A/N - First of all, thank you so much for the lovely response to this story. I wasn't expecting it to get the love that it has and I've been a little blown away by it. I'm so grateful for all of your favourites, follows and reviews so thank you!
I did originally have plans for this to be a longer one-shot, only to cut it back when the first chapter became something of a monster while writing it. Hopefully I'll be able to explore those ideas more deeply by the story's end. With that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter!
It feels like a shadow has been cast over the world. A hush stalks Nebula like a ghost as she wanders the palace halls, each footstep seeming muffled when it should be echoing far and wide.
It's been a while since she lost Rocket on her travels. Though she barely knows him, his absence feels like a missing limb; amplifying her isolation more than curious looks from passers-by ever could. That's the problem with being trapped on a planet so uninvolved with space travel. She can go nowhere without sticking out like a sore thumb – without being studied under lingering gazes – and her desire to wander back to the ship threatens to overwhelm her once or twice. Not that there'd be any point in that; she has nowhere to go.
She tours the quiet halls with muted interest, keeping her head down whenever she passes stoic guards or weeping civilians. Her presence is known to them at least – courtesy of the bearded stranger called 'Steve' - and she faces no resistance as she wanders aimlessly.
If she'd been in the mindset to appreciate it, she may have found the palace beautiful. Each room bathes her in warm gold, a stark contrast to the black caverns of her childhood, and tall windows showcase a landscape that must be stunning when not clouded over by ash. Night fell hours ago and a pale moon acts as the only source of relief from the dark, with the evacuated city still and silent beneath it. She wonders what it would have been like to see this country thrive, before Thanos snapped his fingers and sent the universe into ruin.
It is strange, she thinks, to have such a clear divide between past and present. A single action on Thanos's part has split history into 'Before' and 'After,' and she doubts anyone truly knows how to adapt to that.
She doubts her father even knows.
She shakes her head, wiping such musings from her mind, and settles for simply moving forwards. She focuses on her breaths which are still too forced for comfort; on her fists clenched at her side; on the constant ache, as damaged cybernetics announce themselves one by one. The effects of being systematically taken apart by Thanos, followed by her defeat on Titan, have finally declared themselves. She knows she will have to find somewhere to do repairs soon.
Not yet though. For now, the pain is a comfort. An anchor that keeps her in the present, dissuading thoughts of Thanos and Titan and 'Where is Gamora?"
Any degree of physical agony is better than reliving those horrors again.
Gold shifting to blinding white has her glancing upwards, and she realises that her wanderings have taken her to the medical wing. 'Stark' she thinks with a twinge of concern, knowing she'll either find him here or in a crypt. Hopefully the former, though what he'd prefer is likely a more complicated matter.
She wanders the endless corridors, past medics in spotless white robes who watch her with suspicion but otherwise say nothing, and glances into every room. This must be where the wounded from the battle were taken. Most rooms contain soldiers barely out of their armour, discarded weapons lying by their sides, and she recognises a fair number of claw-marks and bite wounds from Thanos's horde. The nurses spared in the slaughter look like they haven't slept in days, dried tear-tracks implying they're working through their grief. Nebula supposes there must be a certain desperation to keep as many alive as they can. Their planet has already lost so much.
In the end, she's directed towards Stark's room by a small, white-haired woman with pale skin; one she vaguely recognises from her arrival here. The woman escapes quickly enough – either for food or sleep or space to grieve her losses - but Nebula pays her no more mind and follows her hurried instructions. Two flights of stairs take her up to the private quarters, and she emerges onto a quiet corridor with dimmed lights. She takes in the number on each door, letting distant rhythmic beeps guide her, and she only stops when she reaches Room 10 as the woman had instructed.
There's no need to venture inside. The door hangs open, bathing her in a soft orange glow from a bedside lamp, and she sees Stark lying asleep on the bed.
He's no longer alone. The man who'd been the first to approach when they landed - 'Rhodey' Steve had informed her – is curled up on an armchair having dozed off himself. There's a woman with orange hair and puffy, tear-stained cheeks sleeping in a chair of her own; head resting awkwardly on Stark's chest while her hand clutches his so tightly it must hurt. Stark looks as fragile as he did back on the ship – perhaps more so. Nebula's eyes follow the tubes attached to his arm and face, feeding blood into his veins and air into his lungs while he sleeps. The sight makes her skin crawl - too similar to her own experiences of being tied to a table and taken apart piece by piece - and there's only a minute comfort to be had in seeing his chest rise and fall with every breath.
"He's going to be okay," a voice announces behind her. She spins sharply in response, reaching for the concealed dagger she'd stolen from a weapons store earlier. She only calms when she takes in her visitor's face; watches him raise his hands in playful surrender while giving her a small smile that seems to require a lot of effort. "Sorry. I should stop doing that."
"Yes, you should," she responds coldly, but she lets herself relax all the same. She still feels highly strung, as though the slightest noise will set her off, but Steve's eyes are kind and she manages not to flinch as he joins her by the doorway.
"It's lucky you got him here when you did," he says, his voice a low whisper though his tone betrays his gratitude. Nebula can only scoff at the idea of them having luck on their side, but she doesn't interrupt. "The doctors said it might only have taken another hour for him to bleed out."
An hour. That's how close she'd come to being left alone on a ship that didn't even belong to her. She wonders if there's anything more she could have done – anything to grant him more time - but she knows deep down that she wouldn't have known where to start. She's accustomed to running repairs on her own body and piecing broken machinery back together, but organic human beings are beyond her skillset.
She knows how to stop their hearts, not keep them going.
They stay like that for a few moments, trapped in comfortable silence. Stark remains still on the bed, as does Rhodey as he dozes on his perch. Even the woman's movements are minute; a small frown and a shift of her position, until her head comes to rest over Stark's heart and she visibly relaxes.
"They're going to be married soon," Steve says, probably more to himself than to Nebula. Such domesticity is a foreign concept to her. The closest comparison she can draw is that of Gamora's love for Quill, and that's not something she wants to dwell on right now. "It's hard to imagine him settling down."
Steve backs away from the door with an exhausted sigh, and Nebula glances his way long enough to see him slump onto an uncomfortable chair. He runs a hand through his messy hair and huffs a shuddering breath, and the moment feels so private that she's forced to look away.
"What happened out there? Tony couldn't tell us," he manages after a pause, and she doesn't need to ask to know that 'there' means space. Titan. From what she's gathered Stark had vanished without warning, casting doubt over whether he was even alive. The intricate details of what occurred billions of miles away likely haven't been shared yet.
"Same thing that happened here," she replies, unwilling to elaborate beyond that. Especially if Stark has been unable to open up himself. "We lost."
It's not enough. The silence following her words feels crushing and she closes her eyes as she's forcibly dragged back to Titan. Back to Thanos batting them away like flies, and once-living allies drifting away like smoke.
"There was a child with him," she adds, because it feels important somehow. The boy's death had dealt a heavier blow to Stark than his wound had, and it's what's going to linger like a disease even as his body physically heals. Just as Gamora's loss will leave a permanent scar within her own chest. "He didn't make it."
She looks back at Steve and watches as confusion melts into dawning realisation, and he closes his eyes before burying his face in his hands.
"The boy from Queens," he says, the words escaping on a breath.
"Peter, I think," she confirms, vaguely recalling Stark saying his name on the ship.
Steve brushes a hand across his face and seems to blink back tears, refusing to let them fall while someone watches. He rises to his feet with an exhaustion that makes him seem older than his years, before rejoining her as though to ensure himself that Stark is still breathing; still there when so many others are gone.
A thought occurs to her then and she finds herself asking, "How many people lived on this planet?"
He glances at her for a moment, as though only now realising she is inhuman – that this world is not her own - and the pause lasts so long she doubts she'll receive an answer.
"Close to eight billion, I think," Steve murmurs, and she thinks the jolt that strikes her must hit him too. Almost four billion people are dead on this planet alone. Everyone from children to the elderly, rich to poor, civilian to warrior. The number doesn't feel remotely real; too substantial to comprehend.
They're all gone. Because she failed to kill Thanos; because neither the Guardians nor the Avengers nor anyone else could stop him from snapping his fingers.
Because Gamora bargained for your life and lost her own, Nebula remembers, and she's surprised the knowledge doesn't make her run away in shame.
She sees a grey tinge to Steve's face alongside a haunted stare that no longer acknowledges the room's occupants, and she knows she isn't the only one with blame resting on her shoulders.
"I heard you know Rocket and Groot," he says after what feels like hours, breaking from his trance and reaching for anything else to talk about.
Nebula can't help but feel regret at the mention of the tree. He had only been a baby when she'd seen him last, and she's surmised enough about Rocket to know that losing Groot must have been agonising enough on its own. He was already drowning in loss by the time she told him what happened to the others.
"Know them?" she asks, because it feels ridiculous to phrase it that way. She's fought them and fought with them, has stayed on their ship once or twice, but the only thing linking them had been Gamora. With her gone, Nebula doubts she can truly consider Rocket a friend, but he's the only one left who knows her beyond her reputation. The only one who might understand what she's lost.
She can't even begin to comprehend how that happened, but she knows her sister is to blame.
His absence gnaws at her, reminding her again of how isolated she is on this planet. In his grief there's no telling what he's up to, though she doubts it's anything good.
"I should look for Rocket," she announces, pushing away from the doorframe and casting a final glance towards Stark. She envies him for being able to indulge in unconsciousness, no matter how briefly, but she knows his pain will return when he wakes and she'd rather not be here when it does. "He's probably gone and blown something up."
Steve smiles weakly, turning to watch her go, and the burn of his eyes on her back makes her pause for a moment.
"I'm sorry for your losses," she mutters, an empty courtesy she's heard all too often between grieving families in the halls. It's become as fitting a saying as 'goodbye' of late. Everyone has lost loved ones after all.
Steve acknowledges the words with a small nod, his expression momentarily betraying grief before he pushes it aside. "I'm sorry for yours too."
Nebula lingers only for a moment - the image of Gamora's face shrouding her in ice for a fleeting second - before she turns and leaves him without another word.
It doesn't take long to locate Rocket's whereabouts.
The palace has quietened further and the lights have been dimmed to accommodate the late hour, but she imagines any sleep the inhabitants get will be restless. She can't remember the last time she herself slept. Rest isn't something that tends to come naturally, though she cannot run from it forever regardless of her wishes. In spite of Thanos's many 'improvements' to her body, the basic requirement of sleep has stubbornly remained.
She can last longer than most, however, and she comfortably slips through the shadows in search of the creature she lost hours before. The moon is at its highest peak, casting the palace in a pale glow, and it's almost peaceful enough to make the silence bearable.
Almost.
Her first glimpse of Rocket is a tiny movement at the corner of her eye as she passes what looks like a ballroom, decorated with intricate gold tendrils snaking across the walls. Rocket is at the far end of the hall, sat by a bar that reminds her of dingy cantinas where she would hide following her desertion of Ronan, albeit without the accompanying grime, blood and shattered glass. She approaches carefully as he takes a swig from a bottle almost a large as he is, an empty one already toppled over beside him. He's drunk, or on his way there if his trembling hand is any indication, and he slams the bottle on the counter once he's had his fill.
She should have thought to come here earlier. There are only so many places one can go when they find out they've lost everyone they love.
Rocket's ears twitch upon sensing her approach, and he clutches his head in his hands as though to avoid facing her. She remains silent as she settles on the stool across from him, eyeing the bottle herself and wondering if it will make her feel anything. Her liver was replaced years ago and she's never experienced the indignity of being drunk, but there's plenty of alcohol waiting in the bar if she's willing to test her limits.
She's seen what it does to people. Perhaps it'd be enough to make her forget these past few days.
As though reading her mind, Rocket nudges the bottle across the counter and finally acknowledges her with an expression that isn't filled with bitter loathing.
"You should try this," he says, trying to keep his voice light with considerable effort. "The humies call it 'scotch'. Feels like you're pouring fire down your throat, but it's good."
She scans the bottle with some trepidation, before casting any doubt aside and taking a healthy swig of its contents. It does indeed feel like fire – a pleasant burn which trickles down her throat and settles in her chest – and it beats the tasteless swill she's used to on backwater trading planets. She sets the rest aside however, knowing that if she starts now she'll never want to stop and she needs a clear head. There's no telling when the next threat will arrive.
"You're going to kill yourself," she notes, eyeing up the finished bottle lying on its side along with the half-empty one she's just sampled. She's vaguely aware that Rocket's cybernetically enhanced as she is, but there's probably some limit to what his organs can take.
Not that he seems to care. Her words elicit little more than a shrug and a muttered "Tha's the plan," that doesn't seem entirely in jest. Venom grips Nebula and she feels herself seethe on Gamora's behalf, wondering what her sister would say if she were here to see him now.
Only Gamora isn't here. That's the problem.
"You can't avenge them if you're dead," is all she says, and Rocket glares at her with a raised eyebrow intended to mock. She assumes they're both thinking the same thing; that there's little point in chasing revenge now. They'll still be left with nothing whether they get it or not.
Silence washes over them for a moment and Nebula lets her eyes drift shut. It's still too quiet. She misses the hum of engines that have accompanied her for most of her life, and the prospect of being stuck on one planet makes her tense.
At least here she might be given something to do eventually. She can run back to the ship now and leave this planet if she truly wishes, but her journey will be an aimless one if she does.
She opens her eyes, sees Rocket wipe a traitorous tear from his cheek, and notes that he hasn't touched the scotch since passing it over to her.
"I guess this is what happens when I jinx it and say I've got a lot to lose, huh?" he asks, staring at his hands in an attempt to hide his tears. Nebula doesn't understand what he's referring to, but his pain is clear enough. "How-"
He chokes on the question and closes his eyes before continuing. Not that he needs to; a chill has already settled over Nebula upon realising what he's about to say.
"How did it happen?"
"How did they die?" is what he really wants to ask, but Nebula imagines that might be too final. The Guardians were always larger-than-life - sometimes unbearably so - and thinking of them in the context of death feels unnatural.
She quarrels with the answer for a moment, wondering if it's something he's truly ready to hear. Explaining Mantis and Drax and Quill will be easy. Rocket has already seen the same happen to Groot, by all accounts. Gamora though... Nebula isn't sure how to approach that. She's not even sure herself how her sister died – whether or not she suffered – and the uncertainty makes her feel sick.
In the end she decides on a somewhat comforting lie. The truth – if Rocket ever decides he wants it - can wait.
"The same way it happened with everyone else," she says dully, envisioning their slow disintegration with sickening clarity. "It was quick. Painless. They didn't even know what was happening."
Rocket studies her intensely, as though having sensed the crucial omission, but then he seems to deflate in front of her eyes. Neither of them have the energy to do more than sit and dwell on what's been lost, wondering why they are all that remain. She knows Thanos's purge was indiscriminate, but it still feels wrong that they are the last two standing of their shared family.
"What happens now?" Rocket asks with a softness that's unlike him, and Nebula wishes she knew the answer beyond the obvious.
"We kill Thanos," she responds. The words sound empty to her ears, but they seem to be enough for Rocket. He glances at her with something that might be trust, trust she hasn't earned, before releasing a sigh and reaching once more for the scotch.
He doesn't drink from the bottle immediately. Instead, he raises it above his head with a mock cheerfulness that fools neither of them.
"To the biggest idiots in the galaxy," he toasts, before taking one last swig and leaving the bottle unfinished on the counter. He doesn't utter another word before leaping off the stool and scurrying away with only the slightest hint of a drunken stumble. Nebula imagines he's running off to build a makeshift arsenal of weapons purely as a distraction.
Perhaps that's not the worst idea in the world.
She sits alone for a few moments, eyeing the abandoned scotch with renewed interest, before casting temptation aside and rising to her feet. She needs to get some rest whether she wants to or not, and a sharp pain in her leg reminds her there's still repair-work to carry out.
What'll happen after that remains uncertain. She has a lot of work to do if she truly wants to destroy Thanos however, and she's wasted more than enough energy on grief.