#contraxia

‘Might as well ask the Ravagers for help.’ The memory of her own words is echoing through her skull with a mocking tone, clearly audible over the din of the Iron Lotus, a brothel and bar on Contraxia.

She’d spent her time well, fitting in with the questionable types thanks to her disguise and skills. First thing she’d done was get a room, cheap and dirty (and relatively free of rats, which preferred to be closer to the kitchen), but on the very top floor at least. The second part had been easier, all it had required was to by a bottle of booze and mingle, observing anyone who came and went to learn of their affiliations, and whenever one might be connected to the Ravagers, she’d made sure to drop a few hints of a competitor to their business, building up a reputation as a bounty hunter looking for a new job.

Her appearance had helped cement the ruse. Black leather jacket over a ragged, but tight, blood-red top, followed by leather pants and a solid pair of boots that oozed practicality. Of course, no bounty hunter would be complete without an impressive arsenal, although hers mainly favoured blades…save for the one plasma-gun at her hip.

The first few days, she’d stuck to the bar or the shadowy corners with the scurrying vermin, until one day a brawl had made her take refuge in the rafters. There she could balance on the beams unnoticed, perching in the deep-set window over the entrance and gaining unrestricted view of the snow-covered square outside as well as the milling crowd in the joint below her. Sneeper Madame, the owner of the place, hadn’t been pleased to begin with, but on this planet, anything is possible if you have enough gold, and [Y/N] had made sure to buy a new bottle each day too.

Leaning against the cold stone behind her, [Y/N]’s drawing meaningless pattern on the foggy window. She has to try not to look at the empty ring finger, because it only makes her miss Loki more, but flashing something that unique would have been stupid…now it was hanging in a chain around her husband’s neck.

She’s only partially listening to the scratching music and the noise of drunkards below. It’s the usual crowd, consisting of one third miners (or diggers, as some call them), and a third are criminals of various severity. The last third are the love-bots, live whores and a random assortment of low lives trying to get by whichever way they can. At least no gold-skinned haters.

Last time [Y/N] and Loki had been here, the sovereign had run a sort of embassy from one of the backrooms, but Adam had ended that years ago. Too bad he hadn’t finished them all off. I shouldn’t applaud genocide…no matter who it is.

Raising the bottle to her lips, she freezes with the hand in mid-air when she catches the sight of movement out of the corner of the eye. A larger group is making their way across the square, but more importantly, people are moving out of the way for the newcomers. It’s clear who’s the leader of the pack, simply from how he’s carrying himself, despite the many scars and his age (you don’t get that old here, unless you have power). Dressed in black, military style clothing, the only oddity are the stripes of orange that raises over his shoulders as fins, glowing faintly in the perpetual gloom on this planet.

As the group enters, [Y/N] lazily takes another swig of the sweet liquor, feeling it’s burn before negating the effects. Below on the floor, the crowd parts before the man and his entourage, allowing them to saunter towards the bar, accompanied by the growing silence and tension. Keeping a grip on the bottle, [Y/N] shadows them, soundlessly prowling in the shadows up between the rafters. She’s smiling.

Every single alien (some humanoid, some…not) is wearing the flaming badge, most are third or fourth generation, but there are a few from second left. Eyeing the reflection of their leader in the grimy mirror behind the counter, she sees the only badge indicating first generation. A captain. It explains his age and self-confidence. Only the music is playing now, but as the man waves a hand lazily, that too cuts out. He’s tall, solidly build with a square jaw protruding much further than any orthodontist would have appreciated home on Earth. A few strands are still dark, otherwise both the short-cropped hair and eyebrows are light grey, making his small, sleepy eyes appear darker than they are.

Don’t be fooled, [Y/N] can imagine Natasha warning her, like during their many training sessions. This captain might appear dim, but he can’t be if he’s made it to the top of the most competitive crime-syndicate of the last 40 to 50 years.

As if on cue, he leans over the counter to pour himself a drink, calmly but loudly addressing the bartender. “A little birdy told me…” he drawls, “that ya got a pest-problem?”

Pushing one of the many rats in the place out of the way, they both know that’s not what the guest means. “Nuttin’ we can’t handle, Stakar.”

Bingo! The name rings more than just a small bell with [Y/N]. She’s heard about him from Quill before reading up as preparation for this mission. Hunching, the Midgardian studies the people below. She can assume they all are armed, and they have spread out nicely to make room for swinging their weapons.

A subtle nod makes her refocus on the bartender and the face of the Ravager leader reflected in the mirror, a sly smile playing on the lips of the latter before he empties the glass in one go. She’s been made, but that’s okay.

“Sneakin’ up on me normally results ‘n people dyin’.” He’s calmly refilling the glass.

Stopping her bottle with a thumb, she tips elegantly into empty air, flipping around by holding on to the raw edge of the beam so she lands on her feet. The only sound is the softest thud from the heavy boots, and she can’t help but smirk with pride as she straightens up.

“Relax,” an impressive arsenal is pointing at her, so she makes sure to keep the hands away from her own weapons, taking another swig of the burning alcohol, “if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.” A soundless scoff is the only answer she gets. “I’m glad you got my message.”

As opposed to the normal grunts in the lower ranks of the space mafia, the leaders know that information is more valuable than a quick show of power by killing someone. Stakar Ogord needs to know more about her before eliminating the potential competition. That’s pretty much the only thing that’s keeping his men from shooting. Glancing around, [Y/N] comes to the conclusion that the term ‘men’ is a generous categorization of some of them. Stakar has finally turned to face her, and she lifts her bottle as a form of salute before downing a quarter of it. Bemused, he returns the gesture, draining his own glass. All around them, the regulars slowly return to their own affairs, clearly bummed at the lack of a show down ending in the death of someone.

Indicating for her to come closer, Stakar’s hoarse voice drops to a normal frequency. “Can’t say there’s been much of a message.”

“You knew someone was asking around about your…associates.” She doesn’t bother staying out of his range, preferring to plant herself on one of the bar stools. “I’m just lucky it was you, that came to investigate.”

“How’d ya figure that?”

Giving him a once over, she figures he’ll need more persuading before believing anything she wants him to hear. “Long story. Let’s just say we have common…acquaintances.”

The Ravager captain glares at her, unsure what to think of her comment while another rat scurries over the bar counter, and it gives her an idea. Quick as a cat, she plucks the rodent up by its tail, calming it down by altering the flow of hormones that would have send it into a state of fight or flight. It settles down in her palm, where it sniffs around before beginning to groom itself.

“I’d much rather we spoke somewhere more…quiet, but I guess you’ve got no reason to trust me.” She’s studying the critter.

“Why should I?” Stakar isn’t showing any emotions. This is fun. “I dunno nothin’, ‘cept ya wantin’ a pay soon.”

Finally locking her eyes with him, [Y/N] makes sure to keep her voice quiet as she drains the poor creature of its life. “I wager you’ve heard of me.”

Tenderly placing the small corpse next to his glass, she turns and walks away leisurely. She’s halfway up the first flight of stairs, when the man gets into gear, signaling for the next two in command to follow him as he hurries after her. Probably something he doesn’t do often.

Not a word is spoken until they are inside the crammed room, one backup outside the door, the other (a Pluvian and first officer) hovering next to [Y/N] where she’s sitting on the bed. As a kind host, she’s offered Stakar the only chair, rickety as it may be.

“Alright. I’ve heard of…someone like ya.” He’s on edge, and she can’t blame him. “What’ya want?”

“Just a friendly chat.” She might be smiling, but it’s a cold smile. The kind that makes the guy next to her grab the weapon a bit tighter. “You see. I remember the allies just as well as the enemies. Thanos on one side with his mix of elves, Sakaarians, Chitauri, Outriders and random scum. We knew the Sovereign wanted to join him, but something kept them back.” Her eyes are violet, but she doesn’t bother hiding it. “If the Titan had won, then the universe would have been fucked to say the least…that would’ve affected you.” Fighting to keep the voice calm, she doesn’t flinch by the mechanical click next to her. “So where…were…you?”

Stakar’s trying to look in control. “The Ravagers aren’t an army.”

“Neither were we. Neither were Quill and his team.” Letting out a small huff, [Y/N] leans back against the wall and takes a swig of the bottle she still has been carrying with her. “I remember him and Kraglin Obfonteri telling tall tales of Yondu Udonta and the other clan leaders. Claiming they’d be on the right side.” As tempting as it is to take out the nervously shaking second in command (his crystalline body reflecting the light from the bare LED hanging from the ceiling), it won’t do her any good. “So where were you?”

The Pluvian is finally catching up on things, his confusion pushing any nerves aside momentarily. “Now eh, wait…hoooold on a minute! Yo’re talking just like eh as if yo were there…” He’s staring unabashed at her body. A body too young to fit anyone from the stories of the Mad Titan’s defeat. “Yo’re too eh young for that!”

“I’m about [Y/A+20], counting by Terran years.”

“Hellbullshit!”

[Y/N]’s unsure of the existence of any such bovine, but it doesn’t matter, and she resorts to challenging the claim with nothing but a deadpan stare.

“That could only be if ya’re…her.” The commander’s words make the man with the rattling weapon step ever so slightly away from [Y/N]. “The…healer.”

He was thinking of another label. “A simple test could prove my claim.”

It’s a silent staring contest between the two parties, overlooked by an increasingly jittery first officer.

“Martinex. Roll up your sleeve and hold out the arm for her.” Stakar has known his second in command since at least one of them was young, and he expects nothing but the full compliance. “And don’t fight her.”

Clearly unhappy, the Pluvian first mate follows the order, baring what would have been soft skin on the lower arm for the woman. Will a knife penetrate the crystals? Flipping out a slim dagger from the sheath hidden on her own arm by the jacket, she studies the surface before admitting with a shrug that she’s unsure if it would be effective. Stakar promises to Martinex’s consternation, that it will.

Fine. With a flip and a jab, [Y/N] buries the blade deep in the silicon crystal, before withdrawing it, releasing a fine flow of quicksilvery blood. A hand and a bit of concentration is all it takes before the smudges of liquid is the only evidence.