Stimulating
Wakanda
2018
Shuri has made plenty of bad decisions in her life. Replacing her brother’s soap with a blue skin coloring gel that she convinced him was permanent. Adding the wrong compound to an experiment and catching a new dress on fire. Neglecting her school related studies in favor of enhancing technology. Missing important events because she lost track of the time in the laboratory. Arranging a party for her father’s birthday and telling everyone including their family the wrong location as a prank. And now, staring at the teeth shaped necklace that she knows is a perfect fit for her neck and wondering what it will be like to wear it.
At first it had been for a joke. She was going to impersonate T’Challa for Halloween, strut around in the dark suit and flex vibranium claws for the sake of good fun. It was going to be hilarious, kicking his ass with her tech under his superhero identity. And now, it’s not. There’s nothing funny about looking at the nude necklace and knowing that the Black Panther - or, the most recent one - is out of commission. There’s nothing funny about the heaviness in her chest or the burn in her eyes as she looks at the garment.
Five months. That’s how long it’s been since the Titan snapped his fingers and the universe collapsed around his hand. Almost half a year. And they’ve gotten no farther than when she first managed to piece Vision, what was left of his mind at least, back together and house him in the lab. He says he doesn’t mind and Thor says progress takes patience and Bruce, well, he doesn’t say much of anything either way. Shuri thinks that’s for himself as well as them, not raising false hopes or shutting what’s left of them down. None of it seems right, or fair, but that’s the way things are now and there isn’t much to be done about it.
“I hate to interrupt,” comes the gentle voice of the aforementioned dead man, his light form flashing as it rotates a few feet away. “But you look like you could use a break.”
“I should have taken the coddling out of your code.” She sighs, shaking her head and retreating from the suit.
“It’s not coddling.” Vision sounds a little affronted. “You haven’t left the lab in eighteen hours.”
At that, Shuri scoffs. Eighteen hours is nothing. Her record is three days. “I don’t need to leave the lab.” She points out. “I can have food delivered, there’s a restroom installed in the hall, a shower in the decontamination unit -“
Before she can get any farther into her what else could a girl want speech, Vision interrupts. “I can assure you that I have heard all of these arguments before, and you are making an incredibly valid point, omitting the fact that you’ve mentioned nothing in the way of adequate sleeping situations here. But there are things outside of this lab - not consisting of things the average human needs to simply keep functioning - that are beneficial to standard mental health...”
That’s around where Shuri tunes him out. She knows what he’s going to say already, they’ve had this conversation a thousand times it feels like. Each time has ended with him nudging and prodding until she’s left the lab to stew in her room or outside for a few hours. This time, she is determined to ignore him. She’s finally on the verge of.... something. She isn’t exactly sure what, but something, surely.
She can feel it in her fingertips, buzzing and sparking every time she picks up a tablet or tunes into the overhead. Bits and pieces of scattered frequencies, abnormalities near Los Angeles, and the occasional hum of questionable tunes outside.
“If you're going to ignore me, the least you could do is hum or nod along." The new voice makes Shuri's head whip up, big umber eyes blinking rapidly when she finds herself faced with the Queen Mother. Her long white hair is hidden behind a structured grey hat, matched perfectly to the long sleeved gown she has on. Her expression is serious but her tone is soft, russet eyes warm with fondness. "Ah, now I have your attention."
Shuri has the decency to look embarrassed, but she approaches her mother with an apologetic smile. "Mama, I was -"
"No. Don't tell me." Ramonda raises a hand to stop her before placing it on the younger girl's elbow to pull her into a soft embrace in greeting. When she pulls back and releases her youngest, she looks around thoughtfully. Her gaze lingers on the tangled mess of lights suspended and silently shifting nearby before moving to the necklace-wearing mannequin and updated vibranium gauntlets. "You've been busy."
"I've been busy since I learned how to walk."
"You don't need to tell me that."
The two sepia skinned women share a laugh, one of those brief moments of relief following the end of the world. It takes some of the tension from Romanda's shoulders, softens the lines of worry and grief at the edges of her lips and eyes. Losing T'Chaka and T'Challa in such a short span of time, both at the hands of deluded men, has left the Queen Mother worse off than her daughter has ever seen her. Even when they were exiled, her age never showed as well as it does now. The years look to be taking their toll, finally.
Keeping her smile and trying to preserve the lightened mood as well, Shuri lays a hand on her mother's shoulder to guide her to one of the tables. Shimmying onto one of the tall, slender stools, she gestures at the other to encourage her mother to make herself comfortable. She takes the cue, though her movements are considerably more fluid and graceful. The teenager hasn't quite mastered that part of the role, and she's a little jealous of the ease with which her mother moves. Every movement seems purposeful and gentle, smooth and careful. It can be hard to apply any of these to Shuri consistently. Typically it's more along the line of tumultuous, excited, sharp, and wild. Even with her size taken into consideration, she has a hard time keeping away from being a bull in a china shop.
"Captain Rogers departed three weeks ago." Romanda pauses, making a rare face of distaste. "Along with our feral companion."
"Rocket." Shuri corrects her, delighting in the face her mother makes again. It's no secret she doesn't exactly approve of the loud, foul-mouthed raccoon who was sharing their home. "It has been much quieter without them."
"I wouldn't exactly say that." This time her red painted lips quirk upward rather affectionately. It's obvious she's referring to Thor and his antics, consistently coming around to arrange group events. She taps a finger on the table, as if she has something to say and she can't figure out how. "Doctor Banner is asleep outside." She says finally, instead. "We thought he looked too peaceful to move him."
"Mama!" The younger of them tries to look reproachful, but mostly she's just entertained. It's nice not to be the one left at the dining table or in the gardens because of an impromptu nap. "You did not leave him out there."
Ramonda hums conspiratorially. "Okoye agreed with me." When her offspring goes to sigh, she interrupts. "As well as Nakia."
They must have been outside training, Shuri realizes. What remains of the Dora Milaje have been quiet and inactive in the past four months, each mourning for their comrades. Their families. For their King. The general herself had enough to deal with before, with W'Kabi's exile scheduled. Nakia only returned two weeks ago, covered in such a think layer of dirt and grime she seemed to have carved her way out of her own grave. She must have joined them in their attempts at setting some kind of routine again. Something normal.
As the thought crosses her mind, it causes her blood to run cold. For the first time in months, the teenage genius hits a wall. The idea that things could - are, will - eventually have to go back to normal is terrifying. It implies that people are giving up. That they're forgetting what things are supposed to be like. That they've accepted this new life, whatever it's supposed to be. Accepted that one single Barney-adjacent alien could simply walk into their lives and demolish them with no consequences.
Which is ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. She's just now onto something and they're only just starting to decipher the vague logs and chicken scratch Tony Stark has left behind. This is the exact opposite of a good time to fall back on normalcy and divert their focus from the end goal.
She's been quiet too long. Shuri realizes it when her mother's face tilts with worry, eyes searching her features for some hint at what gears are turning in her head. She forces a smile as her mind whirs back into work. She knows it isn't very convincing, she can feel the tightness in pull of her lips and the way her eyebrow twitches and quirks. Her face has always been too open, easy to read. At least T'Challa was capable of keeping a straight face (usually) when he needed to.
"We can't leave him out there all day," the girl with the braided hair huffs, eyes twinkling with a joke as she looks out of one of the windows. "His delicate porcelain skin isn't used to the sunlight."
This gets a real laugh from Romanda, and for the first time in a long time the lines by her eyes are causes by joy as opposed to worry. "You're right." She concedes. "A few more moments couldn't hurt his complexion, though."
Another joke is on the tip of her tongue, something about how if he gets too tan he'll turn orange during his transitions to the Hulk. But that, along with the breakaway from panic, is lost when the door to the door slides to reveal a rumpled looking Bruce barreling into the lab. The man must have ran from where he fell asleep because his hair has been pushed back from the wind and his chest is heaving. His neck and cheeks are tinted maroon from his exposure to the sun and his clothes are wrinkled. Green eyes flash around the room from Shuri to Vision to Ramonda and back before he seems to catch his breath. The sight would be laughable, if not for the rather frantic look to him.
"We have a, uh, situation." In the distance, a faint, high pitched buzz can be heard. Any bit of humor left in the room fades with his words. "I swear, I didn't touch anything."
The Andromeda Galaxy
2023
Blue. Everything is tinted blue. Teal? It might be closer to teal. It’s hard to remember a time when it wasn’t like this, Tony feels like he’s been suspended in one day for years. The monitors shut down too long ago back to really track the day or year anymore.
“We really did it this time, Pep.” Across from him, the Iron Man helmet remains unresponsive. He blinks at it, as if expecting a response. “You know what I miss the most?” Again, nothing. “Central heating. I’d sell my liver for a hand warmer at this point.”
Across the room, the door shifts. The automatic systems shut down years ago, so the metal screeches in protest when it’s manually opened. It’s certainly not a welcome noise, but he’s more or less gotten used to it. Without knocking or otherwise announcing herself, Nebula proceeds to yank the door open and scowl at it as if it went out if its way to block her path. After a brief moment of consideration, she narrows the look on him.
The first time she had happened upon him, it was a mistake. Nebula had been coming to retrieve him to attempt one of many - seven, overall, with the last being successful - mendings to his chest wound. She was equal parts bewildered and amused. He was mostly horrified, a little embarrassed over being caught making recordings for people who would likely never hear them.
“Still talking to yourself?” She snipes as she approaches, maneuvering around the table to bend at the waist and come face fo face with his helmet. She peers into the eyes, unbothered by the blue light directed into her vision. “How does this inferior bundle of spare parts still function?”
”I’ve been using the leftover Gix cores and Kree pellets as a short term power source.” Tony explains easily as she continues her staring contest with an inanimate object. “I’m not talking to myself, either. I’m keeping a record. It’s smart.”
Instead of praising him, Nebula stands and rolls her shoulders as she points out, “It’s narcissistic.”
“You’re calling me a narcissist?” He snorts. “When someone finds this and wants to know what happened for historical purposes, I’m telling them to leave you behind.”
For the first time, there’s something new in the furrow of Nebula’s brow and the tight set of her jaw. He can’t place it until she looks away and steps almost past him, stopping shoulder-to-shoulder facing the opposite direction to look out of the wide observatory window behind him. Pity. Sympathy. The fact that she’s feeling empathetic should warm his heart and endear him to her. She doesn’t seem to care for or like anything, so the gesture is either fueled by fondness or respect.
All it does it make his cheeks burn and his chest hollow. Entertaining his delusions of rescue must be in the past, now. Tony is a little surprised she’s done it for this long, but that’s no comfort to him.
“I didn’t know we had any leftover parts.” Nebula remarks finally.
He shrugs, gaze still pinned to the mask recording their conversation. “What I didn’t burn out trying to get up enough power for a jump. Only enough for a few minutes at a time.”
She nods, a nonverbal that’sgood and glances over her shoulder as if to ensure it really is capturing what she’s about to say. “One month.”
”What?” Tony tilts his head to look up at her.
”That is roughly what we have left to sustain you physically if we continue at our current rate.” Nebula pauses, still looking at the stars as opposed to him. “Oxygen is... trickier.”
Processing that, Tony hums noncommittally. “Okay.”
”The repair you did on the convertor has allowed it to operate at minimal levels but we are going to lose all power.” Her tone is even, factual. Disconnected. “Our transfer of the power cores is not going to hold.”
Again, Tony gives a hum of acknowledgement. He looks at his hands, at the rigid scars across his palm from trying to manhandle an active power core while Nebula stuck her metal hand into the sparking mess of machinery to manually connect it. He knows her flesh hand matches his from their haste to get everything situated. It’s one of the good memories from their disasted laden trip. Afterward they had collapsed into separate heaps on the floor, waiting anxiously as the lights flickered and the colors shifted. The Luphomoid had slapped him on the back with her good hand and given him a backhanded comment on how beingaterrandoesn’tmakeyoutotallybrainless.
”You hear that?” Tony inputs eventually, voice biting and eyes tired as he turns them to the reminder of who he was. “We’re in the endgame now.”
While the scathing callback to Strange and his apparent inability to make use of a magic stone that allows you to view the future is minutely funny for him, Nebula doesn’t seem amused. The taller of them gives him a disdainful look. The sigh she lets out makes it seem like his comment has put the weight of the world on her shoulders. As much as she looks like she wants to, she refrains from wrapping her fingers around his shoulders and shaking him until all of his organs clatter around inside his chest cavity. For what it’s worth, the dinged helmet doesn’t laugh either. Which is fine, anyway. It was more for his individual benefit than theirs as a group.
As the silence engulfs them again, a cold hand finds a home on Tony’s shoulder. His alien companion still isn’t looking at him, but her lips are shaped into a frown and her shoulders are curves forward. Physical contact is rare for the pair. Even with all the time they’ve spent sitting around together in silence or not.
He cherishes it, careful not to lean into her touch and pushing off the desire to put his hand over the blue one gently perched on his person. It would scare her off, he’s sure. Nebula is already looking a little jittery from the interaction. Her touch is so light she might as well have her appendage hovering over his shirt. The moment lasts longer than he expected, and she doesn’t abscond immediately.
”Want to have a blowout?” Tony queries when she glances at her escape route.
Nebula laughs, just a few short seconds where they’re nothing more than people enjoying their time while they have it. “At least I will say I did not die or boredom.”
If this were an eighties or nineties movie or television ad, he thinks, it would be the perfect time for one of those record scratch - freeze frame - that’sme, TonyStark. You’reprobablywondering how Igothere...
The Andromeda Galaxy
2018
Escaping the central spaceport is easy. Tony has to shoot at a small group of disturbingly gold individuals, but most of the conflict in bypassed when Nebula drops a Vrellnexian grenade onto the floor and shoots at it. The resulting explosion of fumes is enough to make him gag even as the boarding door closes and the Luphomoid hauls ass out of the landing bay. She manages to sideswipe a few ships on their way, effectively buying them enough time and distraction to make a decent getaway. The adventure has their blood pumping, hearts racing, brains running on overtime as they try to come down from the high of their theft and rather loud escape.
"That was good." Nebula comments casually once they've both settled, slumping a little in their seats. Her human companion chokes on a laugh, one hand over his face. She gives him a withering look. "What? It was."
Tony point out, "I'm pretty sure everyone in the next galaxy over caught the ruckus we made back there."
"We got what we came for with few casualties." She tests out a shrug, and Tony notes that she's getting better at it. Maybe she’s been practicing, staring at her reflection in the brief moments he finds the refuge of sleep. "If no one catches us, it does not matter how loud we are."
The resident terran chooses not to focus on the few part of that. He doesn't really need to know how many people - innocent or otherwise - risked stepping in her path and losing their life. At least he can admit she's right. They got what they needed and got out without damage to themselves or their mode of transportation, which is a silver lining in and of itself. It had almost seemed like just the right time for the universe to act aggressively against them again.
Just as they're getting settled in, Nebula navigating the ship and Tony slumped on the floor somewhere behind her fiddling with the remnants of his suit and some of the more familiar technology on board, the ship rattles ominously.
At first it's easily dismissed as cutting corners too close to the orbit of one of the nearby planets, and Nebula corrects the Benatar to make up for it. When the vessel shakes again, this time a little more violently, she pulls up the rear display. Nothing. The vast planes of space are as empty as ever. She's almost ready to dismiss it as a fluke when it happens again, this time enough to jostle both of them and set a bright yellow light flashing. One of the displays flashes, bringing up a side view of the ship with a large tank on the button singled out in orange.
”Secondaryfueltankimpaired.”
As he approaches, Tony can hear his alien companion cursing about those fuel tanks were just filled and reserves as she flips a few switches and abpruptly swings the ship to do a barrel roll. The maneuver reveals a smaller, darker ship underneath of them equipped with a shocking number of weapons. With a little difficulty from the sudden swinging around of the ship, the genius scrambles to one of the view ports for a better look.
Just across from him, holding up a heavily scarred hand to display his middle finger, is Haze. His features seem even uglier twisted with anger, and Tony has just a moment to contemplate regret for his actions before they're blasted and the impact sends him sprawling on the floor near his blue companion.
Sheepishly, he drops his head to the floor to look up at her. "I thought you guys were friends."
"What did you do?" Nebula snaps, glaring down at him before looking ahead again.
"Uh..." Tony looks from her to the view port and watches the criminal veer in front of them to cut them off. "Nothing?"
"Nothing!" She practically yelps, fist connecting with a button as she nosedives to avoid a collision and shoots off rockets. "What did you take, you meatsack?"
"Nothing!" Tony lies again, but when he cringes he knows she's caught him.
One metal finger comes to the front of his face, pointing and nearly touching his nose. "If we do not die here, I am killing you."
"Yeah," he sighs as he blinks at her. "That's fair."
"Sit." She jabs a finger at one of the seats to her right. "Press the blue button."
While Nebula works to evade their attacker and not have their ship blown to smithereens, Tony hauls himself to his feet and then into one of the chairs, eying the control console in front of him as he straps himself in. The Benatar continues to twist through the void of space and fire off shots, ducking around the smaller and faster ship as they get further off course. The whole thing is a little surreal, like a Star Trek movie. And they would both be wearing red, probably.
Tony presses the blue button cautiously, not entirely convinced it won't eject him and his seat into space, and is excited when a number of colorful rockets head straight toward their assailant. They connect with a disorienting flash of color and he briefly thinks that's the end of the conflict, but the weapons dealer flies his ship straight out of the quickly dispersing cloud and toward them. Seemingly giving up on firing proper weapons, Haze rams his ship right into the side of their own. The impact sends the Benatar spiraling to the side, even as Nebula tries to correct it with a practiced swerve. A well placed shot to the underside is enough to take out the second fuel tank, another connects with their already injured wing and has them careening to the left.
All Tony can make out for a while is the dark stretch of space, broken up by various sizes of rocks as they bounce off of the windows and sides of their ship. Nebula is cursing under her breath as she tries to steer them away from the potential danger, only for a cluster of rock and metal to collide into the front facing port, cracking the reinforced glass and sending them into another flying object. Tony begins to feel like they're in a pinball machine, getting knocked off of space rocks and the vessels of vindictive mutates.
As the Benatar levels out, it’s easier to make out what’s happening. Out of the left side he can see a planet comprised of blue and purple hues, constantly and quickly shifting. And it's getting closer. Or, more accurately, they're getting closer. And so are the dislodged pieces of the Benatar and their not-so-pleasant-early-2000's-throwback.
He can just make out Haze’s form behind the tinted glass, expression twisted with anger and frustration. The small black ship veers to the side, clearly making an attempt at moving in their direction. Tony is bracing himself for another hit when the backend of the smaller vessel kicks and the whole thing spins. When he tries again the thrusters seem to sputter and the dark ship is yanked backward again, missing a large group of rocks by a thread.
"We're in orbit of Aakon." Nebula grits out. "The debris could cause us to crash."
"Our new age Myspace friend, too." Tony responds, tipping his chin to one of the view ports where the small black ship can clearly be seen trying to pull out only to be smacked in the side by an asteroid. Nebula gives him a disdainful look. "We have more power than that?"
"Yes." The blue skinned woman hesitates, looking at something on her display. "The main engine is at half capacity, both main fuel tanks are damaged. We don't have the parts or time to repair them. We can't jump like this. If we divert power to the front-facing thrusters we can push ourselves backwards and out."
"Okay..." Tony draws out the 'o' and raises his brows. "So do it."
She grimaces. "We'll use all of the reserves. If it throws out the main engine we won't make it far."
"Do we have any other options?"
Aside from the foreboding thwump! of various sized hunks of rock against the outside of the Benatar, it's silent as she considers their options. And then, finally: "No."
"Then we do it."
Fifteen minutes later, the two stranded beings have managed to divert all of their available resources to the front thrusters. They lost Haze somewhere in the mess of debris and rocks a while ago, Tony is willing to bet he compromised power and durability for speed and stealth and he'll be stuck for longer than they are. Even the Benatar, heavier and equipped with more brawn, struggles to dislodge itself from the rocks. Nebula is ranting about how the gravitational pull of the planet - he's sure she called it Aakon - is strong enough that it would probably flatten him if he planted his feet on the ground. It's fascinating, but not something he has the time to really dive into right this moment. Another thing to pin to the board and revisit once he's settled down on his own planet with a nice glass of scotch.
The orange and blue craft stutters and slips once, twice before breaking away from the cluster of rocks and pulling away. The lights flicker and Nebula hastily hits a few buttons until the lights dull down and they're just drifting a safe distance from the purple and blue planet. Relief makes Tony's shoulders sag and Nebula leans forward to bring the cool metal of her hand to her face.
"That was rocky for a minute there, huh?" Tony asks, expecting her to scoff or round on him with threats of death in the vacuum of space or dumping him on some currently undecided planet.
What he doesn't expect, and it honest to God shocks him so much he thinks for a moment he's going to crawl out of his skin, is for her to laugh. Her shoulders are shaking roughly and the sound is reminiscent of glass breaking, surprisingly high pitched and sharp. It's the first time she's laughed, aside from the time she said ha as monotonously as possible at his expense, and it's obviously real in how unpracticed it is.
Tony's shock and awe quickly gives way to worry when her shoulders hunch further and her free hand grips the control so hard he's sure he hears it cracking along with her voice. She releases it soon after, raising her hand to indicate for him to wait while she turns away from him and continues to choke and gargle out broken laughs. It goes on long enough that it becomes unsettling, and the man behind Iron Man begins to wonder if she's hysterical. He tries to distract himself or think of something to say to diffuse her abrupt laughing spell, but every time he starts she raises her hand at him until he gives up entirely.
Instead he takes a moment to evaluate the situation, and Nebula. She discarded her clothes weeks ago, opting instead for clothes that he can only assume once belonged to her newly deceased sister. Ganasha? Jampora? Gamira? Bagira? He can't remember. The tank top and loose pants are too casual on her, but they provide him a better look at the cyborg and what holds her together. (And he would be lying, to say he isn't interested.)
He can see where the metal sinks into her skull, and what looks like wires taking root under her skin. The beginnings of where the metal of her arms actually continues to extend all the way through to her shoulder blade, and maybe even further. He had assumed it was more akin to what Barnes’ is equipped with, but what she’s packing is clearly superior. Her arm is full of disconnected spots that he knows hold a collection of probably super lethal weapons, and considering what he’s seen it is probably safe to assume all of the technology surpasses Earth’s. The urge to pester her with more questions (and offers to fix the weird twitch of her pinky finger that has been bugging him for months) is undeniable. Incredibly, Tony keeps himself the perfect example of self control and keeps his mouth shut.
But more than that, Tony finds himself focusing on the little things. The tight set of her shoulders, the way the metal bits of her twitch and pinch every time her chest spasms with a laugh or her shoulders hunch too far. It looks a painful, biting where some of the metal is implanted through skin and bone and wires seem to create tight lines underneath the blue. In another situation, where maybe his companion hasn’t shown to be prone to violence and under understandable emotion distress, he would go for a closer look. As things are, he tries to wait it out
"Your attempt at humor was stupid and awful and I despise it." Nebula finally says, catching her breath and breaking his concentration as she stands. "We are now stranded - no fuel, no reserves, limited supplies and oxygen - and you are delusional enough to think this is funny."
Frowning, Tony puts his hands on his knees and watches her prowl back and forth like a predator, tall and lean and full of caged animosity. So instead of focusing on the obvious negatives, he goes for the positives. "We're not dead."
"We're not dead." The cyborg spits back, quite literally when she turns to face him. Tony smears the bodily fluid from his cheek with only partially concealed disgust. "You are going to starve, if the oxygen lasts long enough. I am going to suffocate, here, with nothing but your rotting carcass for company. I am going to plaster you piece by piece to the walls as a display of my sheer outrage at the fact that I am going to be - "
The start of what was surely going to be a rant for the ages, complete with threats and rebuttals and insults, ends early when the two of them are drenched in darkness. Across from him, Tony can hear Nebula giving a strangled cry of frustration. Sparks light up near her, the product of her metal hand tearing into one of the consoles before the two of them are rendered nearly blind again by the darkness.
"Power failure." The voice is low and calm and, Tony notes with mild surprise, speaking English. "Oxygen conversion and preservation non-functioning. Operating on backup generators. All nonessential processes suspended, oxygen and temperature regulators lowered to thirty-percent, lighting lowered to twenty-percent, artificial gravity lowered to seventy-percent."
There's a pause, just a second, and the lights flicker. Everything is illuminated by a dull orange, the shattered navigation display flickers with warnings, and on the main command a red light flashes ever few minutes. Otherwise, the ship is eerily still. The sound of some of the vents shifting and clicking as they shut is followed by a low click and the lights on the refrigeration unit as it shuts off.
"Total operating capacity is at fifty-percent. Long-range distress signal activated. Immediate repairs necessary to ensure necessary living conditions are maintained."
When nothing more comes, Tony allows himself a moment to breathe and adjust to the change in lighting and the sudden thickness of the air. All of the displays have gone dark, and the only thing lit up on the consoles is the red light. He assumes that's part of the distress signal and can't help but wonder how long it will last before it becomes an unnecessary drain on the battery. Hopefully it's a while. The Guardians - as they call themselves, though he's grown partial Star Command and Space Cadets - must have anticipated a worst case scenario where they were stranded somewhere, right?
Tony tries to assure himself that they can't be that stupid. From what Nebula has told him, they've handled some sticky situations and faced some formidable opponents. Of course, her stories are a lot like the sandwiches Rhodey grew fond of in his uniformed days. Cheap, thin sliced bread with an equally dainty layer of spam and/or potted meat. Probably more for the texture than taste, he thinks, because it tastes worse than the meat-free meatloaf Pepper tested for Thanksgiving and I at least stomached a plate of that for her. And that thought takes him somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere past the reinforced metal and three-layered glass viewports, and the furiously muttering and pacing phonomaniac currently stomping on and kicking around thick shards of what looks like glass but definitely isn't. Tony knows, because did a thorough examination of it during his exploration of the Benatar. It's too flexible to be glass, (which makes him wonder about the ease with which Nebula snapped a chunk off) touch sensitive, and capable of projecting interactive displays, sensing temperature and performing low-level visual and physical analysis.
He makes a mental note to scoop up some of the shards scattered around the floor, before his thoughts are once again redirected.
Rhodey, animatedly detailing the proper bread-to-questionable-protein ratio and whether or not mustard enhances the taste. (Having tried that as well, Tony can confirm that it does not.) Pepper, furiously trying to explain why board shorts are not appropriate attire for a board meeting even if they are silk. Explaining to Pete why there's kill mode on his suit, and why he shouldn't be trying to disable it. Assisting Vision (and Wanda, before her departure) in taste testing new foods he's learning to prepare. Debating with Thor over how realistic survival shows really are. Reviewing maps and intel and dinner plans with Steve, while Natasha and Clint shut down all of his suggestions. Attending events with Happy and hiding behind plants when he was overwhelmed by the crowds and noise levels.
While Tony's mind falls back down to Earth, and home, and all the stupid simple things he's beginning to wonder about never seeing again, Nebula continues to utilize her colorful vocabulary. She makes a path to all of the meticulously organized storage bins, monologuing to herself all the while. After removing a few select items she moves to the next bin to dig through that one as well. This process continues until she's gone through all of them. In her metal arm is an impressively well balanced stack of machinery and weapons among other devices.
"Well?" Nebula snaps, facing him fully again and forcing him back to reality. He has to blink away the disorientation, vision a haze of angry blues and darkened oranges. "Remove yourself from that seat."
Cautious and slow, mostly to ensure she doesn't decide to end his life prematurely, Tony does as instructed and pops his joints. "Do you think -"
"No. Shut up. Stop making use of that gash in your face, immediately." Shaking off a cringe at the ungodly noise his limbs just made, Nebula uses her free hand to transfer a few items from her pile to his hands. "If you drop that and your sustain another injury I am not assisting you. Your easily impacted body is your own concern."
Without waiting for a response Nebula turns to the hallway and sets a brisk pace. Her footsteps seem louder in the newly introduced dull silence, but maybe she's stomping more than usual. That's probable, Tony thinks. Being stranded in space could make anyone a little more irritable than usual. So he just follows her, through doorways and further down that he's been allowed to adventure before. He could never convince her to give him to codes to these doors, past the areas for general usage. The further they go, the more his curiosity spikes. There are control panels on the wall, sloppily labeled and paired with notes in different handwriting.
The neater ones are short, simple, informative. Heating and cooling - temperature must remain stable in lower levels. Oxygen convertor - do not disable. Communications routers - do not remove from long rang. There are some that look like chicken scratch, tilted and sloppy and filled with scratch marks. If you turn the heat down my balls will freeze to my seat. Gravity levels - stop changing it while I'm sleeping ROCKET. You're NOT funny. Some are quick, abbreviated, and look a lot like a toddler who is still learning. dont care abt stupid snd syst. y do we need xtrior lghtng, off unless emgcy. The rest are a mixture of thick block letters and a language he doesn't recognize, close together and pasted side by side like they were in the midst of a passive aggressive argument.
The rest are illegible, possibly due to the writer's haste or mood, or maybe just a lack of decent penmanship overall.
Other than that, the corridor is empty. The door at the end is thicker than the others on the ship and seems to have some kind of rubberized seal. Tony tries to be patient and keep his mouth shut, both to avoid maiming and to appease Nebula. He really tries. But standing there while she fiddles with knobs and codes and tries to pretend he doesn't exist makes him antsy. It starts with him rocking on his heels. Then it escalated to bouncing on his feet. Which, inevitably, turns into him shuffling his feet and shifting the items deposited into his grip earlier. His internal struggle, of course, doesn't go unnoticed.
As soon at the door opens, Nebula steps inside and crouches to discard all of her items before whirling around to face him."What?"
"What're we doing?" The words come out in a rush of breath so fast that they aren't even coherent, judging by the impatient look he receives in response. "What are we doing?"
"We." Nebula scoffs, before accusingly shoving a finger in his direction. "You are the reason we are being delayed by our trip down here."
"Okay..." Tony maneuvers around her in the tight space to scurry through the doorway to reunite his meager handful of supplies with hers. When he turns to face her she's already in close quarters, large dark eyes drilling through his very soul Jesus Christ he has no idea how she can go from making as much noise as Monty Hall to creeping around like Larry Page. "What am I doing down here?"
Giving him just enough space to breathe, the taller alien brings herself down to his height. For someone lacking in a few distinct features, her face is very expressive. For example: right now, Tony can tell that she wants to grab him by his skull and squeeze until he pops like a balloon. "You got us into this. You are going to be part of fixing it."
"I can definitely see how I might be partially at fault here," Tony admits, refusing to be the one to break away first. "But consider this, Doctor Manhattan." He points to himself. "I don't know if you forgot a key point here, but I'm from Earth. Little behind technologically, I guess, but we're trying. That -" this time he points to the large and very alien layers of machine to their right. "- is sure as shit not. And okay, not to toot my own horn or anything, I might be a certified genius, but it'd be pretty damn counterproductive if I blew us up."
Nebula pauses, considering him and giving a brief once over before taking a step back. "I am not terran and have a much higher capacity for intelligence and wider base of knowledge, certified Earth genius." She spits the last of it, cutting her eyes at him spitefully. "With my invaluable array of knowledge and guidance, you will assist me in fixing this."
Tony considers her for a moment, tone determined and posture stiff as she tears something from her arm and adds it to their pile of technology. And then he sets his sights on the impressive mass of machinery and technology on their other side. Some of it is recognizable, variations of things he's seen or used or made himself. Some of it is entirely foreign, pulsing and occasionally shifting and full of things he is kind of excited to learn about. The gears are already turning in his head as he gets a closer look and paces the length of it. Nebula allows him to do as he pleases, simply watching him and waiting.
Upon closer inspection, Tony is surprised to find that these are two different machines. One seems to be a power supply, and one he can only assume has something to do with the engines. Together they almost fill the room, with only a small gap to get between them and barely enough room to fit on the opposite end from where they entered. Certainly too cramped for Nebula to squeeze through. He figures this is the main reason she's including him in this bonding activity. His proclivity towards machinery and technology in general probably helps, but she would have to primarily be basing that on his tinkering in their time together. Discounting peculiar cosmic entities, he's pretty sure he's not quite influential enough to be in Murderous Maniac Magazine.
This is the endgame.
Out of nowhere, the words fly through his mind. It's not the first time, of course. Even before Strange's ominous final words and eventual unfortunate departure, the phrase was slung around. It's a really stupid fucking endgame, Tony decides, but it could be worse. This is kind of his thing, even if he's going to have to unlearn some things and get reacquainted with some of these parts from a different standpoint.
"My dad always said," Tony starts in bad country accent. "Life is like a shipment of warheads. You never know which one is reactive and going to level the house." When he faces his companion and finds her hovering between dangerously annoyed and laughably confused, he nods. "In other words: what do we not touch?"
"You do not touch anything." Nebula sighs. "Not until I am assured you will not blow us into unidentifiable chunks."
"Alright, Gadget, I get it." Tony bounces on the balls of his feet and finds himself incapable of swallowing down his grin. "So where do we start?"
Exitar
2018
They're ready. At least, as ready as they're going to get. Loki is aware enough to accept that not everyone is going to be totally prepared for their trip. He can accept that not everyone is wholeheartedly invested in, you know, the potential fate of their whole civilization or the universe in general. It's fine. They've made repairs to their getaway vehicle, loaded up with a sufficient amount of supplies through bartering and flattery, managed to get everyone reading the same book if not on the same page. The ship will make it three jumps before it doesn't hold up anymore, and from there it's only a matter of months separating them from Earth.
Not that Loki is particularly excited to be going back there, anyway. If it weren't for the question of who is left down there, he would probably go to some lengths to delay their trip. His face isn't exactly going to be a welcome one. No matter what side he's one now, it's no secret that he might have tried to take over their planet. And he might have played a part in bring Thanos to power. And even if there was the influence of the stone over his head and the undeniable allure of control and power, well... It's not really a good look, from their side.
As much as the situation as a whole doesn't bother him, much, it's obviously going to cause a rift when they arrive. The fact of the matter is the Avengers - or whatever it is they're going to call themselves now - are going to see him as hostile and he's not exactly interested in being handled like a rag doll again. It was unpleasant enough the first time, thank you very much. The confrontation is inevitable and sure to be unnecessarily annoying as well as exhausting.
"Do you think Korg is going to hold up through the jump?" Brunnhilde is giving him a rather smarmy grin from the pilot's seat. "I've never seen a Kronan go through it before."
Loki leans back in his seat the inspect the man in question. He's engaged in a game of cards, peeking at an Asgardian's hand as they lean to get a better look at the pot. He doesn't recognize the game, but it's pretty obvious that his kin haven't quite gotten the hang of it. Korg keeps shaking his head at them and whispering very loudly about some rule or another. Eventually, the dark haired man relaxes in his seat and gives the former Valkyrie an indifferent shrug.
"Kronans are durable." He points out eventually. "There's a reason they've been around so long. Of course..." Trailing off and lifting his drinks to his lips to hide a smile, he hums. "I do expect he'll be short a few more pebbles than he already is."
Brunnhilde snorts and goes back to checking... whatever it is she's checking. Loki isn't concerned enough to ask, she knows what she's doing. Another short interaction to add to the list. He's sure he must be growing on her by now, whether she likes it and wants to admit it or not. Their sloppy start might have set him back but this extended stay in space is sure to help him earn some points and fix their footing. From their, it's just a matter of placating smiles and fancy words and he'll be on track with the rest of the lot. Everything is falling into place.
Really, this couldn't have gone better if he had planned it.
Create a diversion to save a decent number of innocent people and one physical powerhouse or two, get everyone to safety, commandeer a ship, give a meaningful speech, start gaining the trust of the survivors. It's like someone wrote this specifically for him. A redemption arc fit for a play. Every theatrical bone in Loki's body (which is, probably, every bone) is alive with purpose. It's a shame his parents will only be able to set their sights on him from the grave, but he supposes every story has to have its fair share of tragedy to really hit home.
"Hold on to your stomachs, lightweights." Off to his side, Brunnhilde has a wide grin set on her features and the light of excitement in her eyes. When she aims that look at him, Loki realizes with mild horror that she is most certainly going to enjoy this. "This is going to be the ride of your lives."
A low 'whirr!' paired with a 'ch-ck!' signal everything finally firing up. Without warning, the woman with bistre eyes has them hurtling through the sky. Her excitement at being behind the metaphorical wheel is obvious. Her teeth are flashing through her chin and her cheeks are dusted with color when she deftly maneuvers them through a thin slit in the rocks. They're out of orbit before anyone can even think twice. It's impossible to tell how fast they're going out here, everything seems glued into place. But judging by the hasty way Brunnhilde is flipping switches, it's probably pretty fast.
The wild and exuberant look on her face is beginning to make Loki seriously question his decision to allow her to steer them all through space. She looks like she would send them through a minefield for nothing more than the thrill of it. Of course, the only other viable option was himself. There's too much risk in letting anyone else have control over their over method of moving through the galaxies. And while he'd like to boast about being superior in everything he's tried his hand at - because he typically is, being exceptional is part of being a God - there's no doubt that one of them has more experience here. This one single time he had agreed without argument. Here's to hoping that wasn't one of his few bad decisions.
Blowing out a breath through her nose, the current focus of his thoughts reaches above her head and removes the cover for a green switch. This won't be the first time he's gone through a jump or two, but the look on Brunnhilde's face is still a little offputting. She pushes her curly ponytail over her shoulder and the only warning she gives him before flipping the switch is a raise of her brows.
Everything around him bounces and swishes and bends in ways that aren't realistic. Loki's pretty sure his tongue has grown and he's choking on it, his nostrils burn and his limbs fluctuate in length. When he manages to give a glance to Brunnhilde, her eyes bulge and then retreat into her head and her teeth and mouth seem to grow and shrink as her hair finds a life of its own and dances around her. Distantly, his gaze wavers on the count and he isn't surprised to find they're only at the end of the first jump.
The second has his brain scrambled, has him standing on a battlefield centuries ago with familiar comrades and roars of victory. Every breath is rough and his heart makes a desperate attempt to escape his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade. The air is hot enough that his throat burns and his torso is warm, sweat is rolling down his neck from exertion. The humidity has everyone's hair frizzy, clothes sticky.
A heavy clap on his shoulder. A flash of dark hair. We did well today, my friends. Heavy red curls paired with the song of an artfully forged weapon as it takes its last swings through the air before a well earned rest. I would choose no others to fight alongside. Red fabric and a belly deep laugh. Good game, brother. But I've beaten you by seven this light. Long strides, a green cape skirting matching boots. Are we in agreement that we take the front somewhere with a more bearable climate next time?
Whatever takes hold of him releases him when they start the third jump. Loki tells himself he isn't going to vomit. He's going to save face, even with the smell of burning hair and the feel of cold sludge coating his throat and sloshing around in his stomach. He's endured worse. This is nothing.
Just as quickly as it startled, the rattling throughout the ship stops. And so does the nausea. Relief takes its place for a beat, maybe two, and then Loki blinks and finds himself curved over the seat heaving. Somewhere behind him, a cracking laugh starts up. He tries to give Brunnhilde a dirty gesture for her input, and she gives him a hard clap on the back which only makes him gag again.
The Andromeda Galaxy
2018
Oh yeah, she definitely enjoyed that.
Watching Loki, God of Mischief, King of Thieves, Master Ballbreaker, bend over dispel not only the contents of his stomach but also most of his dignity is worth the wobbliness of her limbs and the faint throb at her temples. It's probably the best part of their journey so far. It's probably going to be her main talking point when they manage to reconnect with Thor and Bruce. Brunnhilde has no doubt they'll enjoy the story as much as she'll enjoy retelling it a thousand times over.
It was worth her vision splitting during the first jump, and her glimpses at old faces during the second, and the out of body experience she got to enjoy during the third. She's willing to bet there won't be many chances at catching him like this in her future. For as much of an ass as he's made himself out to be, he's got a phenomenal track record in smiling pretty and saving some amount of his respect and title.
"Everyone in one piece?" She calls out when her chortling dies down, standing to get a view of the rest of their companions. There are a few messes, as to be expected, but aside form a few grumbled complaints there are no disruptions. "Korg?"
Blinking up at her, the Kronan aims a thumbs up her way. "All good." Right on cue, a couple pieces dislodge from his shoulder to join a growing pile on the floor. He looks down at the rocks and them up to her again, not breaking his stride. And then, louder to reassure everyone: "No worries, everyone! That's normal!"
Everyone seems to take this moment to collect themselves. A few of them, already designated to clean up duty, are moving around with water and reusable wipes. Both for cleaning the floor and for those of them that couldn't contain themselves. Brunnhilde is pretty pleased to see it's better than expected. There are usually a lot more hurlers on their first time, and with some of the Sakaaran rebels it was hard to know how much their bodies can withstand. The Asgardians she knows from experience can handle plenty more than three jumps. Aside from a few non-critical side effects, they'll be fine.
With some of the others, it's hard to say. Just because they aren't currently showing any bad signs, there's no way of knowing their heads weren't a little scrambled. The body can handle a lot, and can adapt the more you expose yourself to the stressors, but three jumps back to back on their first time could always be problematic.
Settled near one corner Biff has curled himself into a large ball, shifting his shoulders as if to get something off. Tasba is fairing surprisingly well. She's making rounds to dispose of the bodily waste and make sure none of the slumped bodies are unconscious. Miek is chittering loudly at anyone who approaches, swiftly discouraging anyone from directing their attention towards him. There are one or two Asgardians holding their stomachs or limbs, as well.
"Are you done having your fun yet?" Green eyes meet brown, one set full of distaste and the other mirth.
"Oh no, not nearly." Brunnhilde gifts him with her most predatory look as he rights himself and brushes her off. "I'd say we're just getting started."
"What a joy." He drawls, rubbing at his eyes. Whatever he experienced, she's pleased to see it made an impact. "I can already see just how this trip will bring us together."
Barking out a laugh, the fit woman returns to her seat. "That's the spirit, ormr. You made your bed..."
She trails off, confident that he knows the saying and where she's going with it. Loki doesn't give her a sharp or witty comeback, though. When she looks over he's looking out of the port, a thousand miles away. She won't ask, because she doesn't care. And he won't tell, she's sure. If it were something he felt benefited him to share, he would have started on it already. Something in his expression shifts, sharp and calculating, and Brunnhilde is pretty sure she doesn't really want to know what goes on inside his head anyway. Unfortunately for her, Loki decides now is the time to start sharing.
"There are going to be sacrifices." That cool gaze is back on her. "This will likely be a one-way trip."
Brunnhilde gives him a dirty look. "Sacrifices."
"Necessary sacrifices." He says, with so little care that she wonders if he meant to say it at all. "Please, don't tell me you were too naive to consider that."
There's no point in responding, or feeding into his mental deliberation over who they should be willing to give up, so Brunnhilde doesn't. She's tries to tune out his quiet ramblings, to put away the thought of the inevitable until they're closer to when those decisions will need to be made. But part of her aches for Sakaar and her reputation there, the almost limitless supply of booze and absence of responsibility. Dying for what could be a lost cause when she could have been sailing smoothly along in her tucked away corner of the universe. In the end, Brunnhilde reasons with herself that she's put her life in danger for less.
"Hell," Brunnhilde interrupts, more for herself than him. "It's not like we have anything better to do, now."
Loki hums his agreement, and his line of sight drifts back to their gaggle of survivors. She swears she sees a genuinely amused smile trying to twist its way onto his features, but he's turning his head back to the port before she can really capture the image. "Even I can't argue that."