Draining
Exitar
2018
"This is... underwhelming."
It's not that Loki isn't excited to see the remaining Asgardians and members of the Sakaaran Rebellion it's just... He was expecting more of them. Their strength certainly doesn't come with their numbers and it's likely that most of them will be useless anyway but it's still a bit discouraging.
They've dwindled down to ninety-eight Asgardians after Hela's slaughter and their capture by Thanos and, most recently, the Incident. Thousands of lives lost in such a short span of time. Asgard had been made to house ten times that, even if they never got anywhere near doing so. Their lifespans being as long as they are, reproducing at a faster rate would be sort of alarming and a recipe for disaster. Maybe if other species had managed to understand the threat of overpopulation and were less inclined to being crammed into such small spaces, they wouldn't be where they are now. Not that he's blaming them - though of course he sort of is - but he's pretty sure reducing their numbers so drastically while still leaving millions of humans wandering around Midgard is unfair.
Loki is fairly sure there are more of them out there, somewhere, at least. Heimdall had been discreetly shuttling people to and fro for long enough that he had to have gotten some of them safely away, maybe even somewhere on Midgard waiting for them. And that's not to mention the ones stationed around the Nine Realms to keep their eyes open and maintain order.
Watching them, taking in their expressions as they take in his not-deceased state, reminds him of Thor. He would be horrified to see their numbers dipped so low, grieving endlessly for the members of their home that they were incapable of saving. Loki has always known who was coming. They never stood a chance, they had been spread so thin. It occurs to him rather suddenly that he doesn't even know if his brother is still living. Death does not discriminate. The Infinity Stones certainly don't either. It would be ironic, after everything, if he was the one who ended up being gone.
Still... Loki likes to think he would just sort of know, if the other man were dead. He thinks he should be able to feel it, a whisper of dread in the pit of his stomach the same way there was when they watched Odin take his last breaths on Midgard. It’s the symbolism of it all that matters, something likely lost on many of them.
"Hello, it's just me, excuse me. Just a question, a little inquiry if you will." Korg is raising a hand like a child in a lesson, causing pebbles to fall from his shoulder to the floor. The sound grates on his nerves unexpectedly. "What was the plan, again?"
Loki thinks he hates the Kronan, just a little. He would kill for company like Frigga or Lorelai or even Lady Sif right now. Brunnhilde is the only totally tolerable one here, and she certainly isn't his biggest fan. Not that she should be, anyway. Miek isn't bad either, but that's probably because he doesn't talk or communicate at all outside of these high chattering and grumbling noises. And Loki likes that, thinks he can relate to the disconnect there.
"I think I heard 'let's visit the same exact place a homicidal Titan was last spotted' - which sounds terrible, by the way." Brunnhilde snorts at his right hand side, doing her best imitation of him. It's not bad. A little nasally, but. Better than most, so he'll take what he can get.
In front of him, Biff grimaces and grumbles. "Bad plan."
"What do you think?" Korg nods to his smaller, insectoid companion. The bug looks up at him thoughtfully, then sinks closer to the floor. "Miek agrees."
Of course he would. Miek is officially out of his goos graces. The Norse god gives them all an ugly look. He's really not sure how or when he get to this point, trying to argue over a plan with a bunch of former Sakaaran slaves who wouldn't know a good plan if it bit their asses. He's better than this, surely. Even the former Valkyrie isn't trying to help, allowing him to struggle with their other companions and their lack of desire to cooperate. She looks borderline amused. The other Asgardians don't look very keen on following him into the fray either and all he's asked them to do so far is journey the rest of the way to Earth.
"Have any of you even spared a thought of what is to happen next?" When no one responds, he continues with a sneer. "Of course you haven't. You're too busy sitting and sniveling, burrowed into your holes of self pity, to even consider a next move. Did you think this stopped here?"
Behind Korg and Biff an Asgardian steps forward, all soft features of bright eyes. He looks significantly younger than most of them, just now growing into his features and long hands. He can't be more than a few centuries old, if that. "You expect us to trust you." It's a statement, not a question, so Loki stays silent. "Asgard might be standing tonight, if not for you."
There's no good argument against that. Loki isn't an idiot; he knows some of the blame for the loss of their home falls on him. There's no avoiding it.
Knowing what Thanos is capable of, having even the slightest inkling of his plan, he should have been preparing for this. He should have tried. Instead of arranging dramatic works to honor his false death and celebrate his brother, he could have been keeping watch on the Nine Realms. He could have consulted his father, when things started to go awry, instead of leaving him to fade on Earth. He could have - should have, probably - been more observant and less wrapped up in some idealistic form of revenge. He could have done more, been more than just a trickster. Things could have been different, Loki knows that.
But it's too late for 'could have's and 'should have's. They have better things to be putting their attention toward, things to be preparing for.
"You would not be standing here tonight, if not for him." Brunnhilde cuts in, inspecting the dirt under her nails. "None of us would."
Loki shoots her a suspicious look. She's one of the last people he expected to come to his defense, she hasn't exactly been very helpful to his attempts up to this point. She doesn't spare him a glance, but there's a stiffness in her shoulders and something cold in her eyes. She sympathizes with me. Pities me, perhaps. The thought strikes him as funny, but not entirely unexpected. He had peeked into her mind, seen the last flight of the Valkyries and her decision to abandon their people all those years ago. It hadn’t much occured to him that she could see where he was coming from, having stood in his shoes once. He'll have to remember this, use it to his advantage in the future. Noted.
The other Asgardian falters, looks between them. Probably intimidated by the nasty sneer Brunnhilde has held for what is likely an eternity. It's understandable; the mark on her arm casts her as a Valkyrie and they're not to be crossed. "You're saying you trust him?"
"She's saying," Loki intervenes before this conversation has the chance to take a worse turn that it already has. "You have very few options outside of that. The Allfather is gone. My brother is... indisposed."
He looks around at their ragtag group, takes a breath and tries to dig deep deep down in an effort to pull some bit of his father or brother out of himself. He pulls at the appeasing and quietly deceptive words of Odin, the whispers of agreement and care and peace and something bigger than any of them. He yanks at the strings of moronic selflessness and unwavering loyalty Thor reflects. Everything about it feels foreign in his chest and on his tongue, playing a part to convince them his way is the best even if he doesn't know it for sure.
"Asgard was never about the place - it is about the people." It’s a line pulled directly from Odin's mouth and he thinks of when Hela said he spoke like him. "I am not the Allfather but our people have brought peace to the Nine Realms before under his fist - since the Great Beginning. Now I would ask you to do the same under mine. Avoiding this war will give us no peace, though the spears may spare you."
Silence drifts over the room. Loki lets his shoulders fall back, chin lifting as he grows more comfortable in this role. He'd never been able to best Thor physically, but this is where he stands on sure footing. This mental and verbal game is where he thrives. He allows something soothing to slide over his tongue, weaving into his words as he continues. And if he lets his the pitch and drop of his words fall into something more akin to his father's time - well, that's just a fine coincidence.
"I met the ice in Jotunheim, I was raised under the sun in Asgard under the hand of Odin. I am neither Jotun not Asgardian, not truly. So call me what you will - Laufeyson, Odinson - but I have moved past my fractured delusions." He tells himself that this is okay to say, seeing as it's not a total lie. "I ask that you look past what has happened and look to what will happen, what is happening. I do not care to be your King, I do not care to have your love or approval. I have no endgame, here. All I desire is... restoration. Retribution."
As if in an offering of peace, the dark haired man spreads his hands in front of him, palms up.
To his right, Brunnhilde seems to be inspecting him closely. Maybe with disbelief, maybe with annoyance, like she knows he game he's playing. All of it is to be expected, they've had a pretty rocky go of it so far. After a few distended moments, she jerks her head back forward to stare at the last of their people. There's a pause, just a second, where Loki thinks they're still going to meet him with contempt and their gazes are going to be able to see through the places where he's bent the truth to pick him apart.
This is fitting, he decides after beat.
"I'm sorry," It's Korg again, squinting at him with something very close to embarrassment. "I don't think I understood any of that."
Loki is sure, now. He absolutely does hate the Kronan. He's totally ruined the impact of his speech - undermined the very core of it. As someone who is very invested in the arts and the delivery of these things, he's a little offended. Or maybe incredibly offended. He lifts a hand, forefinger and thumb rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he tries to decide whether or not the situation is capable of being salvaged at this point. He should just take the ship, pilfer some supplies from the space colony and leave all of the ungratefuls on Exitar and spend the rest of his time -
"When do we leave?"
In his surprise, he lets his hand drop and turns to find that Brunnhilde has turned to him entirely, expression set with a raised brow and her hip cocked. The look on her face doesn't leave any question as to whether or not she - and that ship, and likely the members of the Sakaaran Rebellion with her - will be leaving. She's a sight, all sharp determination and a force to be reckoned with.
He is not at all surprised when no one steps forward to argue against her. The Valkyrie were something to be feared, in their time, and stories of them have traveled and been passed down since their end. Briefly, he reflects on all of the things he had heard of them when they were just children. He can recall gushing with Thor about them, listening to stories from Frigga. He'd admired them, though not going quite so far as Thor in his desires to be one of them. They were too close to the sun, their beasts were not his fans, and being almost directly under the thumb of someone else never appealed to him. He could have pulled off their outfits, at least, but that's about as far as that goes.
"As soon as we can." Loki finally delivers, looking thoughtful. "I have no idea how long the trip will take, like this. Not that time is much of a concern, now..." And then, low enough that he hopes no one else can catch it, "What changed your mind, fogl?"
She barks a laugh and claps him on the shoulder much harder than necessary, forcing him to lurch forward. He tries not to be bothered by this. "I'm only tagging along to watch this blow up in your face, ormr."
*
The Andromeda Galaxy
2018
It's impossible to tell how much time has passed.
Without any kind of clock - at least not any that read in numbers or characters familiar to him - or night or day everything blurs and blends at the edges. Time seems to drag. One hour sticks to another, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. They hardly seem to be moving. In fact, Tony is sure he's been staring at the same collection of stars and planets clustered outside of the view ports for the past, well, however long they've been moving through space. Sleeping only makes the whole thing more disorienting when he struggles to figure how long he's been out for, how many minutes he's risked his life by letting his guard down when there's no telling what's coming next.
For what it's worth, Nebula doesn't seem interested in helping him pass the time. She's content to sit in silence, navigating them through various patches of meteors and carefully slipping by other beings drifting in space.
This leaves Tony with a lot of time, and nothing to occupy it. He tries tinkering with his suit, for a while. But there's no familiar parts to go fixing it, and he's not willing to risk destabilizing the part of the suit that's holding together the wound in his abdomen. It is sort of his only hope, once again, which isn't nearly as surprising or funny as it should be. He would jokingly refer to it as a crutch, but the statement feels almost too accurate and a little uncomfortable. It makes him think of Pepper, who has compared his Iron Man life to an addiction and insists it's going to be what kills him. She's not wrong, he concedes.
When he finds himself at a loss on the suit, Tony thinks. He thinks of Pepper, and his broken promise of being done with this life, wonders if she’s still where he left her. Rhodey, probably unsure and waiting and searching for him like he did years ago in Afghanistan. Happy, probably all alone and at a loss for what to do. He thinks of Nick Fury, proposing the Avengers to him and seeking him out in the barn of the Barton homestead. Which makes him think of the Bartons, too, of their picturesque life that he keeps digging his fingers into and interrupting with life altering events. Natasha, her secretive smiles and light words with dark suggestions behind them. Wanda and Vision - at least one of whom is definitely gone now, the other likely in a state of grief he can't hope to put a stop to.
He thinks of Steve, hovering over him with half a mind to dislodge his head from his body. He thinks of the shield sitting inside the Avenger's Facility in New York, of the way their friendship crashed and burned, of the unintended betrayal and unspoken lies. Of James Barnes who, well, he hardly knows but still kind of wants to punch in the face. Who can blame him, really? Even if he's not the Winter Soldier - and he is, brainwashing or no it's a part of him now - he still played a part in the disruption of his life, it's hard to look past. But he thinks he will one day, in the future, when he can breathe properly again.
He thinks of Thor - who might not even know what's happening, now, who might be mourning as much as he is. And of Bruce, all tight anxious smiles probably overtaken by Big Mean and Green. Sam, who is probably pushing through this with more jokes than he can hold. He thinks of Strange and Peter and the Guardians who drifted into nothingness in front of him, all the things they deserved but never got to see.
Eventually, Tony has to force himself to stop thinking.
It's too much. His breath catches in his throat and his hands shake and he has to push the heels of his hands into his eyes to fend off the incoming migraine and push back the wetness in his gaze. He can feel his heart pounding in his fingertips and throat, hear his blood rushing through his ears. It’s like everything stops. Like the universe has frozen around him to provide him with just a few moments to absorb his grief. Tony’s lungs burn and his throat feels tight and Christ could he go for a drink right about now. There's a long lapse in time where he sits like that, hunched with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his face while he tries to steady himself. He's sure he hears Nebula making some noise of unimpressed distaste, but it's hard to come up with something witty to say to her.
Once he's got himself under control enough that his hands don’t shake like he’s been submerged in ice, he occupies himself with digging through the contents of the garishly colored ship instead. The inside is the same orange as the outside, spotted with yellows and darker colors in the same range, bits of light blue highlighting things that are either important or dangerous but it's hard to tell which when everything looks at least a little dangerous.
"If you don't stop rooting through things - things that are not yours, for that matter - you're likely to blow a hole in the hull." On cue, Nebula looks over her shoulder to give him an annoyed look. “You’re impossible.”
Tony makes a face where he's hunched over an assortment of wires and circular contraptions, rolling one around in his hand. It looks suspiciously like a yo-yo "That seems incredibly unlikely. Do you know what this is?"
Without looking up or moving, the man holds up the grey and yellow device in one hand. Nebula heaves a sigh. "A Vrellnexian gas grenade. If you activate it we will be incapacitated for at least sixteen hours and this ship will probably crash into a meteor and kill both of us."
"Good to know." He lifts his head to stare at the grenade, taking note of the light indentation on one side of it before he moves it aside for later use. "So... Vrellnexians?" It sounds off coming off his tongue, like it doesn't fit, and he isn't sure he's said it right. "Are they known for these?"
"No. They are known better for their stench." Nebula's tone is so monotonous that he isn't sure if she's joking or not. "They are like your Terran dogs, though admittedly more coriaceous."
Giving a nod in response, Tony redirects his attention back to the bin he's been exploring. He finds two more of them settle in the bottom of the container he's found and puts them with the first.
His companion makes a face as she watches him, but doesn't say anything. They spend some time like this, with Tony presenting her with various objects and asking what they are. With a surprising amount of patience, Nebula provides him with names and descriptions. Gravity mines, pulse wires, ice mines, shock grenades, pulse grenades, energy cores from various places, a Necroblaster, the Hadron Enforcer, constrictors, a blowtorch, the Pink Panther - Tony eventually has to start an inventory, listing everything off to himself as he reorganizes it. He's not really surprised the former owners of the ship didn't have any sort of system for their storage but it is kind of a pain in his back.
Eventually, Nebula cranes her neck to look over her shoulder at him to announce that they're stopping. Surprised, Tony moves away from his new project to look out of one of the view ports. Their scenery has still hardly changed, and they certainly aren't close to any planets he recognizes. The closest is a range of oranges and has clusters of grey wreckage orbiting it.
"We're not there yet." Tony points out, frowning. “I’m not sure if you know this, but Earth doesn’t look like that.”
"I did not need you to point out the obvious." Nebula would be rolling her eyes, if she could. "That is Klyntar. And that," she tips her chin to another window, showcasing something u-shaped and silver. "Is the Kariteth Spaceport."
Before he can interrupt to ask questions about either of these things, Nebula is moving around him and going through the recently organized array of contraptions. She nabs something with a faint light emitting from it out of a crate and then retrieves a shock grenade as well. Both items are shoved into his arms as she marches toward the back of the ship to grab a gun, pointing at the unidentified object in his hands.
"Put that on." When she receives a dubious look in response, she sighs hard. "Holographic Space Suit." When he doesn't budge, her expression shifts to a scowl. "What could it possibly be this time?"
Tony shoves the grenade into his jacket pocket and looks between his Luphomoid companion and the silver spaceport in the near distance. Instead of stating the obvious, which is that they are likely going to draw a lot of unwanted attention to themselves, he offers her a crooked grin and lifts his shoulders, wearing an expression that Pepper would have called either devilish or disgusting. "I don't know how to put this on. Help me?"
"Absolutely not."
*
Kariteth Spaceport
2018
Nebula doesn't like people. She's not sure she ever has, or ever will. Which is fine. She was never placed in the universe to befriend people, never wired quite right for things like interactions and caring and wanting - things like that evade her, move through her fingertips any time she makes an attempt to grasp them.
"So what's on this spaceport?" Tony Stark has not stopped talking for a second since they stepped off of the ship and into Kariteth.
"People. Materials. Weapons. Fuel"
"Which of those things are we here for?"
"Fuel. And a person." At the pressing look she's receiving, she continues. "We are looking for someone specific."
"Now we're getting somewhere. Who are we looking for?"
Nebula rubs at her temple and wonders if she's capable of getting headaches or if there's something wrong with the circuitry in her skull. "A mutate. Haze Mancer."
"That's really two-thousand-and-five." Tony says, as if she should understand any of his awful references to human culture. "Very scene. Does she have any friends? Ebony? Echo? Onyx? Envy?"
She narrows her eyes at him. "What does that mean?"
"They're names." He insists. They don't sound like real names. She's pretty sure he's pulling her leg. "Nevermind," he says, but keeps talking anyway. "It was a big thing for teenagers a few years ago, everyone was coming out of raves... What's a mutate?"
"A being who is exposed to mutagenic agents." She holds up a hand to halt him before he even speaks. "I do not know what happened and I do not care to know. Some of us have boundaries."
Tony just shrugs. "Fine, that's fair."
Nebula tunes him out when he starts to go on a tangent about the crusty state of the place. She's one hundred percent sure everything coming out of his mouth is irrelevant to their current mission, and he's easy to ignore now that she's gotten used to the tone of his voice and the slant to his words. He talks enough for the both of them, as if not talking him is going to cause some sort of horrid downward spiral and he's never going to be able to properly function and communicate again. It's exhausting, she can't keep up with half of the things he's saying anyway.
The Kariteth Spaceport hasn't changed in the past decade. Aside from the metal not aging well. There are spots where the floor is red with rust - or old blood, perhaps, but hopefully rust - and doors that scrape metal on metal when they raise to open. It is, she notices, quieter than it was. This doesn't go unnoticed by her human follower, either. She watches him look around and duck his head into rooms, a line drawn between his brows.
"Where is everyone?"
"This section of the galaxy is very remote. Few care to visit, this far out. Most of the inhabitants are raiders and criminals." Nebula shrugs lightly. "Klyntar has recently been caught in conflict, as well."
Briefly, the cyborg wonders if telling him more than is absolutely necessary is a good idea. Humans haven't reached out this far, yet. there's a lot he shouldn't know or see. A lot that probably shouldn't make it back to Earth, including the technology he's currently equipped with. But... Realistically, she decides, it can't really hurt. He's going to die, if the grey shade to his face and the half-repaired hole in his abdomen say anything. And even if he doesn't, their partnership isn't going to last much longer. He's a means to an end. Just part of one of the terrible things Nebula is going to have to do to get back to Thanos.
They turn a corner and are met with the sharp sound of an ion gun heating up. Nebula lifts her own weapon, installed in her arm, in response. To her left, she can see Tony slowly dropping a hand to the grenade in his pocket.
The figure across from them is easily recognizable. He has what looks like quills coming from his jawline and hairline, yellow eyes rimed with black, and an old brown hat angled down on his head in an effort to somewhat conceal the long scar drawn over his face. His skin is almost sickly looking in its yellowness, similar in texture to leather. The green triangular sight on his gun stares back at her, their new companion too busy examining them to meet her gaze.
"Haze." Nebula says slowly, tipping her arm down.
"This is Haze?" Tony sounds mildly disappointed, mumbling like a child. "He looks like a porcupine."
The man in front of them curls his lip in offense, but doesn't acknowledge Tony otherwise. Instead he looks to Nebula, a wide grin spreading over his face. It stretches his skin oddly, as if it doesn't really fit on his face. "If it ain't the meanest Luphomoid this side of Pluto. You rethinking my offer?"
"I am not interested in one of those partnerships." She deflects easily, shifting the topic. It's not worth her time or reconsideration. "We need weapons."
The man, Haze, sighs heavily. "Business has really slowed down, you know. Thought you'd be makin' my day." He lowers his weapon, rubs the back of his hand at his nose. "What are you in the market for this time? Ion blasters? Tazers? Nets? Melting sticks - though, the only one of those I have is... defective. Nabbed it from Sakaar a few years ago, never quite got to fixin’ it.”
As he's talking, the arms dealer starts leading them further down the hall, and then out past one of the market areas. There are only a few people lingering here, none of them humanoid. Tony tries, and fails, not to stare. He would probably be poking and prodding at them if not for Nebula's hard glare and the fact that they do have actual things to be retrieving from there. He leads them further into the spaceport after that, into a room where the door hangs crookedly and doesn't quite open all the way so they have to duck down,
Tony, being the shortest, has little issues with this. Nebula, as the tallest, has to hunch her shoulders and bend her knees to get through. The look she gives Tony when he laughs is enough to kill. Not that it's necessary, considering how quickly his mouth shuts when he looks around. The walls are lined with various weapons and protective gear, and there's a table set up in the middle with seven large petri dishes. Each one is filled with what looks to be a thick black gel, swirling and twisting in their containers.
Haze catches her line of sight and grins again, tapping a gloved hand on the top of one of the containers. The black thing inside spikes and shifts in response, pushes against it's confines. "You're sure you're not interested? A girl with all your enhancements..."
"Weapons." She says pointedly.
Holding his hands up in surrender, the mutate moves to the walls and begins to explain how the prices have risen with all of the recent events. He tells her that people are really going crazy, with all the calamity. Not just the issues on Klyntar, but with people just dropping off the face of the earth. Nebula simply shrugs, waving off most of the conversation in favor of handing over tokens and credits for her purchases.
”Ain’t seen it myself, you know.” Haze scratches at his chin as he examines her currency. “But I hear people are just out there - droppin’ right off the face of universe. Personally, I think a bad batch is goin’ around.”
They're in the process of wrapping up when Tony, forgotten during their deal, lurches forward and attaches a hand to his abdomen. He stumbles once, twice, and crashes into the table in the center of the room. It protests under the newfound weight, the glass containers places there rocking against each other with a like windchimes. He's hunched over the surface, hissing and groaning and curling his fingers into the fabric of his clothes. Haze curses and Nebula braces a hand on her companion's shoulder, hauling him backward. He sways but doesn't fall, instead hunching forward and dropping his head.
He's sweating and his heart is pounding, Nebula notes as she holds him still. He might be getting an infection, maybe a fever. She wonders if she misjudged how long he has left or if he's really so incapable that this little excursion has worn him down.
"Your friend looks like he's gonna flop on my table." Haze looks vaguely disgusted by the frailty of him, upper lip raised and nose wrinkled. "Take a med pack and get him out of here before he goes contaminatin' my wares."
"Of course." She hauls her bag of goods over her shoulder, metal fingers tightening on the strap.
Tony looks up at her, expression full of mock adoration. "We're friends?" he asks, as she scoffs.
"No."
She starts to steer him from the room, one eye stuck on Haze as they step back. He's watching them, too, just a distrustful as she is. It's not shocking. They're both known criminals, you never know what to expect. Anyone can flip like a switch at anything, back out of deals or just plain shoot you in offense. The only difference is that he’s a Minimal Threat Level and she's Universal. As soon as they clear the entrance and the door starts to shudder to life behind them to close, Tony makes what is probably considered a miraculous recovery.
"That went well. Ten out of ten alien arms deal." He ducks away from her hand easily. "We should probably get going, though, don't want to miss dinner. You can't be rancorous and vindictive all the time on an empty stomach."
He still has one hand in his pocket and one hand clasped to his injury but he's doing a fast walk now. He doesn't even ask which way to go, already half a corridor ahead of her in the right direction. Nebula, for the first time, finds herself surprised by Tony Stark. She quickly moves to catch up with him, ignoring the nagging feeling this will not be the last time he manages to do it. She thinks of all of his questions, of the way he went back and forth across the halls and inspected the rooms, and narrows her eyes at him in suspicion. In fact, she’s kind of beginning to wonder if she just got played by a squishy human and is losing her touch.
He seems to notice her staring as they approach their ship, pace not changing. "Problem, Diva Plavalaguna?"
"I don't know who that is." She snips, effectively shutting him down as she opens the boarding door and checks behind them to make sure Haze hasn't followed. "You are aware of this, and the fact that it is certainly not my name, and yet you persist."
"What can I say?" Tony slides past her moves into the main room of the Benatar. He sits, letting out a deep breath. "I've got a dedication to these jokes. One day, we'll have to sit down and introduce you to some cinematic genius."
Nebula watches him, suspicions still high as she settles into the ship and prepares for takeoff, trying to remember if there were six dishes on the metal slab in that room when they first entered.