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*****
Sovereign—inside a resplendent, gold-drenched great hall.
"Thank you for helping us dispose of that interdimensional beast."
Seated upon a golden throne—as if her whole body were inlaid into it—the High Priestess Ayesha looked down at the group below with imperious pride and offered her thanks.
To the uninitiated, it would've sounded like Eric owed them money.
"You must understand: every one of our people is perfection—perfect bodies, perfect command—lifeforms designed by genecraft. We cannot allow even the slightest injury to a single Sovereign. Besides, the creature's death was… distasteful."
At that point, Ayesha couldn't help covering her mouth; her pale-gold brows knit faintly.
Yes, the beast's end had been a little nauseating.
Its blood was like spoiled, fuzzy mucus—just thinking about it made everyone queasy… everyone except Drax.
"Spare us the fluff. Our fee," Gamora said coolly.
This woman who spoke in postures and pretense—Gamora had no interest in trading even one extra sentence with her.
"Compared to us, you truly are impatient," Ayesha replied with chill disdain. She jerked her chin toward two Sovereign attendants.
As the payment—Nebula—was brought forth, Ayesha's gaze strayed to the one openly, curiously sizing Eric up.
"Mr. Kent, your marvelous power astonishes me."
Eric nodded, still examining the hall, even lifting his chin and pinching it as if appraising the place.
"Well? Struck dumb by the elegance and grandeur?" Ayesha asked proudly, rising from the throne to look down at him.
"It'd fetch a tidy price, wouldn't it?" Eric blurted without thinking.
Everyone: "…"
"Pfft—hahahaha!" Rocket clutched his belly, howling.
To the Sovereign, this was art. To Eric… high-end merchandise?
Ayesha huffed, then, as if recalling something, eased her tone and said to Eric, "I can tell your power springs from a unique genome. Would you be interested in… leaving that precious legacy behind?"
"Hss!" Star-Lord sucked in a breath and elbowed Eric, whispering, "She's asking you to do a two-player workout."
Eric's mouth twitched. "I can hear just fine."
"No," he told Ayesha flatly. "Gene tinkering or whatever—doesn't interest me. I prefer the… original method of reproduction."
Ayesha blinked, brows drawing together, then she said with cool composure, "That, too, is acceptable."
Eric: "…"
Great.
He had zero interest in these little gold people.
If they'd been made of actual gold, maybe his interest would've spiked.
"I said no. Not interested."
His refusal was ice-cold.
Ayesha's face stiffened; she let out a faint, displeased hum.
At that moment a blue-skinned, bald woman was led in. The instant she saw Gamora, frost flooded her eyes.
Gamora lowered her gaze to Nebula; her eyes went cold as well.
The temperature in the hall plummeted.
"Ahem." Star-Lord lifted a fist and coughed loudly, deliberately raising his voice: "Wow! Family reunion—sisters reunited!"
Gamora drew a deep breath, yanked Nebula up by the arm, and dragged her toward the exit.
The rest followed.
"This dump is awful—makes my eyes ache. I could take a nap right here," Drax muttered.
Rocket shook his head and winked at Drax. "Not that bad."
As he spoke, he loosened his bag's zipper just a hair—revealing the adamantite battery inside.
Drax froze, then couldn't help chuckling. Mid-chuckle, his eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed to the floor.
Rocket jumped aside. "Heads up! Danger! Drax… fell asleep?"
Hearing Drax shout in his sleep, Rocket's face went dark.
Mantis looked at them, all innocence. "He said he wanted to sleep, so I helped him."
"Mantis, that's a figure of speech, not a request," Star-Lord groaned. He started toward Drax, then waved Eric over. "Give me a hand—let's haul this 'carved papaya' out."
Eric pointed at an adamantite battery cylinder rolling across the floor.
Rocket's body went rigid.
He'd dodged Drax and forgotten to zip up. One of the batteries had hopped right out…
Every gaze swung to the cylinder—Guardians and Sovereign alike.
The air congealed to concrete.
Stealing wasn't the end of the world. Getting caught red-handed? That was.
The Guardians traded glances.
Star-Lord cleared his throat and flashed a brothel-keeper's grin at Ayesha. "We'll return that battery now. How about you pretend you never saw anything?"
Damn you, Rocket. Why'd you have to grab those damned batteries!?
The Sovereign's anger bar visibly rocketed upward.
Just as Ayesha drew breath to speak, Star-Lord blurted, "I'll give you Eric!"
Eric: "…"
You must have a death wish.
Star-Lord had meant to rattle her—but Ayesha actually considered it for a beat. "In that case… we might consider it," she said, interest piqued, eyes sliding to Eric.
Eric didn't bother answering. He shot into the air toward the exit.
Star-Lord: "…"
You pretend to agree and we walk out in the confusion!
"Seize them!" Ayesha shrieked.
The Guardians turned and ran. Groot flung out two vine-whips, snagging the battery off the floor and into his arms.
"I am Groot!" he bellowed at the Sovereign.
Cute and fierce, all at once.
"Groot my—just move!" Rocket scooped him up, dodged several lances of light, and sprinted for the doors.
"They're not chasing? Gave up already?" Rocket asked, glancing back as they burst from the hall.
"No. With their narcissism and arrogance, they will never let us go," Star-Lord said without looking back. He locked onto the Milano in the distance. "Hurry! We're only safe once we're aboard!"
With a ship, they could run.
But just then, dozens of small golden fighters poured from the sky and arrowed toward them.
Ayesha had deployed the planetary defense wing.
Sleek, agile, entirely gold—more importantly, they were remote-piloted. Even if the fighters got blown up, the pilots wouldn't be harmed.
"Move!" Star-Lord's face tightened; he shouted.
"Won't make it," Eric said evenly, then added, "It's fine. We'll make it."
As his words fell, he crooked a finger. Star-Lord and the others lifted bodily into the air and shot after him. At blistering speed, they streaked for the Milano and dove aboard before the royal fusillade could arrive.
"Lif—fa—!" Star-Lord swore at the view outside.
A dense swarm of fighters, several times the number from moments ago, now blanketed the sky above them.
"Ascend normally. We'll be fine," Eric said with total certainty.
Star-Lord swallowed. The Milano roared, spitting fire as it climbed.
Energy flared at the muzzles of the Sovereign fighters, a starry avalanche about to fall—fear prickled the skin.
In the next instant, the "constellation" winked out.
Crack—crack!
With brittle pops, the unmanned fighters turned into solid iron spheres. Then—as though a black hole had opened—debris drew together, fusing into a gigantic metal orb that plummeted from the heavens.
The Guardians exhaled in relief and disappeared into the sky.
Watching, Ayesha let out a most unseemly scream.
"Do we pursue, High Priestess?" her aide asked.
"Pursue them—to deliver more fighters?" Ayesha's face was so cold you could scrape frost from it.
After an insult like that, she would not let the Guardians go unpunished.
Minutes later, after multiple jumps, the Guardians had put the Sovereign far behind.
Everyone roundly condemned Rocket's behavior; finally, with Rocket agreeing to a month of ship-cleaning duty, the matter was tabled.
"Where to next?" Rocket ventured.
"How about we trade her for a bounty?" Star-Lord suggested.
He earned an icy stare.
Nebula glared at him, looking ready to riddle him into a sieve.
"I've got a job—could net us a pile of cash," Rocket offered.
"Cash? Faster than robbing the Ravagers?" Eric asked, intrigued.
"…"
"Then we see the Ravagers."
Decision made—happily.
…
Earth—Mike's home.
After a cheerful dinner, once Gwen went upstairs, Mike lay on the sofa with Raven, watching TV.
Suddenly, Mike's expression shifted.
Noticing, Raven murmured, "She's out again?"
"Mm."
Lately Gwen's ops had become routine, but the two of them pretended not to notice.
Over these weeks, Mike had grown more and more at ease with her work. Gwen's range had expanded from her own school to several nearby campuses—even middle schools.
To crack down on school bullying, Peter and Harry had even built a small website. Anyone being harassed could leave a message; once the team verified the facts, Titan Squad would act.
And wouldn't you know it—the efficiency boost was dramatic.
"This kid… she's working too hard," Raven said, a little heartsick.
"Kids grow up. They have their own ideas. All we can do is support them," Mike said, taking it in stride.
Raven, palm on her belly, fretted, "I wonder what this one will do in the future."
"Whatever it is, he's destined to be extraordinary," Mike said with certainty.
Raven smiled softly, stroked her belly, and leaned into Mike's chest.
"This afternoon, in Brooklyn, New York, a mutant robbed a convenience store and engaged in a fierce shootout with police—one officer dead, several injured. After his arrest, the mutant claimed Planet Kent would see him avenged—that they'd break him out."
Mike's brows drew together.
Flying Planet Kent's flag as a scarecrow, was it?
Lately, this sort of thing had cropped up more and more.
Because Planet Kent existed, plenty of mutants had gotten bolder.
Of course, Planet Kent would never condone such acts.
But at this rate, those mutants' behavior would inevitably stain Kent's reputation.
Not something Mike wanted to see—and Charles and the others certainly didn't either.
Once Kent City's construction was further along, this would have to be addressed.
Raven glanced at him and sighed. "It's because of people like that that humans and mutants—"
"It's all right. Once Kent City's police department is up and running, things will improve," Mike said, kissing her forehead, switching the TV to something lighter.
Raven's mood had barely lifted when his phone rang.
He checked the number—surprised.
A long-unseen caller ID.
Phil Coulson.
Calling now?
Mike hesitated, then answered.
"Thank God—you picked up!"
Coulson had reached out before; after Mike hung up on him twice, he'd sensibly stopped bothering him.
"Thank God? You should thank me," Mike quipped. "What's up?"
"I'm in Orlando. I've run into a problem—I need your help. To be precise, Blade needs your help."
"Blade?"
Mike paused, recalling the trench-coated vampire hunter he'd crossed paths with once.
"You remember him, right?"
"What happened?"
"He's going to get himself killed!" Coulson said urgently. "He's been hunting vampires for years. They see him as a thorn in the eye. To deal with him, they dug up the progenitor of all vampires."
"The progenitor?" Mike was taken aback, then chuckled. "Those vamps are such good kids."
Hearing Mike still had room for jokes, Coulson exhaled.
Mike Kent was Mike Kent.
"Drake—the progenitor—has captured Blade's mentor, Whistler, and he's demanding Blade show up within thirty minutes!"
Obvious trap.
Mike considered. "Shouldn't you report to Fury? He could dispatch backup."
"No time. That was twenty-five minutes ago. By the time I realized Blade had left, it was too late," Coulson said, near frantic. "Of everyone I know, you're the only one who can save him now."
Mike nodded.
This wasn't a big hassle; a quick trip—good post-dinner exercise.
Just as he was about to agree, he asked, "Coulson, don't tell me you're there… on vacation."
"How did you know?"
Knew it.
Phil Coulson—absolute walking jinx.
(End of Chapter)