The air was heavy, way too heavy for Quill to feel at ease. The only thing he could see was darkness, if you could call that seeing anything at all. He didn't know how long he had been where he was, it could have been ten years or ten seconds for all he knew. Peter sat on the ground with his legs folded, with nothing on his mind. This must have been what meditation felt like.

Suddenly, there was something to be seen. The outline of a cloaked figure was now in front of him, standing nonchalantly. Aside from the figure that now stood before him, and his own self, there was nothing that seemed to be anywhere at all. No source of light to illuminate either of them. They simply existed there.

The figure had a sickle slung heavily over it's shoulder, and though there was no visible face to make out, Peter swore he could detect a hint of sadness.

"I hate it when good people die. It really doesn't make my job easy." A voice said. It didn't sound like it was coming from anywhere in particular, but Peter knew it was speaking. He furrowed his brow.

"Come again?" He asked, Peter felt that he should be panicking, but for some reason he was completely calm. The figure stood a moment longer in fixed position, thinking deeply.

"I am Death." The voice said, pausing, it had been Death's job to inform souls that they had just died handle them accordingly since the dawn of time, but it was never very easy when Death actually found someone likable.

"Name's Starlord." Peter said with his regular impish grin. It was a little empty though, everything here was. Death shook it's head, it had hoped that Quill would have already inferred what happened. It was supposed to be a blessing that folks didn't actually remember their own ends, but in actuality it just lead to some really awkward situations. No one likes to be told they just expired.

"You're dead." Death finally said a little solemnly. Death's voice was always solemn, but it sounded particularly so this time.

"Well that sucks."

"Yep." The two looked at each other a moment longer.

"So how'd I die?" The question was asked in a lighthearted enough tone, but there really wasn't any joy in it.

"Explosion."

"That's it?"

"I could go on, but I don't see a reason to go into detail." Death said, looking Peter over.

It was in that moment that Peter said something that Death hadn't expected. It was easy to flirt with death, easier to meet it, hard to impress it, and until this point, impossible to surprise it.

"What are my options?" Quill inquired, no one had asked that before. Peter looked at him earnestly, the whole being dead thing was oddly undisturbing. It was supposed to be that way, no sense in having billions of souls shrieking in horror all the time, not that he would have anyways.

Death paused a moment, thinking deeply, which it hadn't had to do in a while.

"Three choices." It was in a very serious voice. The choices had always existed, but no one had ever thought or had the nerve to ask about them.

"I got choices?" Peter asked, it was now his turn to be surprised. "Lay em' on me." He said with dampened eagerness. Death looked him over yet again. There was certain unshakable weariness that came from being the collector of souls.

"You either enter your designated afterlife now, disappear entirely, or go back and do some favors for me." Death said, voice steady and pensive.

Peter stood aback in disbelief.

"I guess I got some work to do." He said, astounded. "What do you need done?"

Death was amused that the situation, a human soul waiting with bated breath for some good news while in purgatory. Not exactly a fresh concept, but definitely new idea with context considered. There was no reason to keep Peter waiting.

"I have some unfinished business I would like to have attended to." Death said calmly.

"Will I get something out of it?"

Death was surprised, again.

"You get to walk the plane once more." Death was too amused be annoyed, the soul of Peter Quill was quite the novelty.

"Yeah, but anything other than that, like, anything monetary?" He asked, excited. "I mean, any shmoe gets to live, but I'm doing death some favors." He said, working the words over smoothly with a tongue of pure silver. "That's like saying you're payment for hauling cargo is the gas it takes to make the delivery." He awaited, standing by his prospect with courage.

Death laughed, a hollow and ghastly sound.

"Name your price, and we'll make a deal." It said, thoroughly entertained.