A/N: *blows kisses because wow you guys are amazing* Here's the third chapter of In His Veins. Peter's perspective this time. I will be alternating between his and Gamora's until the two of them finally cross paths. What I love about AU fics is how you can play around just a bit with a story's characters; ergo, how I've changed Peter slightly. As my lovely beta TerrorInYerTub (thanks again, Terra!) pointed out, Peter here is the same as he was in the beginning of the movie: self-serving, caring only for himself, etc. I do hope I've kept him in character in that respect. If I haven't, let me know!

P.s. sorry this one's short! I tried to make it as long as the last one. :s

Enjoy!

Enough money to keep me comfortable.

This has been his mantra over the past few days, a conscious reminder of perhaps the only upside to this job. He's sitting in the cockpit now, reclining actually as he pulls a glowing blue screen down from up over his head. He taps the screen with his index finger. A transparent, three-dimensional map of nearby systems presents itself at the touch of his fingertip, and he leans forward to reach up toward the upper right corner of the map. He pinches a region of the map labeled 'Knowhere' between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds before releasing it with the flick of his wrist. The graphic blinks out of existence before reappearing moments later with a detailed magnification of the severed head of a celestial being known as Knowhere.

The corner of his lips upturns in semblance of a smile as he sets course for the spot. He punches three buttons in quick succession and relaxes back into the chair as the ship operates on auto-pilot. About an hour into the flight, Yondu's face flashes in a red square signaling his pending call. Peter rolls his eyes and swipes 'decline' across the base of the square. He takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. He pops up the collar of his coat and lets his eyes slip closed just as he tries (and fails) to stifle a yawn. He hadn't realized then just how tired he is. Could it be from the shore leave he'd taken last month? He had arranged for it years back and when the time rolled around, he took his leave. He'd spent half a year on Terra, both to drop under the radar and maybe get readjusted to what his life used to be many years ago. In the end, it hadn't been all it cracked up to be and left Peter somewhat disappointed. Which is why he left again. And why his sleep cycle has been turned on its head.

Yondu's visit couldn't have been more inconvenient, he thinks. Calls from the Centaurian (abrupt, demanding calls usually concerning a debt that needed to be paid) were an annoyance. A visit from the man always (he underlines always) spells trouble; more so even now that he has a distinctly unappealing mission to pursue a dangerous (if the stuff he'd read on Zen-Whoberis held any truth) creature in hopes of a bounty. To be honest, Peter would rather render himself (by dishonorable means) comfortably oblivious to anything remotely interesting. He most certainly would not prefer to deal with an angry Zen-Whoberi female. Had my fair share of a woman's fury, he scoffs, shuddering as he remembers that particular species' lethality.

Fortunately, a soft beep from the dash distracts his attention, and thoughts of angry Zen-Whoberis melt away in an instant. He blinks his eyes open and sits up, lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms out in front of him as he also stretches his back. With a contented sigh, he swipes in a downward motion upon a screen at his left. The motion causes the screen to shift and display a message depicting a live camera feed of a crowded street. At the base of the feed, the word 'Knowhere' glowed softly. He shifts his gaze to the windows of the cockpit and looks out the same crowded street. "So it begins," he mutters under his breath, closing all screens and pulling a lever near his left foot. The hold's door opens with a slow, grinding hiss before snapping into place.

Peter holsters his guns, shoulders his knapsack, and heads out. He's scribbled an address and time on a paper now crumpled and shoved into his pocket. He keeps close guard on the small pickpockets wandering through the tight crowd begging alms and lays a hand on one of his guns just in case things get hairy. He passes by a vat of spinal fluid and nearly retches. The stench of the sitting liquid initiates his gag reflex, and he coughs, pinching his nostrils until he's a good distance away. He slips the crumpled paper out of his pocket, glances at it and the alleyway he had just stepped into. "Seven, six, five, two," he whispers, folding the paper this time and replacing it. 7652, the last four digits of the address.

He stops in front of the dilapidated metal structure bearing those last four digits and is about to check his watch when a meaty hand firmly slaps his shoulder blade, followed by Drax the Destroyer's hearty laugh. "Friend Quill!" the muscled man beams. Peter jumps at least a foot, initially, which only serves to make Drax laugh harder and earns him another rough whack. The burly blue alien means well by it; it's his version of a pat, but Peter knows his gentle touch will leave a mark. He resist the urge to rub the now bruising skin between his shoulder blades.

"Drax…"

"You needed my assistance, yes?" Drax has stepped back and folds his arms, keeping his blue gaze on Peter, who nods his affirmation.

"I'm trying to find a mark. Femme looks like this," Peter grunts and opens his coat to reach into his breastpocket. He removes a creased photo of a woman with green skin and long dark hair. He holds the photo between his index and middle finger and extends it to Drax. The latter takes the photo, peering at it closely. His bright blue eyes flit over the photo and absorb every detail. Peter can almost see the cogs turning in the larger man's head even as Drax looks up at him and shakes his head.

"Gamora. She is a princess, I believe. Daughter of the Zen-Whoberi king," Drax remarks thoughtfully. He shakes his head as he speaks, "I have not seen her in this location any time recent. I am sorry, Quill." The only visible sign of Peter's aggravation is the muscles in his hand tightening and clenching into a fist that remain firmly at his side.

"No, no problem, Drax," he grunts and tiredly runs a hand through his hair before scratching the stubble on his chin. "Thanks anyway. Let me know if you do see her. Hear she's with a raccoon and, er, a tree?"

Drax does not have his eyes on Peter as the other is speaking, and instead is watching movement several feet behind the Terran. When Peter finishes and he(after calling the man's name several times) starts snapping his fingers in the bigger man's face, Drax looks back at Peter. "Tree, you said? A Colossal Fauna, most likely. Does it look anything like that creature behind you?" At this, Peter's eyes widen and he turns on a heel, narrowing his gaze toward the direction in which Drax points. To his luck, he manages to catch a glimpse of a tall, rough creature slowly crossing his line of sight in the distance. Instinctively, he searches for any sign of the princess, but none comes. "No point in chasin' the tree. It's the girl I'm after," Peter clarifies, turning back around to Drax. He clears his throat. "I should probably be off. Dead end here." Drax promises to report any information concerning the trio in question and Peter mumbles his gratitude before head back the way he'd come.

He can't help but sigh as he steps back into the crowd. He's never liked crowds. Cloying, sweating, masses filled with people in rushes to get to places or meetings they are already late too. He shrugs it off and pushes through the mass of people, in the mean time searching for his ship. It's when he nearly reaches the Milano that his errant foot catches something furry in his path and sends it flying a few feet away. The 'something' crashes in a crumpled and dazed ball, stunned for a few seconds. The ball of fur springs to life and jumps indignantly to its feet, brandishing a gun far too big for its own body.

"'Ey! 'ey schmuck," the creature—raccoon, Peter corrects himself after noticing the animal's ringed tail—the raccoon snarls. " Whirr you thenk you're goin'? I've got bisness with you, Fancypants."

"Rocket, do not draw attention to us," a feminine voice groans somewhere behind Peter. Before the man can so much as turn, least of all process that a freaking raccoon spoke to him, said raccoon cocks his gun (Peter recognizes the sharp click of it locking into position).

"Erryone knows you don't kick a man when he's down, humie," the raccoon slurs, struggling for a moment to uphold the weight of firearm in his hands, "That ain't fair."

In that moment, Peter realizes he is royally screwed.

A/N: Thoughts? Whatever's on your mind, tell me in a review! They really keep me inspired! Next chapter might be a little of a wait; I'll see if I can post it next week. - Ella