The days since Natasha had hung up on Tony Stark had flown by in a blur. Resisting the urge to lean against the wall in spite of her aching muscles, she waited outside a non-descript chamber in a similarly clinical building in Washington, still and focused. People bustled past her – it seemed even talk of nuclear war could turn dull if it were dressed in a suit. Every few moments, her thoughts rebelled against all her years of training and wandered to Steve and Sam, from whom she hadn't turned a word since they had disappeared after Bucky Barnes. She considered him carefully, uncomfortably conflicted between the ruthlessness she had sensed from a mile away and the softness that Steve insisted remained.
A door clicked open to her left.
"Agent Natasha Romanoff," a sullen-faced usher held the door for her, nodding curtly as she passed him. The smell of commercial disinfectant and foul plastic watercoolers made her jaw tense, even more so than being led into a wide chamber, facing down S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth?" The bailiff clearly had better places to be – the boredom he wore like a mask painfully obvious.
"I do."
The committee general launched into a diplomatically restrained tirade concerning Steve's whereabouts, the threats they had created and the glaring holes in national security that, in Natasha's opinion, were rather more HYDRA's responsibility than hers. She told him as much.
"Agent," interrupted a stern, thin-faced man, "you should know that there are some on this committee who feel, given your service record, both for this country and against it, that you belong in a penitentiary, not mouthing off on Capitol Hill."
Natasha well understood the gravity of her situation, but she could not help giving a small smile. Squaring her shoulders, she told him that would not happen. That they were all needed, desperately and perhaps now more than ever, although she was careful to leave out the mounting number of times that Tony Stark had called her. Without another word, she allowed the committee general a curt nod and strode away. The stunned silence brought her an amazing sense of satisfaction.
Her phone started up again. In the old days, secret agents weren't in the habit of carrying phones – too traceable – but the world had an annoying tendency to change, and now it never left her person.
Mental exhaustion was not something that she enjoyed, but something that she knew well. She'd fought it, fought it tooth and nail and had largely been successful but, when she heard the short, sharp buzzing of her phone, the thought of having to work with Tony Stark again brought that exhaustion flooding back. It wasn't, she mused, that she thought he was anything less than a hero, intent on self-doubt and killing himself to save the world. It was that danger seemed to follow him – not your run-of-the-mill danger, spies, espionage, that sort of thing, that she was well used to. The sort of danger that came from space. And had gilded horns.
She finally moved to answer it. A joyful smile came to her lips when she saw Bruce Banner's anxious face pop up on the screen (the photos had been Clint's idea; he had one of her on a carousel). She gladly answered it.
"Bruce?"
"Nat, you and Rogers have gotta get back to the tower." It wasn't unusual to hear his voice crack – he had every right to be a nervous man – but that uncertainty was new.
"Why, what's up? Why has Tony been calling us?"
"Thor's back; and he's brought someone with him."
… … …
Well, that had been a bust. Walkman in hand, Peter Quill had been innocently – perhaps the wrong word, but not explicitly doing anything wrong – busting a move across the barren fields of Morag, looking fabulous, if he may say so himself. Cold and wholly unwelcoming, the least the godforsaken planet might have done is yield him something worth the effort. The orb, perhaps. But no, nothing but an admittedly fascinating selection of rocks and a slight tickle in the back of his throat. These were his paltry souvenirs as he boarded his ship, hacking at controls as he took off into space once again. He muttered to himself, cursing wildly.
On Earth, he had known many that said they would never grow bored of deep space. Infinitely beautiful star systems and nebula, endless planets to explore – who would ever want to give that up? What most full-blooded humans – particularly those from Missouri – didn't realise was that deep space was fucking huge. At least, that was Quill's take on it as his ship sped recklessly past an unfamiliar star system. He continued in this fashion for close to a day, until he came across something that piqued his waning interest.
Changing course, he hurtled towards the planet's surface. All around him, towering buildings that, while remotely earth-like, were somehow different. All darkness and burnished gold starkly contrasted with the bright sky.
Setting the ship down on a small, hopefully abandoned piece of land, he asked his ship to run recon.
"Planet: Hala. Star system: Pama system. Inhabitants: Kree and Cotati. Threat level: medium to moderate."
He liked those odds. Medium to moderate translated, roughly, of course, to a long night of mischief on his part. Stepping out and looking around, he was struck by the freshness of the air and the glaring shininess of everything. They weren't the most eloquent of thoughts, but they came quick and unbidden.
Wandering down the alley that appeared to lead into a city, he felt the unfathomable urge to cling to the walls as he moved. At the end, a group of blue-skinned men spoke in hushed tones, something bulky and metallic being passed between them. Quill kept walking, drawn helplessly by the potential for trouble.
He froze when another of them rounded the corner, this one clothes in armour, gun on his hip. The conspirators scattered, propping the device against the wall, but sadly not quickly enough. He spoke harshly to the group, spittle flying from his lips. From where he had ducked into a doorway, Quill could make out very little of what they said; only the guard's name came out in fearful tones as he ushered them away: Yon-Rogg.
When the sounds of receding footsteps faded to silence, Quill emerged from his hiding place.
With very little thought, Quill grabbed the abandoned device and looked it over hurriedly. Until the guard returned, uncontrolled anger rolling off his tongue.
"Who goes there? Stop!" he would never admit it to another living soul, but his assailant was far larger and probably better trained than him. Turning on his heel, Quill ran through the immaculately laid out streets, back to his ship. Tossing the device onto an unused chair, he took off without entering any co-ordinates or attempting to adjust the speed for the planet's atmosphere, which made for a rather bumpy exit. Shots flew past his window, one puncturing the glass. Cursing loudly, he flipped a few switches and sent full power to the engines, which roared in protest. He also returned a few shots for good measure.
The sleek ships of the planet's guard were fast but his old faithful was faster. He dodged their shots as if it were instinct – which, at this point, it was – relishing with glee in the dazzling flips and turns he performed as they gave chase. He doubled back, wheeling in the atmosphere, and it was beyond too late for them to catch up.
The device rattled as he left the atmosphere, the whole ship bumping and rattling his head. Familiar adrenaline, fresh and surging, was his reward as he left Hala behind. Setting the ship to cruise, he stood and took the device – which appeared to be a weapon – in his hand and examined it closely. Fascinating and a little enchanting, it ticked all his boxes for a successful trip.
He smiled, jabbing in some co-ordinates, finally, into the console.
To Xandar it was, then.