19953/A Snowy Escape

A Snowy Escape
Date of Scene:	27 January 2025
Location:	Eriadnae Epsilon IV
Synopsis:	Waking up in the rustic, snow-laden cabin to the sound of an approaching patrol, it's time for Quill and Gamora to make their escape.
Cast of Characters:	Gamora, Peter Quill

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Gamora has posed:
The cabin is shoddy and small, barely more than a wooden box, its roof sagging under a mound of snow. Inside, the cold has crept into every crevice, and the only warmth comes from the shared thermal blanket wrapped around Peter and Gamora, cocooning them against the chill.

The bed -- if it can even be called that -- is a narrow, hard cot shoved against the farthest wall, barely large enough for one person, let alone two. The storm outside made finding shelter a necessity, and the patrols combing the planet for them had made it a matter of survival.

The room is dark except for the slivers of pale light filtering through the snow-caked windows. Every breath is visible in the air, curling in small clouds, but for the moment, there is peace. The storm has subsided. All that remains of it is a quiet wind that hisses past the cabin's exterior, faintly whistling against the door.

Under their thermal blanket, Gamora found sleep some hours ago, tucked against Peter's side, her head on his shoulder, hand on his chest, thigh draped over his. It wasn't a position she ever expected to find herself in, but if she's honest with herself later, despite everything, she's slept much worse.

Then, the silence shatters.

A low hum -- distant but unmistakable -- cuts through the howl of the wind. The deep thrum of engines. At first, it's barely audible, easily mistaken for the groaning of trees under the weight of ice. But as the sound grows, rhythmic and mechanical, there's no mistaking it.

Patrol ships.

Gamora's eyes snap open. The moment she stirs, the blanket shifts, and cold air rushes between them. The muscles in her back tighten instinctively as she listens.

"Peter," she hisses, voice just above a whisper.

The engines are getting closer. Snow muffles sound, but not enough. The whine of repulsors cutting through the storm sends a prickle of unease down her spine. If they'd tracked them here, there wouldn't be time to run. The cabin was good for hiding from the storm, but not for a fight. And if the patrols swept the area, if they landed...

Gamora is already shoving the blanket aside, starting to sit up, and wincing as pain shoots up her leg from her ankle.

Peter Quill has posed:
It's not exactly easy, coaxing one's self back awake. Not with that pervading chill waiting for them. Not when there is at least a little comfort to be found beneath that thermal blanket that covers them, trapping their shared body heat. Even with the less than forgiving surface beneath them, the idea of giving up that warmth is a hard one.

Peter Quill is enough of a survivor that he probably would have heard the approaching patrol craft before the set down, before they could trap them. Fortunately he doesn't need to, if only because he is with one of the preeminent assassins in the entire galaxy.

He's good. Gamora's better.

Her warning makes him groan, makes him come awake grudgingly, his mind a little sluggish. The sleep - such as it was - has left him still groggy. Better then being out on his feet entirely like he would have been without it, but he is definitely not at his best.

So it takes him a few moments to realize just what the problem is, to pick out that faint buzz, that faint whine in the distance that is decidedly artificial. The sign that their little interlude in this piece of crap hut is about to come to an end.

He gives another groan, wincing at the soreness in his injured arm but he does manage to slide free of the cot, shivering almost as soon as he is out from beneath that blanket, his body assaulted by that pervading chill. Even without the swirling winds from earlier, without that sharp bite tearing at skin, the unrelenting cold just saps away energy and Peter manages to stagger to his feet.

"So long as they're not headed straight for us we should have a few minutes," he says, gaze flickering back towards her with a certain amount of concern briefly apparent in his gaze, offering a hand to help pull her to her feet, those eyes darting down briefly to her injured leg.

But then his features are a mask once more, that concern, that worry veiled away. "There's no way they tracked us through that. This has gotta be a random search pattern. We have time," he asserts.

Blind optimism? Or a reasoned viewpoint? It almost doesn't matter. If they are headed directly here because they know exactly where they are, this is a pretty crappy place to make their last stand.

This time, they had better hope he's right.

Grabbing up that blanket, their other supplies scattered across the table, Peter begins to stuff them back into the pack. Racing out into the snow won't save them now. It will only seal their fate and a slow death would be worse then a quick one.

Gamora has posed:
Better is... relative.

Gamora can hold her own in so many of the duke-it-out seat-of-your-pants battles Peter finds himself in (and excels at), but she shines when she's given the opportunity to control her environment.

Ordinarily, Gamora would likely suggest something tactical. If the cabin is found and searched, it would be better to be hiding up in a tree nearby -- somewhere they could see what was happening, scout their numbers, and decide whether jumping into a full-scale fight would be advantageous for them.

As of when they fell asleep, it didn't look like Gamora would be jumping into much of anything without her ankle giving out. Nor did it seem like she was going to be scurrying up any trees.

Now, though, as she takes Peter's hand and swings her legs off of the cot to stand, she's at least putting some weight on it. Apparently, all those cybernetic implants really have their advantages. She keeps hold of his hand for just a moment as she tests it, then nods. It's not perfect, but it's better.

"There's a portable transmitter," she points out while he's grabbing things up. She takes a careful step closer to the table, too, and collects Godslayer where she'd taken it out of its sheath at her hip. Collapsed the way it is, it's only half a foot or so long, and she shoves it back into place.

There's grogginess in her movements, that kind of heavy weight of fatigue from not having enough hours to really recover, making her voice thick. It's clearing quickly, though.

"If we're only talking about minutes before they find us, I'd rather let the others know where we are and get the Milano on the way. Even if we show up on their radar. Do you think you can get it working? I can find a place outside to ambush them from when they pull up."

Peter Quill has posed:
Decisions, decisions.

Using the transmitter will let their pursuers hone in on them for sure, if they are not already on their way. They will almost immediately detect that signal and know exactly where they are. It would be much akin to setting this hut on fire and sending up a big plume of smoke. Which, admittedly, is somewhat tempting right at the moment. At least they might be warm for a few minutes.

But the fact is, they might already know where they are. They could be headed directly for them. And this way there is a chance that the rest of the Guardians might be able to swoop in and lend a hand if they are taken. Assuming that they can't find a way to escape on their own.

Or if they aren't promptly killed.

The alternative? Try to run. While Quill doesn't exactly object o turning tail and fleeing when that's the best option he has, he's not at all convinced that is the case here. The trees will offer them some cover it's true, but without the storm out there to muck with sensors, to cover their tracks almost as quickly as they make them? Trying to avoid who knows how many men who are better equipped and have transportation?

Sounds like a long shot.

He hesitates for just a moment before he nods. "I can get it working." There is no doubt in his voice, though whether that's because he knows he can do it or whether he just wants her to think he can is up for debate. He's not a mechanical genius like Rocket, but he has picked up a few tricks over the years.

And he's highly motivated at the moment.

The transmitter is plucked up though not before he tosses one of the ration bars to Gamora, grabbing up one for himself. Teeth tear the wrapper open and he takes a bite, making a face at the taste. Gourmet dinning is not.

Then, with transmitter in hand he edges towards the door, peering through the cracks to try and get some sense of just what might be out there, waiting for them.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora catches the ration bar midair, fingers curling around it instinctively. For a moment, just a brief one, she looks down at it, then up at Quill, her expression softening at the small gesture. She hadn't asked, but he'd known. And right now, even a chalky, near-inedible survival bar is a kindness.

"...Thanks," she murmurs, barely above the hum of the encroaching patrols. It's gone as soon as it appears, that fleeting moment of softness, swallowed up by the urgency pressing in on them. She tears into the wrapper, rips off a bite, chews fast. There's no time to hate the taste, no time to wish she'd had something better. She just needs fuel, and she needs it now.

Peter is already at the door, transmitter in hand, peering through the cracks. She steps closer, lowering her voice. "They'll hear it the second you power it on. Which means we don't have time to wait for a response. The moment the signal goes out, we move."

She swallows another bite and forces the rest down as quickly as she can.

Think. They'll need every advantage they can get. A direct fight is a bad idea, especially if they're outgunned. The storm covered their tracks getting here, but if they try to run now, their footprints will lead a straight path from the cabin to wherever they go. If they need to hide, they'll have to be smarter than that.

Gamora pulls the thermal blanket free from Quill's pack, shaking it loose. "We can leave this near the treeline. Make it look like we ran. If they're tracking heat signatures, it won't hold them off long, but it might buy us a few seconds."

But where does she go? If they're coming in on glider-skiffs -- which they likely are -- climbing onto the roof is suicide. A sniper's perch only works if they don't look up. If they're coming in on foot or sled-runners, though, it's her best option.

She glances toward the rafters. Could she get up there? Maybe. But if they search the cabin, she's trapped. No escape route. She exhales slowly, testing her weight on her ankle again. Not perfect, but it'll do.

Her eyes flick back to Quill. "As soon as you make the call," she says, tone all business now, "we have to disappear. Going in two directions will buy us more time."

And separate them.

But if they don't? If the patrols are already locked onto them? Well. Then she'll just have to start cutting them down before they get close enough to make it a problem.

Peter Quill has posed:
Every once in a while Peter Quill can show that he is capable of making the right call. That he has a knack for rising to the occasion. That he can be insightful and decent.

She probably shouldn't get used to it though. Soon enough they won't be fighting for their very survival and odds are pretty good that he will be back to being the same old Peter Quill he usually is.

After that initial grimace at the taste, he is very much like her, chewing at the ration bar methodically. It might not be especially appetizing, but it has all the nutrients they need to survive and right now he is pretty keen on survival. It's way better then the alternative afterall.

Peering out across through those cracks that just let in a little of the light outside, Peter takes in the snow-covered landscape outside, his eyes scanning for any hint of movement, any sign that they are already surrounded and that their scant options have dwindled down to none.

Fortunately, however, all appears to be still, bearing out the fact that while their pursuers might be homing in on them, they don't know where they are yet. Not for certain. It's such a small, tenuous advantage. But it's still an advantage. It's still hope. And Peter fully intends to cling to that hope with everything he has.

"It's good to go. I programmed the distress call in earlier. All we need to do is start transmitting. When we were coming in I didn't read any atmospheric interference or anything else that should obstruct the signal so unless they've thrown up a blanket jamming signal and fraked their own communications it should get out," he says quietly, still keeping an eye on the exterior of their little cabin.

He has his moments. Contrary to popular opinion he hasn't gotten just this far on luck alone. Or his good looks. He would probably argue he should be even further ahead if he was getting by on looks alone, but what else would one expect from him?

Finally glancing back towards her, he can practically see all the calculations running through her mind. The various scenarios playing out. What will give them the best chance to get out of this.

That she should come up with splitting up isn't a surprise. It's pretty reasonably really. While they don't know how many people might be after them, splitting up those forces gives them both a better chance. So the matter is settled, right?

"Naw. We're not doing that." That's it. He doesn't argue his case or try to persuade her. Instead he just flashes a grin at her, activates the transmitter and then grabs her hand before shouldering the door to the cabin open, pushing away the snow piled up outside it and leading her back outside into that not so winter wonderland.

Gamora has posed:
Peter certainly has his moments. Many of them.

A little smile of gratitude tugs at one side of her lips when he says he got the transmitter working, a glint of something perhaps even deeper. That transmitter may very well save both of their lives.

Of course, Peter's moments came in all shapes and sizes.

Gamora barely has a second to process the decision before Peter makes it for both of them. The transmitter hums to life, and before she can pull away, his hand is in hers, dragging her toward the door like there's not an entire patrol squad closing in on their position.

For a brief, exasperated moment, she considers yanking free, turning, and going in the opposite direction just to prove a point. Splitting up was the smart call. More targets meant divided attention, and divided attention meant a better chance at survival. But no -- of course Peter would decide otherwise.

She doesn't resist -- not because she agrees, but because arguing about it now is a waste of time they don't have. Plus, on a level she rarely admits out loud, she trusts him. Luck or not, his instincts have saved her life -- the whole crew's lives -- so many times she's lost count. So instead, as the cold slams into her the second they step outside, she focuses on what she can control.

The landscape is a white wasteland, uneven and broken by thick patches of skeletal trees and evergreens. The storm may have stopped, but the wind still carries enough loose snow to obscure details. No sign of the patrol yet, but that doesn't mean anything. They're out there. The sound of repulsors is growing.

"Peter -- " she starts, her voice low, sharp, but she doesn't bother finishing. She already knows he isn't changing his mind. Instead, she exhales hard, adjusting her grip in his.

She won't fight him on this.

She moves along with him, shuffling as quickly as her ankle will allow. The injury still aches, but it holds. The snow is deep, sucking at her boots with every step, but they need to put distance between them and the cabin before the first sweep of lights comes through the trees. They won't outrun ships, but if the patrol is coming in on sled-runners, this terrain will slow them down. Give them more time to disappear.

"You better have another plan," she mutters, keeping her voice low, breath visible in the cold. It's more matter-of-fact than accusatory or even blaming. In fact, he might even detect a note of hopefulness. "Because if they're already onto us, holding hands isn't going to get us very far."

Peter Quill has posed:
There's smart and then there's smart.

Splitting up is a sound strategy. It makes it much more likely that one of them will elude this trap. That one of them might break free and find a way to bring back help. It's practical and pragmatic.

So is it any wonder that Peter ultimately rejects it?

As smart as it might be, at least on the surface, Peter's days as trying to operate as a lone wolf are done. Teaming with the other Guardians has changed him, convinced him that they are just better together. More then better. They're magical. They accomplish things that should be impossible. The succeed where by rights they most definitely shouldn't.

More to the point, they're family. And you don't abandon family, no matter how much sense it might make in the moment.

That he has seemingly decided on a course of action is almost enough to make the frigid landscape around them bearable, the deep, sifting snows that seem to practically tug at there feet, that try to drag them down, trip them up. There is tree cover of course, the evergreens offering more then the bare branches of the other trees scattered here and there.

But none of that really matters so long as that transmitter is going of course, providing a signal that almost no one could possibly miss to zero in on. But that too is a matter of pressing their luck. The longer the signal is active, the more time it has to strengthen, the better the chance it will reach the Milano, will reach the other Guardians.

So Peter leaves it going as he trudges through the snow, finally forsaking his hold on Gamora's hand once he's relatively sure she's not going to dart away.

"I've got a plan," he agrees with a grin. Despite the cold, despite the grim circumstances his eyes are practically alight now. Adversity really does bring out the best in him. "You're going to -hate- it," he says with such obvious enthusiasm that she might even forgive him.

They have barely even reached the treeline before the commotion from behind them indicates that the first patrols are closing in, wide, broad snowshoes keeping them from sinking into the powder, letting them move surprisingly swiftly despite the ungainly footwear.

Worse though is the sound of the high-pitched whine as over the trees one of those skiffs appears, more men loaded up within, heavier mounted weapons visible on the sides, ready to rain down waves of fire that they'll be hard pressed to avoid.

And Peter's response? "Perfect," he says almost gleefully as he peers back over his shoulder, abruptly turning off the the transmitter and drawing one of his weapons, unleashing a barrage of laser fire not at their pursuers. But instead at the cabin that served as their little loved but very necessary shelter for the past few hours. Sure enough, in moments, it goes up in flames, sending up a blanket of obscuring smoke.

So they're going to use that as cover to get away, right?

Ha! No.

Instead, as that skiff shoots through the obscuring plume of smoke, Peter abruptly pulls Gamora close, wrapping an arm around her waist. Still grinning like a madman, he has the audacity to actually lean in, to actually kiss her. "For luck," he says with a wink. He does not clarify whether it is good luck or bad luck - given that he might get stabbed it is probably bad luck - but then he abruptly trigger his boots and the pair of them shoot straight up into the air, angling towards the approaching skiff.

Tramping through the frozen waste, pursued on foot and in the air, their chances of escape - even splitting up - are negligible. If they can survive and seize this skiff though? If they can fly away before those on the ground know what's going on?

The odds shift dramatically in their favor.

Hopefully the odds favor the reckless and the bold one more time.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora barely has time to process what's happening before she's pulled flush against Quill's chest, caught by surprise more from the sudden closeness than the actual movement. The warmth of his body, even through layers of fabric, is jarring against the bitter cold biting at her skin. But it's nothing -- nothing -- compared to the way her breath catches when his lips press against hers.

For a split second -- one ridiculous, fleeting moment -- she doesn't pull away.

It's instinct, pure and unfiltered, the kind of impulse she's spent years ignoring. Something about the sheer audacity of it, the recklessness, the absolute madness of Peter deciding this was the moment to kiss her. It stuns her just long enough for her fingers to curl against his jacket instead of pushing him away.

Then he says, For luck.

Her eyes flash open, her body going rigid, disbelief overtaking whatever brief, fleeting lapse might've just happened. For luck? For luck?!

She doesn't have time to throttle him because suddenly, they're airborne.

Wind tears at her, the sheer force of the ascent making her stomach lurch as they shoot straight toward the approaching skiff. Her grip on him is tight, locked around his shoulders as the world blurs past in a rush of white and gray.

Then the blaster fire starts.

The moment the cabin erupts in flames, the ground patrol is thrown into chaos, half of them whirling toward the sudden blaze, half looking around frantically, and a few snapping their weapons up toward the sky. Bright streaks of red slice through the air, barely missing as they close the distance to the skiff. Gamora's boots scrape against Quill's as she shifts, muscles tensing.

They're coming in too fast.

The pilot sees them -- of course he sees them -- and yanks the skiff into a sharp tilt, trying to veer out of the way. The shift in trajectory is sudden, violent, and for a terrifying heartbeat, it looks like they're about to miss.

Gamora doesn't hesitate.

With a sharp twist, she wrenches herself free of Peter's grip at the last possible second, flinging herself toward the skiff's edge just as it banks. Her fingers catch metal -- barely -- slipping for a fraction of a second before locking tight around the rail. The momentum rips through her shoulders, sending a painful jolt down her injured leg, but she grits her teeth, swinging her body up just as one of the crew scrambles toward her.

She's faster.

Her leg hooks over the edge, and in one fluid motion, she twists, slamming the first man's head into the railing before he can even register what's happening. He crumples, weapon slipping from his hands as she throws herself fully onto the deck.

Blaster fire erupts around her. The rest of the crew -- three men, maybe four -- are snapping to attention now, scrambling for weapons, barking orders. One at the mounted turret spins it toward her.

Where the hell is Quill?

Peter Quill has posed:
Maybe Peter is going to play it smart for once and not make a big deal out of the fact that Gamora doesn't completely recoil when he kisses her. It is possible that he understands just how dire their circumstances are. That he actually gets that his plan - while it keeps them together... probably - is more then a little risky. It is not outside the realm of possibility that he is actually focused on the matter at hand. So focused that he doesn't even notice the fact that her fingers actually curl against his jacket.

Or more likely he'll just bring it up later and make a mess of things then.

Either way, for the moment it would appear that he is properly focused which is most definitely a good thing considering just how precarious their situation actually is.

In some ways it is a remarkably well calculated plan for something that Quill has come up with on the spur of the moment. It is one of his gifts afterall. the fire, the smoke, it all makes for both a good distraction and provides for at least some cover. Launching a frontal assault on a superior force at least has... the element of surprise, right?

Of course, rocketing through the air does make them a little more of a target to be sure, though they are going fast enough that even when that patrol on the ground spots them, even when those on the skiff manage to bring their weapons to bear they are difficult to track.

They are a little more ungainly then they might otherwise be. His rocket boots are fast and incredibly useful in short spurts, but not really designed for precision flying. That he is trying to carry Gamora as well makes them that much more ungainly so when that skiff banks suddenly, tries to swing away, out of his path, to bring it's heavier weapons to bear, there is a real possibility, even likelihood that they're going to miss entirely.

At least until Gamora does her thing. While Quill might rocket right past the target, she doesn't, making it onto the airborne platform.

Unfortunately, she does so alone as Peter continues soaring right on by, into the cloud of smoke that obscures them from the ground below.

They have, for the moment, taken those on the ground out of the equation. That certainly helps to even the odds some. But only some. There are still plenty of men aboard that skiff and despite all that talk about sticking together, Peter is nowhere to be found as those men, that turret brings its weapons to bear on Gamora.

But of course he hasn't abandoned her. For all his many - many - faults, that just isn't in Peter's nature and as the turret's heavy guns start to spool up, as they get ready to rake her position with fire, bursts of blaster fire emerge from the smoke above, ripping into the turret repeatedly. For a moment it glows bright red, the mix of incoming fire and the fact that it is about to let out it's own blasts combining until the weapon emplacement explodes, sending both it's operator and nearby men flying.

And Star-Lord drops out of the sky, hands freed now to wield those blasters as he touches down lightly by Gamora's side. "I do love it when a plan comes together," he says with a certain satisfaction. "Ooooh, ooooh. I am totally Hannibal. You can be Face. Drax makes a pretty good B.A. and Rocket definitely gives off Murdock vibes. Maybe we should change our name to the A-Team?"

He is waaaaay to excited about the possibility. And seems to be ignoring the fact that those people not incapacitated are already regrouping.

Gamora has posed:
Later.

Great.

Gamora was going to process it later, too, but maybe it can be one of those things like usual... that they process independently and never talk about again.

Ever.

It was bad enough she was dealing with the lingering emotions from how soundly she slept against his side, despite everything else that should have made that rest miserable. The fact that he'd now kissed her and she... she hadn't punched him. She hadn't even threatened him! Instead, she'd actually let herself...

No. NO. Focus. It was meaningless. It was all meaningless. Another one of Peter's stupid antics, at her expense, that was going to get them both killed if she couldn't just move past it and accept it for what it really was.

The moment Peter drops onto the skiff, blasters in hand, Gamora's breath steadies, but only slightly. She doesn't flinch when the turret erupts in a fiery explosion, doesn't hesitate as the bodies go flying, but she does spare a second -- one second -- to shoot Quill a look.

Because, of course, he'd be making references now.

"Peter," she says sharply, twisting as she ducks beneath a wild shot from one of the remaining crew, narrowly avoiding the heat of the blast. She surges forward, driving the butt of her stolen blaster into the man's throat before he can recover, then spinning her grip to finish the job with a sharp crack against the side of his skull. He staggers backwards and plummets off the side of the skiff towards the snow. "I don't know who any of those people are, but 'A Team' is a stupid name. We're already 'a team.'"

Not that she actually gets most of his references.

They don't have time for this. The skiff lurches beneath them, trying to compensate for the sudden chaos -- the loss of the turret, the unexpected assault. The pilot must be panicking because the whole platform tilts hard to the left, nearly throwing them both off balance.

Gamora plants her stance, shifting weight onto her good leg as she whips around, eyes scanning the deck. Three still standing. One scrambling for his blaster. Another shouting into a comm -- calling for backup.

She fires first.

The shot clips the comm-user's shoulder, sending him spinning before he even knows what hit him. He stumbles, crashing into the side railing, weapon slipping from his fingers. She doesn't waste time. She's already moving, grabbing the nearest crate and shoving it into him, sending him toppling over the edge. His yell is lost to the wind.

Another sharp bank from the pilot. They're losing control of the situation.

Gamora whirls back, eyes locking onto the last remaining fighter -- a broad-shouldered, armor-plated soldier who doesn't look nearly as dumb as the rest. His stance is solid, weight braced, blaster aimed dead at Peter.

Peter Quill has posed:
His sense of timing is, as always, impeccable.

True, that has to do with his arrival. The sort of just in time appearance that Star-Lord is known for. Or would be, if anyone could ever actually remember who Star-Lord was.

Or maybe it's the fact that he kinda just set off something of an emotional bomb. He has, upon occasion, remarked on the fact that Gamora and himself have a bit of an unspoken thing between them. He has, from time to time, pressed to try and to have that unspoken thing become something a little more grounded in reality. So he picks now, when they're fighting for their very lives to bring it back to the forefront.

And then just abandons it, leaving her to deal with the emotional weight of it in the middle of everything else. Timing to be sure, though perhaps not impeccable.

Or maybe it's just the fact that once more, in the middle of a pitched battle, he has decided to interject one of his ceaseless call backs to his youth, and the pop culture of yester-year. Deciding that now, while they try to avoid being blown out of the sky, or crashed on a skiff, or simply shot through the skull by a laser pistol, now is the time to explain 'the A-Team'.

"Not 'a team'. -The- A-Team," Peter immediately chimes in. Though it is possible that the subtleties of that statement might be lost on Gamora. Especially at the moment. Though in fairness, they would probably be lost on just about anyone.

Because this is the most pressing thing on their agenda right now. That he explains some obscure cultural reference - horribly out of date - and likely annoy her in the process.

And yet, it is also somehow fitting. Even if in the worst way.

"They were a group looking to do the right thing, forced to become rebels, working outside the law. Mercenaries for hire, but with hearts of gold. They're just like us Gamora. We're the A-Team," he says with obvious enthusiasm, voice raised to be heard over the sound of his blasters firing.

With most of their foes onboard down and needing to take control of the skiff before those on the ground decide to just shoot them down, regardless of how many of their buddies might be left onboard, Peter starts towards the pilot when the airship lurches hard to one side, threatening his balance.

He gets no more then two or three steps though when he suddenly finds the way blocked by that imposing mountain of an armored figure, blaster leveled and catching Quill decidedly flat-footed.

For a moment, all Peter can think is 'well this was a stupid plan'. Drawing himself up short, he raises his hands in the air, his own pistols still gripped there but thoroughly useless with his enemy having the clear bead on him. "Woooah there fella. Lets just take it easy huh and not do anything hasty. We can be reasonable about this. Talk it out."

Because Peter does love to talk.

Especially when someone is pointing a weapon at him. Talking seems waaaay better then fighting under those circumstances. Funny how that works.

Gamora has posed:
'A Team.' The 'A Team.'

"You're saying the same thing!"

Sometimes, she doesn't know why she wastes her breath responding. If she lets herself get distracted by whatever 'A Team' is supposed to be, she might actually lose her patience and throw him off the skiff on principle.

Besides, there's still one left standing.

The brute of a man blocking Peter's path is bigger than the rest, heavily armored, and -- most importantly -- holding a blaster directly at Quill's chest. The momentary lurch of the skiff had thrown off their footing, but he recovered fast, bracing himself, adjusting his aim. Quill, ever the optimist, has his hands up, talking fast, like he actually thinks he can talk his way out of this.

He can't.

Gamora moves.

She crosses the distance in a blur, boots skidding slightly against the metal deck, but it doesn't slow her. The soldier sees her at the last second, just begins to turn his weapon toward her -- too slow. She slams into him, driving her shoulder into his side, the impact sending a sharp metallic crack through the air as armor grinds against armor.

He's big, but Gamora is fast.

She doesn't let him recover. The second he stumbles back, she twists inside his guard, grabbing his gun hand and wrenching it sideways. His grip is strong, but hers is stronger. Bones pop. He grunts in pain, his shot going wide, slicing harmlessly into the railing.

She doesn't give him time to correct his stance.

Her knee drives up into his gut, knocking the air out of him, and when he doubles forward, she hammers her elbow into the back of his head. The impact is solid, brutal, and his helmeted skull slams against the metal deck with a sickening thud. He twitches once, then goes still.

Gamora steps back, breathing slightly heavier than before, her eyes sharp as she flicks them toward Peter. He's still standing.

"Talking doesn't work when they're already pulling the trigger," she mutters, straightening, rolling her shoulder. The tension in her muscles is still coiled, still wired for more. But for now, they have control.

Her gaze shifts -- past Peter, past the unconscious bodies littering the skiff -- to the pilot.

He's still at the controls, knuckles white, staring at them like he can't decide what to do.

Gamora reaches for Godslayer, still collapsed at her hip, and flicks her wrist.

The blade extends.

"You can jump over the side," she says, voice even, deadly calm as she raises the blade's tip towards his throat. "Or you I can throw your body over."

And like the others, his screams are lost to the sound of the wind as he runs at the railing and leaps for the snow.

Peter Quill has posed:
It is possible that Gamora has a point. Actually she might have more then one.

Perhaps now is not the time to try and bring her up to speed on classic 80s television. While the analogy might be a perfect fit as far as Peter is concerned, given their current circumstances, given the scale of what they are facing, it is possible that trying to convince her to change their name from the Guardians of the Galaxy to the A-Team is not necessarily the most productive use of his time.

Only possibly though, and he would only even consider making that concession because he is under the imminent threat of having a hole burned through his torso. He's pretty fond of his torso and while it might not exactly be in mint condition any longer, it is still very respectable. It's value will go way down if someone goes and burns a hole straight through it.

Which is where the second way that Gamora has a point comes into play.

The gift of gab is certainly one of Star-Lord's greatest powers. The rocket boots are nice, the blasters come in handy, his mask and environmental shields certainly have saved his life upon occasion. But talking and planning are definitely his two top abilities in all likelihood.

But as good as he is at talking, he has never managed - not even once - to deflect a laser blast just with the sound of his voice. In fairness he has never tried either. But he doesn't have a whole lot of confidence about his abilities to do just that. So Gamora definitely has a point. He can't argue with that.

But possibly Peter's approach isn't entirely without merit. Because he is not necessarily trying to keep the armored solider from firing on him. He is trying to buy precious seconds. In this case he isn't even trying to buy himself those seconds. Yes, he might be able to pull something off. He has his gadgets and gizmos, he thinks pretty fast on his feet.

But in this instance the point is to buy time for Gamora to come to the rescue. Which she promptly does. With rather extreme prejudice as it so happens, taking the armored foe apart as if he was some poor, unarmed schmuck with absolutely no training whatsoever.

As he is pitched over the side, as the pilot decides that he will take his chances and join his comrade in seeing if he can learn to fly before he hits the ground, Peter leans over and wiggles fingers at them both. "I told you that you should have talked it out, but noooooo. Now look at you," he calls after them.

Then he is casting a beaming smile Gamora's way, an entirely unrepentant grin. "I knew what I was doing," he assures her. Which is at least a little up for debate. Though once again, things seem to have worked out not too bad for Star-Lord.

"Now... lets see how much distance we can put between ourselves and our pursuers," he says, rubbing his hands together with a certain amount of glee, slipping in to take the driver's seat - he is the best pilot amongst the Guardians afterall, no matter what Rocket might claim - and sends the skiff lurching forward, picking up speed and trying to gain both distance and altitude before anyone groundside does anything unfortunate.

"You might want to strap in," he says, glancing towards Gamora, winking her way.

Then the skiff lurches about as Quill guides it through a series of evasive actions, avoiding the increasingly weapons fire from beneath them, starting to skim away over the trees.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora doesn't immediately respond. Instead, she watches Quill with that sharp, assessing gaze of hers, lips pressed in a tight line, like she's actually weighing the truth of his claim. Did he know what he was doing?

Maybe.

It would be easier to believe if everything -- everything -- wasn't a joke to him. He talks about A-Teams in the middle of a battle. He throws himself into reckless plans with nothing but sheer confidence and luck to pull him through. He winks at her after she dispatches a heavily armed opponent, as if he'd never been in danger at all. And the thing that infuriates her -- perhaps most of all -- is that it's hard not to smile at the absurdity of it.

Not that she does.

Not that she lets him see the way her lips almost twitch before she tightens them again, before she turns away, before she shifts her focus back to the bigger problem -- getting out of here alive.

But damn it, there's something about that easy, unshaken confidence, the way he acts like the universe will bend to his ridiculous, impossible plans, that she finds... attractive.

Not that he needs to know that either.

Gamora exhales sharply and moves, dropping into the seat beside him, hands already strapping herself in. The second she does, the skiff lurches, swerving hard as a streak of red laser fire cuts through the air where they'd been only seconds before.

Quill wasn't wrong. Strapping in was the smart move.

The not-so-smart move?

The fact that the man in the pilot's seat is grinning like a lunatic while they dodge actual weapons fire.

Gamora doesn't weigh in on the "best pilot" debate, mostly because she has no interest in getting dragged into another of Quill and Rocket's arguments, but if she had to put her life in anyone's hands at the controls of a ship, it'd be one of them.

And right now, she's putting her trust in Quill.

The skiff tilts sharply, dropping into a lower trajectory over the trees, forcing the ground patrol to recalculate their shots before they can fire again. It's messy flying, borderline chaotic, but it's working. They're getting away.

Gamora tightens her harness, eyes flicking between the treeline and the burning wreckage of the cabin below. That wink he throws her has her blood boiling, and she wishes she could say it was just anger.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" she mutters, shaking her head. She doesn't mean the flying. She means all of it. The jokes. The reckless plans. The sheer audacity of him.

And she hates -- hates -- that some part of her actually finds it appealing.

Peter Quill has posed:
Some might argue that it is better to be lucky then to be good.

Quill might argue that you need to be pretty damn good to be as lucky as he tends to be. And who knows, he might have a point. There is something to be said for manufacturing one's own luck. It's a whole lot more reliable then leaving things up to fate afterall.

Certainly the proof seems to be in the pudding. On the surface of it flinging them both up into the sky, hoping that they could land on the hovering platform, that they could overwhelm the guards there without getting shot and killed and then beat a hasty escape without being blown out of the sky seemed, well, risky would be a fair assessment. Reckless would certainly be another.

But here they are and anyone left onboard besides themselves is almost assuredly not breathing or very, very unconscious.

Now they just have to beat a hasty escape without being shot down. No problem, right?

Well, maybe a few problems. But nothing a little fancy flying can't overcome. That, at least seems to be going according to plan though it is probably a very good thing that they have both chosen to strap in. The bottom of the skiff is peppered with fire from down below, the shots ringing off the underside of the craft which is fortunately a little more armored - specifically for this scenario.

Peter sends the craft twisting through the sky, rocking almost violently back and forth to try and narrow their profile, to keep it erratic. And hope that they don't have any sort of portable missile system with them. It should be a safe bet. Who brings a missile system with them when they're hunting a pair of ground-bound, half frozen fugitives?

Hitting the afterburners, the skiff quickly races ahead, putting the trees between them and any further attacks at least for the moment and while Quill stabilizes their flight a little. Not that he slows down in the least. He wants to put as much distance between them and their pursuers as he can.

He does seem to have given up any further talk of A-Teams or other strange cultural references for the moment, though again, the grin he shoots her way suggests a startling indifference to the seriousness of their situation.

It also lacks the slightest hint that he understands the effect that he has on her.

"I figure we can't stay up here long. They almost have to be able to track us, either by someone onboard or just radar so they're going to be able to follow us no problem," he admits, having clearly at least taken a few things into consideration despite his mad plan. "But if we can get a little distance, maybe set down some where near civilization we'll be in better shape. Maybe we can steal another vehicle and finally figure how we're actually going to get off world. Staying ahead of these clowns is well and good, but I'd rather not spend the rest of my life in the middle of winter," he says with a faint smirk.

If anything, her muttered comment only makes that grin grow a little more. "Can't help being this amazing? No, I certainly can't. Then again, you were pretty badass too. 'You can jump or I can throw your body over.' And he jumped!" he says with a disbelieving shake of his head.

Then he finally seems to take a moment to consider. He grabbed her, he kissed her, he blithely asserted that this was all some master plan instead of a series of spur of the moment decisions. If she was pointing Godslayer at him, maybe he would have jumped too."

And for just a moment, the look that Peter directs her way is... thoughtful?

Gamora has posed:
Gamora exhales slowly, steadying herself against the violent lurches of the skiff as Peter maneuvers them through the sky. The worst of the weapons fire is behind them now, but that doesn't mean they're safe. Far from it.

She forces herself to focus on the immediate problem -- where to go next, how to get off this planet alive. It's better than focusing on Peter's ridiculous grin, or the way he talks about their near-death experience like it's some kind of game he just won.

Or the fact that, somehow, impossibly, he has the gall to make it sound fun.

She doesn't respond right away. The landscape below is still mostly ice and snow, the occasional cluster of buildings visible in the distance, but nothing big enough to mean real civilization. They'll need somewhere crowded -- somewhere they can disappear.

When he speaks again, suggesting a landing near a settlement, she nods, more thoughtful than dismissive. He's right. They can't stay airborne forever. They need a new plan, a way to steal transport, a way to contact the Milano -- if the transmission even got through. Sub-orbital and atmospheric vessels were always easier to get their hands on than space-worthy transports, though. If they were going to get off of the world completely, the Milano might still be the best bet.

...Unless they stow away on a random freighter. It might be even harder to meet back up with the Milano, but it might also be a whole lot safer.

They have options, anyway.

"Fine," she mutters, unstrapping herself just enough to lean forward, studying the controls as if she can somehow will them to safety. "But we don't land until we know what we're walking into."

And then -- of course -- Peter has to bring up the pilot she tossed overboard.

Gamora sighs, tipping her head back against the seat for just a second before turning to him, expression flat. "Are you suggesting you wouldn't have jumped? At least there was snow to cushion his fall."

It's exasperated, but there's no real heat behind it. Then Peter flashes that smug grin, and then -- just for a second -- his expression shifts.

It's a bare flicker of something else, something more measured, more thoughtful. She can almost see the replay of the moment just before they flew up on his rocket boots playing across her features...

Gamora clenches her jaw. She's not doing this right now.

"This planet exports lumber," she says, cutting through whatever look he's giving her. She leans forward again, eyes sharp, watching the terrain below. "Look for the clearings -- the straight ones. Natural gaps in the trees will be uneven, but the places they've been cutting? They'll form a grid. Follow the widest path -- you'll find a transport hub, maybe even a settlement."

And no part of her acknowledges the fact that, just for a moment, she almost didn't mind the way he looked at her.

Peter Quill has posed:
It's good advice.

Given that the only thing that this planet seems to have in abundance is trees, snow, ice and hostile armored figures intent on killing them, it stands to reason that lumber would be their primary industry and perhaps something they can exploit.

Though they might not want to sit on the whole hostile armored figures intent on killing them thing. That seems to be a pretty big growth industry and is probably continuing to reach new heights given the success of their latest gambit.

But that one is definitely likely to prove more difficult - and dangerous - to exploit so they probably should stick with the whole lumber thing.

For a moment it looks like Quill might say something else, that he might bring up something completely unrelated to the matter at hand in his typical fashion. Maybe try to delve into the fact that he kissed her and she didn't exactly seem to hate it. It's practically possible to see that question, those comments on his lips as he looks at her in that unusually intent fashion.

Maybe he senses that it's not the best time. Maybe he has images of her forcing him to jump off the skiff at the pointy end of Godslayer, but Peter's gaze flashes back to the skiff's controls and he brings up the sensor readouts, looking at the topographical survey of their nearby surroundings, looking for any likely targets.

"Unless they catch up to us and shoot us down. Then we'll pretty much be landing wherever, whenever we can," Peter corrects oh so not helpfully. "I mean, I'm a great pilot and all. So much better then Rocket. But lets be real. We're flying a skiff here. It's not going to hold up against even the lightest armed fightercraft," he says reasonably.

Because clearly crafting excuses why he might get shot down - again - is the most important thing on the agenda here.

As that topographical map continues to scroll over the screen, seeking out the criteria that he entered, it suddenly flashes, zooming in on a point about fifteen clicks away that would appear to match what was entered. The treeline appears unusually even and precise, and beyond that is what looks to be the boundary of a settlement. One likely given over to that main industry.

"There. Could work. We'll set down in that clearing and maneuver the skiff back beneath the trees. They won't find it from the air. That should buy us a little time. Then we just need to find and take care of the homing device," Peter suggests, gesturing towards the screen.

"I figure we can steal some clothes, something to help us blend in. Preferably something warm," he says with a faint plaintive note. The open air skiff is not exactly doing them any favors on avoiding chills front. "Then we can either find some ground transport we can 'borrow', or maybe stow away with a shipment heading to the main port. Once we're somewhere with more outgoing transmissions we can try to reach the Milano again."

With that, he glances towards Gamora, seeing if she has any objections. For once his plan isn't really that outlandish. It's possible she won't.

It's also likely that as soon as they are in the thick of things he'll start to improvise again so that probably won't last.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora watches Peter closely as he talks, but for once, it's not because she's waiting for him to say something stupid.

It's because -- somehow, impossibly -- he's actually making sense.

The plan is solid. Practical. Thought out. No reckless improvisation, no absurd leaps of logic that somehow hinge on a distraction involving an explosion. She keeps waiting for the other boot to drop, for him to follow up with some ridiculous stunt that completely derails the perfectly reasonable strategy he just laid out.

But it doesn't happen.

She exhales slowly, still watching him, almost uncertain about what to do with this version of Peter Quill -- the one who's actually thinking things through instead of just leaping into chaos headfirst. It throws her off balance in a way she wasn't expecting.

"...That is actually really well thought out," she says after a moment, and she hates that it sounds almost surprised. Because of course it's surprising. This is Peter. He doesn't come up with plans like this -- not without some kind of absurd complication baked in. But he has, and now she finds herself scrambling for something to add, some kind of argument to make.

And she comes up empty.

It's kind of unsettling.

Her gaze flicks back to the topographical readout, as if forcing herself to find something he might have overlooked, some small flaw in his logic, but no. The landing site is a good choice. The tracking beacon is a real concern. The idea of blending in makes sense.

She shifts slightly in her seat, her hands tightening around the straps of her harness as if that will somehow keep her grounded.

"Warm clothes first," she finally agrees, because -- what else is there to say?

And then she looks at him.

At first, she'd been avoiding it, resisting the way he watched her, like she didn't want to get into it, like she refused to acknowledge what happened just before they rocketed up to this skiff. But now? Now, she can't help it.

She really looks at him. Like she's seeing him for the first time.

And for just a moment -- just a breath of hesitation -- her guardedness is completely gone.

Peter Quill has posed:
Chances are this won't last.

Odds are well before they have escaped the planet Peter is going to come up with some crazy notion. Something that seems borderline insane and in all likelihood he is going to plunge them both straight into the heart of it.

But the odds are good that it is going to work out for them. Because, as unlikely, as impossible as it might seem, that usually seems to be the case with most of his plans. So maybe, just maybe, his ideas aren't quite as crazy as they seem on the surface.

His latest course of action though does seem unusually reasonable for him though. So much so that apparently Gamora can't even find something to criticize about it. Which, in a way is a little alarming, even for Peter. That does tend to be their default setting so much of the time. He'll say something ridiculous, she'll get frustrated at him. He'll do something crazy, she'll get frustrated at him. It will somehow work out, she'll get frustrated with that too. It seems like the natural order has been a little disrupted.

Could it be that she is going into shock from her injury? Or maybe the cold?

Or even more impossibly, could it be that Peter Quill is growing up, just a little? Just enough so that maybe she can look at him a little differently?

Anything is possible of course. But that does seem pretty hard to credit. Even for Peter that seems a little hard to credit it would seem.

Is it the concession that she too wants to find some suitable attire? That even the famed Gamora might be tired of the cold. A little bit worn down from the trials of the past days. Burdened by her injuries. Enough that she can show just a hint of vulnerability to him.

It is unexpected to say the least, and the quip that instinctively comes to Peter's lips dies there unspoken as he glances over towards her. When he catches her, for just a moment, with that look in her eye. None of those typical walls that she so often has put up around her anywhere in evidence.

It's almost like he can't help it. That giddy excitement that is almost always in evidence after one of his successful gambits fades away and his own eyes soften slight. One hand even starts to slide from the controls, starts to reach for her. "Gamora... I..." he begins, his tone unusual for him, too serious, too gentle.

Before he can go any further though a steady thrumming beep begins to sound from the panel beneath him, that map display flashing and the view up ahead over the edge of the skiff shows them approaching a narrow clearing - the one they were aiming for up ahead.

It's a tight fit, and even for Peter and his typically irreverent approach to everything it will take a little bit of finesse to make a touch down without making it obvious from the air where they went. So curing inwardly, his gaze drops from her, back to the controls, his expression becoming a mask of concentration. "Okay, taking us down..."

Gamora has posed:
She doesn't reach back for him. She stares at him, too dumb-struck to have the first clue of how to respond to the look in his eye -- to say nothing of the way it's mirrored in her own -- much less have any idea what this moment in the middle of running for their lives might mean.

'Gamora... I...' What?

He what? What could possibly follow that?

Nothing good could come of anything she's feeling. Maybe she came across as cold, even hateful, when they first met, but they've been (approximately) saving the galaxy together for nearly five years. He knows her better, now. He's seen that she can be tender. She can love. She loves the whole crew in her own way. She loves Nebula... again, in her own way.

But he also knows her well enough to see how lost she is. Star-Lord, the ladies' man, who has slept his way across the galaxy, may have no issue expressing emotions like attraction, desire, affection, concern... romantic love. Gamora, however, has never had those experiences. She was taught not to show weakness or vulnerability by one of the most heartless figures in the known universe. She and Nebula were both taught that weakness, once discovered, would be cut out and replaced with something harder. More durable.

She's come a long way in the time they've known each other.

He's watched her learn to act as part of a team instead of as a lone assassin.

He's watched her develop sympathy and empathy.

He's witnessed profound (at least for her) acts of warmth and tenderness. Moments of practically maternal affection.

But she never learned how to let someone in. Not in the way that would let her reach for him. Not in the way that would allow her to explore the way her chest tightened when she thought about sleeping on his shoulder or that ridiculous kiss she shouldn't still be dwelling on.

He's a ridiculous male. He says ridiculous things. He makes ridiculous decisions. Constantly. He couldn't possibly be more wrong for her. She has no idea what 'right for her' would even look like, but whatever it is, it's definitely not Peter Quill.

So, she shouldn't be irritated when that beeping starts. She shouldn't feel frustration at the way his hand pulls back. She shouldn't be disappointed, her chest tightening like a fist clenching around her heart, when his attention turns away before he can finish whatever he was going to say.

She shouldn't have the urge to throw a tantrum like a child whose toy was snatched away from her at the last second.

She shouldn't. But she does.

It makes her jaw clench, her expression harden.

Weakness. What she's feeling is nothing but weakness. The last thing she needs right now is to be distracted by a bunch of feelings she's completely incapable of understanding purely because she's never felt them for anyone else. And every time they bubble up again, this happens. She lets herself, just for a moment, forget that they're both who they are... only to have that realization come crashing back down.

So, as Peter's focus goes completely back to those controls, her hand slips the switchblade out of its sheath, and she traces her thumb over the smooth, polished stone of the trigger mechanism. She waits for him to set down before she unfastens herself, before she goes to work finding and severing the ship's transponder and locator beacons.

It was this switchblade she was learning to balance while her parents were being murdered just a few hundred yards away.

It was this switchblade she killed with for the first time.

She'd been eight years old the first time she took a life.

Peter Quill needs someone who will dance.

She does not dance.

Peter Quill has posed:
Sometimes even Peter has to wonder if the universe has a sense of humor.

Is it taunting him? For much of the past five years Peter has been, in some ways, inexplicably drawn towards Gamora. Certainly on the surface they are far from a good match. She is serious and pragmatic. Ruthless when she needs to be. When of the most feared beings in the galaxy - in part because of who her 'father' is true, but in part solely because of her own skills.

That he might have an attraction to her is no surprise. He has not always been particularly... choosey about his romantic liaisons. And certainly no one would deny that Gamora has more then a little physical appeal. If one can get past the leg-weakening fear that she tends to conjure up in a fairly large percentage of people that encounter her.

But usually such attractions for Peter are pretty fleeting things. He isn't exactly known for his long, committed relationships. Sometimes he doesn't think he is known for any of the things he would like to be known for admittedly, but that part of the Star-Lord reputation does seem to have made the rounds.

Despite that, that not always unspoken thing between him and Gamora has endured. He has not simply moved on and found new attractions. He has occasionally pushed his luck. He has occasionally exasperated her - okay, maybe not so occasionally. But the fact of the matter is that he comes back to it again and again.

Every once in awhile he seems to manage to penetrate her defenses. Every once in awhile he seems to manage to get past those walls, makes her look at him in a way that seems to keep that hope alive.

But then he has seen her change too. Or maybe just get more comfortable in revealing who she always has been deep in her heart. That there is a kindness to her. A compassion. A warmth. That she does care. That the Guardians have become her family of choice, if not of her blood. That she loves all of them in her own way. Even Peter.

Those moments can be rare. They can be fleeting. So it seems like a shame to let them slip past when they come up. Usually, one can practically count on Peter to seize on every little opportunity, no matter how small. He thrives on it.

And yet again and again, the universe seems to conspire to insure that when those moments come up with Gamora. When maybe, just maybe he can press her at the right time, can break through that reserve and make her see some of what he sees. What their future could be. The potential they have together.

When those moments come there is almost always a beeping display. Or a sudden explosion. Or Drax standing in the corner watching them while he eats some zargnuts.

This time is no different in that respect and while he might want to broach that topic, to explore just what has made her lower her guard this time, they are hardly out of danger.

So Peter does the right thing. He focuses on carefully maneuvering the skiff down through that narrow gap in the trees. Inch by painful inch, carefully avoiding brushing any branches, avoiding leaving any obvious physical sign of their passing and slowly backing the craft up further beneath that green swell of those evergreens until they finally touch down.

"Guess we better see what else we can do to camouflage this skiff and then start into civilization," he says conversationally, slowly rising to his feet.

And maybe, just maybe his gaze seeks out her own.

Because yeah, Gamora doesn't dance. He knows that.

But that doesn't mean that he can't teach her.

Gamora has posed:
As soon as the skiff sets down, Gamora's fingers brush over the fasteners of her harness, releasing her from its grasp so she can push it out of the way.

Some part of her wants to snap at him.

Not because he did anything wrong. He didn't. Honestly, he's done nothing wrong this entire trip. He's done a lot of little things that frustrate her, but what else is new? Even the alarm going off and getting shot down in the middle of a blizzard wasn't his fault. Not really. If it hadn't been for his flying, they might have been a black char mark on the side of one of the rocky cliffs instead of being able to limp away to that cabin.

It's not Peter's fault she lets herself...

...what? What is it? A hope? A dream? A fantasy? It's so foreign, she can't even identify the feeling. These fleeting moments when she allows herself to look up at Peter and, just for a moment, feel... safe.

If he ever found out she'd never actually hurt him -- if he even for a second saw past her bluff and knew the truth -- they might both be undone. The only thing that allowed her to keep her sanity in moments like this was the fact that she could keep him at arm's length with a sharp enough tone and a menacing...

There's a sudden snap of her switchblade when Gamora finally stands, both blades stretching out from the ends as she turns the thing once in her hand.

"The emergency locator will be in the panel under the controls," she says, her voice flat and bland. Too flat. Too bland. She's uncomfortable, and he knows why. They both know why. They got too close to something she didn't like to admit was there, and this was the rebound.

At least it's not the same plunge back into an icy killer from years ago. She's come too far to be that cold, that heartless, even when she's on edge. She's a Guardian of the Galaxy, for the gods' sakes, not some ruthless mercenary. So, she sounds detached. Focused. Driven. But she's only pushing aside what was there just moments ago.

"Do you want to cut branches or wires?"

She stands there in front of him, switchblade in one hand, and with the other, she withdraws Godslayer.

And with a flick of her wrist, the sword snaps back to its full length again. SCHINK

So there's the green woman he's so drawn to, staring up at him with none of the intimacy she'd shown a moment ago. There's no anger, either. Just guarded detachment.

And a lot of very sharp edges.

But at least she seems to be offering him his choice of blade.