19990/Princess

Princess
Date of Scene:	01 February 2025
Location:	Tarvoss-9
Synopsis:	The Guardians seek out a bounty on a backwater planet and there are some misunderstandings.
Cast of Characters:	Gamora, Drax, Peter Quill

---

Gamora has posed:
Tarvoss-9 is loud, damp, and stinks like an open sewer. Which means it's pretty much like every other backwater hellhole Gamora's set foot in. The kind of place that lets people disappear without asking too many questions.

Which is why they're here.

The job had sounded simple. "Name: Princess. Last seen: The Crimson District. 25,000 credits for safe return." No age, no family details -- just a name and a sum big enough to mean someone _really_ wanted her back.

"What kind of egomaniac names their kid 'Princess' anyway?" Rocket mutters as the group of four of them -- he, Groot, Gamora, and Drax -- make their way to the meeting point. "That's just settin' 'em up for a lifetime of bad decisions."

"I am Groot," came Groot's reply.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it -- some names are meant to be aspirational. This ain't that."

Gamora ignores the debate, scanning the street ahead. The Crimson District is just as charming as it sounds -- narrow alleys packed with stalls selling weapons with their safety measures stripped out, neon signs flashing in languages meant to be read fast and forgotten faster. A place that chews up the naive and spits them out with empty pockets and missing limbs.

The kind of place where a missing kid doesn't last long.

Her boots scuff against the wet pavement as they cross the last stretch to their contact -- a Xandarian with the look of a man who's just realized he made a mistake but is too deep in to do anything about it. Greasy blond hair, cheap vest, eyes flicking to the exits as they approach.

Rocket had clocked him from across the street. "Guy's got the nervous twitch of someone who's about to bolt. Or piss himself. Or both."

Groot had let out a low, considering hum before adding, "I am Groot."

Rocket scoffed. "Oh yeah? Well, I say fifty creds says he bolts before we even get a name outta him."

Groot shrugged. "I am Groot."

Rocket rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know you don't bet, it's called a figure of speech, ya walking toothpick."

Gamora had ignored them both, but she'd noticed.

Their target is already shifting, edging toward an escape route that won't do him any good if Drax decides to grab him by the throat.

Gamora tilts her head just enough to catch his eye and offers the kind of smile that has made men rethink their life choices.

"Go ahead," she offers, voice low. "Run."

He freezes.

Good. He's smart enough to know it won't help.

She stops in front of him, letting the moment stretch. "You're the one who put out the bounty."

The Xandarian swallows. "Uh -- yeah. Yeah, that was me."

Drax has posed:
"Someone who has a Princess for a daughter," Drax shares oh so wisely.  "Maybe we can ask for more once /we/ have her."  Like most of Drax's ideas, this one is only thought through skin deep.  He slaps Groot's shoulder as if it's a foregone conclusion that Groot agrees with him.

Drax's gaze lingers over to that one stall that seems to be selling blades in a universe filled with guns.

Groot slaps Drax back on the shoulder.  Drax steps his imposing frame up to the front of the group, grins, and wraps his meaty fingers around the man's throat, lifting him till he's on his tiptoes.

"He cannot run.  Gamora."

Drax squints at the Xandarian's answer and squeezes a little bit.  "Who is Princess?"  He's probably the worst interrogator of the group.  Sure he can cause pain, but if all of the questions are only half useful, well.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora doesn't move at first. Just watches. The Xandarian flails, heels scraping against the pavement as he struggles against Drax's grip.

She exhales through her nose. "Let him breathe."

The man manages a sharp, wheezing gasp. Gamora steps in, weight shifting just enough to be a reminder that she's here, too.

"You heard him," she reiterates, quiet. "Who is Princess? And where is she?"

The Xandarian licks his lips. His eyes flick to the street -- maybe looking for an out, maybe just praying for a distraction. Probably, when he put out a bounty on 'Princess,' he wasn't expecting to get jumped by the Guardians of the Galaxy.

But once you've been burned a dozen or so times on worlds just like this...

"Look, you put out a vague bounty with a high payout," Gamora says. "That makes me suspicious." A beat. "I don't like being suspicious."

The Xandarian's throat bobs. "I -- I didn't write the job, okay?" he wheezes. "The client -- she just -- " He swallows hard, fingers curling against the air. "She just wants her back."

Gamora's expression doesn't shift. "Her who?"

"Princess! She's inside, alright? Corner booth! That's all I know!" His hand lifts, pointing at the door of a seedy cantina. The sign above it says, 'The Howling Maw.'

Behind Gamora, Rocket snorts. "Kid's in a _booth_? What, she wander in and order herself a drink?"

Groot hums something low.

Drax has posed:
Drax relaxes his grip a little and lowers the Xandarian to his heels.  Finally, his hand lowers, but only to end up on the hilt of one of his knives.  Yet another reminder for the Xandarian that they are serious.

"Is she a real princess or a fake princess?" Drax question is nearly insisted as he leans over the guy.  "Does she wear a crown?"  Because crowns mean LOOT.

"I am Groot."

"You cannot wear a crown.  You are not a princess," Drax looks unamused by the question whose answer is so patently obvious.

"Who is your boss?" Drax knows he won't know who it is, but Gamora might.  Gamora knows all the people so Drax doesn't have to.  Peter pretends to know all the people so Drax doesn't have to.  Or so it goes in Drax's mind.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora doesn't roll her eyes, but it's a near thing.

She shifts her weight, watching as the Xandarian tries to decide which is more dangerous -- Drax's fixation on crowns or the knife still within reach. He swallows hard, adjusting his vest like that's going to make him look any less like a man who just got manhandled in the street.

His eyes dart to Gamora. A silent plea, or maybe just a calculation. The green-skinned former assassin doesn't offer reassurance. She just lifts a brow.

"Well?"

The Xandarian clears his throat, still rubbing at it like the pressure hasn't fully registered yet. "I don't -- she's not _actually_ a princess," he stammers. "I mean, not in the royal sense. That's just what the client calls her."

Gamora considers that. Then glances at Rocket. "How much trouble would it be if it _was_ an actual princess?"

Rocket squints. "Depends. You mean, 'oops, we just snatched up the heir to some throne and now we got an intergalactic incident' trouble? Or just your regular, everyday, people-who-own-kingdoms-send-mercs-after-you trouble?"

Groot hums.

Rocket scoffs. "Don't start. You _would_ think an actual princess would be cool."

Gamora sighs and turns back to the Xandarian. "And the client?"

He hesitates just long enough that she shifts forward, deliberate, and the words come tumbling out. "A woman named Kestra! She's paying for the job -- she's in one of the nice districts, up by the spires! She's the one who will pay you!"

Drax has posed:
Drax can't hide the disappointment wrinkled at his brow.  "Groot is right.  It would be cool.  It would be the coldest."  He's trying, even if he has only a vague idea of what Rocket means.  Extrapolation isn't one of Drax's strong suit.

"I do not know a Kestra," Drax lets Gamora know, as if she would ask him in the first place.

Drax is at the Xandarian's flank, his hand casually resting at the hilt of one of his knives.  "She did not want people to know it was her."  He's jumping to a conclusion, but he just sounds so confident about it, it's almost convincing.  "Why else would she have this guy put out the bounty?"

Peter Quill has posed:
there is no denying that Peter Quill - better known as Star-Lord... or at least he would like to be - tends to assert that he is the Captain of the Milano. And for the most part the rest of those that he travels with are happy enough to leave him to that pretense. Rocket aside of course.

But the thing about being the Captain is that it makes you in charge. Not so much over the rest of the Guardians. At best they're only going to listen to him when they feel like it really. But to outsiders it seems to make something of an impression. Makes them think that you're the one they have to deal with.

Some of the time that's a good thing and it is exactly what Peter is going for. Why he insists upon the fact that he is indeed Captain.

But it comes with one noted downside of course. And that downside?

When it comes time to handle the bills, it is more often then not left to Peter to handle. In this case the various fees necessary to put in here at Tarvoss-9.

Quill was of course expecting the docking fee of course. That only stands to reason. Here they are, docked. Not many places don't at least charge a nominal fee for that.

What he wasn't really expected was all the additional fees that would come right along with it. Environmental fees because they don't like the fuel that the MIlano is powered by. Touchdown fees, because apparently the Milano's landing skids are the wrong grade. Public nuisance fees because of the decible level produced by the Milano's engines. If one could imagine some spurious fee, chance are the petty little bureaucrats of this world are happy to charge for it and while none of them are really all -that- expensive on their own, the sheer amount of them have left Peter's funds considerably more limited then when they landed.

So this job better prove to be worth it, at least as far as he's concerned.

Needless to say he has been delayed, and Peter finally comes hustling over, just a little out of breath from racing along the streets, looking to catch up with the rest of them. "Did we... did we find the contact?" he asks, joining to the others and planting hands on his knees for a moment, catching his breath.

Then, apparently deciding that it might be the Xandarian that they're surrounding, be springs forward to pin the man against the wall, his forearm pressed up against the man, just below his neck.

"You better tell us everything you know!" he demands.

Despite the fact that the poor fellow apparently is already doing exactly that.

This is what happens when Quill is late to the party.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora shakes her head, glancing at Drax with something almost sympathetic. "Neither do I. She must just be a local."

The Xandarian coughs, still rubbing at his throat like he hasn't quite processed that he's still breathing. "Your -- your big, bald friend's got it right," he admits, voice hoarse but steady enough. "She's got money. A lot of money. Probably doesn't want word getting around that she's posting bounties. Even for her dearest Princess."

Gamora's gaze flicks to the door of The Howling Maw. "We go inside and get Princess out here, and you tell us how to get her back to Kestra. Is that the deal?"

The Xandarian nods quickly. "Yeah -- yeah, that's the deal."

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, there's a sudden rush of movement -- a blur of red leather and sheer bravado -- as Peter Quill finally catches up.

Peter barely even looks at the group before making an obvious assumption, then, just as suddenly, he's shoved the man against the wall.

The Xandarian lets out a high-pitched shriek.

Rocket, arms crossed, tilts his head, unimpressed. "Real dramatic, Quill. If only you'd shown up before we got all the answers."

Groot rumbles something low.

Rocket scoffs. "Yeah, I know it's a little late now."

Gamora exhales, stepping forward before this can spiral into something that involves even more shrieking. She places a hand on Peter's shoulder, firm but not forceful, just enough to anchor him. Professional. Controlled. Even as she glances at the Xandarian with something that's _almost_ apologetic. Or at least an attempt at damage control.

"Peter," she says, measured, like she's reasoning with someone who might actually listen. "We have what we need. Princess is inside. We just need to go in, get her, and bring her out here."

Her fingers squeeze his shoulder once before letting go.

They do not need their only lead bolting before the job is even halfway done.

Drax has posed:
Drax doesn't move a muscle when Peter shoots in aggressively.  "We even know where she is sitting."

"Why are we still talking?  Let's get her.  I will throw her over my shoulder," Drax practically announces, just before leaning towards Peter.  Softer, "I thought you were asleep."  That's right, asleep on the job.

Eager to get things going, the big guy pushes his way into The Howling Maw and stands just inside.  "I cannot remember where she is sitting," he admits.  Wasn't that mentioned not even a minute or two ago?  Blame his fixation on the prospect of a crown.

Peter Quill has posed:
A day late and a dollar short it would seem.

There is a certain undeniably air of disappointment to Peter as he finally catches up to the others only to discover that the fun part - the negotiations, the intimidating their contact - is already over and done with.

For a moment Quill is all defiant bluster, holding the squealing man there pinned to the wall, a scowl on his face, his fist balled up, gripping the poor Xandarian's clothes. It all paints what Peter feels is a particularly flattering image. If he were to get a portrait done - hey, that's a great idea! - he kinda thinks that this is the pose he'd want. Maybe he'd have his mask on. Or maybe not - his face is his money-maker afterall. He should probably, no definitely, have one of his blasters out in his free hand, waving it in the guy's face.

Then Gamora gives him the bad news, urges him to ease up. Rocket and Groot snicker in the way that they have and he glances back over his shoulder, the disappointment that lights in his eyes clear. "Oh," he says quietly.

"Sorry about that," he adds, that disappointed note sounding in his voice too as he lets the man go, absently brushing at his clothes as if to smooth them out even as he turns away, seemingly already forgetting the fact that he has needlessly roughed up the guy.

"You could have waited for me to catch up before you went and got all the information from him, You know that's my favorite part," he complains, his words a little plantive, his steps a little shuffling, a little sulky as he pads into the Howling Maw after the rest of them.

Drax gets a furrowed brow look. "Asleep? What are you talking about. I was dealing with the damn hangar quartermaster. You all owe me your share of the fees by the way," he says, whirling to look at the rest of them while wagging a reproving finger in their direction. "Asleep," he scoffs. "How would I be asleep. Geez," he grumbles.

As they enter the Howling Maw, stand in the doorway for the moment, he glances around, looking over the placem Peter does at least seem to have paid attention to the fact that their target it apparently sitting in the corner, his gaze flickering to each in turn before he abruptly gestures towards the back. "There. She must be Princess," he exclaims.

The huge woman seated there is red-skinned and has six arms and giant, multi-facetted eyes. She doesn't particularly look like a princess and there is certainly no crown in evidence so just why Peter has settled on her is something of a mystery.

Maybe that's what royalty looks like on Earth.

Drax has posed:
"It took you so long, and you look sleepy."  Drax might as well be saying Peter doesn't look portrait ready.  "I will pay you out of my cut," because Drax really hates doing math unless it's tallying up bodies.

"You mean that lady with no crown?  Okay."  Drax doesn't sound convinced.  He still thinks the guy outside was just misleading them so they wouldn't get any loot.  Still, Peter is the captain.  "She does look somewhat regal."  He might be judging this by the woman's sheer mass and the number of arm muscles she possesses.

Drax leads the way, but he kind of pushes a few people out of the way just by walking.  Those he does bump seem to quiet up when they turn around to see what's what.

"Your Highness, someone wants to see you.  I will carry you over my shoulder.  You will not have to walk."  Drax seems to think this is viable and perhaps preferred.  He starts to look like he might kneel before her (to the side of course), but this is really just him aiming to heave her up onto his shoulder with no regard for physics or geometry.

Gamora has posed:
The inside of the cantina is exactly what Gamora expected -- dimly lit, thick with the stench of alcohol and desperation. The kind of place where fights break out as easily as bad deals, where half the patrons are watching their backs and the other half are too drunk to care.

Tables are pushed together in tight clusters, covered in spills no one bothered to wipe up. A few bounty hunters hunch over their drinks, eyes flicking toward the entrance but ultimately deciding they don't want to get involved. The air is heavy with the low murmur of hushed conversations, punctuated now and then by the crackling, off-key twang of a jukebox that sounds like it's seen better days.

Gamora barely glances at Peter's so-called "Princess."

Her eyes are already moving across the room, sizing up the other corner -- the one with a very fluffy, very pissed-off white cat being passed around between a table full of rough-looking thugs.

The thing looks furious. Ears pinned, body tense, tail flicking like it's debating which one of them is dying first. The moment one of the thugs sets it down in his lap, it immediately digs its claws into his thigh. He lets out a string of curses, barely managing to pry it loose before shoving it toward another guy, who holds it out at arm's length like it's an active grenade.

Around the cat's neck is an expensive-looking jeweled collar. And beside the table, on the floor, is a crate. A very cat-sized crate.

On the side, in neat, stenciled letters: Princess.

Gamora exhales. "I don't think so," she mutters, barely looking at Peter as she tries to nudge him toward the actual problem. But it's too late to stop Drax.

Rocket's sharp cackle is immediate. "Oh, this is gonna be good. Cap just pointed at the first person he saw, and Big Guy's already halfway to chuckin' her over his shoulder."

Groot hums skeptically.

Rocket snorts. "Yeah, bud, I also got doubts about this plan, but it ain't stoppin' me from enjoying it."

Then he sees what's happening to the cat.

His ears twitch. His nose scrunches. His posture stiffens like someone just threatened to declaw him.

"Are you kidding me?" he seethes, already stomping toward the table.

The thugs barely notice him, too busy treating Princess like a hot potato. One of them grabs her by the scruff -- like she's some street rat instead of a high-class, obviously pampered creature who deserves better than these gutter-dwelling morons.

That's it.

"HEY!" Rocket snarls, slamming his paws onto the table hard enough to rattle their drinks. "You drop that cat one more time, and I'll drop you -- from orbit."

The nearest guy blinks at him. Then laughs.

Rocket grins. The kind of grin that usually comes with explosions.

Groot sighs. "I am Groot."

Rocket jerks a thumb at the table. "You try sittin' here and watching this disaster and not pickin' a fight. It's a damn war crime."

Gamora barely hears them. She's too busy watching Drax as the six-armed woman moves.

The muscles in the woman's massive shoulders coil, and then all six of her hands fly into action at once -- one shoving at Drax's face, two gripping his arms, one going straight for a weapon, and the other two? Pure, unfiltered rage.

Gamora mutters under her breath, already shifting her weight.

This is about to get loud.

Peter Quill has posed:
"I do not look tired," Peter protests vigorously, falling in at Drax's side. "I looked -bored-," he emphasizes. "You would too if you had to spend a half hour discussing all the bogus fees that they try to charge you for landing on this miserable world. It's no wonder they had such a problem finding a crew that wanted to take this mission on. You have to jump through thirty different hoops just to park your ship," Peter grumbles.

He does not concede that he might have been just a little tired from running through the city after them and that slight, breathless note has mostly faded from his voice by now.

Indeed, he is more then a dozen steps towards the woman that Peter has decided is the logical choice to be a princess when Gamora's exasperated tones reach him and he glances towards the other corner of the room with the table full of toughs.

Princess? There's no princess there. Not one of those guys looks like they're anywhere near delicate enough to be a princess. Unless it's supposed to be an irony thing. Like calling the towering guy 'shortie'.

That does make Peter pause, his progress to his own questionable choice of royalty pausing abruptly, leaving Drax all by his lonesome to go fetch the alternative. Instead he calls back loudly to Gamora across the cantina. "Are you sure? None of those guys looks like a princess, I have to saym: he protests.

Because his choice definitely is much more princess-like then that, though given the way she is looking at Drax, the way those six bulging arms are flexing and the confused but dangerous look in her eye she's not really looking like a delicate princess either right at the moment.

Finally, though, Quill spots the cat carrier, spots the etched out 'Princess' along it's side in glittering letters, his brow furrowing in disbelief.

They've been hired to retrieve a cat? A -cat-? "You've got to be kidding me," he protests loudly, shaking his head. "I'm not some pet detective. Is there someone who also wants to pay me to go around talking out of my ass too?" he whines.

But despite his complaints he does start to pad over, one hand resting pointedly on one of those blasters that rests around his waist, dangling from his gunbelt.

Of course before he gets very far at all, everything pretty much dissolves into chaos.

On one side of the room Drax comes under assault thanks to Peter's on mis-identification of their Princess. Ooops.

And on the other side? Looks like Rocket is about to go crazy again. Which must mean it's another day that ends in a 'Y'. "Stupid raccoon," Peter mutters under his breath.

Drax has posed:
Drax is convinced he has the right Princess, so when the six-armed woman's arms spring into action, at first, he laughs.  "Okay okay, you can carry me," he says with his head smushed to the side as if this were some kind of courting ritual and she was just checking out the circumference of his arms.  "But then we won't get the bounty."

Of course Drax expects Princess not to want to come with them.  There's a bounty on her after all.  To him, this is just all a part of the experience the Guardians have come to know.  "Your grip is firm."  It's a compliment meant to butter her up, but it earns him a staccato of rage punches in the gut which give him pause and a look of painful constipation for a moment.

"Groot!  I do not have enough arms to get the princess!" Drax calls out merrily.

"I am Groot," comes the reply.

"But what if she is Princess too!  Better to get both!"  Drax doesn't seem to mind being held in the arms of the large woman.  "Princess, it's much easier if you just let me pick you up.  You do not need to climb me.  I am not Groot."  Drax?  Trying to use his words in a situation?  It's not going well.  He gets sucker punched when he's got his head turned to talk to Groot.

"We are supposed to bring her alive?"  Drax manages to catch one punch, then two, but he's right.  He doesn't have enough arms.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora's irritation spikes, sharp and immediate.

Peter's loud protests cut across the cantina, all wounded pride and misplaced outrage. She doesn't know what that means. She doesn't care. What she does care about is the fact that this entire situation is spiraling out of control.

She turns sharply, leveling a look at him. "You talk out of your ass all the time, Peter." Flat. Unimpressed. "This is twenty-five thousand credits. If you want us to pay your fees, can you please clean _that_," she's pointing at Drax and 'his' Princess, "up?"

She doesn't wait for an argument. Instead, she pivots and stalks toward Rocket.

The table of thugs isn't taking him seriously. That much is obvious. One of them chuckles -- actually chuckles -- while holding a furious, struggling Princess by the scruff like she's some stray. Another slaps him on the back, smirking. "What're you gonna do, furball? You wanna fight over a cat?"

Rocket's whole body stiffens.

Gamora gets there first.

The laughter dies instantly.

The thugs clock her immediately -- the set of her shoulders, the way her hand hovers near the hilt of her blade, the quiet, simmering promise of violence in her gaze.

Her voice is low, controlled. "Put. The cat. Down."

Rocket huffs. "I had this under control."

From across the room, Groot rumbles doubtfully.

Rocket throws up his paws. "I did!"

One of the thugs -- clearly the least intelligent of the group -- opens his mouth like he's about to argue. Gamora tilts her head just a fraction. His throat bobs. He thinks better of it.

The thug holding Princess shifts awkwardly, glancing between Gamora and Rocket, clearly debating whether this is worth it. Princess makes the decision for him.

With a sharp twist and a claw to the wrist, she digs in and scrambles free.

The thug yelps, jerking his hand back. The cat hits the floor running.

Gamora's eyes snap to the movement as Princess darts between boots and barstools, a streak of white fur on a mission for the nearest exit.

"Groot!" Rocket yells. "Get her!"

Groot is already moving, his limbs stretching, twisting, growing toward the escaping cat as she darts beneath tables and around chairs.

On the other side of the room --

A chair crashes. A table rattles. Someone lets out a pained noise.

Gamora doesn't turn. Doesn't need to. The six-armed woman is clearly fighting back. Her patience is razor-thin now. Then, as Princess zigzags toward an open doorway --

"Peter!" Gamora snaps, pointing at the cat.

Princess vanishes under a table.

They're _not_ getting paid if she escapes.

Peter Quill has posed:
Really, Peter doesn't see what the big deal is.

Things seem to be going about as well as they do on most of their jobs when you look at things objectively.

Sure, Drax is being pummelled but it is not as if the big man seems to mind. And Peter's pick of princess seems to be enjoying the pummelling though it is difficult to get for sure. That might be a smile on her face, it's pretty hard to tell. You know what, Peter's just gonna call in; the six-armed woman is enjoying pounding on Drax. Everything's fine.

As for Rocket, when is he not getting indignant and picking a fight with some random strangers? More to the point, Quill really cannot see how any of this is his fault. He wasn't even here to get any of the details of the job in a timely fashion because they started the mission without him! Really, if anyone is to blame for how all of this has turned out, it's each and everyone of the rest of them. Really, Peter is just the poor, unfortunate victim in all of this.

He is about to open his mouth and explain all of this, point out that really, if she wants to blame anyone she should probably blame -herself-. But then she has the audacity - the audacity! - to accuse him of talking out of his ass all the time. Really! Him?

"Not that kind of talking out of my ass," he snarks back, his progress over towards the heated discussion on the other side of the room brought to an abrupt end. "It's more like if I bent over and used my hands to make it look like my butt crack was... you know what, it doesn't matter," he allows. Now is probably not the best time to explain the comedic stylings of Jim Carrey.

Regardless, he is abruptly turning once more, grumbling under his breath as he starts back over towards Drax and the -real- princess. "Do this Peter. Solve that Peter. Fix the problems you caused Peter," he mutters under his breath, turning that surely glare over towards the big, bald Guardian powerhouse as if this is somehow all his fault.

Not, of course, that he gets all that far in that direction either. Because before he can try to intervene, before he can try to deescalate the situation he created with the six-armed woman, he's being yelled at again, this time to catch the stray cat. "You gotta be kidding me! Make up you mind, woman!" he shouts back at Gamora.

But he still hastens to try and do just that - twenty-five thousand units is twenty-five thousand units - and he scampers after the creature as it darts in amongst the legs of patrons, through the legs of bar stools and over and under tables scattered throughout the room.

Peter pretty much just plows through it all, knocking a table aside there, accidentally shoving another patron into their partner there, adding to their own unique brand of chaos they've brought to this poor, unfortunate cantina.

In the end Peter has to lunge, practically leaving his feet to scoop up thatstupid, spoiled cat. Who immediately turns around, swats his face leaving a trio of bloody marks right across his nose.

"OW!" comes Peter's pained shout. "Why you stupid little..."

Drax has posed:
"Okay.  That one tickled."  Drax would never admit that any of these punches actually hurt, not in front of the princess.  "How about we walk and I carry your crown?"

Unlucky for Drax, his words keep coming across like pickup lines, which doesn't make this lady any keener on working out any potential misunderstandings.

"I could buy you a drink after we get the bounty," Drax offers jovially as the woman pounds on his chest.  "Not you Quill," he adds for clarification when Peter strides up.

"Look Princess, we don't have all day or all night."  Drax flexes his biceps and quickly rips his arms downward from the woman's grip.  He blocks an incoming punch, then a blade, taking some more jabs in the process.  "You do not have to make this so difficult."  Drax then simply jumps at her, expecting her to grab him with her hands reflexively, so he can bop her on the top of her head.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora can feel the shift in the room before she even sees it -- the kind of tension that means someone is about to make a very bad decision.

The nearest thug, the one who dropped the cat, gets to his feet, glaring. "You just cost us a lot of credits," he growls, stepping toward Rocket and Gamora like that's not a mistake.

Rocket bares his teeth. "Buddy, you should be more worried 'bout what it's gonna cost _you_."

Gamora doesn't break eye contact with the thug. "Don't do it."

He does it. He steps in close, getting right in her space, all bravado and bad judgment.

Gamora doesn't hesitate. Her boot slams into his knee, hard and precise, buckling it backwards. His face twists in shock and pain as his leg gives out from under him, sending him crashing into the table. Drinks spill. Chairs scrape. The entire room reacts.

Rocket lets out a cackle. "Oh yeah, now we're talkin'."

The other thugs shove to their feet. Voices rise. The cantina erupts.

The bartender slams a fist down on the counter, his voice cutting through the chaos. "WHO IS PAYING FOR ALL OF THIS?!"

Gamora ignores him. That's not their biggest problem right now. Because in the middle of it all, Princess yowls. Gamora whips her head around just in time to see Peter jerk backward, a trio of bloody scratches streaking across his nose.

Gamora immediately snaps, "Don't hurt it!"

Because Peter would. She's seen him get bitten by random alien creatures before and hold a grudge about it.

Meanwhile, Drax leaps.

The six-armed woman catches him on instinct -- which is exactly what he wanted.

She blinks, realizing that she's now holding a very large, very grinning man. The impact thuds through the room. Someone at another table winces.

Still holding him, she staggers and falls back into a table full of people.

A patron shrieks.

The table is obliterated.

Rocket wheezes out a laugh, barely able to breathe. "Oh, that was worth it."

Groot sighs, then sends his limbs stretching toward the cat, trying to help Peter snag Princess before she finds an exit.

Gamora has had enough.

She points at Peter. "STOP the cat."

She points at Drax. "LEAVE that woman alone."

She glares at the thugs. "And you! Sit. Down."

They don't.

Instead, they charge.

Drax has posed:
The woman has a harder head than Drax thought.  His fist nearly bounces off as they crash (and crush) into the table.  Of course, he wasn't using full force.  "Your skull is thick," which to him is a compliment.

It isn't till Gamora outright shouts at him to stop that Drax looks confused and looks back across the room, seeing Peter jerk back.  This gives the woman enough time to push Drax off; it's kind of labored.  "Perhaps sometime we can wrestle again.  I think maybe Gamora only wants one princess bounty," he says to the enraged but slightly stunned woman as if this makes any sense whatsoever.

As Drax is walking away, the woman jumps on his back and he bursts his arms outward to shake her off.  This woman isn't about to let any old thug think he can just manhandle her whenever he wants.  She starts to tickle Drax with one set of hands and tries to rip his ears off with her top set, where Drax tries to hold onto them.  He trashes this way and that with his body violently, guffawing as she gets flung up behind the bar, sending bottles crashing to the ground.

Now free, he lumbers to the exit to block anyone or anything that might be Princess from leaving.

Peter Quill has posed:
None of this is really going to plan.

Not, of course, that they really had a plan coming in here. It seemed to be more along the lines of find the Princess, grab her and get back out to return her for the reward. So, in theory, from that perspective, things are going exactly to plan.

They have found Princess, they have - more or less - managed to lay their hands on her. Now they just kinda have to get out of here. Which, admittedly, is looking like it might be the most difficult part of this job given that the crew in the corner has decided that they have nothing to lose. Given that Drax seems to have taken up position by the door now that he has shed his admirer, making sure that no one that might be their princess leaves. And given that Peter hasn't exactly endeared himself to the general public presence with the way that he just barrelled through pretty much anyone and everyone in his path to try and get his hands on Princess.

"I did stop the cat!" Peter shouts back at Gamora, his tone a mix of surly and petulent. "With my frakkin' face. This little furball from hell tried to take my nose off," he says, more then a little anger at the last part of that.

He better not scar. He is way too pretty to scar.

But while he might have grabbed hold of the cat, it might prove a little more challenging to keep hold of it given the way it flails in his grasp, the way that paw lashes out once more and tries to catch him across the nose again - something that Quill just barely manages to avoid, jerking back just an instant before he ends up with a matching set of claw marks on the other side of his nose.

"Why you little..." he growls, pausing only for a moment to shoot a quick, sidelong glance in Gamora's direction to make sure that she is too preoccupied to really be paying attention to him before he gives the cat a little shake.

He wouldn't really hurt the creature. But he's not very happy with it either.

Of course, he's not doing anything to comfort it, anything to reassure it, and it continues to squirm wildly, trying to bring it's back legs up to rake at him with those other claws, only the heavy leather jacket keeping him from having matching scores across his chest.

Holding the infernal creature out in front of him as he straightens, he crows, "I've got it! I've got it! C'mon, lets get out of here!" he shouts at the others, apparently heedless of the fact that things have turned rather nasty for them.

Which, of course, is when that cat twists in his grasp and sinks it's teeth right into the meat of his hand between forefinger and thumb.

"SON OF A BITC--!" he shouts, the cat almost managing to escape from his grasp before he jams it tightly under one arm, cradling his poor hand. "THAT WAS MY GOOD SHOOTING HAND YOU MISERABLE LITTLE FURRY FREAK!"

Gamora has posed:
The moment the first thug lunges, Rocket is already moving.

He doesn't have time to go for his biggest guns -- there's too much happening too fast -- but that doesn't mean he's unarmed. The first idiot who gets close catches a sharp kick to the shin, which staggers him just long enough for Rocket to yank a fork off the nearest table and jam it into the guy's thigh.

The thug lets out a strangled yelp, stumbling back.

"See?" Rocket barks. "I _told_ ya I had this under control!"

The second goon swings a fist. Rocket ducks, twists, and scampers up a chair like it's a jungle gym before grabbing a half-empty bottle off the table and smashing it across the guy's head.

Gamora, meanwhile, doesn't bother with makeshift weapons. She catches a thrown punch midair, twisting the thug's wrist back so hard he yelps. Then, before he can even think about a second attempt, she grabs him by the collar and hurls him into a different table.

The whole thing collapses under the impact, sending drinks, chairs, and a very startled bounty hunter scattering.

The cantina staff are not amused.

The bartender slams both hands down on the counter, voice booming over the chaos. "ONE OF YOU IS PAYING FOR ALL OF THIS!!"

Not their problem. Not yet.

Rocket leaps from the chair to the table, kicking a plate directly into another goon's face. "Look, if you don't wanna get shot, ya might wanna sit down and shut up!"

The guy does neither.

Rocket sighs. "Fine."

He yanks a blaster from his holster and opens fire.

It's non-lethal -- mostly. Stun rounds, high impact, sending two more thugs sprawling into an overturned booth.

Gamora doesn't need a blaster. She moves quick, efficient, precise -- elbow to the gut, knee to the ribs, slamming one of them face-first into a barstool before flipping the next one clean over her shoulder.

Across the room, Groot is not concerned with the brawl.

He weaves through the chaos, sidestepping thrown chairs and flying fists until he reaches the spot where Princess' crate had been knocked over.

He crouches, deliberate, plucking it up from the wreckage like he's handling something actually important instead of whatever the rest of them are doing. With quiet patience, he sets it upright, carefully unlatches the door, and turns expectantly to Peter.

Peter, meanwhile, is losing a fight with a cat.

SON OF A BITC -- !

Groot hums, unimpressed.

He holds the crate open, completely disinterested in the carnage as he watches Peter struggle.

"I am Groot."

A simple, calm suggestion. Put the cat inside.

Meanwhile, Drax's attempts at diplomacy have failed spectacularly. But his presence at the door as a sentry has done an amazing job of drawing the ire of Princesses's original would-be kidnappers.

Two of the thugs break from the fight, charging straight at him.

"YOU'RE NOT TAKING OUR CAT!" one of them screams.

Gamora is still grappling with one of the bigger idiots when she hears it.

She turns sharply -- just in time to see them barreling toward Drax like two drunken stampeding rhinos.

Drax has posed:
Drax is simply enjoying the view of chaos unfolding in the bar when he finally realizes what is missing.

"Music!"  is his reply to the screaming thug.  One of the thugs is slightly over the shoulder of the other one in their charge, so Drax just palms the first guy's head and bashes it into the second guy's head.  Then he reaches down into one of the stunned men's pockets and pulls out some backwater change, or whatever passes for it.  "I do not have a cat," he informs them.

The men are starting to slowly get up when Drax moseys over to a dingy machine that is brightly lit in neon colors.  He carefully puts some rectangular pieces of metal into it and jams the last one with his the heel of his hand when it gets stuck.  The entire machine rocks in response and starts playing something that sounds like three yowling cats singing country.

"Oops."  Drax mashes some buttons but this does nothing.  Then he elbows one of the men who was stunned just a moment ago and follows through with a punch for the second guy which sends him a few meters away.

"

Peter Quill has posed:
All in all, everyone knows just how big a fan of music that Peter Quill happens to be. It is like, his thing. While he might not insist on musical accompaniment for each and every job like Rocket would insist, all things considered, he generally prefers a little music in his life. It just adds to things. Makes any experience a little bit greater, a little more elevated.

But music doesn't mean the same thing to everyone in the galaxy. This has been something of a hard lesson. Preferences and tastes vary greatly.

And apparently the preference on this particular backend world is something sounds more like an animal slowly being strangled and dying then anything, you now, actually good.

When Drax finally plows through his would-be attackers to turn on the local equivilent of the jukebox, what comes out of it is not only an assault on the ears, but it makes Peter's life just a little worse. It makes it worth because it sends Princess into absolute histrionics, her efforts to escape growing more frantic and now not only accompanied by angry mrowls, but high pitched ones as well as those surprisingly sharp claws rake and leave scores in his red leather jacket.

"Stay still you stupid cat," Peter growls, no longer even paying any attention that's going on in the rest of the bar, much too caught up in his own issues. Carrying this thing around by the scruff of the neck is feeling like an increasingly good plan because nothing else will work.

Then Groot holds out that cat carrier and chimes in with his advice.

"I do too know what I'm doing," Peter snaps back and while he might not sound very happy, he does try to muscle the angry, upset animal into it's cage.

Which proves to be a little easier said then done. Princess has been abducted, mistreated, and then she has ended up in Peter's care so somehow things have gotten even worse for the kitty. She's not happy, nor does she want to make things easier on the lout handling her. So when he tries to deposit her in the cat carrier, she promptly stretches out those four limbs and braces herself against that opening, steadfastly refusing to be dumped inside.

"I am Groot" the calmest of them says reasonably.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Peter asks angrily. "The stupid fuzzy pest doesn't want to go into the cage," he snaps, trying to force the cat into it's carrier.

"I am Groot," comes that reproachful retort.

"I am not being too rough. Do you see what the stupid furball did to my face," Peter protests, still trying to forcibly stuff the cat into it's case. At least until wooden tendrils gently nudge himside, wrapping around Princess delicately and easing her inside before shutting the cage door.

"I am Groot."

"I was getting there," Peter mutters in reply, finally turning back to regard the rest of the room, drawing one of his blasters and casually shooting one of the figures charging at Drax, the stun bolt taking the thug off his feet and sending him crashing through a table, sending food and drink flying.

"Add it to their bill," Peter suggests to the bartender, gesturing towards the rapidly dwindling group of thugs trying - and failing - to get their purloined kitty back.

Drax has posed:
"This music is horrible."  At least that can be agreed upon.  Drax lifts his chin briefly when Peter takes out the incoming thug.  "I tried to change it, but they all sound the same."  Gamora seems to be doing just fine with Rocket, so Drax makes his way to watch Groot and Peter deal with the cat.

Drax eats some kind of local nut swimming in something that doesn't look too different from the swampland just outside.  He holds the small dish in one hand and absently shoves a few in his mouth.  "Add this too!"

"Those are free!" the bartender cries out through his little sobs.

"Aww.  I think that stupid thing likes Groot," meaning it doesn't like Peter, which Drax feels isn't clear enough, so he adds more quietly, "I do not think it likes you...Nut?"  He tilts the swampy ashtray sized nut bowl toward Peter.

Gamora has posed:
By the time the last goon hits the floor with a _very_ undignified grunt, the fight is officially over.

The cantina is a mess. Tables overturned, drinks spilled, chairs broken, the kind of destruction that leaves a permanent mark in the memories of the people who saw it. There's a slow, collective groan from the patrons, a mixture of pain, frustration, and begrudging acceptance that this was _always_ how the night was going to end.

Rocket dusts himself off, brushing away a mix of spilled booze and something green that may or may not be someone else's blood. He winces as he rolls his shoulder, flexing his claws before pressing a paw to a small but very annoying gash along his upper arm.

Gamora doesn't look much better. Sweat, a few smears of blood that aren't hers, and what smells like cheap ale cling to her like evidence of everything that just happened. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slow, and shakes out her hands like she's shaking off the last of the fight.

Tired? Yes. Exasperated? Absolutely. Winded? Not even a little.

She steps toward the others, surveying the damage. "Do we have Princess?"

Her gaze moves over Groot, standing calmly beside the now secured cat carrier. Then over Drax, crunching through the remnants of a table like none of this has been unusual in the slightest. Then -- finally -- her eyes settle on Peter.

He looks disheveled, scratched up, frustrated, and covered in more cat-related injuries than anyone should ever accumulate in one job.

Something in her expression softens, just for a moment.

She steps in close, her chin tilting up as she appraises the scratches on his face. Without thinking, without hesitation, she lifts a hand to his cheek. Her thumb brushes over one of the fresh marks, the touch light, the movement deliberate. Just a moment of tenderness, almost absent-minded -- like she expects him to let her.

Then she glances down, eyes flicking to his injured hand.

She takes his wrist, lifting it just enough to inspect the bite wound.

"Cats carry diseases," she murmurs. The words are sharp, but her tone is not. "I'll clean you up when we get back to the ship."

Before Peter can react --

"What about me?! What am I, chopped liver?!" Rocket's voice cuts through the moment, ears flattened, still holding his arm like he's seconds from staging a rebellion.

Gamora steps back from Peter, not abruptly, just enough to make space between them again.

She gives Rocket an exasperated little shake of her head. "I'll look at yours, too, Rocket." There's more patience in her voice than before.

Because, for the first time tonight, it looks like they actually have this job in the bag.

Gamora takes another slow glance around the utter devastation of The Howling Maw. The grumbling patrons. The shell-shocked cantina workers. The bartender, still muttering under his breath about 'property damage and unpaid tabs.'

She looks up at Drax, who is still crunching on some questionable snack.

"Let's go see if our friend is still in a talking mood," she says, rolling her shoulders, already preparing for the next headache. "And make sure she shows us to Kestra."