19955/A Snowy Change of Plans

A Snowy Change of Plans
Date of Scene:	27 January 2025
Location:	Eriadnae Epsilon IV
Synopsis:	With the skiff freshly hidden, the walk to civilization was supposed to be the 'easy part.' Until Quill and Gamora stumbled across a logging labor camp full of collared workers being whipped into submission.
Cast of Characters:	Peter Quill, Gamora

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Peter Quill has posed:
In the end it took quite some time for the pair of them to conceal the skiff to either of their satisfaction.

While Quill managed to guide their stolen aircraft down through the tree cover leaving nary a trace and managed to maneuver it into an appropriate hollow nestled amongst the trees to make it all but invisible to anyone from above, it would take anyone on the ground about five seconds to spot it.

And buying as much time as possible before their pursuers could find them once more, could trace them from their landing point was definitely the desired outcome.

Of course that becomes the challenge of course. How much additional time they can buy versus the additional time they're spending to conceal their landing point. Sabotaging the locator onboard was job number one of course. That would leave their pursuers with only their last location on any radar displays as an indicator of where to even start looking. And that was easy enough.

Fortunately the skiff was small enough that finding branches, making use of the snow and generally building up a mask of cover that would pass muster - at least from a distance - wasn't an impossible endeavor. But it wasn't without time and effort required.

Both Peter and Gamora are tired, are still wounded. While their little interlude at the cabin might have been surprisingly restful in the end, they are not exactly awash in sleep. So finding that point between good and good enough was no small task.

It might have been made just a little more difficult by the silence that settled over them. By the looks that he would direct her way, perhaps looking for that brief moment of openness once more. Of that moment of vulnerability that he caught a glimpse of during their escape. A chance to maybe press, maybe see if he could pierce those walls again.

It didn't present itself however.

Instead after about an hours worth of work it was time to start trudging their way in the presumed direction of civilization. To follow the treeline to wherever the heart of this particular lumber operation might be.

And from there? With luck, make their way to whatever crappy little settlement is supporting the effort. And then continue on down the line. From the outpost to the port where they can hope to get lost in the larger crowds, where they can hope to more easily make contact with the Milano and the other Guardians to get a helping hand or find another way off this frozen iceball of a rock.

The big question of course, is just how much of the planet is controlled by the band they targeted. The job was never meant to last this long. The emphasis was always on that singular enclave, on finding out enough to get in, find their prize, and get out again.

To put it mildly things haven't gone to plan. And now that lack of planning - from guess who! - leaves them walking into something of a blind situation.

Sticking close to the line of chopped down trees, Peter creeps forward, his progress largely interrupted by those occasional, meaningful glances he insists of shooting towards his travelling companion. And for a moment it looks like he has finally reached his limit.

"This is crazy," Peter says, suddenly breaking that self-imposed silence. "Are we going to talk about..." he starts.

Which is exactly when the sounds of the tree-cutting operation cutting through the frosty air around them, flickers of movement, of falling timber begin to sound just up ahead.

Star-Lord's timing remains, as before, completely impeccable.

Gamora has posed:
The absolute last thing that Gamora had any interest in doing was talking about her feelings.

It was bad enough she had feelings. There was absolutely no sense in making a bad situation worse by bringing them up.

To put it bluntly, her first priority was staying busy enough to keep those lingering gazes she could feel Peter leveling on her from turning into a conversation.

Her second priority was to keep them from getting caught, tortured, and killed.

At least if they were caught, their captors might have the mercy of killing her, eventually. If she's forced to endure another one of Peter's insistent speeches that there's an "unspoken thing" between them, she might have to do the job herself.

The fact of the matter is that there is an unspoken thing. They both know it. It's been crackling in the air between them for years, and it flared to life on that cot like never before. But what good does it do to admit it? How does it help either one of them for her to admit that she feels it, too?

The Guardians have become her family, and Peter, for better or worse, is their defacto leader.

It won't be Peter that leaves when it blows up in her face.

It won't be Peter that's alone again when whatever he's envisioning plays out to its logical conclusion.

The worst part was how much harder it was, year after year, to ignore. How much more difficult it was to avoid slipping up and letting him see how much he already meant to her.

She refused to acknowledge that she was falling in love with Peter Quill, but the frustrating fact was... she already had. Some part of her knew she had. It wasn't even a conscious choice. It certainly wasn't anything she had control over. But for all the years they'd known each other, she's never looked at another living soul the way he sometimes caught her looking at him.

But it doesn't matter.

The Guardians are her home, her family, her purpose. She couldn't throw that away just because Peter makes her feel something she's never felt before. She's not some starry-eyed waif that needs a man in her life to make her feel like she has value. She doesn't need Peter's affection.

But gods, when she feels that warmth and lets herself bask in it, even just for a moment, it's like nothing else she's ever felt.

This is crazy...

Gamora lets out a long, heavy sigh, like she could feel Peter's freight train of thought about to crash into her at full speed. She's tired. Her ankle still throbs, even though she can put weight on it now. She doesn't have the energy to fend off the patrols and him, and it makes her shoulders stiffen.

Are we going to talk about...

THUD

The heavy sound of the tree trunk hitting the show shakes the ground like an earthquake, and it's thankfully enough to derail that train just before it collides with her.

"Quiet," she hisses. An order, not a request. "We go around. Avoid being seen. We don't need them calling in anything suspicious."

Of course, if Peter has any say, they'll probably end up talking to the foreman. Or whoever runs a job like this.

Peter Quill has posed:
The absolute last thing that Gamora had any interest in doing was talking about her feelings.

Sometimes the universe gives. And sometimes the universe takes away..

When they were making their escape, when they were desperately trying to seize control of the skiff, trying to avoid being shot down it very much seemed like Gamora had a moment. A moment where maybe, just maybe she wouldn't have been at all upset if Peter tried to plead his case again. Tried to explain how that their 'unspoken' thing would be so much better if it wasn't unspoken.

In that moment, the universe seemed to be in the taken frame of mind, stealing Peter's attention again and again. So much so that by the time he realized that hey, maybe my moment has finally come - it had passed all over again.

Now however, the universe seems to be more in a giving mood. In that it is conspiring to help insure that Gamora doesn't have to deal with any sort of emotional baggage. Especially when they're busy trying to find a way out of this disaster that they are in the midst of.

Of course, no matter the moment the universe is pretty much just in the taking frame of mind when it comes to Peter. Which makes one wonder just what sort of state his karma is in and just how much he maybe deserves all the things coming his way.

It might be a minor miracle that Peter was able to contain himself as long as he did. That he managed to keep his thoughts to himself while they worked to cut out the homing beacon on the ship. While they carefully gathered up fallen branches or picked out likely tree limbs that could be cut away without making the damage obvious, all to try and conceal their stolen skiff. He might have looked at her a dozen times as if he intended to say something but the important thing - at least to her probably - was that he didn't.

And when it finally seems like he might be ready to break that silence at last, it comes mere moments before they finally stumble upon their goal. Or at least some variation of it.

Just what they are walking into is an open question of course. One that could have pretty sizable implications for their escape. Are there workers out there? Ones that might be sympathetic to their plight? Is the timber industry just controlled by the same group they made their escape from? Is it all automated drones doing the work? Just how hard is it going to blend in?

All those are legitimate questions. But as that tree thuds into the snow nearby as the sound of drills and saws and laser cutters echoes across the overcast, crisp skies, the one that Peter is pretty much obsessed with is who the heck is out there messing with him like this. "You've got to be kidding me..." he mutters.

Mercifully - maybe for them both - he does drop whatever he was going to say. For now. He will never match her, not for stealth, but he does seem content to follow her lead.

"You sure? They might be sympathetic. Maybe a closer look," he suggests, probably already seeing visions of being wrapped up in warm jacket and fed hot food. Wishful thinking? Sure. But why not hope for the best.

But as they creep along, sticking to the more heavily wooded sections it is possible to get a glimpse of the operation through the trees. And any doubts that Peter might have had vanish pretty quickly.

There are foremen out there to be sure. They would be the armed men. The one's armed with electro-whips. The 'workers', such that they are, are not dressed any more warmly then Peter or Gamora and in many cases their clothing appears to be ragged and ripped. They work under the watchful eyes of their armed overseers and when their pace slackens? The collars around their neck seem to give off a well timed electric discharge, or one of those whips crackles, sending bursts of electricity arcing through them until they collapse.

And if they're slow to rise? Well, it's not hard to guess what comes next.

Creeping past, Quill's expression grows darker and darker.

Gamora has posed:
"Sympathetic to what?"

Gamora's voice is an impatient hiss as she picks her way around, keeping low and using the terrain to their advantage. In some ways, the snow helps. Especially where it builds up into berms that separate them from the work being done.

"A couple of off-worlders with a stolen artifact on the run from one of their sadistic oligarchs?! Who do you think it is? Some humanitarian camp cutting trees while they wait for fugitives to take in?!"

So... that's probably a little harsh. Her tone is more cutting than before, the exhaustion and frustration clear, and it's probably obvious -- at least to Peter -- that it's a little over the top. Even for her. Even when she's frustrated at him. It's not just the logging camp. It's... everything. It's that she doesn't want to talk. It's that she's wet from the snow, cold, tired, injured, and it's only a matter of time before she has to tell Peter -- again -- that she's not interested.

When they both damn well know, that's a lie.

But it's what she has to say. Because one of them has to keep their wits. One of them has to be the voice of reason.

CRACK

The sound of one of those whips and the resulting scream sends an icy chill down Gamora's spine colder than the snow they're wading through. It's enough to have her moving higher on one of those berms, careful to keep her movements slow and controlled as they get enough height to peek over.

And... she was right.

It's not a humanitarian camp waiting to take in fugitives.

It's so much worse than that.

Her jaw tightens as she spends a few seconds watching, then letting her eyes roam over the surroundings, her cold detachment taking over as she scouts for ways to take advantage of the situation -- transportation, warmth, food. She doesn't like it any more than Peter does, but her focus is clear. If they couldn't help themselves, there's no way they could help the laborers.

And if they wanted a surefire way to let the entire planet know where they were, it would be to go off on some half-cocked mission to free a bunch of... what are they? Prisoners? Slaves?

She goes unnaturally still when she looks over at Peter, watching his expression darken seemingly with every heartbeat.

"Peter," she hisses, reasonably, "I know that look in your eye. I don't like it, either, but we're barely keeping ourselves alive."

Of course, as if on cue, there's another whip-crack. Another collared laborer goes to the ground, lies there, flops around from the collar's electric charge when they don't get up again, all while the foreman-slash-taskmaster barks orders and cracks his whip again.

It's... not a good look.

And it's not easy to walk away from.

Peter Quill has posed:
A lot of the time Peter Quill can seem pretty damn mercenary.

To hear him talk most of the time, the overriding factor in determining what jobs they'll take on is determined by how much they are going to get paid.

The reality is quite different of course.

It's not that he completely ignores the financial side of course. Fuel isn't cheap, the Milano seems to get nearly wrecked on a weekly basis and needs repairs and they have a host of other expenses. Peter was raised amongst the Ravagers and he doesn't at all mind charging for their services.

He'll lie. He'll cheat. He'll steal. But he still likes to be on the right side of things in the grand scheme of things. If he's going to fight someone, if he's going to steal their stuff, if he's ultimately going to kill them, he wants to make sure they deserve it.

His ethics might, at times, be somewhat dubious. But they most definitely exist. They are most definitely there. It's doubtful they would have endured as a group if they were not. But every once in awhile they can be a little inconvenient.

Like right now.

The smart play is to continue on, to sneak on past, find their way to the nearest settlement. Procure warmer clothes that might help them blend in. Get a better supply of food then the few tasteless ration bars that they have left. Get to a port. Contact the Milano or get off planet. That's the smart play.

There is always the possibility that this is some semblance of a legitimate enterprise. These could be prisoners, criminals, paying their penance. Not a great one admittedly, but one could argue it's better then tossing them in a pit and never letting them see the sun again, never having them be useful again.

But it doesn't really feel like that.

He hears Gamora. He knows she's right. They can barely help themselves let alone anyone else. They have gone to a lot of trouble to try and conceal their passage, to get off the radar of their pursuers. They spent that extra time hiding the stolen skiff, destroying the tracking beacon. The worst thing they can do right now is draw attention to themselves. The wrong distress call going out, the wrong notice hitting the alerts because a work crew is overdue and it would be much like sending up a signal flare. Like standing in an open clearing firing his blasters in the air shouting 'Here I am! Come and get me!'.

So he'll do the smart thing right?

He doesn't even think about it really. There isn't even a conscious decision that this isn't something he can let stand. There's no weighing the pros and cons. One moment he is trailing along after Gamora. Then next minute he is striding out of that treeline, blasters in hand, aimed and leveled towards the nearest of the whip-wielding men.

There's no pretense at a fair fight. Much like these men assault their workers without warning, his first laser blast takes the overseer in the back as he raises that whip up once more, sending him sprawling, face first in the slushy snow, unmoving as that electro-whip crackles and hisses.

"Okay, who's next?"

Gamora has posed:
It's the sound of Peter's footfalls in the snow tromping off in a completely different direction that's Gamora's first sign that things are about to go completely sideways.

"PETER!" she hisses.

It's only loud enough for him to hear, the final 'R' sound drown out by his blaster fire.

There was, for better or worse, more to her argument -- if he'd stopped and actually had the argument. Namely, assuming they survived a frontal assault on a random work crew, what the hell were they going to do with a bunch of prisoners-slash-slaves in control collars?! Just release them into the snow to fend for themselves? Could they fend for themselves? Were they even close enough to civilization to keep them all from freezing to death?

They had no plan.

As was so often the case, Peter was shooting things, and the plan was to survive long enough to 'win.' Whatever that looked like.

Right now, it looked like not getting taken down by a shock whip or losing any toes to frostbite.

As soon as the blaster fire erupts, it's chaos. The laborers with the laser cutters don't know what to do. They stop to turn and pay attention, but as soon as they do, the foremen closest to them shock them, causing a mass of them to scream in pain all at once.

Gamora's following on Peter's heels, and even as another of the closest whip-wielding thugs charges him, she's there. Godslayer is already in her hand. She intercepts him mid-run, brings the blade of her sword up to cleave the whip, and even as the grip sparks in his hand, she spins to send her boot into the man's temple. He sprawls backwards into the snow.

"I really hope you have a plan," she calls over to Peter as the closest of the collar-wearing laborers begin to scatter. Others, unfortunately, farther away, are already being whipped and cajoled into being pawns in this fight, the foremen forcing them to act as body-shields and turn those laser cutters towards their rescuers.

Peter Quill has posed:
'I really hope you have a plan'.

It could practically be the Guardian's motto at this point. And most of the time, in all fairness, Peter does, in fact have a plan. Or at least part of a plan. It might only be fifteen percent of a plan, but it is something.

But it is pretty clear that on this particular occasion at least, there is no real plan to be had. Nothing about this is a good idea. They know nothing about the prisoners beyond the fact that they are ill-clothed and ill-treated. They know nothing about the guards. Little details like who they work for or how quickly can they call for back-up. All Peter really knows is that they have electro-whips and that they are no afraid to use them.

On the off chance that they make it out of this still in one piece, what on Earth are they going to do with the prisoners? How on earth are they going to hide and avoid notice after this? If pressed, Peter clearly doesn't have any sort of plan this particular time.

he apparently doesn't even have a plan beyond marching into the clearing and shooting the first guard that he sees in the back. So much so that if Gamora wasn't there to intercept the closest of those guards, Quill's impromptu fight against 'the man' would quite possibly have come to an abrupt and painful end.

"Uh. Not really," Peter admits as that guard collapses in a heap, weapon sliced in twain by the Godslayer. Her actions do at least seem to spur him into action once more and he whirls, those blasters firing once more as he takes another pair of charging guardsmen off their feet with those shots, his gaze scanning the clearing until they fall on a square, squat-ish sort of aircraft. More like a flying box then anything else.

"There!" he exclaims. "That must be how they get out here. We probably want to take it before it can lift off or get a signal out," he says, starting towards it.

He's not wrong.

But they have kind of traded one ungainly aircraft for another. And for the added responsibility of dozens of other lives.

It's not exactly what anyone would call a good trade.

But there's probably a reason why Star-Lord is a bit of an outlaw and not a legitimate trader.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora barely has time to process Quill's complete lack of a plan before he's already halfway toward the squat transport ship. She exhales sharply, adjusting her grip on Godslayer as she falls into step behind him, pivoting just long enough to send another guard sprawling into the snow with a well-placed strike to the back of his knee.

They should be running the other way. Every rational instinct she has screams that this is a bad idea. That taking the ship, the prisoners, and the heat that will come from both is just as likely to get them killed as staying put and waiting for the storm of reinforcements to descend.

But that same instinct tells her there's no stopping him now.

And maybe, just maybe, she doesn't actually want to.

Another whip crack splits the air, too close. Gamora ducks on reflex, feeling the static snap of displaced energy as it lashes inches from her shoulder. She pivots, catching sight of the guard who let it fly, already winding up for another strike. Before he can snap it again, she lunges, closes the distance, drives her knee up into his ribs, and twists his weapon from his grasp. A short, sharp elbow strike sends him to the ground, and she doesn't wait to see if he's getting back up.

"We need to move!" she barks, catching up to Quill just as another pair of guards turn their weapons on them. She drops low, sliding across the snow and sweeping the legs out from under one as she slashes the barrel of his rifle in half before he can fire. The other takes his shot -- too close, too fast -- but she's already shifting, already using the falling body of his comrade as cover.

The shot sizzles past her, and she whirls, gripping the mangled rifle in her hands and driving the butt of it straight into his jaw. He crumples.

Gamora exhales sharply, eyes snapping to Peter as they close the final distance to the ship.

"We take it fast," she says, voice tight, controlled, as she yanks the door latch. "And if you make some ridiculous speech about liberating the oppressed before we're airborne, so help me -- "

She doesn't finish.

This kind of 'plan,' even if it's less than his usual fifteen percent of one, is the reason she became a Guardian of the Galaxy in the first place. It may be a horrible tactical decision. It may be bringing them that much closer to death, themselves. But it's helping people. As it always is, even if it isn't always clear how or why, Peter's heart is in the right place. And it's one of the things she lo -- appreciates -- about him.

The door groans open, and the moment it does, she's moving inside.

Peter Quill has posed:
It would appear that Peter is very much from the 'Fire! Ready! Aim!' school of thought when it comes to these kind of things sometimes.

There are advantages in being unpredictable admittedly. Making it so that your enemies can't really anticipate what you're going to do can be a legitimate advantage at times. It can insure that you have the element of surprise. It can keep them off balance and unsure.

It's not quite so good when it's your friends that you're doing it to though.

Still, it's hard to argue that Peter's heart isn't in the right place. This might all prove to be horribly misguided of course. It is possible these could be the legitimate authorities. The people in the shock collars could be dangerous murders and pirates, the worst of the galactic worse. It's possible.

But it doesn't feel likely. Nothing about this planet really feels like there are a whole lot of legitimate authorities overseeing anything. The collars might be a legitimate sort of security device - Peter has spent time in the Kiln. He's seen similar. But the electro-whips? The shocking people into insensibility and then shocking them again when they can't get up in time?

That doesn't really feel like legitimate behavior.

"I know we need to move!" Quill shouts back at her, running headlong towards that ungainly looking transport perched on it's low, squat landing gears. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Given how easily Gamora shoots right past him - lighter, quicker and more nimble then him to be sure - it very well might look like Quill is taking his dear, sweet time trying to salvage something of the situation that they've landed themselves in. But he seems to have gotten his own bout of surprise at his actions and while he might be trailing behind Gamora, those blasters lash out with their brilliant bursts to help clear the path for her to get into the transport even as it's landing ramp starts to retract.

At the same time, Peter can also see that it's transmitter antenna is starting to raise up as well and already well behind Gamora with his chances to make the ramp before it slides shut fifty-fifty at best, he rolls the dice.

Confident that she can handle whatever she finds within, he abruptly activates his rocket boots again, abruptly shooting up into the sky, seeking out the advantage of the high ground - metaphorically speaking -- and beginning to rain down laser fire on the topside of that transport, all around the communication's array. Shots ricochet off the hull, but the laser fire zeroes in on the antenna after a few seconds as multiple shots shearing it in half, hopefully cutting off any signal before it gets out.

Of course, it does leave Gamora alone to face whatever is in that shuttle.

The first thing she might notice is the blessed warmth that almost immediately embraces her. After the escape through the cold, the rest in the ruin of a shed with just a thermal blanket and body heat to warm them, and soaring through the frigid air on an exposed skiff, it is almost too hot. Painfully so.

More importantly are the half-dozen or so armed guards who are busy throwing on their riot gear and grabbing their weapons standing between her and the pilot up front, screaming that they've lost comms.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora barely has a second to register the sudden absence of Quill at her back before she hears the telltale whine of his rocket boots firing up. Of course. Of course, he's peeling off at the last second to do something wildly impulsive and only maybe necessary.

She doesn't stop.

The moment she's inside, the wall of heat is so intense it nearly steals her breath. It's suffocating compared to the bitter cold outside, making her skin prickle as her body struggles to adjust. But there's no time for that. She has exactly one heartbeat to take in the scene -- half a dozen guards scrambling for weapons, pulling on riot gear, barking orders -- before she's moving.

The moment they see her, the first rifle snaps up.

Gamora ducks, shoving forward before the guard can even get his finger to the trigger. She moves fast, slamming into his center mass, using his own momentum against him to send him staggering backward into another. His shot goes wide, sparking against the wall as she twists his weapon from his grip, driving the butt of it into his gut before throwing it like a javelin into the next guard's helmet, cracking the visor.

There's a shout -- "She's alone!" -- before the others surge forward, three of them forming a half-circle around her, their batons crackling to life.

Alone.

Right.

Where the hell is Peter?

The floor tilts beneath her feet as the transport lurches, either from Peter's barrage of laser fire outside or the pilot trying to lift off. Either way, it throws everyone off balance, and Gamora uses it. She pivots sharply, twisting low, her leg sweeping out to take the nearest guard down. Before he can hit the floor, she's up again, snatching a baton midair, driving an elbow into the next man's throat.

Her breath comes quick now, the heat making everything feel heavier. She can hear the pilot shouting over the comms that their signal is dead, that they're under attack. She has seconds before they try to take off anyway, before the guards regroup, before someone gets a lucky shot in.

She doesn't wait for them to recover.

Instead, she shoves forward, muscles tensing as she kicks off a crate, launching herself toward the pilot's seat, yanking the nearest guard back with her by his collar and sending him careening to the ground.

"Peter!" she barks into her comm, fingers already reaching for the flight controls. "Anytime now!"

One hand on the stick, she's still climbing over the guard on the ground, trying to keep the ship from crashing, when it happens.

The shot rings out.

It catches her between the shoulder blades, making her cry out in pain. The ship lurches suddenly, kicking up a plume of snow and dirt and broken metal bits as it drags the ground and begins to rotate. The shot left Gamora on the ground, half-underneath the controls, hand still clinging to the yoke, the blinding pain momentarily making her vision go black.

She's had worse, but the man who fired the shot was already advancing.

It was all Gamora could do to reach up and hit the controls to open all the external access ports before he was standing over her.

Peter Quill has posed:
There is a surge of satisfaction as Peter watches the communication array light up, flare brightly before it practically slags off the outer hull in liquid drops of molten metal that fall to the ground below, searing away snow, melting through it with ease to scorch the ground beneath.

That should prevent them from sending out a distress signal, prevent them from letting anyone know that they are under attack. Of course it does mean that sooner or later -someone- is going to notice the fact that they have an overdue ship that hasn't returned, but that's a problem for later.

Melting the antenna array has another effect of course. It means that they can't use the ship's onboard communications to boost the signal from their own transmitter and give it a better shot of reaching the Milano and the rest of the Guardians. Which is unfortunate, to be sure.

But after making what was clearly the reckless play by charging out here, involving himself in something he didn't really have the means to solve in the first place, in making the reckless decision one more time, Peter really did kind of need to make the smart play.

Yes, it's possible that he and Gamora could have taken the ship intact. Before they radioed for help. But it felt like the longer shot.

Either way, it's not as if Quill has a lot of time to admire his handiwork because the squat, ungainly looking shuttle lifts off the ground, veering from side to side erratically like the pilot is drunk or something.

Or more likely is desperately trying to avoid being taken down by Gamora.

The rear of the ship suddenly shoots upward and the ventral flight fin very nearly clips Peter, only a last second burst from his boots propelling him out of the way in time.

"Woah, watch it buddy! You fly worse then Rocket!" he screams at the ship, blasters still gripped tightly in his hands.

That's when he hears it. Gamora crying out. The fact that the rear landing ramp has been opened, extended, giving him a chance to get onboard. He doesn't hesitate this time, engaging those boots one more time, sending him rushing towards the entrance.

Which is when he hears that second sound. That sharp cry of pain.

Normally he might touch down. The smart thing would be to set down, just inside the shuttlecraft and bring one of his blasters to bear. But as he sweeps into the cabin, as he sees that figure looming over Gamora, already bringing his rifle to bear, to try and finish her off Quill gives a near inarticulate sound of rage.

Instead of setting down, instead of cutting the power to his boots, he engages the thrusters instead and he hurls through the cabin like some sort of giant projectile, slamming into the man hard from behind before he can depress the trigger. With a grunt, he powers straight through him, shoulder driving him into the forward hull with a sickening thud, those thrusters still powered up for a moment as he traps him, grinds him there before letting him fall bonelessly.

That seems enough to wake Quill from that brief burst of rage and he immediately settles into the pilot seat, easing the controls out of her grasp and begins to set the transport down once more. "It'll be okay. I'll take a look in just a minute and get you patched up," he promises.

Then, without a hint of irony, he adds, "Why are you so damn impulsive?"

Gamora has posed:
Gamora exhales sharply, forcing herself to push past the searing pain radiating from her back.

She won't acknowledge it -- not yet, not when there's still work to do. Her grip tightens around the edge of the copilot's seat as Peter takes the controls from her. She should fight him on it, insist she's still capable, but the words catch somewhere in the back of her throat.

Not because she doesn't have the strength.

Because -- for once -- she doesn't want to argue.

She should be furious. At him, at herself, at the entire mess they've landed in. Instead, all she feels is the lingering shock of the way he sudden impacted the guard, the blur of motion as both of them slammed against the hull with a force that would have shattered bone. His anger had been quick, visceral.

Protective.

There's that feeling, again. That look in her eye. That despite everything else going on, Peter's mere presence makes her feel... safe. Not just physically, though it helps, when you're suffering on an injured ankle and now with a blaster wound to your back, to know that someone you can depend on has your back. He makes her feel safe in ways she can't quite articulate. Ways that are... deeper.

Peter's voice pulls her back, and she turns her head just enough to meet his gaze. The concern there is too much, too direct, and she immediately regrets looking.

It would be easier if he were making some ridiculous joke.

She forces a breath, dragging her mind back to the present. "It's not bad," she mutters. The lie is unconvincing, but she doesn't correct it. She won't. They need to focus on getting this damn ship somewhere safe before anyone else comes looking.

Then, because she refuses to let the moment linger, her lips curl into something dangerously close to amusement as she echoes, "Impulsive?"

Her eyebrows lift in a sharp, pointed accusation. "That's rich, coming from you."

She twists and leans her side against the co-pilot's seat, wincing. "Tell me you have at least part of an actual plan now," she mutters, her voice low, almost resigned.

They have the transport -- of some sort. Even if it is slightly more broken than before. They also had a bunch of unconscious guards and even more collared workers still standing in the snow outside that were, apparently, now their responsibility.

Peter Quill has posed:
Even Peter is a little surprised at just how angry he was in that moment, seeing her laying there, prone on the ground. Seeing that guard standing over her, rifle drawn on her and ready to fire, to finish off Gamora. Or at least to try and finish her off.

Rage is not generally an emotion that Peter associates with himself. He can be driven at times. Determined. He can even be fierce. He can be reckless and a little wild. But he is rarely out of control. Truly and utterly out of control.

But if he was honest with himself, he would probably have to concede that in that moment, he was pretty out of control. It very much feels like he could have killed that man with his bare hands and not have an ounce of remorse over it.

Given the way he cracked the man into the hull, the sickening sound of the crunch as he pinned his body between his own jet-launched body and the unforgiving surface of the ship he probably came pretty damn close to doing exactly that..

Even now, with the conflict over, with him sitting behind the controls of the craft, easing it back down to the ground, even now he can feel that surge of adrenaline racing through him in the aftermath of it all. Just by glancing towards her and seeing that hint of repressed pain etched across her expression. Even he self-control not able to completely mask it away despite all her efforts.

But it is also apparent that she is not in any imminent danger. That for the moment at least, they seem to have dodged the worst consequences of his somewhat reckless behavior. That, as impossible as it might be to believe, they could even come out ahead at the end of all of this.

Just one more example of Star-Lord's luck? Or maybe a reward from the universe at large, for doing the right thing?

So Quill lets out a long, slow breath and gives a nod of his head as the ungainly craft sets down once more, as he powers down those anti-grav pads and turns in his seat to face her.

"I do," he agrees simply.

Swiveling in his seat, he reaches a hand down to help her carefully get up. Yes, the temptation is there to just scoop her up, that flicker of unexpected emotion in her eye almost enough to convince him to do just that. But their situation is still somewhat precarious and it is probably no bad thing to make sure that anyone watching them sees them both at relatively fit fighting form.

"First, lets tend to your injury," he says, making no bones about where his priority lies in this moment. "Then lets have a chat with the people we just rescued and make sure they're deserving of our help," he adds. Since, you know, he skipped that step earlier. "Assuming they are, maybe they can help us get a little bit more of an idea about the lay of the land. Who the power players are. Where we should be looking to go to get off world. Hopefully they'll have some idea where we can stash them until we can get help and assuming that they're not scumbags and that they want to leave, help them get off this icy rock too," he says quietly.

It's not... the worst plan. They have a new ship, one that shouldn't be missed for several hours still. They have a chance to warm up, some new clothing options, new weapons. They have new rations and potentially new intelligence on the local situation.

Peter's decision to get involved might have been reckless. It might have been stupid.

But it also might just pay off in a pretty big way.

Gamora has posed:
Star-Lord is a talentless buffoon.

That's what a good portion of the galaxy thinks -- that any skill he exhibits is dumb luck powered by pure gall.

Gamora knows better. In fact, over the last five years, she's started her fair share of bar fights over people saying as much. Probably more of them than Peter realizes, actually.

She may call Peter an idiot, sometimes. She may be endlessly exasperated with his never-ending stream of juvenile antics and reckless behavior. But what she says to him, she says out of love. She says it because they're family. But she knows as well as Rocket or Drax or any of the others that when the chips are down, there's no one more tenacious or loyal to have fighting at their side.

But sometimes, even Gamora, who's so loyal that she'd single-handedly fight an entire bar full of half-drunk low-lives with her bare fists for bad-mouthing Peter, is sometimes surprised at what comes out in him. That rage really caught her by surprise. And while she'd never want him to live in that state, she can't ignore what that momentary loss of control to his protective instincts... well... what it makes her feel, deep inside her, somewhere primal and...

Gamora stares at Peter's outstretched hand for half a second longer than she should. This trip was supposed to be a simple job, but has turned into a whirlwind of emotions.

Exhaling sharply, she takes it, letting him pull her to her feet. The wound on her back protests, sharp and hot, but she doesn't let it slow her. They have too much to do, and the last thing she's about to do is drag their escape down further by giving Peter another reason to fuss over her. Not that that's likely to stop him.

"Fine," she mutters, adjusting her stance, testing her balance. The pain is manageable. "Just bandage it, and let's move on. We don't have time to play doctor."

That's an understatement. They're sitting in a stolen shuttle, in the middle of a frozen wasteland, surrounded by laborers who have just had their lives turned upside down. Every second they waste is a second closer to reinforcements coming down on them like a hammer.

She also probably has no idea what she just said.

And yet, when she looks at him again -- really looks -- he's not moving to jump right into negotiations with the prisoners. He's still watching her, still waiting, like he won't be convinced she's fine until she proves it.

It's frustrating. But... not in the way she expects.

He's not just putting on an act. He's not pushing an agenda. He's just... worried. And she doesn't know what to do with that.

So she deflects.

She gestures vaguely with one hand. "At least this time you have a plan before you start shooting things."

There's actually the faintest edge of teasing in her tone, subtle but definitely there. Yes, she got shot, but she's had much worse, and she can't deny that, somehow, he actually pulled this off.

And now, against all odds, they have an opportunity.

So, her eyes cast up towards his face. For too long, she stares up at him, once more seeing him in a way she ordinarily doesn't. Not like a captain. Not like an infuriating partner in crime. Like a man. Like a man who she'd very much like to kiss, again.

And if she notices that she still feels the warmth of his hand, only just then remembering to actually let go? She pointedly ignores it. And she starts towards the ramp of the ship, turning the scorched skin of her back at the top of her left shoulder to him as she walks away.

"I saw an emergency medkit on the wall on the way in."

Peter Quill has posed:
Certainly Peter has devoted more then a little time to trying to make the name Star-Lord known.

Given that, he can't exactly turn around and claim that he doesn't care what other people think about him. That he has no concern for what his reputation says about him. That would be a hard sell and it probably wouldn't fool any one.

But every once in awhile his reputation comes in handy. It makes people under-estimate him. And it is possible, despite all that outward show of confidence, that from time to time it is even enough to make him under-estimate himself.

There is, of course, a practical reason to get Gamora patched up and on the mend as quickly as possible. For one thing her reputation is much more fearsome. There are not many who won't at least give a moment of consideration before they throw down with her just because of the rumors of everyone that has fallen beneath her blades. Or hands. Or possibly pinky fingers. There's some pretty wild tales out there, though Peter is no sure if he would entirely discount them.

Having her back at full strength, having her able to move without hobbling on that ankle, or grimacing at the blaster burns on her back will make almost anyone hesitate for a moment before fighting them. And sometimes the best fight of all is the one avoided.

So he has plenty of reason to be focused on taking care of her first. It's just that the practical isn't the only reason. It's not even the main reason if Quill is honest.

She's hurt right now, at least in part, because he acted without thinking. Because he put her in danger. And when the time came to face the consequences for that, he wasn't there. He didn't have her back. While there might have been good reason for that, while cutting off the ship's transmission was essential, the fact nonetheless remains. He wasn't there when she needed him.

More then that though, at the heart of it - the part they don't talk about - he hates to see her in pain. Not because she isn't tough enough to take it. But because of that conviction inside him that she shouldn't have to.

Still, as she grudgingly agrees to his priorities on the subject, a glint enters his eye that she will surely recognize. That little indication that she's said something that holds a double meaning. Or ties back to Earth culture in a way that it doesn't out here amongst the stars.

"I don't know. I think it's pretty important that we really take this opportunity to delve into things. Make sure that you're really, really taken care of. Sometimes you just have to make the time to play doctor," he insists, the corners of his mouth twitching.

He doesn't belabor the point though, following in behind her, moving towards the rear of the ship and the 'cargo' hold, a mix of storage space and jumpseats for both the guards and the 'work force'.

"No promises. I gotta be me," he counters lightly, flippantly, more himself again as he glances around before making a beeline for that medkit.

In many ways this ship is perfect for them. It's not glamorous, but chances are it will blend in perfectly - at least until it's reported as overdue. It has supplies, it has a potential source of information, and most of all it is blessedly warm.

Peter really isn't looking forward to heading back out into the cold to quiz the prisoners - the slaves? - that they just rescued. No matter how necessary.

Gamora has posed:
The heat inside the shuttle is stifling after the bitter cold outside, and every step is a sharp reminder of the blaster burn on her back, but Gamora keeps her focus forward. No point in dwelling on what's already done. The mission isn't over yet.

She doesn't have to look at him to know he's watching her with that lopsided grin, ready to make some infuriating comment, and sure enough, he doesn't disappoint.

...Sometimes you just have to make the time to play doctor.

She rolls her eyes. "When we get back to the Milano, I'll let you play doctor all you want."

There's no hesitation in her voice, no hint of self-awareness. Just practicality, as if she's handing him a task to check off a list. And yet, the moment the words leave her lips, she catches the flicker in his expression.

Gamora frowns.

Then it hits her. Not what she said -- she still hasn't worked that part out -- but that look on his face. That knowing, insufferable, waiting-for-her-to-figure-it-out look.

"...What?" she asks warily, narrowing her eyes.

Her jaw tightens, debating whether she actually wants to know. The answer is probably no. In fact, she's certain it's no. She shakes her head, dismissing whatever he's keeping to himself.

They've known each other for a long time. She's seen him happy, angry, sad, confused, hopeful, desperate, worried.

She's also seen him look guilty.

"Peter," she says softly, pulling her hair over her shoulder so he can see the wound, but she doesn't turn. Not yet. She stops in front of him, and she sets a hand on his arm to steady him.

They've been running from one adrenaline-fueled situation to the next. They're both hurt. They've barely slept, barely eaten. They've been alternating between snark and... whatever unspoken thing exists between them that she refuses to acknowledge.

But here, in this moment, Gamora finally breaks the cycle.

She softens, and that tenderness that she often reserves for the moments when her more maternal side is called for rises to the surface. There may be a whole platoon worth of confused prisoners waiting for them in the cold just outside the ship, but in here, for right now, it's just them.

"It wasn't your fault," she says first, her voice just as soft, eyes just as sincere. "He got a lucky shot off. That's all."

There's a pause, then, as her gaze lingers meaningfully.

"Thank you."

Peter Quill has posed:
They still have some of their own supplies left over of course, but the wall-mounted medkit at the back of the shuttle is better stocked and a little more advanced. Clearly it is meant for the guards to use on themselves in the event of an emergency - given how the prisoners were being treated it seems likely they're left to die if they injure themselves - but it should serve their purposes well enough.

That's all they really need it to.

So as Peter tugs it down off the wall, as he starts going through it and finding it pretty well stocked to deal with weapon burns, he still can't keep that slight grin from his features.

He knows, of course, that Gamora doesn't mean to double down. That she isn't really doubling down in truth. Maybe she doesn't get the reference, that the idea of 'playing doctor' might have a meaning beyond the obvious. Or maybe it is just that literal nature again. Gamora just doesn't play, not in the same way that he does of course. At least not often. It tends to be why it's such a surprise when she does. When he catches her humming along to one of his songs, or when he catches her in that moment with genuine amusement in her eyes.

Of course he knows he should let it drop. He's gotten his amusement out of the moment, it has broken some, if not all, of the tension. But he can't quite resist. "I'm going to hold you to that," he says, lips curling once more.

And it is almost definitely a given that she will indeed be hearing more about it when they get back safely to the Milano.

But then he sees her expression soften in that way that it so rarely does. In those moments when her more maternal, more caring nature shines through, overwhelming the walls that she has built up around herself, that she has hardened year by year, tragedy by tragedy to keep anyone else at bay. To keep them from breaching her defenses.

The way they get only with him and the other Guardians.

When she insists that it isn't his fault, that she wasn't hurt because of him, wasn't shot in the back because of his reckless actions, or because he ditched her, let her take on a half dozen armed men by herself while he rained fire down on a defenseless comm array that smile is wiped away and he quickly turns his gaze aside, not quite meeting her gaze.

"I know that," comes his immediate and instinctive response, that note in his voice trying to shrug off her words, to treat them as they are just a given. But they don't ring entirely true.

Or maybe he does know that she's right, at least on some level. But that doesn't really change the fact that he got her hurt.

And he doesn't like that. Not one bit,"

Quickly changing the topic, he says, "Turn around," he instructs, pulling out the cellular regenerator from the medpak, starting to pass it back and forth over the wound in her back a few times. It might not be a cureall, but sure enough the wound starts to knit itself together and the burn damage to the surrounding tissue begins to lessen.

Gamora has posed:
There might be a point in the future, when she finds out what it really means, that Gamora regrets encouraging Peter to 'play doctor.' Of course, it's far less likely to come out as shame than as irritation -- even more than usual -- at the fact that Peter let her go on without explaining the 'inside joke.'

Then again, there's still that look in her eye -- the unspoken question that she rarely let herself wander 'aloud.' It lingers there from the way he saved her, the way he offered his hand, the way he stands in front of her even now.

What if?

Surely she didn't mean to suggest what she was suggesting, but a hint of doubt might just creep in at the tilt of her head as she watches him -- the mere inkling that maybe she wouldn't hate it as much as she claims. In fact, she might even enjoy it.

Then she's softening even more, touching his arm, trying to reassure him...

...and he pouts. Like a petulant teenager. Which is exactly par for the course for Peter Quill and what she should have expected.

I know that.

Her jaw tightens.

What was she hoping for? What could she possibly have hoped to accomplish by trying to assuage the guilt of the infallible Star-Lord?

Turn around.

That warm, maternal softness fades like it was sucked out of an airlock, and her eyes lower.

"Fine."

So, she does. She turns her back to him, making sure her hair is out of the way, and she stands there, board straight, and letting him patch her wound with the barest hint of discomfort.