A/N

So, saw the trailer for Guardians of the Galaxy recently, and...well, admittedly unfamiliar with the source material, but it looked...interesting...to say the least. Enough to get me to jot this down at least.

The Universal Language

This sucks.

No, I'm not referring to the fact that I've been captured for the bajillionith time. I'm not referring to the fact that I've started using imaginary numbers to count my imprisonments, or that this imprisonment includes being dumped in with a talking weed, a psycho raccoon, a psycho psycho, and a green alien chick who's probably a psycho also. No, I'm referring to the fact that one of the guards has my headset. And is playing my music.

Oh, did I mention that it also sucks that no-one knows the name of "Star-Lord?" I mean, seriously, is it that hard to remember it? Two words and a hyphen. Heck, just make it "Star Lord" for all I care, at least the pronunciation is the same. But no, they keep forgetting it. Or acting like they never knew the name in the first place. "Small galaxy after all" my arse.

But back to the music. The headset. The guard with said headset, using it as if it's his headset, and thinking that he can comprehend Earth music.

"Hey hey hey," I say. "That's mine."

He stares at me. The music keeps playing. And I can hear the "oomgachuckas" (is that how you spell it? Can't remember the last time I saw written English out here) are replaced by proper lyrics.

"You son of a bitch," I snarl, and dart forward, just before the gate separating us psychos from the other psychos closes. The universe is full of psychos you see. Or multiverse, since I heard tales of some Asgardians awhile back, meeting with some guy called the Collector, but…well, screw it. Music. Headset. Guard. I've got enough problems as it is without Norse mythology.

"Take those headphones off!" I yell. "Right now!"

The guard starts to move. It's at this point that I notice that two other guards are with this one, and that none of the guys who were on my side (supposedly) actually came in to help me. It's also at this point that I remember that my hands are bound with glowing handcuffs (why do they glow? Seriously, what's the point), and that in this bloody prison, I'm not Star-Lord, or Star Lord, or Starlord, however you want to spell it. I'm just Peter Jason Quill, the guy who's botched first contact so many times that I'm surprised SETI hasn't sent out a message saying "stop screwing up!"

"Hey," I say. "Um, about the music…"

The guard starts moving towards me. The other guards snigger. I glance back at my 'friends' and see them doing nothing. Well, not quite nothing. Actually, most of them are sniggering also.

So, this is it. Peter Quill is about to have his arse kicked. Again. Unless I can come up with something to not get my arse kicked. Maybe I can get an arm broken instead.

"Nice isn't it?" I ask. "The rhythm? The beat? The, er, 'feeling?'

The guard stares at me.

"I mean, on my planet, you've probably never heard of it, they said that music was the universal language," I continue, feeling a bit better about the prospects of saving my body and soul. I smile. "Guess I was right, eh? I mean, you like it, I like it…" I glance back at the friends. "You guys like it right?"

The racoon spits on the ground. He does that a lot. Almost as often as me getting the shit knocked out of me. Like when the guard gets a glowy stick (not a baton, a glowy stick), and shoves it into my gut, giving me a jolt of electricity. I let out a scream, all thoughts of being Star-Lord forgotten.

Universal language my arse…