Nebula pulled her hair back into a tight bun, her dark hair that was once skimming her back was yanked into submission. It was nothing fancy - it was practical. Just like her. She ran her fingers through the loose strands at the ends and pinned them furiously until it was unmovable. She was a monster and she accepted it. Every thought of escape and joy was escaping from her mind like water from open hands. She ran her fingernails along the ground, sharpening them. She had no doubts that her mind had been "natural" before… But now it was polluted with thoughts worse than death.
She was being trained, something no one her age, race, gender, species, or whatever should be forced to accomplish and she breathed in every gasp of hope for a better life than what she lived in her cell. She was held to her cell by bonds of magic, ones even she didn't understand. It was powerful, old and annoying. She could neither confront nor approach it and her head throbbed as she recalled the previous and only time she had tried to break them with sheer strength. The amount of electrical intensity she had been exposed to made an electric chair look life a fly zapper. She was being held until she learned the price for disrespect to her master and mercy to her targets, something she believed she would never outgrow.
Light footsteps were sounding outside her cell door and she ground her teeth together until her head throbbed and her sister Gamora sautéed past. It was one of the worst punishments her owner had put on her - the room was glass. She could see her sister each time she left her room. Each time she would look over into Nebula's cell and each time she would express the same disgust she felt towards her. Nebula could see everything she was never able to have - privacy, warmth, respect, and freedom. She was kept in a cell held in the center of the castle, unlike her sister who's doors were unlocked. She was chained to her floor, while her sister was free to move. She was fed what street dogs would turn their noses to, and yet, her sister was given whatever she desired. It was all done for a reason. She was always second best, the lesser half, the unwanted hand - but not today. A single tear traced down her face and she quickly wiped it away before slamming her metallic fist onto a chair that was bolted to the floor and sobs erupted from her malnourished figure. She wouldn't (couldn't) stand to see the blood of an innocent on her hands. But choosing constant defeat was weakening her beyond belief. She would continue to water the dying sense of hope in her heart even as it faded a little more each night as she stared into oblivion. Love, not rage, would empower her, even though she knew it was pathetic. She would break eventually, and then there would be no more putting the broken pieces of her life together. The pieces wouldn't exist anymore.
She had thought before that she may be able to beat her sister into submission but the outcome was always the same. In front of a one-man-audience two highly trained female warriors battled almost to the death, a piece of their mortality being cut away with each match. It was a show, a sport to the onlooker. And it was the constant desire to be praised, indulged, and kept alive that kept them fighting. The loser had a piece of her body replaced with machinery; Nebula could never find the strength to succeed, or the heart to truly win.
Several times she had found Gamora's weak spot - she constantly left her left side open by not tucking her elbows in. And like the good sister she was she would tap her there with her staff, not enough to injure, but enough to say "I could beat you if I wanted to." And each time she was caught in the fetal position unarmed Gamora's face dripping with disgust. Again, and again, and again she warned and Gamora would always repay her kindness with metal - the last time it had been her arm. Anyone else she would beat within seconds, sometimes kill for the sake of putting them out of their misery of messed up medical procedures. She distinctly remembered watching a girl - her sibling - bleeding to death in front of her before their match started. Her face was white from her blood loss and her body shaking. Tears streamed down her purple skin as she mouthed "Please… Don't let them again." Nebula's sword found its mark as soon as the match began. Not one of her kills had been in cold blood.
She knew she was a weapon, but she could never be the cold-hearted mechanic who made her sister, the sibling she least despised, into a machine.
She placed her human hand down onto the ground. They were running out of body parts to replace. Her organs and some of her bones were still in-tact, but she knew it wouldn't be long before they began ripping them from her body as well. She placed her other hand on the ground, trying to be gentle, but she felt nothing under the metal. The make-shift sensors on the outside of the hand told her something was solid beneath her, but nothing more. She bit her lip to keep from crying; she had already done enough of that. Would she ever feel again, or was this it? She cursed under her breath, tears were a sign of weakness; she was not weak. She couldn't be weak. Her tear ducts would not be missed if they were removed, she decided, but she had no say in the matter - only the onlooker did. And the first part of her that had been replaced had been a sentence from Gamora - the removal of her eye. After that defeat no matter where she looked, she was always reminded what the price of love was. She was not entirely human. She wouldn't ever be "normal" again. No one would look her in the eyes again and think of anything but the scars on her face.
She stood, her bonds straining to keep her on the ground, and walked casually over to a wall. She would show no weakness. Gomora strutted down a hall with her body guard. Today it would change. She wouldn't lose another part of her body to metal.
Another footstep sounded outside the door, it was heavier, and the mover surged with power. "Nebula." Her voice sounded. "Match tonight. Your father wants no mistakes this time." She didn't turn to see her face. She didn't need to. Each day was the same person, the same time, the same speech, and the same tone. There was no change - and it was maddening.
She closed her eyes and refused to open them - her human hand drumming on her leg. Was it all worth it? A person was going to die a little more tonight, and it wasn't going to be her.