Long time no see! My computer's dying, so I'm going to keep this short.

I hope you guys are still interested in this story! I'm trying to keep my energy up for fanfiction, but right now I'm going through a pretty rough time writing-wise. Hopefully it's temporary, but until I know for sure...stick with me!

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The Zehoberi woman sees my slight relaxation, and straightens in response; her own gesture of neutrality. Neither of us is comfortable, and I keep my senses open and aware even as I focus on the woman in front of me. Her teammates are nowhere to be seen – I assume them to be the masked man (his species is a mystery thanks to that mask and the leather covering him from head to toe), the tattooed alien and the strange furry creature.

"What is your name, little one?" the woman asks gently, but something in me hardens at the title she gives me for the second time. I am not a child!

I clench my teeth together, and don't respond. To her credit, she seems to understand that she has offended me, and ducks her head slightly.

"I am Gamora," she says, a peace offering of sorts, and the name is familiar even if she is not.

Anyone with a pair of brain cells to rub together knows who Gamora is. Tales of her ruthlessness are all across the sector, and yet Zo never once mentioned that he knew her. Then again, seeing as she's the daughter of Thanos and serving under a maniac Kree zealot…I don't blame Zo for keeping it hidden. When it came to that sort of thing, people tended to shoot first and ask questions later.

I also know that Gamora is one of the most dangerous assassins in the galaxy. That realization sends adrenaline pumping through me, and I ease back into my fighting stance even though there's no way I can possibly win. She's had at least a decade more experience than me; she's been cyber-enhanced to be stronger, faster, and more durable.

Me? I'm just a fragile Terran – it hurts to admit, but in this situation I have to face facts – with a fancy staff and a comparatively small amount of training.

Gamora works for that Kree, the one Zo said had his eyes too focused on power to look around and see the damage his actions were causing. How can I trust an assassin who willingly serves that kind of man?

I ready myself to run again, and Gamora raises her hands imploringly.

"Please, hear me out. I don't serve the Kree anymore, or Thanos. I don't serve anyone. I've spent most of my life trying to free myself from their poison, and now I've finally done it. I'm…I'm a guardian, along with my team. We're the galaxy's protectors," she says, the word 'guardian' said with no small amount of uncertainty. Clearly the title is new for her.

I frown, wondering how she expects me to believe her story. For all I know, she could still be working for the Kree, using her group of strange companions as a cover. I can't take that risk. Not when escape is so close that I can practically see the stars. I have to see the stars again. I have to.

I turn; ready to start sprinting again. But suddenly a wall of olive-green blocks my vision and a large hand closes around my neck. I'm mid-swing when there's a sharp nerve pinch that radiates throughout my entire body.

The shock of the attack makes me freeze, and by that time it's too late. A feeling of nausea sweeps over me, covering my consciousness in a heavy blanket of darkness.

Gamora lets out a hiss as Drax gently lowers the Terran to the ground, careful not to bump the girl's head. He has never heard her make that sound before, and gives her a wary look. The green whore is angry?

"You fool! How is she ever supposed to trust us, now?" she demands, crouching beside the girl in question. She reaches out to feel for her pulse, letting out a breath when she finds it.

"I saw her preparing to run, and you did not look finished speaking with her…and so I assisted you. You are not pleased? I did not kill her, I merely incapacitated her, like Rocket said," is Drax's simple answer, and Gamora wants to repeatedly hit her head on the nearest metal box.

It's their first mission together as Guardians and yet Gamora already wants to scream in frustration. Peter is the glue that holds them together, and it becomes clear the moment he leaves the picture that the rest of them have a lot of work to do before they can perfect the unity that Peter seems to inspire without even trying.

Drax is perplexed by her behavior, but has resigned himself to the fact that all females – no matter their species – are equally confusing. To question them more than necessary only leads to arguments and more confusion. He stares at Gamora for a moment longer, then searches for the other two members of their team.

Rocket walks towards Drax and Gamora, gingerly hopping over the limp bodies of the slavers. Quill's organizing the surviving slaves and explaining the situation: they've contacted Nova Corp, their servitude is over, and they'll be given sanctuary on Xandar until plans can be arranged for their integration into normal lives. Rocket had managed to get the location of the head hancho's stash of credits, and has the chip with a hefty 50,000 on it safely stowed in his pocket. They're dirty credits, but hey, they're still credits. He hears the muted sounds of Gamora and Drax talking, and wonders who they're yammering about. A slave? Why is that suddenly something to gripe about?

"Oi, Greenies, what's the deal? Quill has the slaves over…there…" Rocket begins, but trails off when he sees the unconscious slave girl. She's nothing to write home about, excepr for her hair. The silver-gold color is her only redeeming quality. Then again, anything less than a nice coat of fur is unappealing in Rocket's humble opinion. Perhaps he's a bit biased. His nose twitches, and her scent rushes in.

He's only smelled one other Terran, and that's Quill. Terrans are common as slaves, but Rocket's never found much reason to seek them out. He realizes that if he had been exposed to more of them, he would have been able to tell that Quill wasn't 100% Terran in a second. Quill's soft, earthy Terran smell – something that can't be masked by any amount of alien clothing or perfume, at least not to Rocket's unusually keen nose – is tinged with something older, something sharp and powerful. This girl, on the other hand, is all Terran.

Terrans are widely known as one of the weakest species in the galaxy, what with their fragile skin and comparatively feeble bone structure. Another thing that should have tipped Rocket to Quill's less than Terran genetics was his ability to take a beating and survive. He mentally kicks himself for not picking up on it earlier. So much for having "enhanced intelligence"…

"Care to explain?" Rocket asks, and Gamora raises her eyes to the heavens as if to beg for patience.

"This girl is the ward of Zo, Master of Weapons. I met her many years ago, while commissioning some blades from him."

"The Master of Weapons! Hell, even I've heard of that guy…he made the original design for this baby," Rocket exclaims, patting the Triksa 3000 hanging over his shoulder.

He had tinkered with it and given it a personal touch, but it's one of the only weapons Rocket had to struggle to find fault with. He's seen weapons made by Zo before, and for all of his snipe and sarcasm, Rocket can't deny that that man's an artist when it comes to weaponry. And Gamora expects him to believe that Zo, the powerful Thagoran who is known for his unmatchable skill as well as for his never having spoken a word to anyone who wasn't Thagoran, raised a Terran girl as his heir? There was no goddamn way!

Peter Quill looks over at the others, and frowns. He keeps in mind that they've only been an official team for a few weeks, this being their first-ever mission. Gamora's shoulders are stiffening, her mouth tight. Drax is perplexed by her anger – no surprises there. Rocket is quiet, and Peter doesn't take that as a good sign.

He finishes giving the instructions to the slaves, who're looking at him like he's some sort of god. Peter smiles at them, trying to hide how uncomfortable their worshipful stares make him.

Being a Ravager meant sticking to the shadows, keeping quiet to keep the element of surprise. Peter's never been good at being stealthy, but it's an aspect of life that Hondu instilled into him constantly growing up. As long as one stays hidden from sight, they stay in control of the situation to a large extent.

Peter clicks open his communicator, and sees that the Nova Corps sent him their coordinates. They're about half an hour away, maybe a bit less. Peter wants to be gone before they get here, just to avoid explaining the "slavers' missing credits" situation. A little bit of good, a little bit of bad…a healthy balance is always good, right?

The slaves seem to be on board in terms of staying put and making sure the slavers don't regain consciousness before Nova Corp gets to the ship. A few of them heft clubs, ready to clobber any slavers into a pulp. Peter turns to his team, curious as to why they're all gathered in a circle. What's got them so riled up?

Hearing his familiar footsteps, Gamora turns to face Peter, grateful for his presence. He's an idiot at times, but no one can deny that the man knows how to settle arguments.

Peter's gaze finds the unconscious girl. His eyes widen impossibly wide.

"Dude, you knocked out a slave? Not cool, man!" he snaps at Drax, who frowns.

"How did you know that I was the one–"

"That's not important right now," Gamora interjects. "What's important is that we take her with us. Peter, this is the ward of Zo, the Master of Weapons. We need to keep her safe. I respect Zo too much to leave her to Nova Corp when we could return her to his custody."

"Who the heck is Zo?"

Rocket's teeth flash at Peter's ignorant reply, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Gamora silences him with a look.

Drax shrugs. "A very good weapons maker, the green whore says."

Gamora glares at him, but chooses to not comment on the remark. She instead turns to Peter, seeing the expression of support in his face, and instantly she feels much calmer.

"Zo is one of the most skilled weapons master this galaxy has ever seen. He made two of my blades, many years ago, which is where I met this girl. I don't know how they were separated, but we have to get her back to him."

Peter's shoulders hunched as he thought. "…What if there's a reason she ran away from him?" he suggests hesitantly.

Gamora is going to refute it, Peter sees it in her gaze, but after a moment she goes silent. She looks down at the girl, her face troubled. Peter feels similarly, it makes him a little queasy to imagine anyone hurting a kid so much that they run away and find themselves enslaved.

The only way they'll know the whole story is if they take the girl with them.

Everyone's looking to Peter, the leader, and he feels the same uncomfortable feeling as before. I have to stop hiding in the shadows, he says firmly to himself, and looks at the girl once more before making a decision.

"Let's bring her along. We'll hear her side of the story before deciding what to do next."

Drax nods shortly, and with one smooth motion picks the girl up, one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. Her head lolls back onto his arm, and in Drax's huge grasp the girl seems even more breakable than before. In the back of his mind, Peter wonders what species the girl is. She's the ward of a master weapons maker, and so Peter guesses that she's either Xandarian or Reinglari – a humanoid species with a standard outward humanoid appearance. What separates the Reinglari from the rest is their sharp black teeth, two stomachs, and the ability to jump ten feet in the air with little effort.

Rocket peers at the ground where the girl lay moments before, and sees a silver rod about a foot long. On the side is Zo's sigil, proudly displayed. He frowns, and leans over to pick it up. The moment the pads of his paws make contact he yells and drops it, because a great jolt of painful energy zings through his skin. Gamora's expression is shocked.

"It's a symbiotic weapon!" she gasps, leaning down and using the sleeve of her jacket to pick the weapon up. She examines it closely, while the others look on incredulously.

"Symbiotic weapon?" Peter repeats, confused, and Gamora nods.

"They're extremely difficult to make, because of the rarity of the material as well as the complexity of linking of the user and the weapon. It takes about a year to fully meld the two together, and often times the focus of the user isn't strong enough to forge the mental bond. The maker uses a variety of energies to allow it to absorb some of the user's emotions and inclinations, and if done correctly…it's the closest thing to a living weapon you can get. It responds only to the one it's linked to, otherwise it goes on defense mode, which Rocket just experienced."

Rocket flares. "That's a stupid-ass idea! Who wants a weapon that only works for one person? What if someone else needs to use it, what if it's life or death? Weapons aren't meant to talk back, they're meant to be used and that's it!"

Gamora smiles at Rocket's outburst, and carefully tucks the weapon into her pocket without making direct contact with it. The group sets off toward the Milano. She can feel the weight of it, as well as the hum of discontented energy. It can feel its owner close by, and yet is unable to reach her.

"That's what makes his weapons so special. Most see weapons as mere tools, but Zo sees them as extensions of oneself."

Rocket snorts as they all board the Milano, settling into his seat to help Peter get everything ready to go.

"For a professional killer you're awfully sappy," he grumbles, and Peter laughs loudly, a sound that's somehow heard over the roar of the ship's engines.

The Milano slowly lifts from the port, and Rocket inputs the exit code a second later. Gamora snaps in her seatbelt, while Drax sits on the cot with the girl, making sure she doesn't get too jostled by the jump to speed.

The doors open, and in a flash of orange, the ship soars into open space and disappears.

I'm unconscious for what feels like seconds. One moment I'm closing my eyes, the next I'm awake, my heart hammering in my chest. I'm on a ship – after living most of my life in space I can feel the slight, constant rumble of the engine. I keep my eyes closed, for fear of whoever kidnapped me being aware of my awareness.

The sounds of the ship are unfamiliar, giving me no indication of who could have taken me. I don't hear the bustling of officials, so I assume I'm not on a Nova Corp vessel.

It smells…clean, but decidedly masculine. I can't really put my finger on how I know this.

I need to find out where I am, first and foremost. The occupants of the ship can come second. I can hear someone close by, rustling and shifting his or her weight. From the heaviness of the sounds, I'm guessing that it's a man. But I can't know for sure.

I'm sure Zo would have been able to tell what species and how big the man was by smell and sound alone, but my weak human senses will never be that keen.

I open my eyelids a fraction, peering at the stranger through my eyelashes. I see a red-leather clad figure hunched over, facing away from me. The figure turns, and I see the tall man from before, only the red-eyed mask is absent. His face is…Terran?

I am so shocked by this discovery that I forget all of my teachings, and sit up abruptly.

"You're Terran?" I exclaim, and the man looks up at me, surprised. His eyes are gray-green in color. It's been so long since I've seen a human this close before. There were Terran slaves on the slaver ship, but I avoided them as much as possible.

What strikes me most about this man is the confidence he exudes. Terran slaves are cowardly, sniveling things, not much better than pets. I'm amazed, because this human is anything but submissive. There's this raw sort of power to him, a swagger that shows even when he's not in motion.

Maybe Terrans aren't normally pathetic things. Maybe their home planet is different. Could it be they're all like this powerful stranger? Could I be more than just a weak human?

No, it can't be. If all were like this man, humans wouldn't be exploited as much as they are. No, he can't be human. I must be mistaken, there's no way he's human.

The man grins at me, so widely I can see his teeth. "Basically. I mean, I thought I was until a few weeks ago. Turns out I'm only half Terran. The other half…well, I'm not sure what it is. I don't feel like anything but a Terran, so I'd say you're right," he said. His voice is deep, yet filled with a sort of boyish energy. I frown, and he turns to face me. I see my staff in his hands, and my anger rushes forth. How dare he touch her!

I lunge at him, and he isn't expecting it. He lets me hit him; I can see the lack of wariness in his gaze. Underestimating me is his first mistake. Zo's words come rushing back – "Use momentum to your advantage, turn their power against them…" – and I obey automatically. As we fall, I hook my ankle around his knee and pull up, making him fall painfully on his shoulder rather than his back. He yelps in pain, dropping my staff in the process of trying to right himself. I grab her and roll over him.

Letting me grab hold of my weapon is his second mistake.

I let my staff slide out as I stand, the hiss of power filling the space of the cabin. It's a large space, but cluttered with personal belongings. I glance around. There are personal touches here and there. Weapons, books, holopads, masculine products. I'm willing to bet my left arm that this ship belongs to the man in front of me. Who is he…and why am I on his ship?

Gamora! I hiss under my breath, my teeth clashing together angrily. It must have been her…she must be trying to sell me back to Zo for a ransom. Or she's trying to return me to him for some moral reason, which would be a bit of a challenge for her.

I swallow hard, keeping my body in attack-mode. I can't afford to let my guard down. But how am I going to escape? This ship is too small to have escape pods or even a small speeder ship. Realistically, I'm stuck here until they dock. How long until then? Weeks? Months?

I hear heavy footfalls, and whip my staff around to face the newcomers. Gamora and the green-skinned mountain of a man appear in the doorway to the rest of the ship, and Gamora's eyes immediately go to the half-Terran. I see the tenderness in her gaze. To the untrained eye, it would be seen as a fleeting concern, but years of reading Zo had prepared me well. Part of me wants to berate her for showing such obvious emotion.

The half-Terran is her weakness. If I wanted to hurt her, I could just hurt the Terran. I glance at him. My staff seamlessly reads my intentions, and in less than a second her blade slides farther out, brushing against his throat.

"Woah, woah, woah! Let's all just calm down, okay?" the man yells, eyes wide. Gamora lets out a sound that is a mix between a hiss and a snarl, and I ignore the instinct to back down.

It wasn't until I left Xandar with Zo that I was introduced to the idea of a personal claim. All species had a gesture that symbolized their claim on a mate (or prospective mate), some more obvious than others. Zo had ingrained into me a deep respect for the claim.

"Use knowledge of a claim only as a last resort. To come between mates is dangerous. Such a bond brings out the most dangerous fighter: an unpredictable one."

I think Zo would see this as a last resort. I need freedom; I need a way off this ship. I'm not seriously considering hurting the man in front of me, not really – I value my life too much to waste the rest of it being hunted by a master Zehoberi assassin. But I was the only one who can know this. Extreme measures gave me the upper hand.

"If you move toward any of your weapons, my weapon will go through his neck," I say calmly, and the man under my knife lets out a shaky sigh. The furry creature – I hadn't seen him before, since he was so small – and the green-skinned man didn't move a muscle, their weapons loose in their grips. Gamora doesn't move, but her eyes are blazing. I have to tread very carefully here.

"Can we all just take a step back and talk about this?" the half-Terran asks mildly, and I press the blade tighter to his skin. Gamora sucks in a sharp breath.

"I want off of this ship. Give me that, I won't kill him," I say, getting straight to the point. The furry creature bares his fangs, and I am again struck with the burning curiosity to know what kind of alien he is. I've never seen his kind before, and I've been to almost every corner of the galaxy.

"Quill, how'd you get yourself into this? She's a kid! A Terran kid no less!" the creature snaps, his raspy voice surprisingly deep for his small stature. The green-skinned man says nothing, and I glance at him for a split second. He is unreadable, and it was him I watch with the most caution.

The half-Terran – Quill, was that his name? – let out a weak chuckle. "How was I supposed to know she'd pull a fast one on me?"

"I told you to keep your guard up, Peter! She was raised and trained by the most skilled weapons master in the galaxy, what did you expect her to be like?" Gamora asks angrily.

Quill – I'm very confused now, is his name Peter, or is it Quill? – groans.

"Maybe wait to yell at me until I'm not being held hostage by a knife-happy teenager?" he asks, and I scowl. I need to regain control of this situation.

The furry creature cocks his head at me. "We just want some answers, kid. Give 'em to us, and you'll be free to go. If not…I have some new electrocution cuffs I've been dying to test out."

"Over his dead body," I whisper, and Quill closes his eyes, scrunching them in preparation for the final blow. Gamora raises her hands imploringly, almost frantically.

"We're not here to hurt you! Please, let Peter go, and I swear on Zo's name that no harm will come to you. We just want to talk."

I look around, seeing the stoic expressions on their faces. It's three against one, and I'm on the losing end. I feel the hopelessness of the situation pressing down on me. There is no way out.

I let out a heavy breath, and shove Quill away from me, backing up to the wall. Quill laughs, rubbing his skin with a large hand. His skin rubbing against his facial hair makes a rasping sound. Gamora moves to Quill's side, her eyes scanning his face and her hands clenched tightly to keep from reaching out to him.

"I believe it is tradition to offer names to those you wish to remain nonviolent with," the large green-skinned man says, the first thing I've heard him say, and his voice is a rumbling baritone.

"I am Drax," he says.

"Rocket's the name," the furry creature declares, and he grins fiercly, his sharp teeth glinting in the artificial light.

"I'm Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord," Quill says proudly, and I realize that Quill is his surname. It suits him more than Peter or that other name, so I don't bother remembering the other names.

"What is your name?" Gamora asks, not having to introduce herself. I grit my teeth, trying hard to resist the urge to raise my staff and attack. Names are important things, and I hate giving these strangers any sort of power over me.

But I have no choice. I have to compromise, in order to get my freedom.

I swallow hard.

"My name is Adda."

Gamora frowns. "Why were you on that slaver ship, Adda? Zo didn't sell you, did he?"

I want to strike her so badly in that moment. Suggesting that Zo would sell me like some common slave is beyond insulting. I tightened my hold on my staff, gaining some sort of comfort from her familiar energy.

"No."

"Did you run away?" Quill asks, his eyes searching my face with unveiled concern.

"Of course not."

"Dammit, kid, just tell us why you were on that damn ship! Would it kill you to get to the point?" Rocket exclaims, and Gamora sends him a disapproving look. I, for one, find his bluntness more welcome than any amount of sugarcoated suggestions.

I look into Rocket's liquid dark eyes, and find myself wavering. I fight back the emotion, not allowing the sadness to escape. I can't be weak. I can't show how much I'm hurting. Vulnerability is weakness; showing it is a death sentence.

I lift my chin. It's an effort, but I force my voice to remain emotionless, even if my chest aches with the weight of the next three words.

"Zo is dead."