Disclaimer: Angela, Gamora, Peter Quill, Rocket Raccoon, Groot, Drax, and the Guardians of the Galaxy are the intellectual property of Disney. No copyright infringement intended.

If anything is horribly non-accurate to canon/continuity, I plead AU.

Hooked on a Peeling

Chapter 2

Angela was a lot more entertaining when she was drunk.

The Guardians were assembled at the bar. They were packed into a booth together, crowding around a table, a small mountain of bottles and glasses already growing before them. Now and then, waitresses came by, delivering drinks and top-ups and refills, and carrying off trayfuls of empties.

There was a question that had been bothering Peter Quill for some time, now, and tonight he intended to have it settled. "I gotta admit, Angela," he said. "I don't understand this fascination your people have for my world. You told us that you Heven guys tell stories about earth, yeah? You base your myths and legends around us, and all? I mean, you guys fly about, and you fight all these amazing beasts, and meanwhile humans are stuck in traffic jams. You go on these awesome adventures through space, and humans are stuck at desks, nine to five. I mean, where's the attraction? What's interesting about that? It's so weird, I just can't understand that. Why the hell would an angel from heaven be so obsessed with a dump like earth?"

"Yeah," Rocket said, nodding along. "I mean, Quill's human, and see how dull he is."

"I am Groot."

Angela was on her fifth beer. All the Guardians noticed that, when Angela began to get tipsy, her inebriation extended to her sentient ribbons. Normally, Angela's ribbons drifted and sailed exquisitely through the air, as elegant and graceful as their mistress. Now that Angela was in the process of getting thoroughly sloshed, however, they were lurching and lunging about, groping and fumbling their way over the table and around the chairs.

"Well, on Earth, there are children, for one thing," Angela said. She was in a garrulous mood, this evening. "Earth is filled with children." Angela gave a sudden laugh. "They are such peculiar, curious creatures! They are so small, and frail, and...and so innocent! They have so much to learn! So many mistakes to make. So much wisdom that they must acquire. I find them so fascinating. I always enjoy speaking with them, when I have the chance. They are always so eager to talk to me. They ask such amusing questions!"

Angela let loose a snort, and then put her beer to her lips.

Rocket pondered what he had just heard. When she was not serving with the Guardians, Angela spent much of her time exploring earth. Had none of them ever wondered what she actually got up to, when she was on the surface of the planet?

"Wait, wait, wait," Rocket said, holding up his paw for silence. "So, you're telling us that, on your off-time, when you wanna relax, you go down to Earth, and you hide in bushes and stuff, and spy on children?" Rocket turned to Groot. "They have names for people like that, don't they, Groot?"

"I am Groot."

"Oh, I was thinking of a much stronger word, Groot."

"I am Groot."

"Yeah, yeah." Rocket shook his glass at Angela, the beer sloshing about within. "That's what you are, Angela," he said, narrowing his eyes. "That's what you are."

A wistful look had come across Angela's face – she was peering into the distance, remembering some happy encounter that she had experienced, not long in the past. "Children are such delightful things!" she said. "They love my armour. And they love my ribbons so much! I let them hold them. Such fetching creatures..."

Rocket considered this. He decided not to comment further. He licked the beer that had accumulated on his whiskers.

Drax's voice rumbled up from the depths. "There are no little ones to be found in Heven at all, Huntress?" he said. "No children at all?"

Angela looked up, and stared at Drax. Then, she looked from one Guardian to the next. Rocket, to Groot, to Quill, to Gamora. They were all gazing at her expectantly. Were there any children in Heven?

Angela peered at them a few moments, and then she gave a snort. "Children in Heven?" she scoffed.

The rest of the Guardians watched as Angela leapt off her stool, and stood before them. She straightened herself, and spread her arms wide, her hair tumbling down her back, her ribbons fluttering to the floor.

"Look upon me," Angela said. Her voice was a rustle, a breathy whisper, full of wonder and mystery. "Look upon me. Have I ever been small, do you think? Have I ever been weak? Have I ever been tiny, and powerless? Look upon me, and ask yourselves: have I ever been helpless, and little, and afraid?"

Angela's arms fell to her side, and she shook her head. "No," she breathed. "I am Angela, a hunter of Heven. I have always been strong. I have always been fierce. I have always been quick, and merciless, and terrible. From the moment that was I was created, I have always been fearless, and powerful."

Angela climbed back onto her stool. She picked up her beer, and put it to her mouth.

Jaws were hanging open. A long, astounded silence was reigning in the booth.

"Wow," Rocket said, at last. "That's...that's some modesty, there."

Gamora leaned in close to Rocket, and whispered into his furry little ear. "If you think she's boastful after five beers," she said, "just wait until she's had ten."

()()()()()()()()()()()

Sometimes, Gamora told Angela stories about her childhood. She told her tales of her father: Thanos, the Mad Titan.

"Thanos is infatuated with Death," Gamora said. "And, by infatuated, I mean to say, amorously disposed. Romantically fixated. Obsessed. Death is a woman, you see. A personification of the end that comes to all. All of Thanos' atrocities and outrages, all his transgressions and evildoings – all have the ultimate objective of courting this woman with which he is besotted."

They were sitting together in a gloomy corner of the bar, Gamora shouting so that Angela could hear her over the blaring music. At the far end of the room, Quill and Rocket were watching while Groot and Drax engaged in an arm-wrestling contest. Groot was far too good-natured to let Drax lose – Drax, meanwhile, was far too prideful and vainglorious, and took it as a personal insult that someone would simply allow him to win.

"I am not some child that must be coddled!" Drax thundered.

"Yeah, betcha start crying like a baby the moment Groot smashes your arm through the table..."

"I am Groot."

"Guys, calm down..."

Gamora told Angela about her father. She kept it to herself, but Angela felt a distinct swell of pride at the fact that Gamora would choose to share such secrets and insights with her. When it came to Gamora, few in the galaxy were privy to such confidences.

"For some reason, Thanos thought it was appropriate to share his lustful fascinations with his little daughter," Gamora said. "From the time I was old enough to listen, I remember him talking to me at length about his devotion to this...this entity, this incarnation of death. When I was eight years old, I'd be playing with my toys, and he would be sitting there, waxing poetic about his all-consuming passion for her. When I was ten years old, we would be eating dinner together, and he would be ranting on about the desires that she stirred within him, the yearnings that this mysterious woman kindled deep inside him. When I was twelve, I would be doing my studies, and he would be moaning and lamenting upon how she never returned his affections, of how she never appreciated his love. Ugh! It took me years to realize how horrifyingly improper such behaviour is. Not to mention...you know...all the genocide and murder..."

Angela sat, and listened politely.

Now, Angela trusted Gamora. Angela knew that, when Gamora told her the stories of her father, Gamora was not lying to her. Angela knew that these stories were not fabrications, not falsehoods. No fiction, these. Such things happened.

And yet...

For some reason, Angela found these stories so difficult to believe. For some strange reason, these stories seemed so unlikely. So improbable.

Angela could not, for the life of her, imagine Gamora as small. She could not imagine Gamora as weak, as little.

Angela could not imagine Gamora with innocent eyes. Angela could not imagine Gamora with tiny hands that could never harm a soul.

To Angela, it seemed so much more natural to believe that Gamora was always as she was. To Angela, it made so much more sense to imagine that Gamora was always the deadliest woman in the universe.

Gamora was always tall and strong. Gamora was always pitiless and unafraid. Gamora could always wield any blade, could master any weapon in the galaxy. Gamora could always employ any firearm, could send a bullet anywhere she wished for miles and miles around. Gamora could learn any martial art, could acquire any combat skill. Gamora could conquer any enemy, could execute any target.

The notion of Gamora as a little girl – three feet tall, with big eyes and round cheeks and little delicate hands and dainty little feet...ridiculous. Absurd. Laughable. Nonsensical. It made no sense to Angela at all.

Gamora was always a warrior. Gamora was always an assassin, a soldier, a killer, a butcher of lesser beings.

A reaper of souls. An incarnation of death.

Gamora snapped her fingers. "You're staring again, Angela," she said.

Angela flinched. "My apologies, Lady Gamora," she said, adjusting her stance in her seat. "I am not properly rested. My focus wanders. I believe the earth expression is 'zoning out'."

()()()()()()()()()()()

"How does it feel...to be the last remaining member of your race?"

Gamora peered at Angela over the rim of her glass.

Peter Quill would have known far better than to ask Gamora such a question. Rocket, also. And Drax. And Groot. Had any other soul in the universe dared to broach such a topic, Gamora would have instantly smashed their face into the table. She would have broken her chair over their head. She would have shattered the glass in her hand, and held the shards to their throat.

As things were, however, Angela could venture places that others couldn't.

Gamora let the question linger a while, and then: "You may feel however you wish," she simply said.

Not a very satisfactory answer. Silence stretched for a moment, and then Gamora felt obliged to offer something more.

"I know you love your people," Gamora said. She wasn't sure why.

"I do," Angela said, firmly.

Gamora wondered how to continue. There was a jumble of words and ideas in her head, and for a few seconds she tried to force them into some sort of order...but then she simply gave up, and shrugged. "My people were dead before I could even walk," she said. "I never knew them. I never knew anything about Zen Whoberi culture. I don't know anything about the history of my people – their traditions, their customs." Gamora gave another shrug, and then sipped at her drink, and peered off into a corner. "Never really cared."

"How can you not care?" Angela said, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes were wide, and her fists were clenched – it seemed as though she was readying herself to fight some ideological battle that Gamora couldn't be bothered waging. "It must feel as though part of you is missing."

"I feel quite whole, thank you very much," Gamora said. She threw up her hands. What was Angela searching for, here? What did Angela expect her to say? "We are both the only living member of our species," she said. "The difference is: you miss your kind, and I don't."

Gamora wasn't quite sure why she said that. Perhaps she simply didn't want Angela to be deceived – perhaps she didn't want Angela to become invested in a similitude between them that didn't really exist. Perhaps she thought it best that Angela not become committed to a commonality between them that wasn't really there.

Sometimes I'm glad I never knew my people, Gamora did not go on to say, next.

Imagine if they were all taken from me, and I had nothing left of them but memories. Imagine if I had known my family. Imagine if I had known my mother and father. Imagine if I had friends, back on my home world.

Imagine if the Badoon killed them all, and I could remember them. Imagine if Badoon killed them all, and I had their ghosts to haunt me for my entire life.

That would be worse. Much worse. Better I never knew them at all.

There are enough holes in me, as it is. There are enough parts of me that don't fit, that don't make sense.

Gamora stole a glance at Angela, sitting across the table from her. Angela had fallen into a deep reverie – she was lost in thought, a million miles away, in a world of her own. Perhaps she was depressed by what she had just heard from Gamora. She was stooped in her seat, slightly – a rather uncharacteristic posture for a proud warrior huntress – peering absently at a spot on the floor.

Gamora studied Angela more closely.

There were red markings around Angela's eyes. Tattoos, if Gamora was forced to guess. They probably represented her belonging to Heven's Art of the Hunt.

There were ribbons, wrapped round Angela's neck, her waist, her arms, her legs, coiled round her chair, the table legs, the glasses before them, spooling all over the floor, stretching for metres and metres. Sentient ribbons, infused with the power of Heven. They were extremely effective weapons – Gamora could attest to that. Gamora had seen Angela strangle her enemies with those ribbons. Gamora had seen Angela wrap her ribbons around her opponent's arms and legs, and pull them apart. That little display had made Gamora slightly jealous. All of Heven's warriors possessed ribbons of their own, Angela had told Gamora, once. The living ribbons were one of the most distinctive things about Heven's armies.

Angela's golden armour – it offered little in the way of protection, though Gamora knew that Angela was enormously proud of it. Gold, polished to a shine. Wings extending from her hair, stretched wide. Angela's armour denoted her fame and renown as one of Heven's most skilled, most accomplished, most storied hunters. Only Heven's most celebrated hunters were allowed to wear that armour.

Markings of Heven. Ribbons of Heven. Armour of Heven.

A realization suddenly came to Gamora, and she snorted in amusement. A macabre twinkle sparked to life in her eyes. If Angela's people were dead, then Angela could have almost been said to be like like a living memorial to them. A walking, breathing, sword-wielding, blood-spilling monument to a dead race. A jumping, flipping, flying, dancing, kicking, punching, hacking, slashing, slicing, dicing, history lesson.

Angela was all that remained of Heven.

Just as Gamora was all that remained of the Zen Whoberi.

Now, Gamora admired Angela. Gamora respected Angela, and looked up to her, in a way, though she'd never admit such things so explicitly in a hundred years.

Angela was like a dependable make of firearm from a trustworthy manufacturer that never jammed and never misfired. Angela was like a blade that has been fashioned from the absolute finest metals and crafted by the most skilled, most competent smiths.

Still...

There was something about Angela that made Gamora uneasy. There was something about Angela that unsettled Gamora.

Gamora did not want to be a commemoration of the Zen Whoberi. Gamora did not want to become some monument to a fallen species – some living, breathing gravestone.

Gamora could never quite put her finger on it, but in a strange way, Angela was something of a spectre. A wraith. An after-image.

The Zen Whoberi were dead. Let them rest, Gamora thought. Just let them rest.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Gamora sneaked another glimpse at her companion.

Angela was idly spinning her glass around with her finger on the surface of the table. There was a vaguely sad look in her eyes.

For some reason, Gamora felt the obligation, then, to offer some sort of comfort.

"You have no proof that your people are dead," Gamora said. "There is no reason to believe that. At all. For all you know, you simply went adrift in space, and they're still there, exactly as you left them. Nothing has changed. They probably wonder where you went. They're probably just as puzzled by what happened as you are."

"They probably think I'm dead," Angela said, glumly.

Yes. They probably did.

Eighteen months, Angela had now lived in this galaxy. If they were alive, her people had probably assumed that she had been killed in battle, in some remote corner of Heven. They had probably come to the conclusion that Angela had perished in a struggle with some vicious creature, and her remains would never be found.

There was nothing unusual about hunters going missing. Nothing unusual at all about Heven's soldiers venturing into the stars in search of prey, and never returning.

"Will you get a memorial?" Gamora said. A remarkably grim question to ask, but...Gamora and Angela could speak of such things.

Angela nodded. "My name will be added to several walls, in various places," she said.

"And your collection of trophies?" Gamora said. "All the beasts that you've slain, and hung on your walls, over the millennia. What will become of them?" She raised an eyebrow. "They won't be destroyed, I hope?"

Angela looked up, and met Gamora's gaze.

Gamora could see a decision quickly being made in Angela's eyes.

"No," Angela said. "No. My wife will inherit those."

There was a commotion at the other end of the bar. Drax had finally imbibed enough alcohol to climb up onto the karaoke stage, though he still needed some forceful pushing from Rocket and Quill.

"Oh," Gamora said.