Anger
Anger is easy for Nebula. It’s familiar, safe. She can do anger, be angry like few other beings in the galaxy. This time though there’s a pain to the anger she’s never felt before. In a detached sort of way, it reminds her of the double bladed sword Thanos used to force her to use, ripping her hands to shreds even as she tore apart her opponents. She used to think her anger could burn forever, but now it seems to be consuming her.
She is not sure what she is angry at. Briefly, she lets her resentment flare against the whole universe, against all the countless planets and races that have just stood by and let her suffer and her sister die. She could destroy it all, cut swathes across the galaxy. No one on this planet could stop her. With her sister dead and her murderer dead too, there is nobody left in the universe who could stop her. But, even in her rage, Nebula can’t shut out thoughts of her sister. She can’t bring herself to do it, can’t bear for Gamora’s name to be tainted with further bloodshed. She doesn’t think even Thanos has broken her enough to make her like Ronan, to make her like him. Somehow she can’t find it in herself to feel anything at this revelation but more rage.
Her rage simmers quietly within her at all times, slowly mounting. As a consequence of her enhancements her movements always have a rigid edge to them, but now her vast well of anger accentuates it. Every gesture betrays the energy simmering underneath, the calm before the storm, the stillness before the explosion. She finds herself almost ripping handles off doors, nearly slamming cupboards off their hinges, almost shattering anything she grasps. She knows such gestures are pointless yet she has so much anger she cannot stop it leaking out.
She has not made an effort to get to know any of the Terrans beyond how they fight. She can barely name some of them. It has meant she has been left in relative peace, rarely acknowledged bar a polite dip of the head. Now, with the anger rolling off her in waves, some of them move aside or change direction when they see her. Logically, it is because of the anger they sense. However, in her rage, Nebula finds a small bitter voice whispering in her head that it’s really because of her appearance. Uncanny valley, she thinks. She remembers the term from her research on Terran psychology and customs. Where an object appears almost humanoid, but not quite, eliciting feelings of revulsion and eeriness.
She should be used to it by now but each time someone shies away from her her anger burns that little bit brighter. She didn’t ask for this, didn’t ask for Thanos to rip her apart for her failures until she couldn’t even remember what she once was. At the back of her mind, the reason for her research on Terrans wears at her defences. It had been a spur of the moment decision, seeing how her sister was getting closer to Quill. She’d meant to prove herself better than her sister at something at last (meant to impress her). She’d never gotten a chance to share that knowledge, as the next time she’d seen Gamora her vocal modulator was stretched out like the rest of her body, caught in the midst of Thanos’s torture. Another piece of fuel for her rage to consume.
...
Eventually Nebula’s rage builds to such a level that she can no longer ignore it. She has to release it somehow, and she knows of only one way to vent her rage. In her lonely wanderings of the compound all the Terrans and their allies and she herself have been staying in, she’s managed to build up a map of the place. There is some surprisingly sophisticated technology here, software and hardware she’d expect to turn up on Chandilar or Xandar or Hala, not some backward world in the Sol system. Sophisticated or not, it is still no match for her own enhancements. As such it is all too easy to hack into the controls she needs to grant herself access to the area she desires.
With a hiss the doors swish open and Nebula darts through, quickly closing them behind her. A cursory sweep reveals no obvious survellience nor any other sentient being in here with her. Normally that would make her relax, but with her anger at breaking point she cannot release the tension coiled in her muscles. She reaches for her baton, but stops before her fingers brush the cool steel. She does not need a weapon. She is the weapon. Leaving the baton sheathed, she uses her cybernetics to uplink to the room’s central processing unit. A robotic voice sounds, both within her head and outside through the room’s speaker system. Signal received, new code intergrated. Visuals updated. Safeties disengaged. Difficulty set to maximum. Session comenence in 3… 2… 1…
Nebula breathes in, closes her eyes. As the final number is called out she takes all her rage and hurls it outwards. With a roar, she explodes forward and hurls herself at the simulated enemies.
…
Exactly 53 minutes later Nebula drops to her knees as the robotic voice announces. Simulation complete. All threats terminated. New fastest time recorded. Nebula does not really register the words, the blood roaring in her ears blocking them out. Chest heaving, she gulps in greedy lungfulls of oxygen as her body desperately struggles to recover. A high pitched whine and wet pops tell her she sustained some damage, but she can’t feel where her modifications are at work repairing her. Her body is drenched in sweat and oil, not her own internal lubrication fluid but that of the machines, whose smouldering remains litter the room. Nebula moves to get up, but then she feels it. Behind the fading thrill of battle and newly brought on exhaustion and ever present pain, rage still grips her heart.
She growls in frustration, pushes herself upright and spins on one heel to stalk out the battle simulation room. The doors hiss open once more, stopping her in her tracks. There, blinking nervously like a small creature caught in bright light, is Quill. For a heartbeat as their eyes lock neither move. The stillness is so complete that Nebula, fighting down a surge of panic, briefly worries she’s been caught in one of the stasis beams Thanos favoured for his talks (his word, as he always did like to gloss over the suffering he wrought). Quill breaks the illusion by clearing his throat, an uneasy smile breaking his expression.
“Hey Neb, I was just um… looking for the bathroom… and yeah, funny I should run into you…”
His eyes dart behind her, widening slightly. Somewhat admirably the utter destruction she has left in her wake doesn’t make him stop, his mouth carrying on regardless.
“… yeah, that’s quite the workout you did there. So, um, seems like there’s something on your mind. Wanna, I don’t know, talk it out maybe seeing how you’ve tried the punching route…”
On her best day, Nebula has little patience. Gamora had been able to temper her somewhat, keep her calm enough to at least attempt to wait things out. But Gamora is gone now, and so there is nobody to stop Nebula as she interrupts Quill with a snap.
“Stop dancing around Quill, say what you came to say and be done with it.”
Quill blinks, momentarily stunned by the abruptness. He bites his lip, uncertainty flashing in his eyes as he debates something internally. He seems to reach a decision, deflating slightly.
“Look, I get it. I really do. Thing is, Okoye was called down to check on an alert in the battle simulation room and saw you…"
He pauses to gesture vaguely at the still smoking carnage behind Nebula, giving her a chance to process what he has said. Okoye. Nebula recalls the woman Quill speaks of, one of the Terrans. Nebula has not spent much time with her, but what little she has seen of her has given her a strong impression. Her every movement had been tempered with the grace and control of a warrior, and what little Nebula had witnessed on the battlefield had earned her begrudging respect. Not that she’d admit it, but she’d even catalogued some of Okoye’s inspired spearwork to replicate and add to her own repertoire.
“She seemed kinda impressed, which is odd seeing as she wouldn’t spare a glance at me when I was breaking in the repairs on my element blaster…”
Nebula tilts her head at Quill’s brief aside. She thinks he may have purposely included such irrelevant information, but she can’t quite decipher why.
“… and, well, she said this has to be a one time thing. Wakanda is insanely rich, but even they have limits and this kinda destruction isn’t exactly cheap. She said she’d let you have this one though, because she… she knows what it’s like to lose a sister.”
As Peter speaks the last phrase his voice softens. Nebula tenses, her rage swirling. How dare they presume what is going on inside her head, how dare they bring Gamora into this. She is going to… something in Quill’s face stops her. Those eyes, so damn expressive, easily displaying the emotions she wouldn’t, couldn’t feel. Although she had not understood it, she had seen the way her sister looked at him. The way he had looked back at her. It dawns on her that Quill too must be reeling over her loss. With that, the fire of her rage splutters and dies. Something in her posture must give her away, because Quill’s expression changes. Nebula can’t name the emotion on his face, but it reminds her of Gamora after she’d confessed to her that she’d only ever wanted a sister.
“I miss her too. Every damn second.”
Quill’s voice is so gentle, so understanding, Nebula can’t face him. With stilted movements, she reaches into her belt and draws out her credit screen. She taps it a few times, face scrunched in concentration, before shoving it at Quill. Head half lowered to avoid meeting his eyes, she mutters.
“Here, give these Units to Okoye. There should be enough to cover the damage fully. Tell her… tell her this incident will never be repeated, she has my word.”
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Quill open his mouth to say something, but she pushes past him before he can. She does not run away, as that would imply she is afraid of something. However as she puts distance between them her stride is noticeably faster than usual.
…
Nebula retreats to a ventilation shaft she discovered the second cycle she spent on Terra. It is a small, claustrophobic space, but it is the only place she has found with any sense of privacy. Here she will not be distracted, here she can be alone. Except her brain, against her will, insists on replaying one of her memories.
Nebula has had her first few enhancements, but is still mostly flesh. Bar her left hand, her skin appears smooth and unbroken (the scars of the surgeries are hidden under her tunic, but she can pretend they do not exist). She and Gamora are sparring, preparing for the next bout Thanos has ordered for three days’ time. As always, Gamora is effortlessly better. Her form is tigher, her reactions faster, her strikes harder. Despite herself, Nebula allows her jealousy to bubble over and makes a reckless assault. Gamora deftly dodges, and with a lightning fast counter sends Nebula tumbling to the floor. Rage and shame mingle with her jealousy, and Nebula cannot stop the words that escape her lips.
“One day I will kill you.”
Gamora’s face betrays no concern, emotions carefully guarded.
“Not with form like that.”
Nebula snarls, roughly shoves herself to her feet. She winces slightly as the joint in her left wrist flares in pain, the connections still raw from the latest surgery. As she faces Gamora once more, her sister’s face has shifted into an expression she has never seen before. She doesn’t understand it, and that only increases her anger. She snaps.
“What?”
Gamora’s reply is level and smooth.
“I was just thinking.”
Nebula grits her teeth, hates that she cannot leave it at that. Hates that she still desperately wants Gamora’s attention, her affection, her sisterhood.
“About?”
Gamora cocks her head slightly, studies Nebula carefully.
“What you’d do if I died.”
Without missing a beat Nebula replies.
“Celebrate the fact that I’d finally bested you in combat, then take my rightful place as father’s favourite child.”
That strange expression ghosts across Gamora’s face again.
“And if someone else kills me?”
Nebula pauses. She’d truthfully never thought of that. Something about it doesn’t sit well with her, stirs strange feelings within her. Her face darkens, and there is a grave seriousness to her next words.
“I’d kill them.”
Gamora stares at her for a long time, but does not say anything else. However, that very night, a single blanket had appeared in Nebula’s bare chambers. She had been grateful for the small protection against the biting cold, and so elected to ignore the easily recognisable scent that clung to the fabric.
The blanket is now long gone. Nebula wishes she could hold it one last time, clutch it close to her chest and inhale that familiar scent. She cannot. The thought should inspire new anger within her but it does not. She has no anger left.