EPISODE T W O:
half off on tuesdays.

WHAT DOES THE MORNING ROUTINE OF A MECH stranded on an ice planet with no one around for miles (unless you count the mob boss living in the basement of your craphole rental) and nothing to her name but a bag of clothes and tools, look like?

Pretty depressing, honestly. It's not like I stick to a strict regimen, but I guess my body likes schedule. And by that, I mean it enjoys waking up at the worst time of the morning, when the world's still soaked in darkness and all I can hear is silence and my pounding heartbeat. Sleep is a nightmare, no joke intended. I think I need it to live, but it's also probably killing me, what with the constant horror show waiting for me in my dreams. I'll be honest; I try to avoid it at all costs.

But after a couple days of fighting it off, I'll crash. And I wake at just about four in the morning sweat and tear soaked. After a couple minutes of (embarrassing) panic, I get up. Take a freezing cold shower. Stare at my reflection and wonder how the hell I got this far. Rummage through leftovers and enjoy a smorgasbord of whatever hasn't gone bad. Get dressed. Debate showing up to work. Decide I have to because I need money. Fiddle with whatever's lying around, then head off to work, strapped with all my belongings in a knapsack like a raggedy runaway.

I sigh and shove my arms into my jacket, which is still soaked through from the walk home yesterday. I still feel half asleep, in that ears filled with ice-water, foggy brain trying to panic without the energy to, sort of way. There's a paranoia lingering in the back of my mind that always comes when I sleep too long. It's itching at my skin, trying to warn me against leaving my apartment, like the end of the world's waiting for me out there. And, sure, I'd believe my brain — if it didn't think try and say the same thing every single day.

I lock my door, leaving my paranoia inside, and tuck my jaw deeper into my thin coat collar. Cold's already nipping at my neck and turning my blood to ice, and I already regret my decision to breath this morning.

Another beautiful day of misery.

Lirad's out the next few days. Don't know where, don't know why. But it means I get to take my sweet ass time walking in the miserable blistering hell that is Vargo, and I'm going to take that as a good thing. At least I won't be getting fired when I show up to work ten minutes late and covered in icicles.

As I near the familiar bay, through the fog of sleet and ice, I see something new. Well, something other than empty tarmac and that stupid 'REPAIR AND REPARATIONS' sign. I squint through the walls of sleet, trying to get a better look, and...

"Great fecking Krite," I swear. "You've got to be kidding me."

I stomp up the ice-coated bay, trying very hard to ignore the flashy M-ship sitting to my left. Which is hard, considering...it's a goddamn ship. Still, I'm doing my best work pretending the thing isn't there and I'm completely alone to open the mech shop. So good, for a moment I don't hear the desperate cries of a certain ship's owner chasing me as I unlock the shop's door.

"...ey! Grumpy! D'ya hear me!"

Only for a moment.

"Piss off," I throw over my shoulder, slipping through the heavy side door. He follows right behind despite. "Seriously. Leave me alone."

"What? C'mon, I just need a minute!"

"How are you still even alive, dude?!"

He scoffs. "You really have so little faith?"

"In a stranger with as stupid of a nickname as yours?"

"I-it's not a nickname, it's a title. And—" he gives a sort of huff behind me, "whatever. I'm not here to argue. I'm here to make a deal, a'right?"

It's almost funny, considering that if it was Lirad and I here, this guy's guts would probably be sprayed across the wall already. I kind of wish he was here; it'd make getting rid of this Shitlord guy a whole lot easier. Considering current circumstances, the circumstances being I'm a woman alone with apparently a fecking Ravager, and all my weapons feel like metal popsicles against my hips right now?

I have to be a little careful.

"I told you yesterday. No money, no deal. Sorry."

I set my stuff down on the back table and glance back to the guy. I don't remember his name, just the dumb moniker 'Starlord' he's given himself. He's still in the same jacket as before, same whole outfit really. But there is something new — and it's not frostbite, like I woulda thought. There's a sharp, dark shiner pressed into his upper cheekbone. Red and purple splotches sink down the left side of his face. That definitely wasn't there last night.

"Huh," I mutter, going back to dusting snow off myself. "Someone got a shot in before I did?"

The guy scoffs again, like he doesn't have half a dozen punches pressed into the side of his face. "Right. Well, that's actually what I wanna talk to you about."

"If you're getting mixed up with people here, I don't care."

"Trust me, I'm not looking for sympathy from you. Already know you don't feel anything.""

I roll my eyes, sharp retort sitting heavy on my tongue. "There's a—"

"—I have your money!"

My tongue freezes in place.

Stardork notices my immediate hesitation, and a smirk tickles the corners of his lips. "Yeah, I thought that'd interest you."

My pride is soured by his (tiny) win over me, but my love of money soothes the smarting wound. I look back over at him, squinting. "You actually have my credits?"

"Well. Like, kind of."

"What does 'kind of' mean?"

"It means," he pauses, and lifts his hand to pat his pocket. It jangles slightly. "I worked something out. I have about 10 grand on me. I know that's not the original price, but I figure, y'know...maybe we can work somethin' out?"

Someone once told me everyone has two parts of them: good, and evil. Good sits on your right shoulder, and evil chatters into your left ear, trying to convince you to do the wrong thing. Well, in my case, I've got a money-hungry shark on one side, and a paranoid demon on the other. My resolve gets really, really shaky when money's on the line. But so does my trust.

I'd do just about anything for a way off of this frozen hellscape. But my suspicions are high as to where that money got coughed up from. There's not much area to do odd jobs at. Vargo's overrun by a half dozen mob bosses all fighting for their crumbs. I've done my best work avoiding trouble with all of them, but that's hard when all your clients have some sort of blood mixed in the soil. 

So, what did this guy — this bloodthirsty Ravager, apparently — do for 10,000 credits?

Lirad's words run through my brain. 'You catch him round 'ere again, tell me. I'll shoot his ass out of the sky.' Pretty easy warning to heed by. I may be the idiot that got herself dropped off on Vargo with no way off...but I'm not stupid.

"Where'd the credits come from?"

"That doesn't matter."

"It does. I'n't need mixin' up in a fight you're scuffin' up."

"Relax, Grumpy," Shitlad laughs. "It's not like that. Really. I borrowed it from a friend. And it's not important from who. What is, is if you'll finally help a guy out."

"Where's the shiner from?"

"Hit my head on a door."

"Bullshit."

He smiles wide and cheeky, "don't you like the sound of ten grand in your pocket?"

"I like my head on my body more."

"You'll be just fine!"

I slide a hand down my face. It's not even nine in the morning. Most days, I come in and defrost, maybe get a cup of sludge Lirad swears is kafuel, and fiddle with meaningless shit for a couple hours. Fix pipes in silent, roasting heat. Relax a little. Enjoy myself. And now, I have to try and throw someone almost twice the size of me out of the shop.

10,000 credits, though. That's not a short stack of coins, even if it's not the full amount. And there's a lot a gal could do with 10,000 credits. Get the hell off this blizzard craphole, being one of them. Get somewhere warm. Sunny. Safe. Drunk off crappy mixed drinks and schmoozing rich travelers.

There's a bad feeling curdling at the bottom of my gut, though. Something tugs at the edge of my mind — a reminder, a memory of a dream, some sort of distant warning triggered by any guy that stands too close to me? I don't know, but it tastes like fear. I don't like to fuck with fear.

"Sorry," I finally say, folding my arms across my chest. "No deal."

The guy looks aghast. "You can't be serious."

"I'm not servicing you."

"You were more than fine to feel up my ship yesterday! What the hell changed?"

"Sorry," I say, in the least apologetic way possible. "Not happening."

"You gotta work with me here! There aren't many other options on the table!"

I keep my mouth shut and turn to my stuff. My hands shuffle busily through my bag like they have a purpose, hoping that he gets the hint and leaves. 

Unfortunately, he does not. Shitlord circles the desk I'm fumbling at, doing everything in his power to gain my attention. "Come on, princess. You have to do something for me!"

My mouth stays shut. My fingers, inside my tool bag, curl to flip him off.

"I-I literally have no other goddamn option. You realise that, don't'cha?"

Sure. Do I care? Nope.

"I'm gonna be stuck here for the end of time with ya. You know that? We're gonna be doing this song and dance every day until you help me."

Or until Lirad chops you up and serves you for supper.

"You're not gonna be free of me. Ever. You think I'm annoying now, Grump? This is nothin'. I got like, the entire Rocky Horror Picture Show in my noggin and it's just waitin' for me to belt at'cha. I have a feeling you don't like musicals, yeah?"

My jaw clenches. The reference might go over my head, but the threat doesn't. And the idea of being stuck with this guy...

The bad feeling in the pit of my stomach worsens, still, and it reminds me to stand my ground. Something is not right with this weirdo. He's a walking danger sign, and I have enough sense not to walk down that road.

I finally spare a furtive glance at Starjerk's pleading expression and fold my arms across my chest.

"It's not happening."

"Why not?!"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Be-because I know what you are," I splutter. "And I ain't stupid!"

"What does that—"

"—you're one of those Ravagers. Aren't you?"

He baulks, all dramatic and exaggerated. "I — well — no?"

"You're a shit liar."

He scoffs. "I'm a great liar, and besides that, I ain't lying. I have no idea what you're talking about!"

I shrug. "Whatever." My hands dip back into my backpack. I start reorganizing my tools again, waiting for him to break.

It takes only about fifteen seconds for this guy to start begging. Kind of sad, if you think about it — not a great example of big, tough Ravager blood.

"Okay, so — so what? What's that gotta do with anything, Grumpy?"

"My boss isn't a fan. So'm not a fan."

Stardork's face crumples. I have to admit; as much as he pisses me off, his facial expressions are funny, if only because he looks stupid no matter the face he makes.

"Is your boss here right now?"

I shoot him a glance over my shoulder, "what's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, like — can't you do your own thing?"

"Have you ever met a Truskan, Starprick?"

"Starlord, and yeah, I've, I've seen one or two."

"Then you know not to get on one's bad side, right?"

"He doesn't have to know—"

"—it's a no, prick. Door's over there."

But to my great annoyance, the man makes no move towards the door. Instead, he steps even closer to me. 

"Look. I've got no other options. Okay? It's either you do me a favour here, or you're gonna have to scrap my frozen ass off your runway out there." He grimaces, swiping at his nose. "Much as I wish it was any way otherwise, I need your help. I'm begging ya here. I'll do anything. I'd get on m'knees for ya, Grumpy. Anything."

Calypso Orellano, you would be a colossal idiot if you gave into this half-wit lights-show fancy freak. It's a stupid idea and I'm a survivor, not an idealist. It's how I've stuck around this long and it's how I'm going to keep going. I have a fine enough job, I've got enough credits, I'm doing fine enough to stay on trajectory to get out of here soon enough. And soon enough after that, I'll be good to maybe get a better life together. But...

I feckin' hate myself and my money-obsessed mind.

"Can't stand it," I mutter like a curse, slamming a wrench down on the table. "I hate you so, so unbelievably much, Stardick."

He smiles like that's a compliment. "I feel like you're saying what I hope you're saying."

My brain is screaming against this. Actually, every part of my body is screaming against this, right down to my right baby toe (the one I still have left). He's got 'bad idea' written all over him and even the greatest of fools could tell you that. Not to mention, his know-it-all smirk, and his air of grandiose delusion. Everything about him makes me want to put one in the gut and take his ship apart for spare parts. But...

"I'm in," I mutter bitterly.

"You'll do it? Really?! You don't need more convincing?!"

"I don't need that migraine, Starprick."

He laughs loudly, "I'll ignore that insult because I know you don't mean it. You like me, don't'cha?"

I ignore his guffaws in favour of grabbing my largest wrench. I jab one end into his chest and grab a lapel on his stupid, tacky red jacket. His rambles stop immediately, and I watch as his face drains of colour. He tries to recover, tries to build his poker face back up, but we both know there's no point anyways.

"Listen, Stardick," I say, harsh and low. The wrench pushes harder. "This is on my terms. You get what you get, and then you scram before I put a dent 'tween your eyes."

He glances down to the wrench, now digging into his collarbone, and then back at me. "Sure, sure. You make the rules, princess."

"Don't call me that again."

His Adam's apple bobs, hard. "Sure. Okay."

"You get what you get from me. I work on this on my own schedule, at my own speed. I'll get your ship up enough to get off Vargo, and then I don't see your stupid fecking face ever again. Okay?"

He chuckles under his breath, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Kinda feels like I'm getting a bad deal here."

I press the wrench harder into his chest, fighting a smile as he winces. "You got another option?"

"Fair point." Something shifts; a large hand shoots out between our bodies. "You got a deal."

I pull away from him, dropping the wrench back down to my workstation. His hand hovers in the air awkwardly, ignored. "Okay, Starfuck."

"Star — Starlord. S'really easy to remember. It's just two syllables!"

"It's just two syllables," I mock under my breath, but loud enough for him to here. "Dickwad."

I stomp over to his ship and squat, listening as he comes up right behind me, too. This guy has no concept of personal space. But no matter: six hours from now, and I will never see his face again, if I make the right choices here.

To be honest, though, it's hard to divide up a complete repair into '10,000 credits worth of a repair'. I still can't figure out how he left the runway yesterday. I only know he did because he's alive this morning, but to take off with this ship's conditions...guy must be one hell of a pilot, I think to myself, scratching my neck.

There's still a bad feeling, lingering in my gut. Something feels wrong. And I don't mean morally, or the fact that I'm giving into this dickwad who won't stop breathing down my neck. Something in the pit of my stomach is souring. It kind of feels like fear.

"Great Krite," I groan, leaning back on my heels.

Peter, who's standing less than a single strand away from me, obviously hears this. "Everything all right?"

I roll my eyes. "You don't have to breathe down my fecking neck."

"How else am I gonna keep an eye on ya?"

"Keep an eye on me?!" Whirling around, I nearly take out Peter's eye with the wrench in my hand. "I'm the one who should tie you to a post, with all your — your —"

"My...?"

"Bothering," I finish lamely. "And questions. And annoying ass face."

The guy's annoying ass face crumples in faux-upset. "Rude."

I roll my eyes and return to my work. The issue will be straddling the line between getting his ship moving and not doing too much. And in just a couple hours, because I don't want to risk even a day's more of work. Lirad could return at any time. My ass would be shot into space. I'd die for a stupid space cowboy with a whole lotta ego and not much else. 

Time to get to work, Orellano.

REMEMBER THAT GUT FEELING I HAD? The one telling me working with this supposed Ravager wasn't the smartest choice? Well, I tried to ignore it and just focus on the ship. Believe me, I tried. I got through a whole three hours of incessant questions from my client, and trying not to throw the burnt up engine parts at his head. I almost got to a point of convincing myself I was just paranoid and sleep-deprived, and everything was going to turn out okay in the end.

But then, that backfired. Like I knew it would.

"Orellano."

I froze in my awkward, half-curled position around the bottom of the M-Ship. In a matter of milliseconds, I realise a couple of things. One, Lirad actually remembers my name. I wasn't confident considering he never referred to me by it, and we weren't a very talkative duo — so it was nice, knowing he cared enough to know my last name.

But realisation number one's a moot point, considering number two: Lirad is here. Back a couple days way too early. Here to find me elbow deep into the same guy's ship from yesterday, the guy he said to not service, and that if he came back  — what was it?

Oh yeah. He'd 'shoot his ass out of the sky'.

I wriggle out of my spot under the ship and turn to see not only my boss but four other beings of various races. I recognise two of them. The first guy lives on the bottom floor of my building (semi-roommate solidarity, mayhaps?) and he isn't the worst guy on Vargo. But the second guy, I know because he's hung around the shop at late hours before. A dark-green Xrellian man in a sleek, scaled suit. Leader of the Xqru, a group I know too well to avoid as much as I possibly can.

They collect fingers of those who cross them and wear them as jewelry. I'm not a crafty person, so maybe I just don't understand the vision, but I'm just not a huge fan of their work.

In my peripherals, I can see the vague shadows of the self-identified Starlord, standing on the other side of his ship. He looks much more casual than I feel, leaned up against the side of his M-Ship, flashy coat gleaming under the shop lights. But I can't imagine he's feeling too cocky right now — not with five very large beings, all glaring him down.

I try to swallow my fear as much as I can. "Hey, Lirad," my voice comes out shaky, but I stick with it, nonetheless. "How's...how's it going?"

He ignores the pleasantries. Makes sense; he's not one for small talk. "What'd I say about the Ravager ship?"

"Uh..." I turn to look at it, giving it a good long once-over before turning back. "Dunno? Not sure. Is this even the same ship? Doesn't look the same."

Lirad glares at me, and the other four match his terrifying, extremely threatening stance. I take note of the guns strapped to everyone's waist, or already in their hands. For some reason, this doesn't feel like a normal drop-in, and it doesn't seem like my part in this is the entire story.

But it feels unfair that they're glaring me down, when I'm not really the one at fault. I'm only doing a service, aren't I? Sure, the job is for a guy I was specifically told to kick out if I saw him, or tell Lirad so he could shoot him, but neither option was going to work. Though, I've got a bad feeling they won't listen to my reasoning right now.

"I have a quesssstion, girl." The Xrellian steps forward, filling in the obstinate silence Lirad and I have taken up. He looks at me with contempt, his reptilian eyes flitting over the grease on my pants, my unkempt ponytail. He's the only one not holding a gun, but somehow he's the scariest one. "I hope that you can ansssswer it."

My mouth is dry as a bone. I can only muster a nod.

"Lasssst night, I wassss returning home when I get a call." Finger guy strokes the side of his jaw with his hand, eyes not budging from my face. He smiles thinly. "I hear my brother tell me, one of my men hassss been killed."

"My condolences."

His smile falls. "I find out, it issss has to be the ssssame man who sssshowed up here yessssterday, the sssstranger with the bursssst engine. With the Ravagerssss Ssssship."

I shrug, heart in throat. "C...could'a been."

"Lirad told me that he could not afford your sssservices yessssterday. He had no creditssss."

So much for 'borrowing from a friend', I think to myself, trying to figure out the next step. There's no point denying this. My boss is standing paces away, he knows what happened. And he clearly doesn't care what it costs me, if it means saving his own skin.

"I don't know what drama you're mixed up in," I say, as casually as I possibly can, "but I didn't do anything. I've helped your men out. And I, I mind my business, keep my head down. I just care about the work."

The Xrellian steps even closer to me. I can smell his breath. It's fishy. "Your liessss will get you nowhere," he hisses to me, spraying fish-scented saliva at my face. "But give in, and I will sssspare you."

"I don't know what you want me to say," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. Even my boss, which is probably my ex-boss, considering how he's glaring at me. "I'm just doin' my job."

That feels like the wrong answer.

"Look, fellas, can't we work something out?" Finally, the Stardork himself speaks up. "I don't know what this is about, but I'm sure it's a misunderstanding—"

"—you killed one of mine," The Xrellian cuts in, immediately livid. He extends his hands and I see why he doesn't carry a weapon: there's no need for guns when you've got foot-long, razor-sharp claws attached to your hands. Great Krite. "You hurt me, and now, I hurt you both, Ravager filthhhhhhh."

"Grumpy started it!"

"Excuse me!"

"No, I lied, sorry," the man immediately interjects. "Uh, but let me tell you, I had a great reason for what happened. Wasn't supposed to go down that way. I was just looking to talk, but your guy, well he..."

I glance to my right where I know a panel sits. As Starprick starts to ramble, and tensions rise too high, a stupid plan starts to form in my head. It's a really, really bad idea. Like, so bad it's basically a death wish. I don't really want to die. I kind of like what I've got going on. But I do know that the five guys staring me down right now don't want the Ravager to get away with what's been done, and because I exchanged my safety for 10,000 measly credits, I guess I'm looped into that.

So, death or death, Orellano?

I slide my right foot towards the wall, then my left, as slowly as I possibly can. Luckily, everyone's eyes are glued onto the murderer to my left, so I can inch my way over to the wall without too much trouble.

Next time, I'm listening to my gut. And never trusting anyone again. Those two warnings flicker in my head as I reach the wall with the lever, which is hopefully going to be my saving grace. I look around to see three out of the four strangers inching closer and closer to my partner in crime. Lirad's eyeing him up like he's about to pounce and swallow him whole.

But one of them is looking towards me, and of course it's the one with the affinity for finger necklaces. The Xrellian cocks his head as he watches me at the lever. He raises an arm of razor-sharp claws and opens his mouth to speak.

Now or never, Orellano.

I slam down the lever, and immediately a large metal door falls from the ceiling, cutting off four of the five guys from the rest. My hands scrabble for the knife strapped to my belt, and after a few second it's free. I slash at the wires connecting the the paneling to the inner hangar door, and a weak jolt of satisfaction surges, knowing at least one problem's been handled. The door's not opening.

For now.

But now, it's just me, Peter Quill — finally, I remember his stupid name — and the Xrellian with knives for hands, looking at one another like, 'what now?'. And the Xrellian still has murder in his eyes, and even though the door's keeping his friends out, he still can get the both of us.

"I will ssssskin you alive," the Xrellian calls, and lunges for Peter Quill. The pair go tumbling to the ground, limbs flailing, two with ten knives for nails and one desperately trying to get a shot in with his gun. It's a free-for-all, animalistic fight to the end. I can't guess who's going to win.

While the pair brawl, I search for my next move. We're connected to the outside, so hypothetically I could just run out the door, but on foot I'm powerless. It would be way too easy for any of them to shoot me out of the sky. And that's betting that there aren't men outside right now waiting to ambush someone. Lirad knows his store, he knows where to cover exits.

"Feck," I swear, whirling around frantically. All I've got are my tools, the useless himbo flailing on the ground a bit away, and his pile of wires and metal he calls a ship. It's still in horrible disrepair. I've made progress on the engine, but it needs new parts. There's no telling if the ducts would hold together enough to take off, let alone get off Vargo in a raging snowstorm.

"I — feck — biting, really? — can — do something, grumpy!?"

But the ship might be my only option. I think I can trust my work to hold strong long enough. And if I could fly a ship, I'd be set for the nearest planet or moon.

My eyes fall back to the scrambling Peter Quill, who is quickly losing. The Xrellian has thrown his gun and is straddling the man's legs, keeping them stuck to the ground despite all best efforts. His claws are bared and ready to draw blood. He's grinning and drooling through jagged teeth down on the Ravager. Final blows are soon to come.

"Oh, Krite," I swear to myself. 

If this Ravager idiot got himself off the mech shop runway, he has to be an insane pilot. And if I want out, I need someone like that.

"HELP!"

I rip a screwdriver off my belt and race towards the struggling duo. With a snarl, I throw myself at the Xrellian and stab as hard as I can. My eyes don't follow my hand: it's a completely blind stab. But a guttural sound rips from his throat that I take as a good sign, but not good enough. He thrashes and chokes as I stab down again, grimacing at the horrible wet sound my tool makes with his reptilian flesh. 

He falls down to the side, off of Peter Quill, and I roll with him. I scramble away so he doesn't land on me, stumbling up to my feet. The Xrellian sits at the tip of my boot. He gags on his own dark blood, eyes wide and unseeing as his lifeforce fades.

I swallow back a gag and drop my screwdriver onto his twitching corpse. No salvaging that baby — I'd be smelling the putrid scent of blood on it forever.

"Thanks," Peter Quill gasps a little while away. He's on his hands and knees, gulping in air desperately. He's got claw marks across his cheeks, and Xrellian blood I'm sure is splattered on my face, too, but it looks like he's still in one piece. "Thought I was a goner for a moment there."

"Yeah. Y'owe me."

He looks up at me, squints a little, and then looks back down to the ground. For once, he holds his tongue. I wonder what he was going to say.

No time for questions, though. The rest are still on the other side, and while we're cut off, it's only a matter of time before Lirad gets around. Or through. And we can't take all four of them: not with a Truskan basically being ten ordinary beings all on his own.

"So, uh..." Peter Quill staggers to his feet, still breathing heavily. "How exactly are we gettin' out of this?"

I'm already halfway back to where I was by his engine. My hands start frantically throwing tools into my bag. My mind's in overdrive, my skin crawling with panic and ironclad fear. 

"Hey? Hello...person I still don't know their real name?"

Something collides with the hangar door. We both jump. It comes again, heavy and solid.

"Uh, what, is that...that doesn't really sound like somethin' I wanna stick around for, Grumpy!"

I grimace from the floor, still throwing everything into my bag. "I have an idea, but it's a terrible one."

Another thud. It sounds like someone's literally throwing themselves against the door. I have a feeling Lirad's behind that.

The ravager curses under his breath. "Okay. Save it, I'll come up with something."

"No," I sigh, zipping up my pack, "I'm pretty sure this is the only way we're gettin' out of this."

Thud.

"Well, I'm not interested in trusting my life to you, so, so—"

"—do you have a lot of other choices lying around?!"

"I'll think of something!"

"Sure," I snip back, "and I'd love to believe that, but right now we've got a Truskan and three other meatheads on our asses, and I've got a way out."

He throws his hands in the air. "A quote-on-quote, terrible way out. Not inspiring a lot of faith!"

"It's something!"

"It's probably shit!"

"Shut your hole, Stardick, and listen to me here!"

Peter slams his fist into the side of his M-Ship, but says nothing.

I swing my bag over my shoulder, finally standing up to my full height. He still towers over me, but at least I can glare at him in the eye, not crouched awkwardly on the floor.

"Vargo's got one moon. Ciilia. It's a half day's travel from here. Pretty much inhabited. S'just rock and o2."

"So?!"

"So, that's your ticket out. But you need my help."

He laughs bitterly. "Sounds like you need me, actually."

I do. But I'm not gonna say that to this egomaniac; even if certain death is on the line.

"Let me level with you here, jackass. This thing?" you gesture at his M-Ship. "It's complete garbage. You got one trip left with it in the state it's in now.

Another loud clang interrupts my rant, this time a thousand times louder and accompanied by the sound of screeching steel. Both of us turn to see a large, Truskan shaped dent in the metal wall.

"Okay, shit, we — we get to the moon, we'll be safe. Then, I can fix your ship up to get you out of all this scot free and with all your limbs attached."

"Yeah, no way!"

Another bang. That door's not going to hold for long. Not against a Truskan.

"We're running outta time," I mutter, before turning back to Stardick. "Come on. Take me with you, and I'll fix your ship up spanking fecking new for 10,000 credits and safe passage. Both of us, win-win."

"Right, like I'd let you —"

"—dude, it's life or death on the line, just say yes and let's go!"

"How do I know I can trust you?!" he splutters angrily.

"You don't, but I'm all you have!"

"I'm not stupid, I know you're just using me to get yourself out—"

"—life or death, Ravager!"

"Fine! Fine, get on the goddamn ship!" He shouts, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Hurry, hurry!"

With one scoop, I've gathered all my belongings with me and start my run for his ship. Tools clatter and slam into my sides all willy-nilly and there's a foul taste of blood on my tongue, I can't tell if it's from the Xrellian or me biting too hard on my own mouth. I kind of hope it's the latter.

Lirad's body slams hard into the wall. He sounds like he's about to slam right through. But it's fine. I'm only a couple steps away from the ship. And there's no way he can propel his body through the side of a steel wall. Right? 

Right?!

BANG.

In one more move, Lirad's through. And he's pissed. He glares maniacally at me, halfway to the M-ship ramp, and immediately starts charging. He's a bull in a ring I didn't want to be in, and very quickly, there's going to be no way out for me. Shit.

"Run!" Stardork yells at me, as though we both weren't already doing so. 

If I wasn't being chased by an enraged Truskan, I'd have more to say. As it was...

I was bolting at full speed, but Lirad was still crossing the shop floor in seconds. My tool pack slaps against my bag in full, heavy blows: but I can take the pain, if it means living a day more. I force my legs to go faster, to catch up with Starprick, who's already reaching the doors and stumbling through them. He turns, watches me at the bottom of the ramp. 

Thump, thump, thump comes behind and even as I hurry up the steps, I know it's pointless. Lirad's on me in a blink of an eye. He grabs ahold of my pack and pulls me down to him. I scream and hold on, but it's nothing for a two-tonne, nine-foot-tall monster of a being.

This is my end, I think miserably as he drags me away from the ship steps. Dying in the worst possible place. Loved by none: forgotten in the universe. Meaningless and stupid. And the only person who's going to remember me is a half-wit dickwad and the worst person in the universe.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

So long, world. It's been...fun.

But before death takes me out of the picture, there's a sharp swish in the air and a harsh howl of pain behind me. I squeeze one eye open to see Lirad tumbling down the ship with a sizzling wound pressed into the junction between his shoulder and his neck. I'm barely able to catch myself before I go down with him, staggering into the railing. My tool pack falls off my shoulder, bag strap ripped to shreds. I barely catch it.

Which hurts, but I'd rather the bag take that blow, than me.

My eyes dart up to see Stardork grinning, safe aboard his ship. His smile only grows as he watches my expression, which I imagine looks as shocked and relieved as I feel. He reaches out a hand to help me up.

"You're welcome, Grumpy," he offers almost giddily — like we're not literally trying to run for our lives. Like I didn't nearly just lose mine. "Think ya owe me one, there."

I slap his hand away and force myself up. "Just get us out of here."

"As you wish," he replies in a way that I guess is supposed to mean something, but collects to absolutely nothing to me. 

And as the three other beings start to come our way, to collect the two of us as vengeance bounties for the now three deaths on our backs (though the first still had nothing to do with me, thanks very much) I hurry into the eccentric Peter Quill's M-ship, and the door slams behind me, encasing me in what might very well end up as my tomb.

No big deal, Orellano. No big deal at all.

REFERENCE GUIDE:

Kafuel - this universe's equivalent to coffee. Because of course, it's gotta have a fun sci-fi name.

Xrellian - a tall, skeletal, reptilian race generally outcasted to the outskirts of galaxies. They're well-known for their long, extremely sharp talons that they use as primary weapons on their hands, and their ophidian, blue-toned features.

Xqru - a mob group usually dedicated only to outskirt planets, who generally thrive on petty crimes and intimidation of lower-class areas. Any of their victims are recognised easily by loss of fingers: Xqru members cut off a finger of anyone they kill and fashion them as jewelry. This is both as a trophy of their kill, and as a threat to anyone who would like to cross paths.

Dedicated to demonlust who made the gorgeous art above.

THANK YOU

for reading.