by Alex Irvine
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It was a great day at the mall. The Xandarian sun was shining, the air was warm, and people were out having a good time. There were families playing, shoppers scoring deals, friends dining outside at the mall’s many fine restaurants—and Rocket had nothing but scorn for all of it.
“Xandarians,” he grumbled. He surveyed the crowds through a scope, doing a face scan and comparing everyone he saw to a database of outstanding bounties. Only certain people knew about that database, and Rocket was one of them. He liked bounty hunting. It had lots of variety, there was lots of shooting, and the money was tip-top.
He hid in the bushes at the edge of a balcony overlooking the swanky mall plaza below. You could find people with bounties on their heads anywhere, but the high-value marks had a tendency to try to blend in with fancy surroundings. If you wanted to load up on five-hundred-unit lowlifes, there were places for that, but those guys weren’t worth Rocket’s time. He and Groot were after the big score.
He stood up on tiptoes to get a better look at the areas right below him. Rocket was barely three feet tall, and looked like a cute and cuddly mammal, like you might find begging for treats in a Xandarian family’s kitchen. Except as far as he knew there was nothing like him anywhere in the galaxy, and he was not cuddly. No, sir. Rocket liked flying ships real fast, and shooting guns real loud, and breaking any law he ran across.
“What a bunch of losers. All of ’em, in a big hurry to get from stupid to nothing at all. Pathetic,” said Rocket, his upper lip curling in disgust.
His scope landed on an average-looking human, strolling by himself. “Look at this guy! You believe they call us criminals when he’s assaulting us with that haircut?”
Groot didn’t answer, but then, Groot didn’t talk much. He was an eight-foot-tall walking tree, more or less, so talking wasn’t his strong suit. What Groot was good at was fighting and growing pieces of himself back when they got blown off. Plus he was as strong as any living being Rocket had ever known, which came in handy given Rocket’s own compact stature.
Next, Rocket scoped a tiny human stumbling along the sidewalk holding the hands of an adult. “What is this thing? It thinks it’s so cool. It’s not cool to get help! Walk by yourself, you little gargoyle.”
He moved on to an older human, clearly trying to get the interest of a much younger female. “Look at Mr. Smiles over here. Where’s your wife, old man? Ha! Right, Groot?”
Rocket laughed, getting a kick out of himself. He turned to see if Groot had seen the old guy, and noticed that Groot wasn’t paying attention at all. He was leaning over a nearby fountain and watering his insides. In other words, drinking.
“Don’t drink fountain water, you idiot! That’s disgusting!” Rocket shouted.
Groot stood up and shook his head, grunting.
“Yes, you did! I just saw you doing it. Why are you lying?”
His scope’s alarm went off, notifying Rocket that he’d accidentally waved it so that it focused on someone carrying a bounty. “Oh, looks like we got one,” he said. He looked at the target. “Okay, humie,” he said. That was his preferred insulting term for humans. “How bad does someone want to find you?”
The display on the scope identified the humie in question as Peter Quill… and the bounty as more than Rocket would have expected. A lot more. “Forty thousand units? Groot, we’re gonna be rich.”
He turned to see Groot drinking from the fountain again, completely oblivious to this huge potential score. Rocket sighed. Some people.
Peter walked from the mall’s main thoroughfare up to the Broker’s pawnshop. There was no sign, but the door knew Peter from a previous visit and opened automatically at his approach. The Broker had very good security, and he needed it. He dealt with items that were highly sought after.
“Mr. Quill,” the Broker said when he saw Peter enter. He was a smallish humanoid, with ridges on his bare scalp. Hair grew between them but nowhere else on his head except for his eyebrows, which were like small wings swooping over his forehead. He was dressed, as always, in a suit that cost more than all of the clothes Peter had bought in his whole life. Total.
“Broker,” Peter said. Getting down to business, he plunked the Orb down on the Broker’s desk. “The Orb. As commissioned.”
The Broker regarded him with suspicion. “Where is Yondu?”
“Wanted to be here,” Peter said. “Sends his love, and told me to tell you that you got the best eyebrows in the business.”
The Broker sniffed, dismissing the humorous compliment. He picked up the Orb and set it aside. “What is it?” Peter asked.
“It’s my policy never to discuss my clients, or their needs,” the Broker said.
“Yeah, well, I almost died getting it for you.”
Unfazed, the Broker said, “An occupational hazard, I’m sure, in your line of work.”
“Some machine-headed freak,” Peter said, describing Korath as he continued his story, “working for a dude named Ronan.”
The name had a startling effect on the Broker. “Ronan?” Immediately he came around his desk and began ushering Peter toward the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quill, I truly am, but I want no part of this transaction if Ronan is involved!” He slapped the Orb back into Peter’s hands.
“Whoa, whoa! Who’s Ronan?” Peter asked. The Broker kept pushing him toward the door.
“A Kree fanatic, outraged by the peace treaty, who will not rest until Xandarian culture—my culture!—is wiped from existence!” He had pushed Peter most of the way to the door by now.
“Come on,” Peter said.
“He’s someone whose bad side I’d rather not be on,” the Broker said. Clearly he was terrified of this Ronan, and Peter couldn’t figure it out. He’d never heard of the guy.
“What about my bad side?” he joked, trying to lighten things up a little.
“Farewell, Mr. Quill!” the Broker shouted. He waved to open his door and shoved Peter out.
The moment Peter’s body crossed the threshold, the door hissed shut. “Hey, we had a deal, bro!” Peter shouted through the door.
No answer.
He stood there fuming. How was he going to get rich now? Yondu was after him, this Ronan guy seemed like bad news… man, everything was getting complicated.
To one side of the door, a beautiful woman with green skin and long dark hair reddened at the tips was delicately eating a piece of fruit. She was looking at Peter, so he tried to get himself together. He didn’t like losing his temper in front of good-looking women.
“What happened?” she asked.
“This guy just backed out of a deal on me,” Peter groused. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a man without integrity.”
She watched, finishing her fruit. She looked mighty fine in her black leather jumpsuit, and the knives on her hips gave her a nice little air of menace. “Peter Quill,” Peter said, introducing himself. “People call me Star-Lord.”
“You have the bearing of a man of honor,” she said.
“Well, you know, I wouldn’t say that,” said Peter, playing humble. “People say it about me, but it’s not something I would ever say about myself.”
As he finished the sentence, she was walking closer to him, and he was enjoying her walking closer to him. Then, almost faster than he could follow, she snatched the Orb from his hands, doubled him over with a kick to the stomach, and ran.
Peter stood up, out of breath. There was no way he would catch her in a footrace. She was fast. Luckily he had a little electronic bolo in his pocket that he kept for circumstances like this one. He activated it and slung it sidearm after her.
The bolo spun through the air past startled shoppers and wrapped itself several times around the woman’s knees, bringing her down.
Peter was on her in a second, running and leaping to get hold of her before s
he could untangle the bolo and get away again. She met him in midair with both feet, kicking him hard off to the side. He hit the pavement, the wind knocked out of him for the second time in fifteen seconds. Before he could get up, she was pounding him with fists, elbows, and feet—all without getting up herself! Even though he was getting beaten senseless, Peter couldn’t help but admire her technique.
She straddled him, a look of regret on her face. “This wasn’t the plan,” she said, and drew one of those knives he’d noticed earlier.
But before she could use it, a tiny ball of fur came flying out of nowhere and knocked her over sideways. She cried out as she hit the pavement and Peter saw what looked like—no, it couldn’t be…
It was. A talking raccoon. Big one, maybe three feet tall.
“Put him in the bag!” the raccoon was shouting. The green woman got back to her feet and tried to pull it off, but it hung on for dear life.
Peter looked around. Put who in the bag? Then he saw the walking tree holding a giant sack. It started extruding roots from its body, wrapping them around the green woman.
“Not her—him!” the raccoon shouted. “Learn genders, man!” He was grappling with the green woman’s head, and one of his paws slipped into her mouth. She bit him, hard. “Biting? That’s not fair!”
Peter happened to agree—biting was not cool—but he wasn’t going to stick around and argue about it. Whoever the raccoon and tree were, whatever was happening, he had a chance to get out. He grabbed the Orb and ran, glancing over his shoulder to track their pursuit.
Screaming in fury, the green woman tore the raccoon free and flung him down into the lower level of the plaza. He slammed into a transparent wall and landed in a heap. Peter turned away to gain speed, and a moment later the Orb was knocked out of his hand with a sharp metallic ping. He looked down and saw it rolling away. He also saw a small throwing knife clattering to the pavement.
She’d thrown a knife at him! But not to kill him. Interesting, he thought. She likes me.
But she seemed to like the Orb more. She jumped over the balcony and ran for the Orb. Peter ran along the balcony as she picked up the Orb, waiting for the right time… now!
He vaulted over and landed on her, driving her to the ground. But she was a lot quicker than he was, and stronger, too. In a moment she had him flipped on his back with one knee pressed hard under his chin.
“Fool,” she said. “You should have learned.”
“I don’t learn,” Peter admitted. “One of my issues.”
She gave him a look and, just for a second, forgot to stab him. He took the momentary opportunity to slap one of his boot rockets onto her hip and fire it up.
It shot her away over the plaza to land in a shallow reflecting pool. She skidded all the way across the pool, kicking up a big rooster tail along the way and smashing hard into the wall on the other side. The crowd gasped. They hadn’t come to the mall for a show like this.
Peter stood, thinking the show was over… and that’s when the tree got the drop on him and stuffed him into a sack.
The job was getting complicated, Rocket thought. He hated complicated jobs.
