[ Peter was expecting more of a fight. The Guardians sort of have a knack for bickering like school children at the worst of times, arguing about who left the fridge door open as explosions rock a warehouse, or bitching at each other about leaving messes in the common area while facing down an assault from all sides.
Part of their charm, Peter supposes.
But Gamora doesn't argue, which is fucking worrying, but for now, Peter just feels relieved. They don't have time for Peter to talk her down – not with their cover slowly being whittled away by each high caliber bullet. He puts on one of his little impish smiles, though it's clearly forced. ]
Your concern for me is really touching, sometimes.
[ Peter takes the inch she's given him and goes the whole mile, hitting the trigger behind his ear to deploy his mask. Blue light flickers around his face, solidifying into metal, and he takes up both of his blasters. He presses his back against the table, both guns raised as he takes a few fortifying breaths. ]
Wish me luck.
[ Though he doesn't wait for it, instead darting out from behind their cover, firing up into the dark balcony overlooking the ground floor – some area meant for VIPs, and the most likely hiding place of their shooter. Another laser point flickers on his chest, but only for a second – Peter keeps himself moving, dancing to a silent rhythm, and the bullet takes out the table that had been standing behind him.
There are a few folks still cowering beneath tables or behind the bar, frozen with terror, and Peter tries to avoid getting the civilians in the shooter's sights, leaping and rolling into cover as he draws closer to the balcony. And— there, he sees it, the lens of the rifle's sights catching the low light of the club, giving away the shooter's position. Peter waits for another shot to ring out before he takes his chances and runs toward the balcony. He jumps up onto the seat of a chair, onto a table, and leaps, the heels of his palms hitting both triggers for the rockets on his boots to help him close the distance.
He clears the railing and lands beside a man in all black, with lime green skin and the fucking best look of surprise on his face when Peter's feet hit the ground. ]
Hi.
[ There's a misplaced, chipper quality to Peter's greeting. The sniper struggles to bring the gun around, but the rifle is large and unwieldy in the tight space between them. He manages to fire off one last shot, the bullet taking out a chunk of the ceiling, but Peter fires off a shot, too, electricity arching over the sniper's body as he falls to the floor, motionless. In an effort to check that he's well and truly down (but mostly out of spite), Peter kicks him in the head with predictable results.
After that, he scoops up the rifle as he moves to the railing, gaze honing in on the floor below, to the upturned, bullet-ridden table. He shouts down into the still club, ]
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Part of their charm, Peter supposes.
But Gamora doesn't argue, which is fucking worrying, but for now, Peter just feels relieved. They don't have time for Peter to talk her down – not with their cover slowly being whittled away by each high caliber bullet. He puts on one of his little impish smiles, though it's clearly forced. ]
Your concern for me is really touching, sometimes.
[ Peter takes the inch she's given him and goes the whole mile, hitting the trigger behind his ear to deploy his mask. Blue light flickers around his face, solidifying into metal, and he takes up both of his blasters. He presses his back against the table, both guns raised as he takes a few fortifying breaths. ]
Wish me luck.
[ Though he doesn't wait for it, instead darting out from behind their cover, firing up into the dark balcony overlooking the ground floor – some area meant for VIPs, and the most likely hiding place of their shooter. Another laser point flickers on his chest, but only for a second – Peter keeps himself moving, dancing to a silent rhythm, and the bullet takes out the table that had been standing behind him.
There are a few folks still cowering beneath tables or behind the bar, frozen with terror, and Peter tries to avoid getting the civilians in the shooter's sights, leaping and rolling into cover as he draws closer to the balcony. And— there, he sees it, the lens of the rifle's sights catching the low light of the club, giving away the shooter's position. Peter waits for another shot to ring out before he takes his chances and runs toward the balcony. He jumps up onto the seat of a chair, onto a table, and leaps, the heels of his palms hitting both triggers for the rockets on his boots to help him close the distance.
He clears the railing and lands beside a man in all black, with lime green skin and the fucking best look of surprise on his face when Peter's feet hit the ground. ]
Hi.
[ There's a misplaced, chipper quality to Peter's greeting. The sniper struggles to bring the gun around, but the rifle is large and unwieldy in the tight space between them. He manages to fire off one last shot, the bullet taking out a chunk of the ceiling, but Peter fires off a shot, too, electricity arching over the sniper's body as he falls to the floor, motionless. In an effort to check that he's well and truly down (but mostly out of spite), Peter kicks him in the head with predictable results.
After that, he scoops up the rifle as he moves to the railing, gaze honing in on the floor below, to the upturned, bullet-ridden table. He shouts down into the still club, ]
Got 'im.