bakerstreet | otherwordly meme.

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[ The job had been an easy one -- get in, grab the goods, get out. By now, they have their roles and responsibilities memorized -- Drax, and Groot provide the muscle; Gamora does the same, only with an added layer of tracking their progress; Rocket does the hacking; Peter does the stealing. It's not exactly a well-oiled machine, because they're them, but usually it gets the job done.

Usually.

Then again, their jobs also usually went to shit the instant they stepped on the premises, as this one did.

It was partially due to underestimating the number of men housed in the compound -- their information had said there would be a dozen. It turned out to be about five times that -- so Drax, Groot, and Gamora had their hands pretty full. They also severely underestimated how many of the men would give a shit when a thief and a raccoon sneaked their way into the building and attempted to spirit away valuable data regarding the whereabouts of caches of stolen goods. Like, really valuable. And super stolen. So, it should've been fair game.

But apparently, only Peter and Rocket seemed to think as much, because not too long after Rocket had hacked in and downloaded all of the data, men were pouring into the room, guns drawn. After that, they fought the whole way out, and Peter cursed his shitty luck. He must've been born under a blood red moon, or under a crappy alignment of stars or something, because cosmic or divine intervention is the only way to explain why his jobs went ass-end up in the blink of an eye.

Peter was foolish enough to trick himself into thinking they got away scot-free when they reach the safety of their little rickety shuttle -- a shitty tin can bought for the sole purpose of ditching once they rendezvoused with the Gamora and the others in the Milano. The plan had to been to take off in two different directions and confuse their pursuers, then meet up some time later and drink to their success. Peter and Rocket got as far as taking off before they're surprised by anti-aircraft fire, and while Peter managed to coax the shuttle into staying afloat, he eventually had to maneuver it into a crash landing in a narrow clearing as its engines sputtered and die.

And so here they are now, in a smoking heap of metal in a dark forest, and Peter has a thing or two he wants to say to whoever put this piece of crap together with silly putty and shoestring about safety regulations. He's pretty sure he'll have one hell of a bruise across his chest from his safety harness, but he'd take a bruise over getting launched into the glass of the canopy any day.

He takes mental stock of himself and decides the crash could've been worse; he groans as he frees himself from his seat, body sore and aching from the impact -- and he quickly amends that the crash could've been better, too. ]

Rocket? You okay, man?

[ Somewhere around the point where he and Quill were blasting their way through a bunch of goons who really should not have been putting up as much of a fight as they did, Rocket asked a question of the universe. That question being Why in the hell did every single one of their jobs go straight to shit? Followed quickly by Why do I keep taking jobs with these assholes? He and Groot had not been what one would call an especially successful pair of bounty hunters-slash-mercs-slash-whatever the hell else, but when their jobs went south, they never went south quite so… spectacularly. The Guardians (now there’s a stupid frickin’ name, but whatever. It stuck after the whole thing on Xandar) had a rare talent for things blowing up in their faces in the most insane way possible.

If this was any other team, they probably wouldn’t be crash-landing it he middle of some forest somewhere, that’s for sure.

Rocket also has a few choice words for whoever slapped their piece of crap little shuttle together, none of them kind in any language, and likely punctuated with bullets. The safety harnesses weren’t built for a creature his size, and if he knew what a pinball was, he’d probably say he felt like one after being tossed around in his seat. He’s bruised and aching and he’s pretty sure he’s got a friggin’ nasty case of whiplash, but he’s breathing. That’s a plus, at least?

He fumbles with the clasp on the safety harness and slides out of his seat. Yeah, he’s definitely been better. ]

Define “okay”.

Like, nothing broken? Nothing sprained?

[ He stretches carefully, testing his joints as he stands hunched over in the small space of what he had graciously termed the cockpit. Then again, the entire shuttle was basically the cockpit, with a tiny space for storing cargo. Small cargo. Bite-sized cargo. Maybe snails.

(Es-cargo, Peter's brain supplies helpfully.) ]

And preferably not dead? But not necessarily in that order.

You caught me, Quill. Stone cold dead over here.

[ The sarcasm, it is tangible.

Regardless, he takes mental stock of himself, leaning his weight against the seat he just exited. Nothing broken? Check. Nothing sprained? Eh... check-ish. Turning his head hurt like a bitch. Not dead? Check and check. He may be tiny, but he's durable. ]

You got any idea where we are? [ He'd check himself, but what passed for a nav system on this piece of shit is half-destroyed and smoking. Getting it working again would take time they likely didn't have. Someone had to have seen where their shuttle went down, and that meant a salvage crew was likely on their way. Salvage crew. Not search party. Those jackoffs they were robbing wanted them dead anyway, and wouldn't send something so nice as a "search party". ]

Good. That means I can have your stuff.

[ I.E., Peter's been eying that rifle of yours, Rocket. Better keep it close.

He carefully rolls out his shoulder as he walks over to the shuttle's only exit, making a mental note that he'll have to be careful exerting too much force on his arm. Of course, he thinks that, but after a second or two of no response from the door's control panel, he grunts in frustration then starts prying the door open himself. The metal screeches and groans as he pulls, bent and warped as it is, but eventually he makes enough headway to provide the both of them a large enough exit.

He holds his sore shoulder and pokes his head out for a second. After that, he turns back to Rocket with an innocent look on his face. ]

We're in a forest.

[ So helpful, Star-Lord.

Peter peers out again, and while he doesn't see any sign of movement, he knows it's only a matter of time before their new buddies send men after them to retrieve the data they stole. ]

You okay to run? I think we're gonna need to book it.

Only if you can pry it outa my cold, lifeless hands.

[ Oh, he is. In fact, he’s slinging it over his shoulder as Quill struggles with the door. Have fun with that, buddy. Rocket’s the brain here, not the muscle. He is also resolutely ignoring the way his neck twinges with the added weight of his rifle slung across one shoulder, and comes to the grand conclusion that today is the fucking worst.

Until they botch the next job, then that day will be the fucking worst.

He scoots past Quill’s boots to poke his head outside, wrinkling his nose. Sure is a forest, all right. Lots of cover for them, but also lots of cover for anyone coming after them. ]

Don’t see what kinda choice we got. [ He glances up at the Terran. He knows Peter’s not as sturdy as the rest of the group, so it’s more out of concern that the human is a liability than the fact that he’s actually worried about the guy that he asks, ] You’re not gonna fall over on me, are ya? If you do, I’m leavin’ your big ass behind.

[ (That’s a lie. He’s worried about the guy. Don’t tell anyone.) ]

[ Peter's so-called weakness is a pretty big sticking point with him. Sure, okay, he's not as resilient as the other guys, he can't take as many punches or bullets or whatever, but that doesn't make him a liability. And, hell, he held a goddamn Infinity Stone for at least an hour (that might possibly be an exaggeration), so that has to count for something, right?

Well, apparently not. A guy breaks his leg once, and suddenly it's Weak little Peter this, and Puny Terran that. It's enough to give a guy a complex.

He doesn't voice any of that aloud, though his sneer is a pretty obvious indicator of what he thinks of Rocket's question and warning. ]

I'm fine. Quit being a dick.

[ And while he's at it -- space? Stop being black. Water? Cut it out with the blue. Oh, and fire? What are you trying to prove, being so goddamn hot? ]

What about you? Seems like you can barely turn to look sideways.

[ Don’t worry, Peter. Someone out there must think you’re cool and indestructible and awesome. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not.

By way of response, Rocket lets out a noise that’s half-dismissive snort, half-annoyed snarl. He’ll keep being a dick if he wants to, okay? And he wants to like, all the time. ] Got a kink in my neck. But don’t worry, I think I’ll live.

[ That said, he makes the short leap to the ground. There doesn’t seem to be much by way of wildlife around. Probably all scared off by the crash. Granted, he has no clue what to expect by way of wildlife on this planet, it really wasn’t relevant to their job, and Rocket doesn’t spend his downtime perusing nature quarterlies just for funsies. If there’s anything big and bad out there that thinks he’s dinner, he’s got a BFG to present a solid counterargument with. ] C’mon. I wanna put as much distance between us and the goon squad as we can.

[ Peter's arched eyebrow screams that he's not particularly convinced by that bit of news, but he at least lets it slide for now. The two of them are way too proud to admit their weaknesses until they're about to get killed because of them -- but at least Peter's self-aware enough to know that. He's not so sure if Rocket is.

He grabs a satchel and stuffs in the tiny first aid kit they had stocked the ship with. As he's stepping out, he pulls out his guns while his gaze skims over their surroundings. No sign of their buddies, for now -- could be that they assumed the crash had been fatal. ]

This way. [ He heads in the direction of their rendezvous point -- it might take a while, but at least if they head that way, Gamora and the others might be able to pick them up on the ship's sensors. ]

Try not to keel over.

Your concern is so touching. [ Dry as the desert up in here, yep. He couldn't really give two shits one way or another.

He falls in-step with Peter, two steps to the Terran's one. As much as he'd like to take a look around, his poor abused neck would rather he didn't, so he keeps his eyes ahead.

Also, that is not a satchel. It's a purse. Just so we're clear. ]

Think we can get our money back on that shuttle? Thing was a piece of grade-A crap.

[ IT'S NOT A PURSE.

PETER WILL PUNT YOU. ]

Pretty sure we got what we paid for.

[ And seeing as how they exchanged a handful of credits and a solemn promise to not discuss the methods in which the junker had come to acquire said piece of Grade-A crap. Peter's mostly sure it involved some degree of murder or manslaughter. ]

On the bright side, it stayed in the air a lot longer than I expected it to. So that's something.

[ IT'S A GODDAMN PURSE SORRY ABOUT YOUR FRAGILE MASCULINITY. ]

Tch. [ That's the only thing further he feels like saying on the matter, apparently, and contents himself with walking along in slightly annoyed silence for a time.

That is, until a low buzzing reaches his ears, probably well before it reaches Peter's. He stops walking, ears perking up to listen. Smaller engines of some kind- one- to two-man bikes or buggies or something if he had to take a guess. ] We got a approaching vehicles, Quill.

-- Shit.

[ Peter doesn't bother asking, "Are you sure?" because he knows that even if Rocket wasn't sure, he'd give Peter an attitude about it. Besides, he trusts Rocket's hearing. It's a whole lot better than his own, in any case.

They could fight, but Peter doesn't trust his injured arm, and even if Rocket's trying to hide it, Peter can tell the guy can barely turn his head -- no good in a firefight. He casts around, looking for cover -- but then again, they're in a goddamn forest. The place is lousy with hiding spots. It's not too long before he spots a thicket and heads in that direction. ]

We'll wait for them to pass. If they split up, we can steal one of their rides.

If they split up, right. [ Something about Rocket's tone suggests he's planning on stealing one of their rides, regardless. ]

Y'know what would be great right about now? If I had some friggin' grenades. [ He'd used the few he was allowed to bring along to cover their initial escape. Really, if Quill didn't have such a stick up his ass about letting Rocket bring explosives along everywhere they went, this would be a lot easier right now. ]

[ He huffs a breath out of his nose, exasperated. The number of explosives Rocket was allowed to hold on his person was a sticking point in their arguments -- and Peter has no idea, honestly, how the guy expects to hold as many grenades as he ever wants.

That, and it was dangerous. A stray shot could blow the guy to smithereens, and Peter wouldn't even have the satisfaction of saying, I told you so, what with Rocket being a wet stain on the ground.

And the walls.

And the ceiling. ]

Y'know what else would be great right about now?

[ He parts the branches of a nearby shrub, holding them apart to admit Rocket into the thicket. ]

If you'd shut up and get in the damn bush.

I can't believe I been reduced to hidin' in a damn bush. [ Says the guy who hangs out with a walking, talking tree. But that little grumble is all the protest he gives before trudging his way into the opening.

Though a second later, he pokes his head back out ] Rope would be good, too. Take 'em out while they're driving past.

[ He briefly thinks of Return of the Jedi, when Luke and Leia are battling Storm Troopers on Endor, but-- ]

You gonna magically produce rope out of thin air?

[ And then he's maneuvering his way into the thicket and sitting down with a huff. ]

'Cause unless you are, I'd prefer we try and stay quiet so they don't shoot us.

I dunno. I thought maybe ya had one in your purse.

[ He says it as he moves to plop down next to Peter, shifting his rifle into his lap, and tilting his head to one side and then the other, trying to work out the kinks. ]

[ He opens his mouth to reply--

It's not a purse, goddammit.

--but he frowns instead, concerned. ]

You sure you're alright?

[ He looks up at Quill best he can, ears drawn back and expression somewhere between annoyed and suspicious. He's still not used to people being legitimately concerned about him. It always makes him think they want something, or they're trying to soften the blow for the next time they call him a rodent.

But in the end, the Guardians (still a stupid name) are the only friends he and Groot have ever had, and they never ask of him more than they would of any other member of the team. (And after he blew up at them the one time, the "rodent" calling had pretty much stopped.)

Finally, reluctantly, he replies, ] Got my bell rung a little when the shuttle went down. I'll be fine.

[ He doesn't miss the flash of suspicion. It's a pretty common look from the other members of the team. He's used to seeing it from Gamora when he offers to help with bandages, from Drax when he wakes him from a nightmare. Rocket's just as fucked up as the rest of them, Peter included, so that his first inclination to Peter's concern is wariness, doesn't surprise Peter in the least.

It's why he waits him out, doesn't press any further, and when Rocket answers, he nods. ]

Alright. [ Then, in an effort to defuse the abrupt moment of earnestness, he adds, ] Try not to pass out on me.

[ It's a welcome change. Rocket's still not sure how to deal when shit gets genuine. ]

Gonna take a lot more than a little ol' crash to take me out.

[ But now the sound of approaching vehicles have gotten quite close, though they die out after a moment- their pursuers are probably checking the wreckage.

In the near silence, Rocket can help but grumble a repeat argument about how a grenade would be really helpful right about now. ]

[ Peter really wants to tell the guy to shut the hell up, but in lieu of speaking, he shoots Rocket a glare.

When the men turn up empty-handed from the wreckage, they enter further into the forest. He holds his breath when he hears the men's voices approaching, and from his vantage point, he sees one of the bikes slide into view, then quickly move on, followed soon after by another, then a third.

They pause in a clearing nearby, and they're close enough that Peter's barely able to make out the words -- they're splitting up, apparently, to cover more ground. He hears two zoom off, the sounds of their engines fading away, and the third seems to meander in the area, as if awaiting their return to the wrecked ship.

Now's as good a chance as any, and he turns to Rocket, tilting his head in question. You good to go? ]

Peter Quill | Guardians of the Galaxy

if you don't mind my voicetesting?

of course not! sry about the length; let me know if I should redo!

looks good to me!

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