Target: Kree

by Stuart Moore

  “Hate you too,” Kir-ra replied.

  The words came automatically to her lips. This had been their customary greeting to each other, ever since he was four years old. They crouched down on the pier behind Stark Enterprises, half hidden behind a pile of rubble – all that remained of Tony Stark’s shack. The pier was a wreck: holes in the wooden floor, pieces of concrete strewn all around.

  Kir-ra stared up at the sky, watching the figures looming over the barracks. From this distance the Avenger girl, in her blue and red circus costume, looked like a stick figure with comically long legs.

  “What’s she doing?” Halla-ar asked.

  “She’s talking to Stark. He’s hovering there, like a Sentry or something… oh, wait.”

  “What?”

  “He just flew away.” She clenched her fists, shaking. Stark’s words still echoed in her mind: Whatever is happening, I swear it ends today.

  So much for Earthmen’s promises.

  She glanced back at Halla-ar, the brother she’d protected ever since their parents died. He sat facing away from her, staring out over the water. He’s so angry, she thought. He wasn’t always like that.

  “What’s she doing now?” he asked. “Tell me.”

  She turned to look back up at the barracks. “She’s kind of wobbling a little. Oh, she’s shrinking back down now.”

  In a flash he was on his knees next to her, searching the sky. “Sorry,” she said. “She’s gone.”

  He shot her a quick glare and sat back down. “I hate you.”

  “Hate you t– “

  “I mean it.” He turned toward her with fire in his eyes. “Why did you pull me out of that fight?”

  “I was trying to protect you!”

  “I can take care of myself. A Kree warrior doesn’t need protection.”

  “You’re not a warrior. Yet.”

  He turned away again.

  “That’s not what this is about, is it?” She gestured back toward the barracks. “It’s about your little girlfriend.”

  “She’s a friend. You wouldn’t know about that – you’ve never had one.”

  The words stung. Her brother always knew how to hurt her. You’ve never had a friend. She thought of the man in the bar, the man in the hood. Was he a friend? He certainly seemed sympathetic, interested in her problems. At least he hadn’t made her any false promises.

  “You can’t trust them,” she said. “Any of them. That assassin with the sword is probably still hunting for us. She tried to kill me, before she attacked you. I thought Stark was better than… but he just ran off, as soon as his evil was exposed.”

  “Is that what they were talking about?” Halla-ar asked. “The Iron Man and… and Ms Marvel? What did you pick up with those stupid enhanced senses of yours?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I couldn’t hear them. That’s not how the training works.”

  “So you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.

  A helpless despair washed over her. She loved her brother, this kid on the cusp of becoming a man – and she felt so terribly worried for him. As a young boy, he’d made beautiful pictures. He used to shut himself away in a closet and draw for hours, until she or Grandma came to find him for supper. Artwork wasn’t valued much on Praeterus, even before… what happened. Halla-ar had thrown himself into combat training, even receiving acceptance to the Officer Academy. He’d stopped talking about art, as if he wanted to banish the very concept from his mind.

  But even then, in the quiet hours of the morning, she would spy on him and find him in the closet with his pad and colored pencils. Until the destruction of Praeterus. Since that day, he hadn’t drawn a line.

  And now he was so angry…

  “Did she look sick?” he asked. “Ms Marvel, I mean.”

  “She didn’t look great.”

  He leaped to his feet. “I’ve got to go.”

  “To find her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Suddenly all the frustration, the helplessness, seemed to bubble up in her. “What is this girl to you? Some sort of teenage crush?”

  “She took my side. She stood up for me.”

  “I stand up for you!”

  It was too much. She rose to her feet and strode to the end of the pier, circling around a gaping hole in the wood. She stared out over the ocean, watching the fog burn off.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She turned around. Halla-ar stood by the shack, watching her. For a moment, she could almost see the whole sweep of his life: the sensitive, artistic boy he had been, the proud man he would grow to become, if given the chance. And Halla-ar himself, today, caught on the cusp of an uncertain future.

  “I’m getting out of here,” she said. “You coming?”

  A pained look crossed his face. He shook his head, turned, and bolted toward the mainland.

  “I hate you,” she said softly. Then, sighing, she turned to face the water again. She raised a hand, shading her eyes from the blazing sun.

  “Still can’t see it,” she murmured.

  She reached out with all her senses: heard the rush of tides, felt the crisscross of boats on its surface. Then, closing her eyes, she raised both hands above her head and dove into the water.

  Chapter 30

  Rocket sat alone, whistling Emerson Lake & Palmer off-key. The laser-wrench in his hand glowed bright, its thin red beam playing against the rust-caked rifle on the table before him. When the gun clicked open, he grinned from ear to furry ear.

  “Oh baby,” he said, reaching inside. “Aren’t you a beauty.”

  He pulled out a thin sliver of metal and held it up. The sun had come out, shining down into the exposed dining room area of the barracks. The metal gleamed in the light, its surface smooth and flawless.

  “Kree Stormranger firing pin,” he breathed. “Thousands of years old, and not a scratch on you. How’d a beautiful thing like you wind up in a cheap Kree-Skrull gat like this?”

  “Where did you get that?”

  Rocket looked up sharply. A short, crewcutted Kree stood across from him, leaning over the picnic table with both arms. Rocket had been introduced to the man – Jer-ra, that was his name. A few more Kree stood behind him, watching.

  “I, uh, found it.” Rocket pulled the rifle closer. “In an empty room.”

  “Empty?”

  “Well, it was almost empty.”

  The other Kree drew closer, fanning out to flank Jer-ra. Rocket tensed. He looked at the firing pin in his hand, then at the disassembled weapon in front of him. If a firefight broke out, this thing sure wouldn’t be of any help.

  Drax approached, pushing through the group. He strode past Jer-ra and clamped a hand on Rocket’s shoulder.

  “Ow,” Rocket said.

  “I told Chi-lah you borrowed that,” Drax said, pointing at the rifle. “She expects it back when you’re done.”

  Rocket looked at his friend, whose meaty hand still held his shoulder in a painful grip. The Kree looked confident now, even amused.

  “Fair enough,” Rocket said.

  The Kree dispersed, satisfied. All around, in small groups, they were settling down at tables. More people entered the dining area, climbing down the ladders and pouring in from the adjacent rooms. It must be mealtime, Rocket realized.

  Drax released his hold on Rocket. “Where is Gamora?” he asked.

  “She, uh, wandered off.” Rocket rubbed his shoulder. “I wasn’t gonna argue with her.”

  “That is wise.” Drax frowned. “But it could be a problem.”

  “Why? The, uh, planet-killer?”

  “No, the killer is not in this facility. As I told Gamora, I have come to know every Kree in these barracks. If the entity you seek is indeed on Earth, it resides elsewhere.”

  “Th
en what’s the problem? With her goin’ off by herself, I mean?”

  Drax looked at him, astonished. “She may miss my world-famous samosas.”

  Before Rocket could concoct a reply – and there were several juicy possibilities to choose from – a burning smell filled the air. Drax stiffened in alarm, turned, and ran to the kitchen.

  Rocket picked up the firing pin again, smiling. “Alone at last,” he said, “you saucy little–”

  He looked up at a scrabbling noise, high up on the outside wall. Several of the Kree rose to their feet, coming to alert. A half dozen of them converged from different tables, scrambling toward the wall. Only a few carried weapons, but a lot of them, he remembered, had served as soldiers.

  Captain America leaped over the wall, bounding in through the open roof. He bent his legs and landed in a perfect crouch. The Black Widow followed, executing a showy flip in the air before lighting gracefully on top of an empty table. The Kree watched them in silence.

  Rocket couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.

  Cap and the Widow turned in his direction. “What?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” Rocket said. “It’s just… you’re both so flarking WET!”

  Cap stared at him with hard eyes. Next moment, the two Avengers were marching toward him, their sodden boots squishing against the bare concrete. The Kree stepped aside, clearing a path.

  “Ulp,” Rocket said. He picked up the Kree rifle, which cracked in half at his touch and clattered in pieces to the floor.

  Captain America leaned down to glare straight at the raccoonoid. “See how dry you are after swimming the Long Island Sound to rescue a teammate.”

  “I, uh…” Rocket swallowed. “I hear it’s a remarkably clean waterway.”

  “Very low toxicity,” a Kree woman added.

  Before Rocket realized what was happening, the two Avengers were seated on either side of him, staring him down from both directions. The shoulders of their uniforms were damp against his fur. Even Captain America’s wounded arm was hard as a rock.

  “Let’s talk,” the Widow said. “What is going on here?”

  “These conditions are appalling,” Cap said. “That infirmary alone is a breeding ground for–”

  “I know! I know, I’ve seen it!” Rocket threw up his arms. “Look, I just got here myself. I don’t know nothing about this place except its people have exquisite taste in antique weaponry. You should talk to my buddy – or better yet, talk to your buddy. You know, the guy whose name is on the building next door?”

  Cap frowned, looking up as a Kree deposited a tray of smoking meat on the table. It smelled good. Rocket hoped it wasn’t that big rat they’d seen in the kitchen earlier.

  “Hey hey,” a familiar, very human voice cried. “It’s chow time!”

  “Quill!” Rocket said, rising to his feet. “For once, I’m actually glad to see you.”

  Peter Quill seated himself at the table, his eyes on the meat tray. Behind him, Groot and Jennifer Walters approached, talking casually.

  “I know exactly what you’re saying,” Jen said. “It’s so easy to get caught in a mid-career rut.”

  “I am Groot,” Groot said.

  “Oh yeah, it really sneaks up on you. One day you’re sitting there at your desk, eyes propped open by caffeine, practically on autopilot. And the next day it’s all you can do to get out of bed.”

  “I am–”

  “Right, of course,” Jen acknowledged. “That’s assuming you sleep in a bed. And drink caffeine. And…”

  Rocket shook his head, thinking: these two are best friends now?! Then he realized: she probably doesn’t understand a word he’s saying.

  “Groot,” Rocket said. “Bring it in, big guy.”

  He immediately regretted the hug. Groot’s branches and leaves were as wet as the Avengers, and up close that salt water really didn’t smell very good. “OK,” Rocket said, disengaging himself. “OK, that’s enough bringin’ it in.”

  Jennifer Walters edged away, frowning at the living quarters visible behind bare wire. She was as wet as the rest of them, dark hair matted against her emerald skin. She whipped out her phone, shook water off it, and began stalking through the room, dictating notes in a low voice. Huh. Must have been waterproof and Groot-proof.

  A sizzling noise made Rocket jump. He looked around to see the Black Widow on her feet, arm outstretched toward Quill. The stinger on her wrist crackled with electricity.

  “I haven’t forgot that you crashed into my quinjet,” she snarled.

  Quill jumped to his feet, still holding the food tray, bits of meat flaking from his too-full mouth. “I divvn’t do it! I wavvn’t even vere!”

  Natasha didn’t back down. She circled the table, keeping that electric stinger aimed at Quill. Captain America stood up, raising his shield. Oh great, Rocket thought. More of this flarking crap?

  Thankfully Drax appeared, carrying a gigantic steam tray in one hand full of new food. “Good news, everyone,” he announced. “I have made tacos, too!”

  Everyone froze. One of the Kree rose to his feet and said, “Vegetarian?”

  Drax rolled his eyes. “Yes, Kah-no.”

  “Shut up, Kah-no,” someone said. A murmur of agreement ran through the room.

  Quill’s tray slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. Groot stood next to him, eyes wide and staring. It took Quill a moment to find his voice.

  “Drax?” he gasped.

  Chapter 31

  Several explanations later, lunch began in earnest. Quill kept his face buried in the food. He barely spoke a word. Cap ate sparely, asking pointed questions of the Guardians.

  And Groot just stared at his food. Trees ain’t much for tacos, Rocket realized.

  “So the person who…” Cap hesitated “…who destroyed this planet…”

  “I am Groot.”

  “He’s right,” Rocket said. “We ain’t sure it’s a person.”

  A burst of laughter from the next table. Natasha, the Black Widow, had migrated there to talk to the locals. She seemed to be making friends fast. One of the Kree handed her a towel, then watched with interest as she dried the seawater from her long red hair.

  Jennifer Walters paced back and forth, speaking loudly into her phone.

  “OK,” Cap said, “so this person, creature, entity… whatever it was that caused the destruction of the Kree’s homeworld… you’re convinced it’s here on Earth.”

  “That’s what everybody says.” Rocket reached into his bag. “I thought we were on the right track when my Kree detector, here, started goin’ nuts over this place. But so far, we ain’t found squat.”

  “No,” Captain America agreed. “But you did manage to terrorize a population of innocent people. Women and men who, from the looks of it, are already barely surviving.”

  Rocket looked away, watching the Kree mill about, eating the simple food the kitchen had produced. Cap was an idiot – the guy wore a flarking flag on his chest! But his words stung.

  “Those poor bastards,” Rocket whispered. “It sucks not to be wanted.”

  “What?” Cap asked.

  “Nothing.” He swept a hand across his face, wiping away tears.

  Drax arrived with another plate of steaming food. “Drax!” Quill said. “Buddy! Sit down, eat with us! God, it’s good to see you.”

  Drax paused, frowned at the food in his hand, and then seated himself at the table. The tray, which was at least three feet around, became his personal plate. He dug in hungrily.

  “So,” Quill said, leaning into him, “there was another spaceship! I did not see that coming.”

  “Right?” Drax said.

  “I, uh, I really hate to even ask this,” Rocket said. “But how’s our ship?”

  “Oh man.” Quill gave a boyish grin. “It’s gonna need a lot of work.”
/>
  “I am Groot.”

  “Right. We aren’t goin’ back to space for a while.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Yeah! That’s even assuming we manage to drag it out of the bottom of the river.”

  Still smiling, Quill turned to Drax. Rocket followed his lead, and then Groot. Even Captain America gave “Horse” a curious look.

  Drax paused in mid-bite. “I assume you want me to salvage the ship.”

  Quill shrugged. “Well– “

  “Do you have a giant pair of chains?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  “Very well.” Drax turned back to his plate. “Just let me finish this pierogi.”

  Rocket blinked. “How many kinds of food you got there, anyway?”

  Drax looked up, startled, as a green hand snatched a pair of tacos off his plate. Jennifer Walters breezed by, clicked her phone off, and swallowed a taco in one bite.

  “Just talked to the Division of Housing and Community Renewal,” she said, planting herself down next to Groot. “They’ll have a squadron of inspectors out here, first thing Monday. But this stuff takes time.”

  A rat scurried by, running toward the kitchen.

  “Your boy Stark could fix things fast,” Rocket said.

  “I’ve been trying to reach him,” Cap replied. “No response.”

  “So he ran away,” Quill said, “like the rich kid he is. You know, a real man takes responsibility. A real man cleans up his messes.”

  “Says the guy with taco sauce all over his fancy spacesuit,” Rocket muttered.

  “Well, I’m off,” Jen said. “Got to make sure my paperwork’s in order for Monday. This lawsuit just heated up big time.” She paused, turned to Cap. “You sure the kid’s OK?”

  “Ms Marvel? I left her outside, resting up – she said she was fine. You don’t need a ride?”

  “I drove here, Steve.” She smiled. “You know, in a car?”

  More laughter from Natasha’s table. They looked over to see her speaking in a low voice, mimicking a stone-faced man. The Kree men at the table doubled over with laughter, clutching their stomachs.

  “I think she’s teaching them to swear in Russian,” Cap said.