A/N: Had a scary moment today where I almost lost this. My evil computer hates me and froze on me as I was writing this. Thankfully, I finished it and the marvelous TerrorInYerTub has beta'ed this chapter. Thanks a bunch, Terra. You guys have all got her to thank for the in-character Yondu here. (He'd have been a bit of a softie if not for Terra hehe). Let's see, anything else you guys need to know before reading: This chapter is the actually beginning of the story. The first update was, a teaser of sorts, but here's where it really starts. I'm patiently laying the foundation for the next events. I've made this a bit longer to last you guys the week because, yes, I'm evil and will probably post within the week after this one.

Without further ado, do enjoy and review! C:


To the untrained eye, one of the darker moons in a system long forgotten by most would remain simply that: a moon. To those with age-old memories and necessity, it is anything but. It is everything to the three figures huddled within the safety provided by one of the last standing temples to Zen-Whoberi deities remaining in the galaxy. The cold stone doors are sealed tightly against the vacuum of space and the three figures are held safely within their first, a girl, is slumped against a pock-marked wall and wraps a thick dark cloth around her shivering green form. Her long hair falls to her hips, bound in an intricate braid. Her large, dark eyes are closed and their lashes tremble as dreaming eyes flicker beneath closed lids. The second, no bigger than a small dog, is curled up at her feet. His head is nestled on top of his white-ringed tail and his furry ears twitch every now and then at the various "bumps in the night".

The third, a rough creature as large as the temple itself, lays on his side with his thick oaken appendages folded round himself. A crown of leaves sprouts from his head, and his large eyes are wide as he stares into the fire which burns before the three. The dancing flames play with their shadows, throwing the shapes against the shadows splayed over the walls. The Zen-Whoberi, deep asleep, dreams of freedom. Her feet have sought it thus far, and she has set her heart for nothing less than freedom given her by flight. The raccoon, lost in a dreamless sleep, snoozes away the darkness with only the warmth of the fire and her familiar touch for comfort. The Groot merely remains there, amazed by the sparking dance of the flame as it thrives in the midst of its altogether short life, well aware of its danger to his particular species.

For the girl, parts of her memory leak into the dreams of her subconscious and she turns fitfully, her brows furrowing slightly. Darkness floods her mind, covering the blue skies of her dream with the pitch of night. Gratefully, stars emerge like small holes of light in the endless blackness. Then comes the Zen-Whoberi moon, gleaming softly in its rosy tones against the dark backdrop. She remembers, feels, running. The wind whips at her face and her torn garments as she tears through the clawlike branches of the shaded forest into which she runs. Her companion, the raccoon, is nestled safely in the pack on her shoulders. She remembers his perturbed cry as her foot dashes against a stone, stumbles and rolls head over heel into an unseen ditch. The raccoon growls in indignation, muttering something unintelligible and a sickening squish that tells them they'd fallen into a ravine. Thunder cracks overhead, and on instinct, she tightens her arms around the small bundle of fur for some semblance of comfort.

The intensity of the memory jerks her awake. She sits up, wiping away the cold sweat beading on her forehead. She waits a moment to open her eyes, taking in successively slow breaths to calm her rapid pulse. Then, only then, does she look about her and breathe a sigh of relief. She is no longer the hunted. She is safe, as are the Groot and the raccoon. She doesn't try to sleep in the passing of the next long hours and contents herself with watching the dying fire. The raccoon, however, remains curled up soundly asleep in her lap. With her other hand, she reaches down and absently strokes the soft fur between his ears. The embers of the puttering flame reflect in her gaze. As she stares into the whisping flames, she wonders (for the first time, in earnest) what will become of her.


He waits in the ship's hold, sitting on a dented metal crate. He rests his elbows on his knees and twiddles his thumbs with nothing better to do than wait for his boss, who happens to be a rather demanding Centaurian. He reaches into the pocket of his heavy leather coat and pulls the Walkman out of his pocket. Just as his finger hovers above the button to press it, a harsh knock echoes on the other side of the hold door. Peter hangs his head in disappointment, releasing a groan; nonetheless, he gets back on his feet and with a lazy kick to the nearby lever, opens the door. Yondu Udonta stands on the other side, in Ravager garb, his arms folded over his chest. His bronze mohawk (Peter can't help but smile at the thought; it must have a name, but he's never learned it. Also, the bronze plates look too much like a mohawk for him to call it otherwise.) glows a soft reddish hue. The arrow at his side hums softly as he steps into the hold and straightens his coat.

"Something funny, boy?" Yondu grunts in his Southern drawl. (How in seven hells does an alien pick up an accent? Peter wonders this.) The 'boy' snaps to attention with a quick shake of his head and kicks the lever again, watching the door slide back into closed position. After the creaking moan of the door locking into place, Peter sits back down and this time leans against side of the ship. He crosses his legs at the ankles and rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

"Am I laughing?" he rejoins. Yondu regards him with narrowed eyes long enough that Peter worries for his life. Mercurial as he is, the Centaurian breaks into a smile and slaps Peter's shoulder good-naturedly.

"Aven't lost that spirit yet. That's good. Yes, very good," Yondu remarks with a laugh. "So. You up for the job I message ya 'bout? Darned good pay we was promised." A pit settles in Peter's stomach at the man's words. He looks down and away from Yondu's gaze, focusing on a questionable stain in the grates under his feet.

"I'm out of it, Yondu. I don't…bad feeling and all that," he says in response. The arrow's hums become louder, and Yondu proceeds to berate him for going back on Ravager code and isn't he a man of honor and whatever happened to the appeal of promised wealth? He flinches against the man's overly loud tone but jumps to his feet, waving the man away as he walks by and paces back and forth. Peter shoves his hands in his pockets, then, wrapping his fingers around the Walkman. He's done all the hard thinking beforehand. What else could have possibly killed the time waiting for Yondu?

In that time, he had analyzed what the hell'd made him so uneasy about the job. A year ago, Peter Jason Quill would have leapt at the opportunity. It isn't because he's afraid; because, simply put, he isn't. It definitely isn't the money. If Yondu is right (and he is always right), the money (even split between the two of them) is enough to keep him comfortable for the rest of his short life. It could be that one time he'd almost gotten killed whilst caught in the crossfire of the last bounty job he'd taken. Could be. Don't tell Yondu that, he reasons with himself. He'll stop listening at 'afraid'. He still has the scar at the base of his abdomen to remember just how it had all gone to hell.

"BOY, you promised. A Ravager does not—" Yondu sputters.

"-double back, yada yada yada, I know. Yondu, I know. Listen, man, I know getting killed prematurely is one of the occupational hazard—I say that lightly—of this damned occupation. But may-bee," he draws out the word, "Maybe I don't want to die prematurely. Maybe I'd rather steal stuff and make good profit from it AND if I'm lucky, not get blown to pieces in the process."

He can almost see the fight go out of the gruff Centaurian. The latter lets his shoulders drop and heaves a sigh. "Son, have you ever been blown to pieces when I've asked you to do stuff like this?"

"Still here, aren't I?"

"Exactly. Which is why you're the man for the job. Not to mention the Zen-whatever king would have my head if we perchance dee-clined him. I happen to very much like my head, Quill. Might not be as pretty as an angel's, but I like it. You think you got your life all ahead've ya, boy? Who's the Ravager what gave you said life?"

Peter greatly resents the corner Yondu has driven him into. He can't very well decline the man who singularly saved his life and kept him alive for the duration of two decades. He owes Yondu too much. This job adds to that pile of 'too much'. It's for that reason that he relents.

"Fine. After this, I am out," he mutters, jabbing a finger at Yondu. He nudges the lever with his foot until it snaps into place. The mechanical door creaks open. "Now get the hell off my ship." The other man lifts his hands in mock surrender as he makes his way out. Just before he gets out of Peter's earshot, he laughingly remarks, "If you're still alive after this."


A/N: Thoughts? Whatever's on your mind, tell me in a review! Reviews = faster updates + more chapters.

Seriously though, what did you guys think? I did my best to write whatever I saw in my mind for these two, and I do hope I've gotten the idea across. You guys are the best readers, though, and I love ya. Read and review and stay fabulous! :D

p.s. There's a poll up on my page about the next stories I should write. Go check it out!