DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
Warnings: mild violence, mentions of drug use, minor homophobic comments.
Enjoy!
After so many years working in law enforcement, finding a dealer is relatively easy. He has no frame of reference for how to interact with the man, however. In the past, he gave the small fish a good beating and clapped them in irons, or smote the bigger fish with his hammer. None of this is going to be helpful in his current situation.
Ultimately he just slinks towards the man, a green-skinned humanoid dressed in shabby clothes.
"I have something that might interest you." he says quietly.
"I doubt it, faggot. - the dealer retorts disdainfully - I am not into ass. Push over."
Ronan does not know if he is more surprised or more offended by being mistaken for a male prostitute. Are his stolen clothes so improper?
"That is not what I am referring to. - he replies stiffly - I am talking about the devil's juice. Liquid dream." he adds, hoping that the slang for that particular substance is the same on Knowhere as in Kree space.
The man's eyebrows shoot up. "I am listening." he says quietly.
Ronan takes the two vials out of his pocket and deposits them in the dealer's hand. The man makes a show of examining them, but it is clear that they came straight from the factory.
"This is good stuff. - the dealer approves - I can give you a good price for it."
Ronan nods. The man forks out a wad of cash and hands it over to him.
When Ronan takes it, the dealer grabs his wrist. "Is there more of it where these came from?" he asks.
"Perhaps. I'll have to see what I can do." Ronan answers, avoiding definite committment in either direction. He doesn't know how long he will have to search for his quarry and how much it will cost him.
"If there is, come to me, alright bro? - the dealer offers - I'll give you an honest price for it. I am an honest man." he declares.
Ronan has the impression that the man doesn't even know what "honest" means.
The first thing he procures with the cash from his crime is a portable comm apparatus.
He obtains a reasonably powerful one probably stolen in Nova space, from a fence. It works, even if there is still a lot of data from the previous owner on it: pictures of a young man, his wife and their children, text messages and call logs. It is not the first time he handles stolen goods, but it is the first time he uses some for his benefit. The idea unsettles him.
He stops at a junk shop for some other purchases, then moves to a shabby eatery. He is starving.
Though the furniture is rickety and mismatched, the hygienic conditions are surprisingly acceptable. He orders whatever passes for soup and bread and sits at a table, assembling his purchases.
Last time he was on Knowhere, Drax had led him there. The tattooed brute had told him where to find them, but he knew better than believing a fugitive at face value.
He had checked the man's position with a Galactic Localization Decoder, an instrument that used metadata encoded in a transmission to derive the origin of a call based on satellites and network relays. It was pretty accurate, and he had been using them for his job ever since one of his course-mates invented it for an assignment at the Academy. The boy had even told him how to make them. It was relatively easy, if one knew what to do.
The soup and bread arrive. Ronan interrupts his work and starts to eat very cautiously and slowly. He doesn't really know how much time he has spent in hospital, but it must be at least a month since the last time he has had any solid food. His stomach must have shrunk with disuse in the meantime. He has to take it easy if he doesn't want to feel ill straight away.
It takes him only a few spoonfuls of soup and a morsel of bread to feel already full. He leaves the food alone and continues to work, taking occasional bites from the bread in between.
The GLD is ready in less than an hour. Ronan slots the power pack in the device and it pings to life with a quiet beep. Everything seems to be working. He connects the GLD to the comm with a cable and calls the phone company hotline to calibrate it.
As he waits for an operator, the GLD quietly crunches its numbers, and returns him a location corresponding to one of the least-developed planets in the Nova system. The place is famous for hosting lots of de-localized services. Pays are much lower and workers are less protected than on the central planets of the Nova Empire. Businesspeople love the combination and the profits it affords them.
If that is how the Nova treat their own people for money, he dreads to think of what will happen to his people when businesspeople start flocking in in search of easy profit. The Kree Empire hardly has any labour law. There is a minimal framework, but everything else is regulated privately between employers and employees, on the implicit understanding that all transactions will be conducted honourably and on the basis of mutual respect. The Nova will have a field day...
Ronan pushes those thoughts away. There is no point for him to think about that now. What he needs to now is to find the Guardians.
They are bounty hunters, and live off commissions. Their contact number is therefore prominently displayed on their business page on the ComNet.
He takes a deep breath and dials it up. His heart beats crazily in anxiety and he even feels vaguely nauseous. The comm rings and rings on the other side.
Ronan is starting to think that there is no one home, when finally someone picks it up.
"Guardians of the Galaxy bounty and security services!" someone says on the other side.
Ronan recognizes the voice. It is Star-Lord and he seems... he seems slightly inebriated from the way he slurs. Ronan is slightly disappointed, but cannot really say that he is surprised. Star-Lord looks like the type of man who indulges in... well in everything.
"Who is speaking?" the Terran asks.
Ronan hesitates. The GLD is taking its time to spit a location. He needs to keep the call going for a while longer, but he cannot give himself away yet, or his quarry will escape.
"Are you Star-Lord?" he asks, feigning excitement and a strong Nova accent.
"Yes." the Terran answers.
"The Star-Lord?!" Ronan continues, cursing against the blasted machine. Why is it going so slow?
"Yeah. That's me! - the Terran confirms - I didn't know I was that famous..." he adds, clearly pleased by the attention.
"Who's that, Peter?" Ronan can hear Gamora's voice in the distance.
"Is that a customer?" she asks.
"Yes, yes. - Star-Lord reassures her in a whisper - Who are you then?" he asks more loudly, into the comm.
Ronan nearly panics.
"I... I am in dire need of your assistance." he improvises. It is not a valid identification, but it is true and it seems to stave off further questions.
"Only you can help me." he adds, and this is also true. As his instructors at the Academy have told him, there is hardly ever any need for lying. The truth is often very effective.
"Ok, buddy, I need you to calm down and tell me what is the problem, alright?" Star-Lord says, sounding instantly sober and willing to help. He believes himself a hero. Maybe he is.
"Are you in immediate danger?" the Terran asks.
"Ask them if they can pay!" a voice exclaims in the distance. Rocket. The furry creature is greedy. Good to know.
"Probably yes." Ronan replies.
In all likelihood, the Xandarians will be already looking for him around the Galaxy. It is only a matter of time before one of their agents spots him or his stolen ship.
The GLD finally pings. Pama must be looking down on him with benevolence, despite what he has done, because it turns out that they are on Knowhere too, literally two blocks away from his current position.
"Listen, - he says - I cannot talk to you now. I'll call back." he says, then drops the comm on the table so that they will hear a lot of noise and cuts the call.
He is nearly trembling in dread and excitement. He is close to finding salvation, but there is still room for failure. He cannot think about it now, though. He has to keep calm and think on his feet if he wants to be able to convince the Guardians to keep him.
He quickly pays the bill and walks out of the eatery.
In the alley at the back, he pulls the power pack out of the GLD and smashes it against the wall, dumping its sorry remains into two or three different bins.
He might have become haaq to a group of non-Kree, but he is not going to give away a military secret of his people like that.
This is going to be his last act of defiance, though. From then onwards he is honor-bound to obey his captors completely and in all things.
Deed done, he walks as fast as he can to their position.
He catches up with them as they are getting out of a tavern of some sorts and to their ship. He hides behind another ship and allows himself a moment to watch them.
Rocket, Drax, Gamora and Star-Lord. They walk close to each other, not for protection, but because they are comfortable like that. Rocket carries a... a vase? Yes, it is a vase, and it seems to contain a sapling version of the plant person who was fighting alongside them on the Dark Aster.
The furry creature is talking to the sapling and it replies in a childish voice.
"I am Groot!" it chirps.
The Guardians laugh at that remark, as if it is a splendid joke. They seem relaxed and happy in each other's presence. They care for each other.
Secretly he envies them.
Ha cannot just stand there and look at them forever though. He takes several deep breaths to steady himself and circles the ship he was hiding behind, appearing in front of them and blocking their path.
"Hey, buddy! What's the matter?" Star-Lord asks, confused and slightly worried.
"Guardians of the Galaxy... I have been looking for you." Ronan says, standing as straight and proud as he can manage. He is enjoying the fact that he has managed to unsettle them.
"Oh, really? - Star-Lord retorts - And who the hell are you, apart from someone with a weird fashion sense?" he provokes.
Ronan decides not to take offense. His clothes are actually odd and mismatched.
"You know me already." he declares, lowering his hood so that his face is revealed.
Four (or five if you count the sapling) pairs of eyes look at him with vague confusion. They don't seem to recognize him without the warpaint. he knows it was very distinctive, and he knows also that people tended to see only that and his hammer when they looked at him.
Star-Lord is the first to recognize him, and Ronan can't help the shiver of satisfaction that courses through him when the Terran's eyes go very wide and his hands drop towards his blaster pistols.
"You?! - Rocket exclaims, drawing that huge gun of his - What?! How?!" he sputters.
Ronan feels the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk. It thrills him that they still consider him a dangerous foe, even if he is so diminished.
He draws breath to talk and explain, but a war cry explodes from Drax's' chest and suddenly the brute is charging towards him like an enraged bull.
Ronan sees the first blow coming with plenty of time to evade or respond. His instinct screams for him to step out, grab Drax's wrist and twist his arm out of its socket, but he can't hurt him. He cannot hurt any of them.
A haaq is not allowed to raise a hand on his masters.
By the time he manages to repress his instinctual reaction, it is too late for him to evade. He takes the blow straight to his face.
The punch is hard enough and he is still weak enough that he ends up sprawling.
Drax doesn't leave him the time to try and get up, but flies towards him and starts kicking him. The first kick gets him straight in the stomach, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. The blows don't stop after that.
Ronan curls up, trying to protect himself. He should have started talking straight away, without pausing to gloat like an idiot.
"This is going to be much harder than I anticipated." he thinks.