Chapter Text
Nebula isn't quite sure how her life has come to this, or why she hasn't taken steps to fix the... problem currently leaking all over her ship.
She'd known she couldn't stay near Gamora and her "Guardians" for too long. She might have finally beaten Gamora and savored her precious victory, but her wounds were too old and too raw to tolerate Gamora's presence for long without snapping and trying to kill her again. Ideally the murder attempt would come when she'd expect it, so Nebula could beat her again, sweetly vindicated by her own skills, and make Gamora acknowledge her properly—but she's not certain what she'd do with that victory now, anymore. And Nebula isn't sure she wants to find out so soon.
Besides, she's got a job to do. Thanos is still out there, and her feelings for him aren't anything like as confusing or complex as the ones she presses down whenever she contemplates Gamora. The swell of single-minded, bitter hatred is comfortingly familiar, and she wistfully contemplates the lead she's sure she's found on one of the Infinity Stones he seeks. If she could secure one, his obsessive drive would make it the perfect bait for a trap...
She catches herself. There's a more pressing issue at hand, and it's still making a mess of the equipment store room.
Again.
She steps into the room and is met with a pair of startled, red-rimmed eyes. "Kraglin. Your leaking will make the parts rust. Make it stop or go elsewhere."
Kraglin stiffens and clearly tries, immediately, to pause and collect himself, or at least to pretend as if nothing is wrong. “I—yes. I’ll—be working on the navigational comm systems if you need me.” He makes his escape with alacrity, clutching his tattered dignity with more stubbornness than success.
Nebula watches him go, eyes narrowed. What on earth is she going to do about this thing? She briefly contemplates killing him, but rejects the possibility: she suspects that such a thing would have ramifications, given his roundabout ties to Gamora’s pet Terran. And… such a thing, she decides, is not to be contemplated further. A non-lethal solution, she decides.
Nebula is not practiced at non-lethal solutions. She is, however, quite good at learning on the fly.
Her first stealthy attempt to make the weeping stop is to distract the weedy little man with something she often uses when her own emotions threaten to overwhelm her and divert her from her purpose. She has heard that a smallish Chitauri garrison on the very edges of Xandarian space might have some tangentially useful information about the location of the Space Infinity Gem. That, she thinks, will do nicely indeed.
Confusingly, however, retaking the garrison does not appear to distract or cheer up her erstwhile shadow. Oh, he’s competent enough, using blasters and knives to carve through the unfortunate Chitauri guards that block Nebula’s access to their data terminals. But once the actual killing is done, he goes quiet, stares into the poorly-buffed mirror of some minion’s shattered helmet, and doesn’t move for so long that she might have confused him for a statue if she hadn’t seen his transfixed, shallow breathing.
She jostles him hard as she sweeps by, angry at the total uselessness of the Chitauri data despite herself. It seems to snap him out of his daze, at least; he starts and guiltily scurries after her, blasters at his side and knives hastily wiped clean on some officers’ cloak. Stupid affectations, Nebula thinks to herself, all they do is provide a convenient handhold and mark out the most effective initial targets. She slams the door to her quarters open and stalks inside, resolutely not sulking at this latest failure to keep her unwanted shadow from taking up time and resources with his precious emotions.
It isn’t even as if his precious Centaurian captain is even dead, which confuses her further. Oh, she’d certainly believed he would die even as Kraglin had operated the tractor beam that brought Gamora’s Terran in, clutching the Centaurian and wailing most unpleasantly. Judging by the comm that the fox seemed to have immediately sent angrily denouncing something to do with the politics of the Ravager clans, she hadn’t been only one fooled into astonishment when the Centaurian took a slow, rattling breath, violently expelled the contents of his stomach, and then started coughing uncontrollably through his own vomit.
Nebula had left then, bored and vaguely disgusted with the overwrought weeping and effusively furious swearing emanating from Gamora’s pet. It had only been marginally creative, and once he had begun to repeat himself she’d lost all interest in the proceedings and had stalked off in the direction of the stores. She’d needed to plan her next sortie on Thanos’ power anyway, and that had meant finding a new ship to host her after Gamora had (dammit) ripped all the weaponry off of her previous vessel and damaged the structural integrity besides. She always had insisted on having the last word.
Briefly, Nebula had considered the merits of just stealing the vacuum respiration disc that the Terran had thrown viciously aside upon entering atmosphere and going looking for a suitable vessel to steal. Perhaps a few boot thrusters, to make it easier to get to an inhabited world… but then, they had been out in space so remote that even she prefers to rely on the improved fuel supply and jump capacity of a sturdy craft. Regretfully she had decided that she would need to rely on Gamora’s resources, much as it pained her, until she could get close enough to Xandarian space again to use one of her untraceable accounts to replace her ship.
She had begun inventorying the contents of the Eclector’s stores with brisk efficiency, working out what she would need to take in order to continue her quest for a way to properly and satisfactorily destroy Thanos. She had savored the image of his severed head lying bleeding in the sand, his eyes popping like over-ripe Krylorian rhalek fruit between her fingers while she dug gleeful fingers into the bone to rip his own brains from his skull. As she worked, she had lost herself in dreaming of the future she had known she would achieve.
She’d been so caught up in her ruminations that she’d barely noticed the strange, awkward Ravager before he had blindly crashed into her on his own solitary journey through the Eclector’s bowels. She’d snarled and cuffed him, unwilling to allow anyone to touch her—touches were threats, in her experience—and certainly unwilling to tolerate the disrespect and lack of fear implied by his intrusion into her personal space.
He had stared at her, eyes wide and frozen, his thin, rabbity chest hyperventilating with some unfathomable emotion as he registered her presence and his transgression. Desperately, he’d swallowed, apparently unable to summon words, before rasping out “Sorry, miss. Didn’t see y’there. Won’ run into you again.”
Nebula had regarded him with irritation. “Next time,” she informed him, “I will take my vengeance in flesh, not words.” This hadn’t seemed to have the desired effect; he had seemed to barely notice her threats through whatever roiling cataclysm of emotions had paralyzed him. Nebula was not used to being ignored, and she had growled her irritation and shoved him. “Did you understand me?”
Apparently the growl had worked, because he had started and yelped “Yes’m.” And then he had kept staring at her, apparently lost in thought. It had been… unnerving. Eventually, for lack of a better idea of how to respond, she had turned back to her inventory work. She had been planning for some time when he blurted out “When you leave this vessel, miss, will y’take me with you?” She had stared, devoid of any sensible response to such an insensible question. He rallied under her gaze, and said “You said you were goin’ after Thanos, right? That’s a hell of a target you’re aimin’ at.”
She had bristled. “I can do it. I am strong enough and clever enough, and I will not be denied.”
He had shrugged, and said “Don’ doubt it. But you’ll need someone to watch yer back, won’t you? And I got experience. I—I swear I won’t take up no room or anything.” His eyes had been hopeful and tensely fixed on hers.
She’d glared back. “Why do you want to come?”
He had flinched, as if struck. “Don’ deserve to stay, do I? Nearly got him killed, did get everyone else killed, only cap’n an’ Quill left now of the whole faction and that’s if he survives the decompression sickness and Ogord knows what else sets in. No one needs me skulkin’ around remindin’ them of what I did. Better to just leave now, save ‘em the trouble.” He had seemed to wince again at his words, and had hastily added “I know better than t’speak up again like that now, ma’am. Won’ happen again—you’ll see, I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You’d barely even know I’m here.”
At the desperation in his colorless eyes, she’d felt a sudden flicker of some odd emotion, something she found impossible to set words to. “All right,” she’d growled, “but I expect you to earn your keep and then some. I don’t have time for dead weight.”
Impossibly, from somewhere he’d summoned a watery grin. “Ma’am, I know where we keep all the emergency craft and all the best quarters for lootin’. You’ll see. I’ll be back in two clicks.” He’d vanished, then, and reappeared with the location of a suitable M-ship, a competent set of backup stores and repair parts for it, and a thorough packing list for his own nutritional needs. She’d been vaguely impressed at the time, and had thought he might make a worthwhile asset after all.
How could she have been so wrong?