A/N: I'm baaack! With another chapter. Starting again with Gamora's perspective. The last chapter was Peter's, so he only sees Gamora and her boys from when they've been on Knowhere. Now you'll see how Gamora and they got to Knowhere. Once she meets Peter, I won't be switching perspectives. This chapter's is unbeta-ed, so if I've missed any spelling mistakes or stuff like that, eep I'm sorry and do let me know so I can fix it. :) Also, I will be writing a sequel to Barely Alive or Nearly Dead, soon.

Enjoy!

Small, soft paws nudge persistently into her side, disturbing (or relieving) her from the chaos of her dreams. She turns away from the annoyance, mumbling something incoherent as she pulls her cloak (and makeshift blanket) tighter around her shivering form.

"Princess, we gotta go. Ain't got time to sleep in when you're on the run, honeypot. Trust us, we know." She tells herself it's the proximity of Rocket's voice to her hear that startles her. Yes, that's it. Nonetheless, she sits up and from there, draws herself up to full height. She runs her finger through her mussed black tresses and unsuccessfully fights a yawn as her skilled fingers slowly work the knotted tresses into a somewhat undone braid. When she finishes, she lifts her hands to her face and rubs the sleep from her eyes.

"How much time do we have?" Gamora asks the other two as she draws her cloak about herself, fastening it under her chin. The raccoon is occupied with rolling up his thin sleeping mat and stuffing it into the tattered bag slung across his back. He briefly checks the small firearm he'd kept by his side during the night and holds the gun up to his face, peering at it.

"What's that?" asks Rocket. A series of creaks and snaps follow as the Groot slowly unfolds from his sleeping position and remains sitting. He blinks his large eyes at the two of them and comes to a stand. The bark covering his body groans and gives soft intermittent creaks as he moves.

"I am Grooot," he declares, extending his arm toward the raccoon even as a skeletal finger points at the small mammal. Rocket flashes the tree a nonplussed pout and turns his small paws up in something of a put-off gesture. Gamora arches a brow, glancing between Rocket and Groot, as if to illustrate she has not caught their meaning.

"That's right, Groot. We do have just enough time to get to the ship and find an actually hiding spot," Rocket translates and gives the tree an affirmative nod. "Might as well get a move on before those damned Ravagers come after us."

"You understand him?" Gamora questions, no less puzzled than before. "I did not know he could speak."

"I! Am Groot!" The tree grumbles indignantly. Rocket's brows shoot up in surprise, and it takes everything in him not to laugh at Groot's last remark.

"The short version? Yes, I do, and yes, he does," Rocket remarks with a smirk in her direction. "He don't talk good like you and me. His vocabulary's limited to 'I' and 'am' and 'Groot'. Exclusively in that order. I've learned to recognize different inflections in his voice when he does speak."

"Remarkable," she comments, quietly pondering the raccoon's short explanation. "I shall prepare the ship for flight." She departs from them as Rocket smothers the dying embers of last night's fire underfoot and Groot plucks a stray leaf from up above his eyebrow. She strides down the rocky, downward-sloping path leading to where they had hidden her vessel and breathes a sigh of relief as her eyes make out the curved shape of said vessel. To her pleasure, it remains under the tarp and well-hidden from prying eyes.

Once she reaches the ship, she hops up just enough to reach the tarp as it drapes over the vessel's left wing and tugs on it. The coarse material catches on something and proves itself unrelenting. Only after two more hard tugs from Gamora does it release and come sliding off with a soft flutter. She then folds up the dusty tarp and pins it under her arm. With a quick tap to the intricate metal bracelet clasped around her wrist, the navy-painted metal panel directly in front of her rises with a low hiss and turns ninety degrees before snapping to the left and locking into place to reveal an entryway. She enters into the dimly lit belly of the small vessel, casting the tarp off into a pile of discarded junk, and makes her way to the cockpit. Just as she is settling herself into the chair and kickstarting the ship's start-up process, the accented whine of Rocket's voice and Groot's wooden grumbles reach her ears. The raccoon reaches her in a hop, skip and bound upon which he lands in the seat next to her and straps himself in. Groot proceeds at a slower pace, his wooden appendages groaning their distress as he seats himself behind Rocket and steadies himself by extending his limbs to either side of the ship.

"I am Groot," the tree mumbles. Rocket dips his furry head in acknowledgement.

"So am I, Groot," he says in response. "Whenever you're ready, majesty." Gamora throws him a side-glance made of a pursed lip and slightly furrowed brows. Was that sarcasm? She curls long fingers around the lever between her knees and pulls until the vessel's engines start with a low but rising hum. As the ship gets off to a rocky start, pulling away from the moon's rocky terrain, she directs Rocket to activate a certain screen. With her free hand, she gestures to the panel above his head.

"Hit the button near your right," she instructs, then quickly clarifies at the mammal's disgruntled glare, "The blinking blue one nearest your right paw. That will activate the navigation." He gives no response save for hitting the blue button and waiting as a foot-long screen descends mechanically until it's right in front of his face. "You shall navigate as you are an outlaw with experience of well-planned escapes. I am not used to such things."

"Right. Seeing as a particular someone owes me a favor on Knowhere, maybe they can give us a hand," he remarks. "Knowhere it is, then." After a quiet (and admittedly embarrassed) question of "How do you get this to work?", he plugs in the appropriate coordinates.

"Rocket, do not draw attention to us," she groans, burying her face in her hands as she hears the drunken mammal letting his mouth run. She shakes her head, then, bringing her hands down to rest at her side. It's then that she looks up (and lets her hands hover precariously over the throwing knives at her hips) to see the Ravager standing between her and Rocket. Ravager? Her eyes widen in alarm the moment they recognize the flame insignia on his left shoulder. The heart within her has jumped from a metaphorical zero to sixty, and the tension of the moment is tangible. As if to worsen things, Rocket cocks his gun and aims for the man's heart. The man himself is frozen in place. She notes the tension in his stance. He's just as afraid as they are. As anyone would be were a gun pointed at them, she thinks to herself.

"Erryone knows you don't kick a man when he's down, humie," Rocket slurs, struggling for a moment to uphold the weight of the firearm in his hands, "That ain't fair." His fingers hovers dangerously over the trigger, and the whole moment feels to Gamora like the deep breath taken before the plunge. Time seems to slow, almost, as Rocket closes around the trigger and the gunshot rips through the air. Unsuspecting passersby scatter in a multitude of directions as the firearm's startling shot rips loud in their ears. The man himself (Gamora is awed by this, though she refuses to admit. Least of all to him) swings his weight backward, dropping to ground to duck beneath the bullet's path. He hits the ground with a grunt, cursing. He reaches up and taps the flesh beneath his ear, which activates the formation of a protective metal mask. It completed covers his face and the back of his head, effectively protecting it from damage. She is about to wonder how he can see when he tilts his head back, still on the ground, and looks at her.

At first, the glowing red eyepieces of the mask frighten her, and she steps back, closing her grip on the knives at her disposal. Fear is the least of her worries when the man rolls back onto his feet and starts to approach her, hands half-raised (in what she can't hope to be surrender). As he's walking, she catches the glint off a gun holstered at his side and that does it. Her instinct kicks in, and she knows too well not to test the 'fight' reflex against this Ravager. Therefore, she takes flight.

"N-nah, come on. Don't do that," he growls, his voice somewhat muffled by the mask. "Damnit, I've got to work for this one. Why can't ya be an easy catch?"

She runs as fast as she dares, slipping deftly between various people in the crowd even as she takes glances behind her. She's only just broken through the crowd when she takes a last glance to see if the Ravager is still in pursuit. He isn't, thankfully; so she thinks. She takes a sharp turn down a corner and crouches under a metal stairwell, retrieving her knives from their sheaths. The blades glisten and drip with a pale, translucent liquid. The substance isn't harmful to her species, thanks to a developed resistance. To other species, however (and to her knowledge), it serves as a powerful knockout agent. Smaller doses lead to a brief period of unconsciousness, while larger doses can place the victim in an indefinite coma.

Just then, another sound besides the rapid beating of her own heart reaches her eyes. Dirt crunches underfoot—under boot more precisely. Her whole body stiffens as she watches the Ravager (with a view only from his feet to his knees) walk into the alley in which she hides. His heavy leather boots are creased with age and covered with innumerable scuff marks. The mechanical additions riveted to the back of the ankles are also scuffed and in some places, dented. She closes her eyes then, taking in deep quiet breaths and wishing for the man to depart and leave her in her peace. After several moments during which he doesn't, she loses her patience. Adrenaline is racing through her veins like liquid fire, and it's adrenaline that pulls the gun from the holster nestled against her leg. With shaking hands, she curls her fingers around the grip and lays her index finger on the trigger. The Ravager's stopped just in front of her hiding place. Just as he's about to turn and take a step up, she fires.

The explosion of the gunshot blinds her briefly, and she coughs as the gunpowder fills her nostrils. She knows she's hit her target by the Ravager's cry of pain. He falls against the stairwell, leaning his weight so as to favor his now-injured foot. Blood leaks from the wound, dripping onto the dirt beneath him. Gamora takes that moment to slither out from under the stairwell, shoving the injured man aside in her haste. She doesn't get far before something behind her emits a mechanical click. Before she can turn to look, a luminescent red cord snaps and tightens around her ankles. She loses her balance and comes crashing to the ground, with time only to brace herself with arms folded in front of her face. The impact doesn't hurt as much as she expects; her arms suffer mere scrapes, but she'll survive. She withdraws one of the knives and works at cutting the cord.

It's then that she can see him pitifully making chase. His injured foot drags as he limps toward her, fumbling for his gun. She has only just destroyed the binding cord when he has reached her. She leaps to her feet and is more than ready with her knives when he comes (foolishly) within arms' reach. Her mind races, fueled by the constant stream of adrenaline in her veins. Guns. Ravager shooting. Shoot to kill, must survive. The thoughts in her own head seem louder than the words he's having trouble forming now.

"I'm s'posed to bring you back in one piece," he pants and taps the mask again. If she were in any other situation, she might've admired the technology of the disassembling mask. "Jesuschristthathurts!" He exclaims, his features contorting in momentary pain as he accidentally puts weight on his injured leg.

"I have no wish to be brought back," she snaps. "Not in any pieces." For some peculiar reason, the man laughs at her remark, and when he catches her deathly glare, continues laughing. Whatever the reason, it infuriates her. She's already reaching behind her back for the deadliest weapon at her disposal.

"That's not…Sweetheart, it's a metaphor," he remarks, laughter no longer evident in his expression. It's then that she disengages the weapon and flicks it downward with her wrist, causing the larger sharpened end to elongate into a sword.

"Here is your metaphor!" she hisses, pouring her rage into the last word that falls from her lips. His eyes widen when he grasps her meaning.

"Whoa! That is def not what it means, sister!" is all he has time to get out before she attacks. She swings the sword in an arc in front of her face before arcing it back down and reaching with her sword arm to close the distance. The razor edge of the blade slices a warning cut into his left shoulder, and it take a jerk from her to withdraw the barbed edge and return the sword to its resting position. A cry and a string of anguished curses pours from his lips as he recoils, cradling the injured limb. "Drax!" he grounds out, moments before the burly blue alien rounds the corner and locks the Gamora in his hold. She screeches in displeasure, digging her nails into his arms deep enough to draw blood, but he does not relent. "What're you waiting for? Put her under!" Peter snaps. Drax watches Peter with a neutral expression, the only sign of his understanding being the curious quirk of his eyebrows at the Terran's odd verbiage. His eyes narrow in suspicion as he slowly clamps a meaty fist around Gamora's neck and places her on the ground, literally under himself. "No…just. God, what is it with you people and freaking metaphors?!" Peter howls. "Knock her out, Drax. Fist to the head."

"Why did you not say that to begin with, Quill?" Drax mumbles. He delivers a sharp blow to the princess' head with his balled fist.

Darkness shrouds everything within her quickly fading sight, and after that, she knows no more.

A/N: Thoughts? Whatever's on your mind, tell me in a review!