riverviewlogs | ( closed ) he's a jukebox hero.

Entry tags:

( closed ) he's a jukebox hero.

who: Gamora and Peter Quill
what: Beetles and crystals and dreams – oh my!
when: 20 January thru... later.
where: AROUND?
warnings: Beetle murder and later, genocide and trauma.

[ It's not every day the Perimeter Guard gets to deal with enormous beetles.

Giant monsters? Sure, most days.

These ones just happen to be especially large and bug-like and capable of doing far more damage than anyone is comfortable with. They breach the Abandoned City's walls before the Guard can respond, but in a matter of hours, it's all hands on deck. Peter and Gamora aren't part of the force that will push forward in the experimental mechs, but Gamora isn't fazed. They've dealt with unnecessarily big creatures in the past – back home and in the Quarantine – and despite the size of the herd of beasts, the Guard is fortunate enough to have numbers of its own.

So for now, they're playing ground support.

The Abandoned City is simultaneously an excellent location – given its vast and varied battlefields – and also wildly inconvenient depending on where they meet the beetles. Now, they find themselves pushing back against the insects on the front of a boardwalk on a riverside beach, caught between the water and empty, rundown buildings. Some of the behemoths simply step through the river, others knock aside old houses, smashing structures that dare stand near their horns.

One of the herd rears up as Gamora and her team advance. They're attempting to take out a leg, maybe hobble it or slow its progress, but it brings its mighty weight down and forces them all to scatter as a ruin collapses around their heads. Shouted commands, quick orders to move, take cover, get out of the damn way! and Gamora dives out of the path of a falling sheet of concrete just in time to avoid being crushed. She can't see Peter, can't see the rest of her squad through the dust in the air and the chaos around them, and just as she's trying to make sense of her surroundings, another creature swings its formidable horn low, sweeping over the riverbank and crushing a stretch of rickety wooden planks that line the boardwalk.

She darts forward again, ducking behind what used to be a storefront, now reduced to crumbling cement and glass. She grits her teeth, looking above her for a sign of another massive bug, but—

She's clear – at least for a second.

Her fingers are curled around the hilt of her sword, and she leans around the corner of the broken building, looking for anyone nearby, and—

The familiar and distinct sound of Peter's blasters. ]

Peter!

[ Shouted out across the chaos, through the debris and constant destruction of the beetles pushing relentlessly forward. ]

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[ The softness of his voice, the careful way he tries not to disturb their serene surroundings, seems to settle some of her confusion, and instead of going rigid and closing in on herself, she's slowly unwinding. ]

My planet.

[ Rather than getting to her feet, she moves to sit properly in the grass beside one of the clusters of flowers. ]

The moons are in alignment tonight.

[ She gestures overhead before she leans back to rest her weight on her hands. Above them, lights dance in a wide spectrum of colors, flickering in and out and waving in bands of shimmering tints. It should probably strike her as odd that they're the only ones sitting out to watch the lights, but it barely crosses her mind. ]

[ When Gamora moves to get comfortable, Peter mirrors her, sitting back and settling in. Her answer makes him pause, though.

He shouldn’t have to be the one to remind her of this. That her planet was razed by Thanos and his army, its people long dead – but he can hear the familiar buzz of the nearby city, can see that the place looks hale and whole. But that’s impossible.

He frowns, confused, but he looks up at her gesture, watching the ethereal sort of glow swaying in the sky. It’s beautiful, of course, but— ]

... Gamora...

Slowly, uncertainly, as he glances back to her. How the hell do you tell someone that they can’t be here, because the planet is gone? ]

Hm?

[ She tilts her chin, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

—but she doesn't wait for him to continue, and instead, she reaches for one of the flowers next to her, cupping the bloom lightly, reverently. She can feel it under her touch, and she's completely distracted by the sensation, lips parted in awe. ]

These are the flowers I told you about.

[ A sadder twist in her smile. ]

I've never seen them grow anywhere else in the galaxy.

[ Any galaxy. ]

[ He winces a little to himself, though once she directs her attention to the flowers, Peter follows her gaze. ]

They’re beautiful.

[ This, at least, he offers up easily enough, though he’s still grappling with the harder truth, sitting on the tip of his tongue.

... But he can’t quite bring himself to say it. He presses his lips into a thin line for the moment, before giving a small shake of his head. ]

They only bloom tonight, right?

[ The easier topic to talk about, for now. ]

Yes. Something about the lights that they respond to.

[ She runs her fingers down the stem of the flower, then gently snaps it off, setting it into her lap, and then doing the same with another and another. There's something so peaceful about being here, and it puts her at ease – enough so that she doesn't question why they're here, how they're here.

Settling into a dream is always like that. ]

Did you still want me to show you how to braid them?

[ Like it's a perfectly normal thing for her to offer. ]

[ Peter shifts awkwardly where he sits; he can’t sink into this weird reality as Gamora seems to have, and— he wonders if he’s dreaming. He wonders if he’s made up their environment based on what Gamora’s told him, and this whole things is just— a weird, hyper-realistic dream.

A dream about a planet that wasn’t his own wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility, after all. He’s dreamt about far weirder things, but— he doesn’t think he’s been as aware as this. He’s never second-guessed his mind and the landscape as much as he is now, actively thinking, “This is a dream,” and not having the world around them shatter.

He watches as she plucks the flowers, and for a second he really does want to shake her, but— she looks so calm, so tranquil, and Peter’s not sure if he’s ever seen her look like that. As much as he wants her to see how weird this all is, another part of him doesn’t want to pull her out of it if it means she can have a moment of peace.

Even if she is only a figment of his imagination.

He bites on his lip, uncertain, before he gives a small nod. ]

Yeah. Show me.

[ She looks pleased by the answer, something warming in her chest as she straightens, gathers a few more of the delicate flowers. She lays them all in her lap, then takes a long stretch of a flexible stem and a small handful of the blooms. ]

You have to tie them together first.

[ She wraps the stem around the bunch, knotting it, and then holds it up to show him. ]

And then you can braid them.

[ One stem over the other, then back again. ]

[ He plucks up a handful of his own flowers, doubt still curdling in his stomach as time stretches onward. He licks his lips, as he watches he work, and he thinks— he should say something, or ask her if any of this seems odd, but—

How the hell do you do that casually? How the hell do you ask, “Hey, you know all your people are dead, right?”

It’s not like there’s a good way to bring that up.

He bites down on his lips and mimics her work instead, and while he hasn’t braided in a while, he picks it up again easily enough. ]

How do you add flowers?

[ Gamora picks up a fourth flower, demonstrating for him. ]

Add it to the next stem in the order.

[ If Gamora knew what a French braid happened to be, she'd simply say that.

She continues along the line of flowers, adding each one as it progresses, until it's finally long enough to join at the ends. She ties another flexible stem around the bottom, bends the crown into a circlet, and then uses another stem to hold it together. ]

Like this.

[ She holds up the completed crown for him to see, before leaning over to set it on his head. ]

[ He focuses on braiding the flowers together, on plucking them up to incorporate into the little crown – anything to keep himself busy, he figures. Anything that'll keep him from putting his foot in his mouth and ruining the moment.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, sneaking small, wary glances at Gamora as she works. She looks— so at peace, and he wants that for her, he really does, but—

This isn't right. Is it?

His work on his own crown is a little slower, stymied as he is by inexperience and the thoughts whizzing around in his head. He pauses as he watches Gamora complete her crown, and when she leans over, he leans in, too, ducking his head a little to let her place the crown more easily.

He holds the plaited stems of his crown in one hand, adjusting Gamora's crown with the other, and he offers a small, tentative smile. ]

How's it look?

[ She settles back to admire her work. It's a little crooked, not quite perfect, but she's still charmed to see those flowers, the flowers of her home on Peter's head.

(In the back of her mind, something insists that those flowers don't exist anymore. This isn't quite right.) ]

They suit you.

[ It's a mild sort of compliment, but it takes the shape of one, nonetheless.

She feels... less jagged here, that nostalgic warmth curling in her chest, and she feels that same comfort she did as a child. That delight that came with waking when the moons had risen to join her family in the evening air and enjoy these flowers – she knows it again here, where before she'd thought the memory of those emotions had faded into little more than, well, a dream. ]

[ He finishes off his own crown, hesitating as he ties off the braid with another stem. He looks down at the circlet in his hands – an imperfect thing, with a few gaps where he didn't thread the flowers in quite right – before huffing out a laugh. ]

Maybe we should trade. [ He reaches up to take Gamora's crown off. ] Mine looks kinda crappy.

No, keep it.

[ She reaches up to stop his hand, tugging his wrist away from the top of his head. ]

It takes practice to get it right.

[ She gives his crown a look, though, and, well, even if it isn't great, it's still an attempt. ]

... Maybe a lot of practice.

[ He can't help it – he barks out a laugh, startlingly loud in the quiet. He instantly looks sheepish, though, before he shakes his head. ]

I can say it's crappy, Gamora. You have to say, "Good job, for your first try. It looks greeeeaaat."

[ His laughter feels almost out of place in how quiet the world is around them, but after the startling moment passes, she's smiling at him still. ]

Good job, for your first try.

[ But she doesn't add the second part. Sorry, Peter.

She's so distracted by him and the flowers, she doesn't notice the way the lights above them are starting to fade, the slow and steady darkening of the sky. ]

[ He wrinkles his nose at her, holding out the crown on his hands; the way the sky darkens is apparently lost on him, too. ]

Aaand? [ Expectantly, head tilting slightly to lead her on. ] "It looks..."?

And it looks like a crown of flowers.

[ ... That's probably the best Peter is going to get out of her, if they're being realistic.

At least it's some praise. ]

Here, you can fix some of these gaps.

[ She plucks up a few additional flowers, then moves to scoot closer to Peter, her hip resting against his. ]

Weave them in place.

[ Her shoulder presses against Peter's in that way that's become the most natural thing in the world to her, though she marvels at how real it feels to be close to him, how that contact and warmth of his body seems so solid, compared to the more floaty, indistinct sensations that are true of dreams. ]

[ He shoots her a flat, unimpressed look – obviously that wasn't the effusive praise he was looking for, and he sighs before giving an insincere smile. ]

Thanks, Gamora.

[ When she presses in against him, Peter pauses, looking at her a little startled. For a dream, this is hitting pretty close to home, he thinks. It feels real – or at least, the weight of her against him does. He slowly takes the flower from her, carefully filling in the gaps, trying to weave in the stems without disturbing the existing braid too much.

Once he's incorporated flowers into the larger gaps, he holds the crown up for Gamora's inspection. ]

Better?

[ She's patient and quiet as she lets Peter make the adjustments to his arrangement, and a few blooms later, it looks almost passable. ]

Much.

[ She shifts, leaning her head against his shoulder as she makes herself comfortable. Her heart is practically singing with this opportunity to share something like this with him, to share this specific moment, but—

She shouldn't be able to. It shouldn't feel this real if it's nothing more than a dream, and more than that, Peter is never the person she sees in dreams about her home.

That's probably because...

Gamora finally takes notice of the fading lights when they flicker completely out of view above them. The noise of distant life coming from the city at their backs is changing steadily, shifting from the expected bustle to something harsher, louder, more—

—panicked.

She goes completely still at Peter's side, her eyes glued to the flowers in his hands, not wanting to turn, not wanting to look and see the change. It's starting to build as the smell of smoke and plasma wafts through the air, and her jaw tightens, her gaze hardening, but she doesn't look – not yet, not yet. But finally, the collapse of a building booms from behind them, shakes the ground beneath them, and it feels so real, and Gamora's hand snaps out to squeeze Peter's arm. ]

[ He's not sure when it is he notices the way things shift, but he does.

The bands of light overhead disappear, like someone's thrown a switch, and Peter goes rigid, gaze darting upward. And then the quiet drone of the city changes, too, goes from the constant white noise of conversation and machinery to—

Screams. Shouts. The crackling of fire, the snapping of masonry, the high-pitched whines of guns. Gamora doesn't turn, but Peter definitely whirls around, the flower crowns dropping from his hands and his head, spurred on by his natural inclination to help.

He only gets as far as a crouch before Gamora's hand wraps around his bicep, squeezing so tightly it—

Actually kind of hurts. ]

—Gamora?

[ And he's caught somewhere between confused and startled, because he thought nothing was supposed to hurt in dreams, but—

Another explosion, and Peter stares, wide-eyed, at the city ablaze. ]

Gamora, c'mon. We have to go help—

[ It won't help, it won't help—

Gamora doesn't let go of his arm, doesn't turn towards the wails and screams, and just gives a sharp shake of her head. ]

Don't.

[ She hisses it from between her teeth, her eyes fixed on the grass – but the flowers are all wilting, petals draining away their vibrant color to curl in dry, brown flakes hanging from their stems. Everything is dying, just like the people in the city behind them.

This, she remembers vividly. This, even when the memory of her mother's smile and the sight of her childhood home have left her – she remembers this. The cries of agony and fear, the bodies that line the streets as the beauty of her planet is savaged by soldiers sent to murder and destroy and leave nothing in their wake.

Another shake, and she still tries to hold him in place. ]

We can't do anything.

[ Can't stop it, can't save anyone, can't stand up to the destruction of Thanos's armies as they lay waste to her home all over again. ]

Edited (punctutaion??????? ) 2018-02-06 07:57 (UTC)

What?

[ And Peter can't believe what he's hearing, what he's seeing. Gamora's moral compass has always been a lot stronger than his, so to hear her give up so quickly, so easily— ]

You're—

[ —kidding, is what he means to say, but he knows that's not true, knows that Gamora wouldn't joke about something like this.

But that doesn't mean he can believe what he's hearing.

He tries to tug his arm out of her grasp as the grass and the flowers shrivel and die around them. He curses under his breath, turning back to stare at the burning city, listening to the screams and the report of gunfire. He moves to stand, even with her hand still gripping his arm. ]

Gamora.

Edited 2018-02-06 08:48 (UTC)

[ Her jaw is so tight it hurts, and she refuses to budge, refuses to release him. ]

You'll just get yourself killed.

[ Snapped out, some odd combination of desperate and resigned, because no matter how real this feels now, no matter how much she can smell the death in the air, feel the ground shaking under her legs, hear those voices crying out clear as crystal— she knows how this ends. She knows this dream from start to finish, and there's no stopping it. ]

You can't, Peter.

[ And somehow, this is worse than usual. This dream never involves Peter, which means she never has to deal with him being at risk, never has to worry about watching his murder alongside her parents'. The difference now is that she's outside of the city instead of in the thick of it, when usually she stands in the streets as her people die, as Thanos wrings the life out of her world.

She's starting to push herself to her feet, but not to get up with Peter and help; she wants a more secure grip, just in case. ]

[ —now he knows this is a dream, because Gamora would never give up so easily.

He grabs hold of her wrist, trying to loosen her grip on his arm. ]

So we don't do anything? That's what you want to do? You wanna just sit here and wait?

[ She bristles immediately at the implication of his words. ]

You think this is what I want?

[ This helplessness, this loss of control. No matter how old she is, no matter how many times she's relived this nightmare, it always leaves her feeling like a defenseless little girl again, feeble and small – just as incapable of saving her parents as she had been decades ago.

She lets him loosen her grip, releasing him as her eyes narrow. ]

You think I'm letting this happen?

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