The Weapon He Made Me

   " ---- if it gets you to quit whining...? Yes."

That's unfair. She's bored, too. They all are. Sure, it sounded great in theory -- being the good guys and only the good guys, the kind of good guys who don't have to avoid arrest warrants whilst they save the world. But they're none of them built for that, not really.

                   ☆  xutlaw  ☆                

     ❝ I always keep my promise to muscled                      out wack jobs that kill me if I don’t. ❞

                              independent Peter Quill rp blog.                               multiverse  &   multishipping  blog.                        AU, OC & crossover friendly. mun  &  muse                        are over 18 so nsfw will happen, but always                        tagged and hidden under ‘Read more’.  role                        playing for over 5 years & always  willing  to                        plot while random starters can happen upon                             request. semi-selective. accepting all                             roleplay  styles.  time   zone   is  CET.                                                  ▓▓▒▒▒░░  

Jack huffs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his old coat. Looking down at one of the unconscious—or is he dead—men on the floor, he nudges him with his boot and wrinkles his nose.

   " -- then lucky for my delicate sensibilities and your spiked chicken soup supply, your pathogens pose no risk to me."

She straightens from her position next to the prone man, and brandishes the key she's slid from the inside of his jacket. With an arch look, eyebrows raised and lips pursed, she presses it into his hand.

                      Maybe it’s the fear of Rocket dragging                       something even more filthy into his ship                       if he doesn’t do it himself. Maybe it’s the                       boredom that comes from having to wander                       about the galaxy being, well, good that                       makes him want to fall back on old habits.                       They were exciting at least.  

           He won’t tell Gamora. She wants to be            the good one now. And it’s fine, really.            So why is he having such a hard time            getting used to it ?  

                               ”You wanna pay for it then ? “

She doesn't give him the satisfaction of a negative response to his question, instead fixing him with a curious look that turns knowing by degrees.

              "You're bored," she says, after a               moment, and a smile tugs its way               onto her face, settling there com-               fortably. "You're bored and you're               looking for excitement."

Why on earth Quill thinks that stealing what is essentially dirt will find him any excitement is debatable, but she can almost understand. Idleness is pretty much unbearable.

  "For the most part, it is, but the people I know ain’t your average —Terrans. We call ‘em mutants.  Come in all shapes, sizes and colors with a variety of powers and whatnot.

    "Powers? They hold a social rank above that of others? I was not aware your planet's social structure was quite so complex.

  "Yes, well—" He chuckles, offering her a shrug as his only explanation for this odd custom of theirs, "I couldn’t tell you exactly where this little tradition started. Only that it’s still rather popular, for some reason." His eyes linger on the colorful paper umbrella for a moment, before he shakes his head with a crooked grin.

"I like it," she says, decisively, as though the pronouncement was made just as her mind came to the conclusion. "Frivolous perhaps, but --"

She tips her head, lifts a shoulder as though to indicate that frivolity is not necessarily a bad thing. Life should be given colour when possible that is something other than a violent, bloody scarlet. Another mouthful of the sugary drink, and then it's replaced on the table before she turns in her stool to stare thoughtfully at the dead bounty hunter, lips pursed.

       ”Nor is it mine, Gamora— but a threat is not assuaged by claims otherwise.”

     And he does not make his own just yet— but he knows well the self-doubt of one who has already fulfilled their truths, however fiercely amends are pursued. 

        "I can assure you, it is not my intention to do          harm, or to aid others in it."

Something like amusement hangs on her lips as she tips her head at him.

  "I had to know if you would actually come. You are no pet, but a weapon." Perhaps he could have worded that in a more polite manner, but in the end, that was what Gamora was to him.

    She cannot deny his words; they are true. She is nothing but a weapon to anyone, including herself; it is her only use. A tool of agriculture may be used to grow and reap and sow, and as a weapon too, circumstances dictating. But regardless of circumstance, a gun is nothing more than a gun. One cannot use a weapon for anything other than its purpose.

                    “Fertilizer, Gamora, fertilizer ! What——                    you think, oh no, I… those days are over.”          

                           ”Fertilizer… for Groot’s pot ? You’ve no                             idea how expensive that shit is. I don’t                             wanna get broke ‘cause of it.”

                      he purses his lips and can’t remember                       the last time the innocent expression                       on his face had been real.

    "For Groot's pot."

She's not sure  if she's  annoyed with  herself for being unable to comprehend a non-violent use for something, or with him for being so cryptic over something quite so simple. She decides on him.

           "Quill, you are without a doubt the             pettiest man I have ever met. How             much fertilizer does Groot need?             How expensive can dirt be?"