~x~X~x~
across the worlds (our paths stream scarlet)
~x~X~x~
Tell me, would you kill to save a life?
Tell me, would you kill to prove you're right?
Crash, crash, burn; let it all burn.
This hurricane's chasing us all underground.
~ "Hurricane," 30 Seconds To Mars
~x~X~x~
Six months after Gamora became an apparent Guardian of the Galaxy, Peter Quill takes an extreme risk for a ridiculous reason, as one does. A motley crew of Badoon space pirates is plaguing the fringe of a distant planetary system, and naturally, Star Lord's quest for interstellar justice knows no bounds.
"A far-off planet, an unpredictable gang of deadbeats, no one to hear us scream in the distant reaches of space... It'll be like a vacation."
"A vacation," Gamora sighs, shooting a sidelong glare in Peter Quill's direction.
"Last time I checked, vacations usually involve relaxing," Rocket adds. "Blasting some big-headed idiots into galactic dust? Hilarious as hell. But it sure ain't relaxing."
"I am Groot," says Groot.
"The time on Arcax Delta was an exception. Face it, pal, the singers at that bar needed some plasma shots to the vocal chords. Quit judging me."
"I am Groot."
"The way you are pointing that branch at me is obviously accusatory."
"I am Groo—"
Drax the Destroyer cracks his knuckles. "The tree talks too much," he groans.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but every other houseplant in the galaxy is distinctly silent," Rocket says. "Let this one have his three freaking words."
"I am Groot."
"That's what I said."
Peter Quill smirks. "We are the biggest idiots in this solar system," he says, activating his mask. "Now let's go kick some ass."
Drax blinks. "Why would we deliver physical blows to a donkey?"
"I'll explain later," Gamora says.
And so the Guardians of the Galaxy fly to do battle with the Badoon pirates. It might have been a short skirmish — but partway through the conflict, as shots are evaded and then returned, Groot becomes wildly fascinated with the lever that controls the artificial gravity of the Badoon ship. This happens while Drax is smashing pirate lackeys, Rocket is looting their weapons cache, Gamora is actively avoiding fire from a rather angry pilot, and Star Lord is dodging projectiles with those absurd jet-boots of his.
The end result is that — alongside general head-banging, limb-tangling, and plasma-burning — one of the Badoon pirates takes advantage of the opportunity to fire upon the Milano, dealing serious damage to its external armor in the time it takes Star Lord to careen over to the control panel and promptly shock the meddler halfway to the next solar system.
It would cost an impressive amount of units to repair the damage, but the Milano is the closest thing Peter Quill has to a home. Gamora sees him wince at the ruined plating when he thinks no one's looking. If she's being honest with herself (something she's slowly learning,) it makes her chest clamp to see him so upset.
"I'll earn some units," she says, laying her hand over Peter's, her fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Since the fall of Ronan the Accuser, there is an ease to the way they touch; she does not question it for fear of damaging it. "I'll pay for the repairs."
Peter Quill almost laughs, but the sound catches in his throat. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? Because I can assure you, while Kevin Bacon may be a fantastic role model, his smooth moves did not make him come into a fortune."
A shadow falls across Gamora's face. "I'll hunt," she says softly. "Like I always have."
"That's why I keep you," Peter quips.
Gamora does not address the fact that he said I, not we. She also does not address the way his confidence falters, his mouth still open with no words coming out, like he wanted to make a joke but forgot it. Humor is his greatest defense, and in this moment, it has fled from him.
For the barest instant, they look at each other, saying nothing with their voices — but everything with his steady gaze, her rapid breaths, the sudden tension where the skin of their hands meets: half pale and half green, one human (or half-human) and the other wholly alien.
"If I'm not back in three days," Gamora says, "you might want to check with the Nova Corps prisons." And with that, she leaves for the nearest spaceport, her fingers aching for the trigger of a rifle, the crosshairs already visible in the back of her eyes.
~x~X~x~
For the original home of the legendary Star Lord, planet Earth is strikingly underwhelming. It's a convoluted collage of countless ecosystems, from parched deserts to boundless oceans, from sprawling mountains to great valleys, from futuristic cities to uncharted wilderness.
Earth reminds Gamora of a sample plate at a restaurant, presenting small amounts of all that might yet be seen — an appetizer before the main course of worlds beyond. She is, put simply, bored by it.
But this is where her target has taken up residence, so she steels herself, preps her energy rifle, sharpens her knives, and readies her mind for the kill.
A man called Dreykov has placed a bounty on one Natalia Alianovna Romanova, also known as the Black Widow. Gamora hears whispers in the woman's wake: tales of a land called Russia, a secret program, forbidden science, treason, and espionage. She also hears other titles for the Widow: Natasha Romanoff, Natalie Rushman, Avenger, Soviet, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But the Widow is strictly human, regardless of what absurd science experiments were performed upon her. Gamora is not afraid.
Currently, the Widow is (unofficially) accepting freelance assignments, whether assassinations or covert spy operations. When Gamora requests details from a grimy gang member, she's told that the Widow is very specific about which missions she accepts — and also that her most recent job was in the heart of NYC itself, eliminating a rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.
And so Gamora finds herself atop a building, crouched low above the chaos of New York, struggling to steady her breathing, looking through the sights of a sniper rifle as she waits for her target's inevitable approach.
When the Widow does, at long last, enter the alleyway below, Gamora recognizes her instantly. The assassin is exactly as described: a young woman by all appearances, sharp-edged, scarlet-haired, unabashed.
With a slowly indrawn breath, Gamora lines up a plasma shot with the woman's throat.
But the Widow is talented — very, very talented, and equally well-trained — so that the incoming shot registers a fraction of a second before it would have silenced her forever. The Widow drops seamlessly into a crouch, the plasma striking the alley wall behind her. Her head snaps upwards.
The alien and the (less or more than) human (depending on who is asked) lock eyes, breathing fast and moving faster.
Affixing the sniper rifle to her back, Gamora extends her arm, launching a grappling tether from the device at her wrist. The Widow barely has time to whirl aside as Gamora swings down from the roof and into the alley — teeth bared like a creature of the jungle, like the predator that Thanos raised her to be. Daughter is too soft a term for the truth of her combat-hardened heart; she lands like an animal, long fingernails splayed, strategies spinning through her mind even as she moves to pin her target against the wall.
The Widow is not so easily defeated. Drawing a pistol from inside her jacket, she aims at the alien's chest and fires. Once. Twice.
Gamora leaps into the air and flips, dodging both rounds of bullets with vicious grace. Damn weapons, she thinks as she lands solidly on both feet. The defenses of cowards. While she appreciates a useful machine, she prefers to fight with her fists and her feet.
It is better that the Black Widow dodged the sniper shot. Gamora is in her element now, an enigma of adrenaline. This is battle in its barest form: archaic, unaltered by time, undiluted by the rise and fall of technologies or regimes. This is the glint of a belt as an enemy shifts her weight, the sweep of a heel towards an ankle, the arc of a spine in time with the swing of a fist, the breathless dance of flesh and sinew and racing blood, and Gamora is at home in it.
And of this, she is ashamed.
Oh, that she might have merely been called daughter, and not assassin. Oh, that she might be at peace in the spare moments spent alone, rather than reliving the sweep of a dagger across a throat, the rush of hot blood on to her clothes, splashing across the floor, staining her freshly polished boots. But Gamora has the word killer branded into her bones. It haunts her waking hours and troubles her sleep, because she can save a thousand lives, but she has already burned a thousand worlds.
The Widow, too, has long-forgotten fires in her eyes. But she is unflinching, the barest flicker of conscience absent from her face. She revels in the crack of knuckles against skin, the smack of leather, the gush of scarlet.
As her rage rises — a searing, blinding tide that wipes her clean — Gamora draws a dagger and hurls it into the Widow's right arm. The Widow curses, more in surprise than in pain. Pressing her advantage, Gamora seizes the woman's throat, slamming her against the alley wall with all her strength. The Widow chokes; she struggles to tear the assassin's free hand from her neck, but in vain. Long fingernails press into the soft, exposed flesh, drawing a bright trickle of blood.
Gamora leans the flat of her knife against the Widow's cheekbone, loosening her grip ever so slightly. The Widow gasps. She has gone nearly limp, and when Gamora slams her knee into the woman's wrist, she loses her grip on the pistol immediately.
The Widow glares, defiant despite the blade against her face.
Gamora's fury spikes. "Have you no regret?" she snarls through her teeth.
"What?"
"I read your records, Black Widow. I know your sins."
The Widow blinks, then sets her jaw. "I did what was needed with the life I was given."
"Do you feel no guilt for your crimes?" Gamora twists the knife, angling its edge against the Widow's skin. "No sorrow for the lives you've taken?"
"You know nothing of me, otherworlder."
"Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I tire of your games —"
Gamora's voice cuts off as the woman drives a kick into her ribs. She staggers, her balance disrupted. The Widow turns to flee, but not quickly enough — with a wild scream, Gamora tackles her to the concrete. They grapple like beasts, not girls; at the point of life or death, there is no dignity, no restraint. The Widow sinks her teeth into the alien's hand, but even as she cries out, Gamora smacks the assassin's head into the ground with a loud, gratifying crack, then throws the body backwards.
Suddenly, the Widow finds her limbs pinned by her assailant, the alien knife pressed to the hollow of her throat.
Gamora gasps a breath. "Are you not ashamed?"
All at once, the Widow's apparent calm drops away, like a curtain drawn aside, revealing bare white bones. A trembling breath, and she speaks.
"I wake up at three AM with the names of the dead caught in my throat. Every time I see an American flag, every time I hear the national anthem, I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. I can see everything burning in my wake, smell the smoke as it makes tears leak out of my eyes. I have had a child look me full in the face, and ask me why I slashed her father's throat, why I filled her mother's stomach with Soviet bullets — and I didn't have an answer for her, but now I do. So listen well, otherworlder."
Gamora opens a clean gash along the Widow's jaw. The impulse to wound is too strong to resist, though inflicting pain will not quell the silent storm churning within Thanos' daughter.
The Widow winces, but her voice never falters. "I was young, and tortured, and deceived. I was a weapon in the hands of cruel and thoughtless men. I did what was necessary to survive. Given the chance to change the past, I would do it all again."
"How can you possibly —"
Abruptly, the Widow seizes Gamora's wrist. The alien could easily break her hold, could at last bring judgment for this woman's dark deeds, but something stays her hand.
"I am not sorry," the Widow says, unblinking. "But that doesn't mean I'm not ashamed."
They look at each other, and an understanding passes between them. They are not alone in their blood-soaked records, and in this, they are bound. But tomorrow is a journey they must walk alone, and they will both forge paths. There is no other way to atone for their demons than to live, and to love.
Gamora's breath hitches. "I should kill you."
"But you won't," the Widow snaps, "because you are weak. Because you could never make the hard choices." A shadow crosses her face. "You would be dead if you had suffered as I have."
"I know suffering," Gamora says, "as well as I know the coldness of a knife in my hand. But I am strong enough to bind the wounds I once inflicted, and to see to it that I do not make another woman suffer." Slowly, she lowers her knife. She swallows hard. "Go, Black Widow," she says, rising to her feet. "Go and build something out of the ashes you left behind."
Black Widow hesitates for the barest instant. When she runs, she does not look back.
~x~X~x~
No matter how many deaths that I die, I will never forget.
No matter how many lives that I live, I will never regret.
There is a fire inside of this heart,
And a riot about to explode into flames.
Where is your god? Where is your god? Where is your god?
~ "Hurricane," 30 Seconds To Mars
~x~X~x~
A/N: The Badoon aliens are from the current series of Marvel comics entitled, THE LEGENDARY STAR-LORD.
The planet that Rocket mentions, Arcax Delta, is completely my invention, as is the incident on said planet.
In this short piece, I wanted to underscore both the similarities and the tensions between Gamora and Natasha as characters. They have both been assassins, pawns of higher powers with evil intent — but the former woman now acts as a moral compass for those around her, while the latter has flexible standards and a blood-soaked ledger that will never go away.
The reference to Dreykov as the one who placed the bounty on Natasha refers to A) Loki's mention of Dreykov's daughter during the interrogation scene in AVENGERS and B) the aftermath of my take on who Dreykov was in BE MY SHIELD (FIVE TIMES WE TOUCHED), another of my fanfics.
My take on Natasha's thoughts regarding her many crimes was heavily inspired by a line from the collected comics entitled, BLACK WIDOW: THE NAME OF THE ROSE, in which Natasha refers to her past as "the dark things that I do not regret, but will never speak of."