This story takes place after Endgame, except everyone survived. This is my first Fanfic, and I know I don't own MARVEL, but this was just for fun. Enjoy!
In a dusty corner of a bustling space bazaar, Peter Quill rummaged through a pile of discarded tech junk. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue, darted from one object to the next, searching for the glimmer of something valuable. The planet Knowhere was known for having interesting objects from all around the galaxies and, during his free time away from the action-packed life of being a Guardian, he liked to look around the assortment of shops that the planet had to offer. A wavy mop of brown hair fell over his forehead as he leaned in closer, inspecting a small, tarnished metal cross that had been carelessly tossed among the debris.
The moment his fingers touched the cool metal, a flood of memories washed over him like a warm summer rain. He recalled the gentle voice of his mother, Meredith, telling him bedtime stories about a man named Jesus, who had lived on Earth. His mother told him of how certain people, Christians, believed that this Man was the Son of God and came to die for people's sins, offering salvation. The cross, she had explained, was a symbol of Jesus' love and sacrifice. Peter's grip on the cross tightened, as he was drawn back to the quiet simplicity of those nights, a stark contrast to the chaos that had become his every day. Was it because it reminded him of his mother or was it something deeper?
His thoughts were soon interrupted by Rocket, the genetically modified, talking racoon, who scurried over with a snort.
"Hey, Quill," he called out, "Gamora says we gotta get back to the ship. We're about to miss our rendezvous."
Peter looked up from his nostalgic haze, the cross still in his hand. Rocket cocked his head to the side, noticing the object in Peter's grip. "What's that?" he inquired; curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar trinket.
"It's a... cross," Peter replied, his voice trailing off slightly. "My mom used to tell me stories about it."
Rocket squinted at the small symbol in Peter's hand, his curiosity growing. "What's it do?"
"It's not a gadget, Rocket," Peter said with a small smile, "It's a religious symbol."
"Religious, huh?" Rocket quipped, "You're not planning to start worshiping some sky god now, are you?"
"It's not about that," Peter said, turning the cross over in his hand. "My mom used to take me to this place called church when I was a kid. It was big, and full of people dressed up like it was the most important day of the week. We'd go twice a year, on Easter and Christmas. She'd tell me these stories about a man named Jesus, and how He was special. That's what this is supposed to represent... I think."
Rocket nodded; his eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Well, if it means something to you, you should keep it." He paused for a moment before adding, "You know, I've seen a few of these before. Some folks might pay good credits for it."
Peter just shook his head; Rocket wasn't much for understanding sentimental objects but Peter couldn't blame him. After all, it wasn't like Peter knew much about the object anyways.
"Nah," Peter said, tucking the cross into his pocket. "I think I'll just hold onto it for, you know, memories."
"Fine, but let's get going," Rocket said, already turning to leave, his tail twitching with impatience.
They entered the Benatar, their ship, a sleek, customized spacecraft that was as much a home to the Guardians as it was their mode of transportation. The ship's interior was a mishmash of retro-futuristic tech and Peter's personal touches, including a vintage mixtape player that blasted his mother's favorite songs as they made their way through the corridors. The rhythmic thump of the bass line filled the air, a poignant reminder of his childhood.
Gamora, the green-skinned warrior, looked at Peter as he approached the cockpit, her expression of annoyance, "Where have you been?"
"Just had a little stroll down memory lane," Peter said, patting the pocket where the cross now lay hidden.
"I have never heard of a 'Memory Lane' on Knowhere." Drax, the stoic man, chimed in from his station, Groot standing beside him.
"It's an Earth saying, big guy," Peter said, slapping him on the shoulder. "It means I found something that reminds me of the past."
"What sort of thing?" Mantis asked, her antennas twitching with curiosity.
"Uh... I'll talk about it later." Peter said. "Anyways, what's the rush, Gamora?"
Gamora rolled her eyes. "Nova Prime is waiting for us."
"Nova Prime?" Peter repeated, his heart skipping a beat. "What could she possibly want with us?"
"The same thing everyone else does," Rocket said, "To save the galaxy."
"Well, let's not disappoint her." Peter said as he headed for the controls of the ship.
The Benatar gave a low hum as it lifted off the planet and headed towards the designated meeting point with Nova Prime.
Nova Prime was sort of the president of the space cops, known as the Nova Corps. Peter, had had some scuffles with them in the past but upon creating the Guardians of the Galaxy he had grown used to the Corps giving him and the team missions every now and then. Peter's thoughts raced as he guided the ship through the asteroid field. What kind of trouble had they stumbled into this time?
The ship's comms crackled to life, and the voice of Nova Prime filled the cabin. "Guardians of the Galaxy, this is Nova Prime. Your presence is requested at the Nova Corps headquarters immediately. We have a situation of galactic importance that requires your attention."
"We're on our way," Peter responded.
As the Benatar broke through the asteroid field, the headquarters grew larger in the viewport. It was a gleaming bastion of order in the chaotic cosmos, a stark reminder of the responsibility that the Guardians had accepted.
Once docked, the team disembarked, their booted footsteps echoing through the sterile corridors of the headquarters. The atmosphere was tense, but that wasn't unusual.
Nova Prime, a stern woman with a shaved head and piercing eyes, greeted them with a curt nod. "Thank you for coming on such short notice," she said.
"What's the mission?" Peter asked, eager to get to the point.
Nova Prime's gaze was serious as she spoke. "We have received intel of a cult forming on the outskirts of Xandar, one that worships the power of the Infinity Stones. They seek to resurrect Thanos and bring about his twisted vision once again."
"A cult?" Gamora raised an eyebrow, "And you want us to take care of them?"
"It's more than a simple cult," Nova Prime explained. "They have captured a few hundred people and are using them as a workforce to rebuild their forces. The Xandarians are in turmoil, and we cannot allow such a threat to persist."
"So, it's a rescue mission?" Peter clarified, his mind already racing with the potential danger and excitement ahead.
"Exactly." Nova Prime nodded. "But we also need you to dismantle the group before anymore harm can be done. They are not well-orchestrated, but we still need to extinguish the threat."
Peter looked at his team, the gravity of the situation sinking in. The thought of facing another Thanos-worshipping group was daunting, but he knew they couldn't let the universe fall into the hands of fanatics again.
"Okay," he said with a steely resolve, "We're in."
Nova Prime nodded, her face unreadable. "Good. We've gathered intel on the cult's location. It's a small, heavily-guarded outpost on the planet of Morag."
The team exchanged glances. Morag was notorious for its inhospitable conditions and treacherous terrain, but Peter knew that was part of the challenge.
Upon the debriefing, Peter knew that this wasn't just about fighting; it was about protecting the innocent. He looked around at his team, each one a misfit in their own right but bound together by a shared sense of duty and loyalty. They had faced the unthinkable before and had emerged victorious, though not without their share of scars. Still, they were ready to fight for the innocent, but little did they know this would result in a change for their lives.
The Guardians spent the rest of the day planning their attack on the cult which they later learned was called "The Disciples of Thanos" (how original). The room was filled with tension as they studied maps and intel, each member of the team adding their expertise to the strategy. Gamora spoke of the potential combat tactics, her voice as sharp as her blade, while Rocket's mind raced with thoughts of explosives and distractions. Groot and Drax listened intently, ready to provide brute force and unwavering loyalty to their friends. Mantis, with her empathic abilities, offered insight into the possible emotional state of the captured Xandarians and the potential for peaceful negotiation, though her suggestions were met with skepticism by the more battle-hardened members of the group. Peter, being the leader that he was, tried to keep everyone's spirits up with his usual quips, but even he couldn't shake off the gravity of the situation entirely.
After hours of preparation, they reluctantly decided to rest and attack the next day, as Peter suggested they would do better after a good night's sleep. The night passed slowly for Peter, his mind racing with thoughts of mission ahead. He couldn't sleep. No matter how much he turned and tossed, he couldn't stop worrying about the job ahead.
Eventually, he accepted the fact that he probably wouldn't sleep tonight and headed toward the cockpit of the Benatar. Maybe gazing at the stars would get his mind off things. He put on his jacket and walked down the corridor quietly so as to not disturb the rest of the sleeping crew. In his usual habit, he put his hands in his leather jacket's pockets. Suddenly, he felt the metal cross he had stuffed in his pocket earlier; something he had forgotten about amidst the excitement. He pulled it out to look at it as he sat down in the pilot's seat. He still didn't understand why he kept it. He wasn't the religious type, not that he didn't want to believe there was a God who cared about him but rather the idea didn't seem to make sense. After the death of his mother, he seemed to become more doubtful of a loving God existing and if there was One, He seemed to be a cruel tyrant to let someone so special to him die such a slow and horrific death. Maybe it was the fact that it reminded him of earth and the stories his mom told him that these 'Christians' believed. He could picture her now...
(Twenty-two years earlier)
"Come on Peter it's time for bed." Meredith said to her eight-year-old son who was currently fiddling with a toy he had just gotten for Christmas.
"Aww, Mom." the boy complained as he put his toy aside and followed her into his small room.
Meredith tucked him in and kissed his forehead, her eyes filled with warmth and love that could outshine any star. "Mom?" Peter asked.
"Yes?"
"What was that guy talking about today? The one at the church?"
Meredith sat down beside him, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. "Oh, the man was talking about Jesus, Peter. He's the reason we celebrate Christmas."
"Why?" Peter looked at her with wide, curious eyes.
"Because some people believe Jesus was born on Christmas. It's supposed to be His birthday."
The innocence in Peter's gaze made her smile. "But why do we celebrate if He's not coming to our party?"
Her smile grew sad. "Well, Peter, Jesus is like... a hero. A very special one. He came to save people from being sad and afraid. And even though He's not physically with us, we celebrate because He's always watching over us."
"So, He's like a superhero?" Peter's eyes lit up.
Meredith chuckled. "In a way, yes."
"If He's a superhero, why doesn't He make you get better?" Peter asked, referring to her terminal illness
Her eyes filled with tears, but she forced a smile. "Because sometimes, Peter, even heroes have different ways of helping people. Sometimes, He gives us the strength to keep fighting, even when things are tough."
Peter scrunched his face; he didn't understand that. If Jesus was a superhero, He should heal
his mom. But instead of questioning, he just nodded. "Do you believe in Jesus?" he then asked.
Meredith tilted her head, as she pondered the question. "I believe He's real." she answered,
"Some people have to find what they believe in, Peter. I'm still searching for answers."
"But you're a grown-up."
"Even grown-ups don't have all the answers sometimes." She kissed him
again. "But what matters is that we search for the truth."
Peter's gaze lingered on the cross as he pondered his mother's words from so long ago. It had been a lifetime of searching and fighting since then, and now, as he held this symbol of faith in his hand, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt and longing. He wished he could believe in something so pure, so unwavering. Maybe he was to keep searching.
