Another day, another planet, another satisfied customer. Peter Quill and his merry crew were staying out of trouble (for the most part) and making money (most of the time). Well, okay, they were making money and trying to stay out of trouble. They got points for effort, right?

And this time, there was actually no trouble. Found item, acquired item, delivered item, received payment, and done. Peter was now on his way back to the Milano, weaving his way through crowded streets in the twilight of a fading day.

As he passed a dark alleyway, there was a sudden hard shove to his back that sent him stumbling away from the crowd and into the shadows. He caught his balance after a few steps and spun back to face the three hulking figures that now stood between him and the street. One of them lunged toward him; Peter dodged backward, reaching for both of his blasters and bringing them to bear on the group.

"Hey, guys," he warned. "I don't know who you are, or why you -"

"You are Star-Lord," one of the figures interrupted. The biggest one, on the right.

Something made Peter pause for a moment and keep his mouth shut, despite the small part of his brain that wanted to do a fist-pump and shriek in delight at the recognition. Peter squinted into the light coming from the street; it made it hard to see any distinguishing features of the people standing in front of him. He thought they might be blue-skinned. Maybe. Possibly. "I don't want any trouble," he told them.

"No matter," the one on the right said.

Peter opened his mouth to reply when he felt movement behind him, just a whisper of air, and there was a sting in the back of his neck before he could duck out of the way. His fingers twitched instinctively on the triggers, both blasters fired, one of the figures dropped, and the other shot blew a chunk of stonework out of the side of the alleyway. The two remaining figures were moving. Suddenly there was another one from behind, snatching one of the blasters out of his hand and driving a hard kick into the outside of his knee. Something - several somethings, maybe - snapped in the joint, with a sharp cold agony. Peter shouted wordlessly, or maybe it was "Fuck!" He wasn't sure. His head swam and his eyes refused to focus, but he still fought the hands trying to wrestle the other blaster away from him. He pulled the trigger once or twice or a few times, and there was the thud of a body and some more chunks of stonework blasted away. Then his good leg was swept off the ground, his painful leg collapsed under him, and he hit the pavement sideways.

His brain felt seriously rattled. Also weird and heavy. The second blaster was dragged from his grasp, and he couldn't make his arm move to reach for it. Peter couldn't see anything except some blurry shadows against the fuzzy halo of light coming from the mouth of the alley. He didn't hear any voices, but his ears buzzed like white static. Shouldn't there be people coming to see what the shooting was about?

Peter blinked once, twice, slowly. Like molasses. His knee was a wreck of icy hot painfulness, but distant. His whole body felt distant and heavy. Detached.

He blinked again, and the buzzing in his ears got louder. His eyes closed one more time.