Stone age love and strange sounds too
Come on, baby, let me get to you

- Lyrics from Cherry Bomb

Chapter Four: Setback

Asteria-III

An eerie sensation pulses through the air. My heart stops in my chest and nostrils flare as I catch a whiff of a unique, but powerful odor I've only experienced three times in my life. The first time was a few years before I was abducted by the Ravagers. A time when I got caught in a powerful lightning storm on a warm spring afternoon back in my home state of Missouri. But that first incident was nature, now, as an adult, I associate this awareness as that 'holy shit' moment that causes all the hair on your body to salute military style. Yup. I'm probably not going to wake up for a few days, and if I do, there's bound to be a whole lot of discomfort. No time to drop, duck, or cover before hitting the ground because any second now…

Zzzzsssssssstttttttoooooowww. BOOM.

1.) Blinding light. 2.) I feel more than I hear the sonic explosion.

Wow.

I'm still alive. For the eighty-ninth time, my helmet saves the day. Miraculously, the metal plates and astro-wear lining cushion my skull from concussion and fracture, and, thank the celestials, muffles the deafening roar of warfare.

From my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Rocket mobilizing at breakneck speed, laughing maniacally while projecting a stream of energy bolts from his duel-launcher pack. Another large explosion shakes the ground, the source of which appears to be coming from the direction of the deathly weapon that nearly split me in two.

Pulling away from underneath a pile of rubble, I fire up my jets, "time for a better perspective," I mumble aloud, bursting upwards from my near rocky grave. My mind gravitates back to our Guardians on the frontline. I can only hope that Drax and Gamora are faring better in their attempts to rescue captives from the slave encampment.

Meanwhile, Rocket and I are in charge of securing the entry and exit port.

"They gotta be making a dent, otherwise we wouldn't be getting so much attention," I recognize Rocket's voice cutting through the battleground as he powers up his own jet boots and levitates beside me, disarmingly eye-level. My helmet streams in a bulk of new data, readjusting its sensors in an attempt to locate the next burst of energy, "You okay, Quill?"

"Never better."

"They got some firepower, eh? And it just about fried you."

I am less than amused that Rocket doesn't seem that put out about my near death experience. I mean, as he said, I was nearly incinerated.

"Gamora inherits the Milano," I offer, needling Rocket to the best of my ability while I wait for the info in my helmet to process into data I can quantify, "so don't get your hopes up. Anyway, my sensors are picking up a huge build up of energy near the far side of that main section, three levels up."

"Don't misread my amusement, Quill," Rocket growls back, pulling a small electronic pad from his side pouch and pointing it in the direction of the location, "Some of the weaponry these chumps are using is just lightin' up my brain with delightful fantasies! They got some good shit, Quill."

"You can plunder all you want my furry little friend, but first we gotta get our Guardians, and the captives, safely cleared."

I pause. Something's amiss. Dammit. It's way to quiet.

"Gamora? Drax?"

Nothing. Damn. My gut is a pretzel.

"Rocket! I want that ground transport near our exit route ASAP."

"But Quill," Rocket frets, "the closer they get to the barricade, the more likely the transport is gonna get blown up too."

"Yeah. But we need perfect timing. And look at…"

"Giant turd!" Rocket gasps, "I see it, Quill. I'm on it. I'll notify transport."

"That's gotta be them, right?" But per usual, I'm talking to no one, as Rocket is already on his way to ensure the transport makes it on cue. Well, I've got to hand it to the little rodent. He can flip a lot of shit, but when things get real. Rocket gets real too.

The rest of what I remember is a blur. I remember watching a growing dust cloud transform into a host of humanoid captives running for their lives. The frightened humanoids jet-line towards an opening we blasted into the barricade less than two hours prior. But instead of running with them, I'm flying towards them, directly into a jet of red energy bolts, the opposite of what my gut is telling me to do.

My eyes scan the back of the pack, I'm looking for Drax's immense form almost as much I'm trying to spot the frame of a much smaller green woman. Where the fuck are they? But before I can swear aloud, I am able to make out their obvious outlines just in time to see why they are waylaid. It's incredible, really, as both Guardians have two small beings strapped to them. Celestials know, they are moving forward as fast as they can, but it's hard with all the extra weight, the pivoting, dodging death rays, and the constant need to fire back.

Me? I'm glad you asked. I've double barrels in each hand, firing so furiously, that days later my fingers cramp from all the pressure and repetitive motion. Don't mess with Star Lord. I'm all kinds of adrenaline as I weave frenetically in and out of the dusty atmosphere. Nothing pulls me away from my homicidal haze until I hear Gamora's voice screaming into my ears: "Dammit, Quill. Retreat!"

At the end of the day, the Guardians of the Galaxy save a whopping 57 captives: mostly men, but some are women and children. I won't lie. It's not exactly a happy ending, for we lose 6 captives during the rescue - although it's important to note that none of the casualties are children. And that's primarily thanks to Drax and Gamora, whose personal efforts kept four little ones: three girls (two under the age of ten) and one boy alive.

So at the close of our mission, our grateful hosts desperately want us to stick around. In fact, they are trying to give us extra material goods, weapons, food, and in a few cases their women, i.e., anything poorer folk can offer you to say thanks when they don't have the financial wherewithal. In reality, this is hard for me to swallow. I feel unbelievably miserable about the entire affair. I mean, I'm tremendously proud of the Guardians. Pleased like hell that we can be of service. But all of this? It's super hard, (even for this hybrid thief), to watch our hosts try to give us the shirts off their own backs. Even Rocket is noticibly uncomfortable. And dude, that's saying a lot.

We huddle in the corner of the main recovery unit, Drax interacting with the two little girls he rescued. It is heartwarming, and heartbreaking at the same time, to watch Drax engaging in a fatherly/protective role – just as he might have at the same age with his daughter.

"See, Quill?" Drax smiles, "Just like the A-team. Right?"

"Right."

But, per usual, it's Gamora that has me mesmerized. I quietly observe her help the older girl untangle her long unkempt hair. With methodical care, Gamora using her knife skillfully (and aesthetically) to cut out several matted sections near base of the child's head. Perhaps the rescued boy, who remains close by Gamora's side, is a sibling?

"Thank you for taking care of us." The boy smiles shyly.

Gamora's kindness radiates. She stoops down to brush some dirt from the boy's forehead, "you're going to be okay." And then opens up to face both of them, "you're both going to be just fine."

"Please don't go," the boy pleads.

My emotions are stretched and pulled watching Gamora's best efforts to comfort the boy. She points towards me, "this is my family. Now that you are all safe, we've got to help others. People with the same level of need. And someday when you grow up big and strong…"

"Like Drax?" the boy nods towards me, "and that guy?"

"Yes," Gamora's smile widens, "Like Drax, and 'that guy' is Star Lord. Then both of you can help bring balance to the galaxy, too."

"Oh please," the boy implores, "please, please stay."

Gamora's bites her upper lip. Her eyes turn towards me, but instead of focusing on anything in particular, she looks through me. She's evaluating the situation, calculating the scenario. Finally, she gathers the boy's hand and leads him and the girl to a few elders near the far end of the room.

As Gamora makes to part ways, the boy won't let go of her hand. I feel tears forming... and I'm pretty sure that I can't do this. I can't break down here. And shit, Gamora is moving towards me. I quickly use my thumb and forefinger to wipe at the corners of my eyes. My anxiety swells. At any dammed moment the PTSD could flare up and I'll experience a panic attack in front of these strangers, in front of the Guardians...in front of her.

"Peter?"

She's the one.

Wait. Why should I hide my discomfort? My pain. My panic attack. Gamora knows me. Fuck it, Yondu. I'm letting Gamora in.

"Peter?"

"That was super, uh," I'm shaking my head because the words are not flowing like they should, "I mean, what you were able to do for those little guys..." I pause, trying to get out of my head.

Gamora arches an eyebrow, "Peter, are you okay?"

I nod slowly, and gain some comfort seeing that Gamora's feeling pretty caught up too.

I move towards her, compelled to brush a strand of her long dark hair from her eyes, but immediately freeze in terror when I see that the inside of her right arm is caked with dried blood. Celestials!

"Is all of that blood yours?"

Gamora is taken aback. She lifts her arm and inspects the deep crimson that rubs off on opposite fingertips. In response, I rapidly orbit her, manically looking for the source of the wound. She too, begins to search.

"Stop," I breathe, "let me...let me get a closer look."

Gamora stills. With trembling fingers, I carefully probe her outer wear until I locate a wide tear in her jacket below her armpit. My heartbeat increases as the adrenaline kicks in fast and furious.

"Peter."

"Yes?" I respond dutifully, my full focus is set on removing her jacket. I'm relieved that she's not fighting as my fingers fumble with the most ill-behaved zipper in the galaxy.

"It's okay. The blood is dry. I feel okay. You don't….."

But I'm not listening because this is not negotiable. I need to know.

"Peter, you don't have to find that something inside, like you said before, whatever helped…."

"Huh? Thing inside... Oh, you mean, find that something inside me that is incredibly heroic?"

"Peter. Do you need to do this?"

"Yes! Now, shhhh."

"No! I mean, do you need to keep carrying this? This, this…..this need to prove yourself?"

Phew. The zipper is finally working. And somehow I've managed to remove her jacket in a way that doesn't appear to cause her any discomfort.

"Peter!"

Universe! Gamora's undershirt confirms perforation. Blood has stained and saturated the already dark material, and through the process of drying, the fibers are no longer pliable. With the utmost care, my fingers gently ease the material back so I can get a better idea of the size and scope.

"Peter, it's not about my wound."

I stop. Two reasons. Yup. Now she has my full attention. Somehow Gamora's unwrapped me. Unpackaged me. Found it. Found my wound before I can inspect hers. And second, I stop because I can't peel up her shirt any further without exposing her uh, her….

I swallow the lump in my throat, "I'm trying. Really. And," her eyes are fixed on mine, and for the umpteenth time today, tears begin forming fast and furious. Dammit. One of the tears break free, and I feel it wind its way through my stubble, before pooling at the tip of my chin, I look away quickly wiping at my jaw.

After I regain composure, I feel her hands on mine. She squeezes both of them emphatically.

"Thank you," I manage to croak out, "I haven't had anything like this."

Gamora nods, then whispers, "Peter?" Her eyes motion to the lumbering giant headed our way as she silently mouths, "Drax."

Unclasping my hands, she slowly pulls away quickly adjusting her shirt and jacket.

"It turns out the girls only have one living parent." Drax's expression is crestfallen, "It's not going to be easy for them."

I nod, "I'm sorry Drax. This can't be easy for you."

"No. No it's not. They remind me of my little girl."

I don't know what to say, so I give Drax a hug, clapping my hand on his back. "They'll be okay, thanks to you."

"Yeah." Drax sighs reflectively, "You must be glad you didn't make us change course."

"Why would we change course?" Gamora arches an eyebrow while patiently waiting for an explanation.

Fuck, Drax. Really? I've just had a super fantastic connection with Gamora. And now this? This is not how the A-team works. Dude! BA does not question Hannibal! But then again, BA understood metaphors and had a dammed EQ. Celestials!

Chapter 5: Staying Alive, or something like that….