The new Sakaar was a symphony of organized chaos. In the weeks following the victory at Xandar, the junkyard planet had transformed into the bustling heart of a nascent empire.
After a week of intense sparring, late-night strategy sessions, and a few stolen moments of peace in the quiet geothermal springs of the palace, Felicia had returned to Earth, a contented and dangerous smile playing on her lips. She left with a new ship, a new purpose, and a promise from Ben to visit soon.
In her absence, Caiera became the unyielding bedrock of the new government, fielding an endless stream of interstellar communiques. Guided by Ben's directive to be firm but never arrogant, she navigated the treacherous currents of galactic politics with a steady hand. At her side, to the surprise of many, was Loki. The God of Mischief, finding the exercise of diplomacy a far more entertaining game than open warfare, proved to be an invaluable asset, charming and disarming ambassadors with an ease that was both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Meanwhile, in the sprawling orbital drydocks that now encircled the planet, Beta Ray Bill was in paradise. He was overseeing the single largest technological undertaking in Sakaar's history: the creation of a true imperial fleet. He fondly called his new project—the complete reconstruction of his massive Korbinite refugee ship—his "new wife," a sentiment that both amused and confused his crew.
Sakaar's technological progress had been a series of frantic, desperate leaps. It began with engines reverse-engineered from Looma's Tetramand technology, a jump from the Stone Age to the space age. Bill's arrival with the Korbinite vessel brought another significant upgrade. The captured Kree warships had then been cannibalized for parts, their advanced systems integrated into the flagship with the help of Ben's Upgrade transformation, a precarious process Bill was certain would have ended in the ship tearing itself apart without Ben's intervention.
But now, they had time. They had resources. With unrestricted access to Xandar's entire technological database and two of the most advanced vessels in the galaxy—Ronan's Dark Aster and Thanos's Sanctuary II—to dissect, they were on the cusp of another revolution. Bill, humming a cheerful Korbinite tune, was already drafting plans.
"A few dozen forward-facing star-destroyer cannons should be a suitable wedding gift," he mused happily to himself, gazing at the skeletal frame of the Sanctuary. "When we next visit another world for negotiations, my wife will arrive armed with weapons several kilometers long. It establishes a very strong opening position."
He scribbled a note on his datapad. "First, master the Kree and Xandarian drive cores. Then, apply the principles to the Sanctuary's singularity engine."
Hanging precariously from a conduit nearby, a small, furry figure scoffed loudly. "All this work just to copy other people's stuff," Rocket Raccoon grumbled, wiping grease from his paws. "Don't you people have any original ideas?"
Despite his complaints, Rocket was completely immersed in his work. He had never encountered such a vast and diverse ocean of technology. He was particularly fascinated by the Korbinite schematics for cybernetic enhancement, a subject that hit uncomfortably close to home.
"The engines are our own design now, friend Rocket," Bill replied good-naturedly. "And I heard from the King cousin about a device back on Earth, one that can mutate animals. Perhaps it could be of some assistance to you?"
Rocket froze, his wrench clattering against the deck plating. "What did you just say?" he snarled, whirling around, his fur bristling with rage. He felt the phantom sting of needles, the memory of a cage. "You want to mutate me more? How about I mutate that long horse-face of yours into a hoof!"
From a nearby platform, Groot offered a deep, rumbling chime of agreement.
"I am not a horse!" Bill insisted, though he shrugged off the insult. Their constant bickering had become a strange form of camaraderie.
"Yeah, yeah, save it," Rocket shot back. "I'll tear that metal jaw off your face one of these days and use it as a hubcap!" He made to storm off before Bill's voice stopped him again, this time softer.
"Rocket," he began, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "You seem to dislike your… modifications. Why not ask the King for help? He used his technology to restore that woman, Nebula, to her original body. Perhaps he could do the same for you."
The fury drained out of Rocket, leaving a hollow silence. He stood with his back to Bill, his shoulders slumped. "Haha, forget it!" he finally choked out, the laugh sounding brittle and fake. "I'm not turning back into some dumb little animal."
The words were full of bravado, a shield against the sudden, overwhelming wave of sorrow. No one saw the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He thought of them—of Lylla, of Teefs, of Floor. His friends. His family. This monstrous, modified body was all he had left of them. It was a testament to their shared pain, their shared hope. If he erased it, what would he use to remember them?
He scrubbed at his eyes with a greasy paw before they could fall. "Why don't you ask him to change you back?" he retorted, the words a desperate counterattack.
"I think this form is good enough for now," Bill replied calmly, his voice resonating with quiet conviction. "Before I met Ben, my mission was to protect my people and this ship. For that, my appearance was unimportant. Only my strength mattered. Now, my mission is to protect Sakaar. Nothing has changed."
Rocket just snorted. "Groot, get me down from here. I need to run a diagnostic on the central computer."
Groot's vines gently lowered him to the deck. As a Flora Colossus, he was acutely sensitive to the composition of water. He curiously brought the vine that had brushed against Rocket's cheek to his mouth, tasting the single drop of moisture that clung to it. He let out a puzzled sound.
"What are you mumbling about?" Rocket snapped, his back still turned. "Salty? You probably licked up one of my boogers! Now let's go!" He scurried away into the ship's interior, his swagger a little less convincing than usual.
On the Kree homeworld of Hala, Supreme Accuser Tar-Rell stood before the luminous, ethereal form of the Supreme Intelligence, awaiting its judgment.
"Sakaar has rejected our request," the Accuser reported, his voice tight with barely contained indignation. "They have no intention of releasing Ronan."
A hazy, indistinct shadow coalesced from the light, forming an image. The Supreme Intelligence had no fixed appearance; it was a living supercomputer, and it manifested to each Kree as the figure they most respected and trusted. To Tar-Rell, it appeared as his decorated grandfather.
"What are their conditions?" the Intelligence inquired, its voice a calm, logical hum. It understood the lesser desires of organic life. Sakaar's refusal was not an endpoint, but an opening negotiation.
"They want technology," Tar-Rell said, the words tasting like ash. "They demand we trade our most advanced systems for Ronan's life."
He found the notion insulting. The Kree were masters of genetic engineering and military technology. Their fleet of Glorious-class cruisers numbered in the thousands. Even the Skrulls coveted their power. To hand over their secrets to a pack of upstarts from a garbage planet was unthinkable.
"We cannot agree to this," the Supreme Intelligence concluded, its assessment matching his own.
"In that case," Tar-Rell pressed, his hand instinctively moving toward the war hammer at his belt. "Shall we prepare for war?"
The Supreme Intelligence dismissed the idea without a moment's hesitation. "Sakaar has just claimed victory over Thanos. While we have yet to confirm the authenticity of this claim, the Titan is undeniably missing from the galactic stage. To engage them in conflict without full intelligence would be… illogical." The Kree already had enough enemies.
"We will table this matter," the Intelligence decreed. "First, we must ascertain with absolute certainty whether Thanos is truly dead." It paused, its form shimmering. "And what of the others? How goes the observation of those… new arrivals?"
"The 'Engineers'?" Tar-Rell understood at once. He pictured the tall, bone-white creatures they had recently discovered on a desolate moon. "They face the same dilemma as we, Supreme One. Their evolution has reached its terminus. Their very genes are beginning to collapse."
The Supreme Intelligence processed this. For the Kree, whose own evolutionary path had stalled for millennia, this presented a unique, if dangerous, opportunity.
"You wish to…?" Tar-Rell began.
"We will wait," the Supreme Intelligence interrupted. "We will wait until the fate of Thanos is known."
On Xandar, the battlefield where Ben and Thanos had fought was a scar upon the world. The molten plasma had cooled into a vast, jagged sea of black obsidian, a dead land where nothing grew.
Suddenly, a fissure cracked across the glassy surface. The wound tore open, and a single, purple hand shot out, clawing at the air.
Thanos had returned.
But before he could drag the rest of his broken body from the rock and take his first breath of reclaimed life, a tall, imposing shadow fell over him.
Thanos, half-buried and utterly spent, looked up into the cold, red eyes of a being he had dismissed as a triviality.
"The Omnitrix is mine, Titan," Vilgax said, his voice a low, chilling growl. "But first… you and I have a debt to settle."