My love is alive
Way down in my heart
Although we are miles apart

- Lyrics from Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Chapter One: Combustion

"Take my hand."

The words fragment as the sound waves delay and deconstruct. Like there's an invisible barrier between mom's pale fingertips and the empty space where Grandpa gently prods me forward. Trepidation binds me, I stall at the edge of her hospital bed.

Somewhere deep inside, I know what's happening. All of my senses are beginning to fail in rapid succession, starting with the loss of peripheral vision; like paper exposed to flame, first curling unnaturally before transforming from warm mahogany to crisp obsidian. A searing chemical burn whips through my nervous system. My brain refuses to process the impending inevitability. Mom is leaving me.

Shutting down now, Pete. We're shutting down.

Is that my voice? Or grandpa's? Because mom's words are like gossamer, easily drowned out by the blood beating violently against the arterial walls that line my temple.

"Peter, take my hand."

I'm paralyzed. Combine that intolerable sensation with fading vision and the distinct loss of hearing, i.e., the terrifying product that derives from 1.) the deafening klaxon a medical device howls when a body flatlines and 2.) the insidious white noise that overwhelms just seconds before they lose consciousness. Overload. Any second now, and I am going to combust…..

I have failed.

I have failed mom's final request.

Peter, take my hand.

And now I am beyond ill. Mom was my champion, and I her little Star Lord. But now she's gone, leaving me utterly alone…. alone and pathetic, and so very vulnerable. How can I possibly survive the most devastating wound a child might sustain? I bawl and writhe, sobbing at the top of my lungs, yet no sound escapes.

Twenty-six years later….. and I am still ill. But I can't tell anyone.

No. I should clarify. I refuse to tell anyone, because most of the time I can't even think about it myself.

At any moment of the day or night, I can feel the wound as acutely as if the injury was inflicted yesterday. Never dormant, the trauma lies hidden beneath layers of scar tissue. But beyond the tough fibrous stratum, at any moment, the nauseating infection threatens to fester and spread.

Mentor, Yondu Udonta, believes the prescription is simple: build up a metric ton of physical and mental barriers, i.e., never allow anyone in.

And after years of gallivanting with Yondu's band of Ravagers, I've been exposed to a myriad of life forms' misery: similar ills and equally painful trauma. But should I flinch, or show any body language akin to "empathy," Yondu immediately intervenes, "Boy, that's the way of the universe, so quit with the debilitatin' Terran ways. Simpathsizin'! Heh! That kind of thinking will ruin you, boy!"

If Yondu's words don't set me straight, the sharp sting of his hand connecting with the side of my face certainly command my attention, "You're getting soft, boy! Cut that shit out."

So that's how I've been taught to cope and persevere. Yondu's education is clear: empathy is how "weak" life forms interact. And Yondu has prevailed by joining the opposite side of the spectrum, for Yondu is anything but weak. He's a survivor, and a fierce leader.

And me? What about Peter Jason Quill?

Yondu believes that my past behaviors can be rationalized by the fact that at age eleven, I was not much more than a damned Terran baby. But deep down inside, I feel like it is too late for me. I'm caught between two worlds, two philosophies, and it might be too late to rewrite set patterns. Mom planted the seed. And you can call it unconditional love, but whatever the case, by the time I was eleven, I'd grown accustom, (or "been conditioned," Yondu would growl in disgust), to the notion that relationships are built on trust, love, and vulnerability. And that it's okay, and actually necessary, to let someone inside.

Yondu couldn't disagree more. "Idiot boy! Mark my words. You ever want to amount to anything, boy? That Terran thinking is gonna be your downfall."

Following the events of this past year, I find myself in completely different circumstances. No longer a Ravager, nor mentored by Yondu, I've taken a sizable step towards independence. How? Despite great temptation, I opted to break from Yondu's principles, and take an honorable and responsible course of action. By doing so, the highly ethical Xandarians have offered me a second chance, and somehow believe I'm fit to keep an eye on four very unique, not to mention, potentially dangerous individuals. With me in tow, the five of us have been coined as The Guardians of the Galaxy. I know, no pressure, right?

So as we embark on our first of many adventures, crewmate and fellow Guardian, Gamora responds favorably to my first initiative with, "We'll follow your lead, Star Lord."

Well, it is my ship. But am I the lead? Are the Xandarians correct to presume that I can oversee this eclectic band of eccentrics?

We'll follow your lead, Star Lord.

Gamora's supportive response quashes any residual insecurity. Her left hand briefly comes to rest on my right shoulder, fingertips squeezing for added affirmation; the corners of my mouth twitch upwards; producing the first genuine smile I've worn in years.

She's the one.

Of all my Guardian cohorts, Gamora has been the driving force of nearly everything that's transpired thus far. So what the hell am I going to do? Somehow I've inherited a point of leadership. But can I trust my experience? I feel an undeniable connection to all of my new companions. But I can't shake the feeling that Yondu is right. Leadership and vulnerability are not meant to go hand in hand.

Celestials above, will I rise to this new challenge? Or combust due to the instability of my wound?

Up next: Chapter Two: Unrequited