, you slip in and grab the target. No fuss. No muss," he says, firing off another half dozen shots before setting down on a nearby outcropping, crouching down as more laser fire pours out his way, little chunks of rock and metal debris flying as those blasts carve away at his cover.

Which is where the one - or, the first one at least - flaw in his plan becomes apparent.

"Anytime now Rocket," he says as his cover rapidly gets blown away. "Rocket?"

But of course Rocket has been swallowed by a slug, because apparently that's a thing on this world.

God Calypsis V sucks.

Gamora has posed:
Innocent is such a specific word.

They're after a criminal, a pirate and smuggler, within a nest of other pirates and smugglers.

Then again, maybe it took a crew of ne're-do-wells to find a crew of ne're-do-wells.

"We _had_ a plan," comes Gamora's sharp reply through the comms. Frustrated. Not necessarily angry at either one of them specifically, though one can imagine that Quill is, once again, the bearer of most of it. They always start with a plan. Almost never does it survive first contact with the enemy.

The explosion from the ship's backup generator tears through the storm, sparks and smoke billowing into the air. The cloaking field collapses completely, leaving the corroded hulk of the Kree ship exposed. Electricity arcs across its damaged surface, and the shouting begins almost immediately.

Gamora tenses behind the jagged spires as guards spill from the ship, weapons drawn. Some cluster near the wreck, trying to assess the damage, while others sprint toward the noise coming from Quill's position.

"_That's_ your plan?!"

The explosion of energy released from the suddenly shot generator was sure to alert everyone there that something was happening. Even if it took them a few minutes to figure out it had been shot, they would all be on high alert.

Of course, Quill is present, so it doesn't take them a few minutes to figure out what's happening.

Static crackles in her comm, followed by the unmistakable sound of Quill's pistols firing in rapid succession.

Gamora's jaw tightens, her voice low as she responds. "Quill, what did you do?"

More static. Then Quill's reply about not freaking out.

"Idiot," she mutters under her breath, though the distraction is working. The guard she'd been tracking abruptly rushes forward. A mere second away from being silently assassinated like the last guard, she uses the opportunity instead to make a break for the ship, the man's life barely spared.

The storm covers her movements as she slips forward. Her boots find solid footing on the rain-slick ground, her steps quick and silent. Smoke and sparks from the wrecked generator provide cover as she reaches the open hull panel.

Inside, the air is thick with the acrid scent of burning wires and rust. The narrow corridors echo faintly with muffled shouts from deeper in the ship. Gamora pauses, hand brushing the hilt of Godslayer as she listens for movement. The guards outside are distracted for now, but it won't last.

She presses her comm again. "I'm in. I'm going for Zyra."

Her voice is calm, but there's a sharp edge to it. This wasn't the plan. But then, it never is. Whatever chaos he's caused, she's determined to use it. With a final glance toward the corridor ahead, she moves deeper into the ship, slipping out of sight into the shadows any time someone moves past her like a wraith.

It's not exactly an army. It's just a band of outlaw pirates holed up in an abandoned ship in the middle of nowhere, and they spill themselves outside to join the fray with reckless abandon. The chance at a fight on this desolate hellhole is too much to pass up on, tactics be damned.

And from further inside, Gamora can hear a woman screeching, "Get them, you cowards! Kill them all!"

Down damaged corridors, silent in the nearly pitch black, The Most Dangerous Woman in the Galaxy slinks towards her prey.

Rocket has posed:
With his entire body engulfed by a Calypsian Giant Acid Slug, Rocket is providing far less sniper coverage than he was mere moments before. In fact, the amount of coverage that he is providing has dropped from approximately eighty percent, to approximately zero percent. It's a drop in performance that will surely not go unnoticed, and will drastically affect the outcome of this new backup plan.

For the moment, Rocket is in very little actual danger. He has a solid supply of air, and the suit is reinforced enough that he's not in imminent danger of being crushed to death. But very quickly both of his raincoats and his large floppy hat begin dissolving from the slug's thick coating of acidic slime.

"Stupid... Everything on two legs has gotta have nards! How else would you balance out your tail?"

Rocket's voice sounds abnormally strained, and his signal is coming through a bit choppy. But let's give him a break, he's going through something at the moment.

Rocket can feel the creature's floppy jaws closing on his tail, and a tugging sensation as the creature begins to pull him inside of its mouth, tail first. But he's having such difficulty moving that there's no way to access any of his pistols or grenades. So many kilograms of gear brought to the surface for this mission, and Rocket isn't really able to access any of it, it appears. The irony wouldn't be lost on him if he weren't in the middle of being swallowed whole.

In a state of desperation, he manages to reach his little fist into one of his pouches, and with some heroic effort he's able to pull out...

A small pouch of Glornax' Best Organic Crispies, a treat banned in over forty systems for being very unhealthy, and probably not even organic.

Realizing that he's no doubt doomed, Rocket begins thinking of what he'd like his last words to be, and isn't entirely sure that his impromptu class about nards won't make a fitting last memory from his crew. The bag of crispy treats begins to dissolve in his hand, as does his spacesuit. He squeezes his eyes tight, and prepares to get melted.

But then, the creature makes a horrifying squealing noise, and its floppy jaws release the rodent. Reflexively, it begins backing away as fast as it can, squealing horribly all the while. It's only after the slug as let him go that Rocket remembers exactly why Glornax' Best Organic Crispies are considered so unhealthy, and the exact reason that he enjoys them so greatly. The sodium content in one of these bags is enough to give a human a heart attack.

But though he's released, he's still covered in acidic slime, and is in the middle of panic stripping before his suit dissolves on him.

"FLARK! FLARK! FLARK! FLARK! FLARK! FLARK! FLAAAARK!"

Peter Quill has posed:
So Plan A didn't exactly go ideally.

Maybe that was always going to be the result. Afterall, while it anticipated the acidic rain, it didn't necessarily anticipate the sheer, unmitagated fashion disaster that would result because of said acid rain.

Really, what was Quill supposed to do? Just sit there and watch as his best jacket got pockmarked and pitted and absolutely savaged because they are on a dumb moon on the ass side of the galaxy?

Sure, he could have worn his second best jacket, but c'mon. How is anyone going to learn to respect that infamous Star-Lord if he goes around looking like some hobo in a purloined second best jacket? That was obviously unacceptable.

Which brings us back to the main point. The fact that Plan A and it's stealth component fell apart? Totally not Quill's fault. Maybe he can take on five percent of the blame. Ten tops. But that's it.

That Plan B is not going significantly better is also one that he is going to have to insist isn't really his fault either. He's done his part. He has pulled a significant number of the sentries and general criminal scumbags out and away from their target. He has - at great personal risk not to mention - practically laid them out on a silver platter, making them all but sitting docks for Rocket to polish them off.

And he's muttering some garbled frak about tails and nards. What kind of irresponsible idiot goes on about nards in the middle of a job? It's irresponsible and totally the reason that Rocket is the backup pilot in this crew.

As his cover grows more and more scant, leaving him with barely enough room to cower behind, Quill turns his gaze desperately over towards his teammate's position, seeking him out, trying to figure out what the hell is going on over ther. And what does he see on his head's up display?

He sees a freakin' trash panda busy stripping down in the middle of an acidic rain storm.

"What the hell Rocket! Put your damn pants back on and give me a little backup already! Is that really to much to ask?" Peter barks over the comm. They're probably not making the best impression on Gamora. They rarely do. But the fact is, she does have a surprisingly clear path to Zyra.

So, suffice to say the plan is a bit of a mixed bag. On one side, it's getting the results Quill intended. On the other side, it looks like Peter and Rocket are going to die. Quill in a hailstorm of laser fire. Rocket dissolved into a puddle of furry goo but the crappy weather on this moon.

Sure enough, with that diminishing cover, one of those laser bolts finds its mark, sliding a line right across Star-Lord's shoulder - incidentally cutting the seam of that jacket cleanly so the arm of it starts to slide away, baring a disturbingly large portion of Quill's upper arm to that burning rain.

"Holy mother of god--!" comes Peter's exclaimation, flesh sizzling now right along with his protective coat and he desperately reaches down, fumbling around at his belt before he finds it. Finds it and blindly tosses it over his shoulder.

The 'it' in this case proves to be a gravity grenade and as it goes off, the ground that is just about to slag him into a dozen smoking holes is abruptly jerked off their feet and roughly pulled together, slamming into one another in a cofused and slightly disturbing pile of limbs.

More importantly, it buys Quill precious seconds to save himself.

Or die trying.

Gamora has posed:
The narrow corridor is dimly lit, the occasional flicker of a damaged panel casting shadows across the rusted walls. The acrid scent of burning wires clings to the air, and Gamora moves with measured steps. Godslayer rests light in her grip, collapsed and ready to snap into action at a moment's notice.

A faint sound draws her attention -- a shuffling just ahead, barely audible over the hum of damaged systems. Gamora presses against the wall, and through the jagged edges of a broken doorframe, she spots Zyra Korrin. The notorious pirate paces the room, her back to the entrance, one hand gripping a blaster while the other jabs furiously at a comm device strapped to her wrist.

"Get back here and deal with this!" Zyra barks into the comm, her voice sharp and commanding. "If I have to come out there and do it myself, you'll wish the Nova Corps got to you first!"

Gamora steps into the doorway, her voice cutting through the room. "Unfortunately for you, the Nova Corps hired us instead."

Zyra whirls, blaster raised, but Gamora's already moving. Godslayer snaps open, its gleaming edge deflecting the first shot as she closes the distance. Zyra backpedals, her free hand grabbing a second weapon -- a short, jagged blade -- and the two clash in a rapid exchange of strikes. Sparks fly as steel meets steel, the confined space amplifying every impact.

"You're in over your head, Korrin," Gamora says between blows, her voice calm but edged with a threat. "The bounty doesn't specify that I have to bring you in alive."

"Good," Zyra sneers, ducking under a swing and countering with a sharp jab to Gamora's ribs. "I'd hate for this to be too easy."

The impact drives Gamora back a step, pain flaring through her side, but she grits her teeth and presses forward. Their blades clash again, the sound reverberating off the walls. Zyra moves with practiced precision, her strikes fast and relentless. Gamora deflects most of them, but not all. A glancing blow grazes her shoulder, another catches her thigh, and she feels the sting of blood mixing with sweat as she maneuvers through the cramped space.

"You're slowing down," Zyra taunts, grinning as she sidesteps another swing. "All that talk, but here you are, bleeding like the rest of us."

"Talk less, fight harder," Gamora snaps, her tone sharp as she pivots into a spinning kick that catches Zyra in the chest. The pirate stumbles, slamming into a control panel with enough force to crack the screen.

But before Gamora can capitalize, the sound of movement behind her draws her attention too late. A second attacker -- a wiry figure with a makeshift club -- emerges from the shadows, slamming the weapon across her back. Gamora staggers and cries out, pain shooting up her spine as she drops to one knee, her grip on Godslayer tightening.

Zyra laughs, wiping blood from her lip as she straightens. "You didn't think I'd make it this easy, did you?"

Gamora doesn't answer, her focus narrowing as the second attacker circles around, readying another strike. She rolls forward, avoiding the blow and slashing upward with Godslayer in the same motion. The blade catches the club, slicing it cleanly in two. Her momentum carries her into Zyra, their weapons clashing again as the second attacker retreats, weaponless.

"You're predictable," Zyra says, her tone mocking as she blocks Gamora's next strike. "All skill, no creativity."

"And you're overconfident," Gamora replies, her gaze darting to the room's layout. A faint hum draws her attention to a flickering capacitor on the far wall, its sparking cables coiled like snakes. She shifts her stance, letting Zyra drive her back toward it.

The pirate presses her advantage, grinning as she sees Gamora retreat. "You really think you're going to win this?" she asks, lunging forward with a vicious overhead strike.

Gamora deflects the blow, twisting to the side and locking eyes with Zyra for a brief moment. "I don't think," she says evenly, her voice low and dangerous. "I plan."

With that, she pivots, slamming her elbow into th

Gamora has posed:
Gamora deflects the blow, twisting to the side and locking eyes with Zyra for a brief moment. "I don't think," she says evenly, her voice low and dangerous. "I plan."

With that, she pivots, slamming her elbow into the sparking capacitor. The damaged machinery sparks violently, sending a shower of electricity cascading into the space between them. Zyra yelps, leaping back to avoid the surge, and Gamora takes the opportunity to regain her footing.

As the room fills with smoke and the acrid smell of burnt wiring, her gaze locks on Zyra, who circles warily, blood dripping from a shallow cut on her arm. Gamora adjusts her grip on Godslayer, her breathing steady despite the pain radiating through her body.