I plummet head first towards the screaming, my robe pressed by and flapping in the wind as I fall earthbound, Purpose in hand and trailing. My gaze fixes on the regrouping people below as they rush, quickly moving to near their friend in alarm, their concern more than evident. I take them in with passive regard while I descend, tracking their changing arrangement as their figures grow larger, my position advancing.
They hurry forward over scattered tools and broken metal to reach him, their worry filled shouts reaching me as I close in, vision flicking to my first target. Red, flowing from agonised flesh, swims clear in the sight of my calm eyes, the infliction of my spell known and yet still cast; loose ropes reaching in, a draw and infusion running in equal measure, anchoring the magic.
I break my scrutiny from them as I initiate a flip, my head lowering to my chest as my toe-forward feet swing back and down, slicing through the air. Purpose rises to my chest as I change my grasp, twirling its grip atop my palm until it sits in reverse hold, its blade pointing away. My Chi imbues into it with ease, our unbreakable connection a sign of trust and support, enhancing its entirety and reinforcing the sturdiness of its blade.
I raise it overhead as the world turns around me, the interior of Nidavellir flipping gradually, and split off a portion of my mind to sink inwards. It enters my meridians to follow the cycle, dispersing throughout the channels and mapping the active branches, the splits and rivers rapid and shaped, manipulated in way of armour and defence.
The focused mould of my formed Chi curtains under skin as my spin completes, my legs pointing down and knees loose, the ground rising to meet me. The energy sits steady and primed, a barrier protecting the anatomy below and strengthening the layer above, a promise of aegis infusing my physique and aiding.
It moves in time with me, reassuring and backing my choice, as the pump of my blood circulates my system, pulsing along and tingling my clutching fingers. They tighten with disquiet as the honed point of Purpose hangs between my eyes, glinting in wait and aimed down, guiding my dive to the bound being, his cries distracting and creating chance.
The others almost gathered to the target, an open space around an opportune landing zone, my internal magic seeps out to loop back and press in acceleration. Telekinesis settling around my upper, a thick blanket covering me, I push and pull, increasing my speed, my person jolting and breath skipping. I regulate it best I can, exhaling to clear my lungs in anticipation as my eyes narrow and I brace; meters away.
I close the last gap rapidly, legs beginning to bend in ready, sword starting to spike...
When I land.
My feet impact hard, the metal below singing from forceful contact as my bones ring and organs tremble, vision and hearing quaking. I almost stagger, spine creaking and knees protesting, but gather myself instantly and follow through, augmenting my strength to its limits and driving my equipped arm down.
A high, distraught shout yells behind as Purpose stabs through red leather into godling skin, supernatural edge parting flesh and sinking inside, scraping against bone. The blade buries into body and embeds itself hilt-deep, impaling through the centre of Peter and into the floor below, its guard pressing against the man and nailing.
The wide, pained eyes of the prone man below and before me struggle to regard me, shakily shifting in their sockets to behold, when his pupils blow out, dilating to the extreme. His screaming silences as blood seeps from the fresh wound to spill upon my clenched hand, its parting warmth sending shivers up my still arm, a pool forming to soak my crouched knee and encircle the obstruction of my foot.
My head lowers to see, the slowly expanding crimson stealing my mind and sight as I find my reflection, a mirrored, blank visage staring back and watching. I feel myself losing my way inside, the growing bed of blood spreading to encompass me, a draw to swallow and pull into its depths, a brush across spirit tempting.
My other hand begins to reach out, fingers splayed to lay flat against and touch, when a lone ripple rings outwards, breaking up the face of the one gazing back. It tilts its head to the side, loose hair crossing its face to dangle down, as its brows lift and eyes shift to look away and behind, peering beyond. They flicker back to find me, the figures lips curling into soft smile as it nods forward in indication, signalling in warning and reminder.
I pull back instantly, broken from my transfixion, as urgent, scurrying steps sound clear in my heightened hearing; multiple, uneven footfalls drawing near, their distance accurately measured. My grip of Purpose loosens and breaks as I push and stand, pulled strands of life sticking and snapping from me when I turn to look behind, laying sight on approaching, furious wood.
A pair follow a ways behind, a gap between them, grey ahead of white, as an arm of the child winds back in standard attack, the move familiar. I meet his brown eyes with my golden own, his snarling face greeting me in clear expression, his hate and anger focused on me as he yells, and slowly lift an arm.
My hand reaches out, digits spread and loose, as Groot's wound arm rapidly extends out, shooting forward in lance as he cries out, shouting, "I am Groot!"
I continue to stare at him as the attack closes in, its speed great yet telegraphed and aimed to skewer my chest, before moving my hand into its path. Wood slaps in halt against palm as I hold bastion, unmoved, my fingers clawed into the whirl of braided liana and catching. My arm remains immovable as the opposing limb fights for freedom, fidgeting and twitching in the prison of my clutch, Groot grunting in protest as he attempts to resist.
His flat, wide feet dig into the ground as he strains in tug, his arm pulled taut and cracking in draw between our differing strengths, mine greater, his lesser. The concerned voice of Mantis shouts from behind his back and over his shoulders as he struggles, calling out as she verges upon us, the tips of her antennae alight with white.
I slide a foot back in changing stance as a slow, steady breath begins to fill my lungs and my eyes lose slight focus. My Chi manoeuvrers in pattern as it amasses, flowing along pathways and into my free arm as my hand pulls back and settles at my side. Palm facing out, I gather the energy inside until concentrated; warping, invisible currents distorting the air before it and swirling.
My sight snaps into sharp clarity as my grip tightens upon Groot, an impression of my fingers digging in and carving, the wood fracturing, when I start to heave. Superior might overwhelms his resistance as my arm yanks back, his body arcing as his feet leave the ground. He flies towards me wide-eyed, the whites of his sclera showing around shocked pupils as my held breath releases, a breeze picking up around me.
I step forward with force, my foot pressing into and buckling the dark the metal below as Groot breaching into range, and thrust. My palm tears out, cutting through the gap between, a faint trail lingering vision, before striking into the teen's core. A crack of wind and wood sounds, a compressed ring of air spreading out from impact as Groot folds over my arm, spittle flying from his open mouth as his breath is stolen.
His eyes go blank, unseeing, as my flat hand plunges into his body, momentum and power forcing it inside, fragments and splinters attempting to scratch at my skin. The formless upon my palm begins to swell, compressing and amplifying in wait of release, when my mouth starts to open. A subtle rumble climbs over my chest and up my throat, a shout breaching as voice rises, an exclamation intoned, "Ha!"
My hair whips back and eyes narrow as my Chi bursts with the toll of a heavy bell, a wave of directed force blasting forth into the pierced body, shredding it in two and flinging it from me in fire. The halves separate as they travel, a shower of shards and chips raining down over me as upper barrels to Drax and lower flops to the ground, limp and contorted.
Drax, his expression one of uncommon shock, drops his knives as he raises his arms in catch, spreading them out wide to capture. The broken body crashes into him in spin and with violence, pushing him back a distance away as his arms wrap around and his feet scrape across the floor. Slacked limbs dangle out from the hold, hanging over and past bisection, as a contortion of great rage appears on the Drax and he bellows, "Groot!"
My stance resets to straighten as I watch him kneel to place Groot onto the floor in rest, the branching rip of his body already wriggling in fidget as he seeks to heal. His languid head turns in droop to stare from bleary eyes, looking to me with barely showing bewilderment, his gaze burning across me as I look back.
The memory of his person enveloping buried hand in a most intimate exchange, my will made manifest as projection expands from us, quickens the pulse of my Chi. The channels of its flow smooth further to seamlessly stream into middle dantian as I eye him, feeling a shift internally as a thought comes to be, a realisation and comprehension settling;
So that's how it is.
A wall thins, a door opens ajar; a wisp of attention near-concentrated in masterpiece of conscious awareness as nascent face peeks through cracking shell. A depth of vital luster shines limitless influence and connection in breach beyond lining fractures, a radiance of potential and ability slowly stretching out to finally greet in whisper,
Hello.
I step and turn to the side in dodge, the falling foot slicing by in cleave and buffet of sharp wind, smashing into the ground in style of axe; the recovering Mantis glaring. Her legs bent, power imbuing her thighs as she moves to stand in spin, a mastered kick aimed my way, I duck in evade and wheel around her, touching down on knees and rotating in sequence.
Knowing the consequences of allowing her to touch me, her empathic power basically mind control, I smoothly step out of my twist to stand and face her back. I focus on my link to the magic cast besides as Mantis goes to turn, her face leading in pivot to meet me, an arm flings to strike out and elbow.
One hand jabs out in block, a Mandala appearing in path of her attack and preventing her from making contact, as the other reaches out and up to the floating orb in beckon. My fingers stretch to the spell, the wavy ribbons of slowly running blood retreating from their piercing drain of Peter and drifting to me.
They stream over weightlessly, pulling the central orb from which they emerge closer and winding around my waiting limb, the sphere lowering to settle in my grasp. I expand the border of the Mandala, the shield growing out to obscure my whole and widening, the symbols and lines of its makeup enlarging and sparking in fiery light, then shove.
Mantis stumbles back on unstable footing, her stance overcome as my enhanced physique plough into her. The Mandala dissipates in a scattering of fading embers as she attempts to recover, regaining her poise and bringing arms up, when I whip my own forward. The gently undulating appendages of the wrist-mounted spell unwind from me in spiral and curl forth, pointed tips trained facing, before darting away.
They cut across the divide to near her, forcefully wrenching the orb from my hand and hauling it her way, wriggling all the while. She backs away in fear, her ready arms slapping out to unsuccessfully deflect as she yelps her aversion, confusion and dislike in her words, "What are these things?!"
A borderline dark spell sourced from a patron of blood, Chasm of Relation Bound is a magic that targets the inseverable ties of clan and kin. With blood of relative drawn by ones own hand as medium, the spell seeks out closest relative and binds them in place, drawing on their resonating vitality to stay active.
A propagating magic, as long as it has enough power to sustain its existence, the spell can be used repeatedly on other members of a family, hence Mantis. Not a descendant of Jason Quill in any way or fashion, the blood of Peter now functions a foci, a connection shared by way of common father; the pair sired by same being, Ego. It's only thanks to Revelation that I now know of that relation; that bit of info previously unknown to me.
By imbuing the magic with the gift of Arishem, I hoped to prevent Peter from having any sudden awakening of Celestial power; an abrupt turn of the tide in dire straits, fitting for his position as a protagonist. Thankfully, it seems to have succeeded, though I suppose I'll never know, not if the man now lays dead, the survival of Celestial Son dependant on his own resilience.
I turn away and walk from the defending Celestial Daughter as the spell circles and prods at her, its bands gradually besting to twine around and burrow inside. The scuffle, rapid feet and harsh breathing, quiets as my vision settles on the guarding Drax, his piercing eyes flicking over to Mantis. Whatever sight he finds causes his expression to harden in resolve as he looks back to me, reaching down to grab his blades and beginning to stand.
He steps over the mending Groot, his gaze fixed to me and his arms loose by his sides, as a new round of screaming sounds behind; higher in pitch and fresh, without the seconds of torture bringing fearful familiarity. I observe his approach, subtly running my eyes over his body in search of opening, while a visualisation of the coming battle simulates in mind.
A brutal, expert combatant with greater physical prowess than most species of this reality, I consider how best to play this one out. Knowledge of the risk he poses up close, his danger second only to the downed Mantis, his raw brawn probably matching my current own, sends a tingle of thrill up my spine.
A smile slowly breaks across my face, my lips stretching, as a fizz of excitement show in my eyes. My empty hands curl into fists as I advance, crossing the distance to engage this most worthy opponent, when the solemn Drax, his face absent of any joy or humour, questions me with hard eyes, "Why do you smile?"
The green cracks over me alight with deeper colour as power gathers within, anticipation rising and enthusiasm building, when I lean forward in ready and answer, mirth in my voice, "Because I've yet to fight someone as strong as you, Destroyer."
My feet push off against the floor in bolt forwards, rushing to engage Drax in close-combat, my Chi circulating with speed and enhancing my dashing figure. It infuses me to my utmost, the embracing Armour under skin operating at full potential, fighting to expand outwards and escape containment.
I allow it to leak minutely, a subtle glow emanating from me and trailing my path, an aura now surrounding and issuing pressure over the area. Drax roars, his voice washing over me as he resists the sudden restriction, his knives rising as he charges to meet my careen. I skip over ground, toes lightly touching down to gather speed, as my fists begin to illuminate, the vasculature inside cast dark; nearing nigh.
A laugh escape me to ring out, resounding in unsettling contrast to current grim atmosphere, blood and broken bodies scattered; the tail end of today's tale. I leap up, brightening fist drawn back and cocked punch down, when Drax jumps to meet me, his knives above his head and pointed to skewer.
My free hand thrusts out to catch the blade of one, feeling the easily ignored pain of its edge slicing minutely into my palm as I grip, then swing. Fist meets face in ripple of skin and opposition of bone beneath, my hit colliding with Drax, knuckles digging into his cheek. His head snaps to the side as I punch through him, the clap of shocked air battering us.
I glide down in continued momentum as he rockets to the ground, his mass crashing with a gong and violently rolling away. My feet re-establish contact with the floor in gentle touch, landing without a sound, while Drax tumbles uncontrollably in carom, bouncing across as he bleeds off velocity.
His grip never leaves his knives as he come to a gradual stop a ways away, pushing himself to rest on one knee and shaking his head to clear the away induced fog. As he does, I look down at my cut palm to assess the rate of healing, a note of expected happiness coming to mind as I find it gone and my Chi stable, the tiny cut consuming an unnoticeable amount.
Drax stands on strong legs, his endurance great enough to withstand the weight of my wallop, and rolls his shoulders. He wipes the blood leaking from his mouth with the back of his hand, then readjusts his grip on his knives, flipping his hold so as to point them forward. I see a hint of delight appear on his face, an enjoyment of out fight despite circumstance, when he charges again.
I walk to meet him, in no rush to engage and end the battle too quickly, confident in my ability to subdue. He flings one blade to me in pitch and roar, the knife twirling forth in my direction. It rotates clear in my vision, moving with force in hopes of impale, when I lean to the side and flick out a hand, catching it by its handle as it passes by.
Holding it loose, I release a breath and find my centre, then whip it back to him in return; the blade a straight, blurred streak piercing forth. Drax reacts in time, his held weapon swiping out to deflect, the clash of tempered metal clanging as the thrown knife rebounds away and clatters to the ground.
He closes the gap fast, reaching me at swift pace and stabbing towards my neck, the point intending to part my skin and bury its length in my throat. I tilt back in dodge, the edge missing its attempted jugulation of my windpipe, then counter, lifting a knee and bringing it in to kick out, driving into his chest.
The strike fails to land true in centre mass, a want to shatter his ribs and limit his breathing, as I feel a grip of pure steel capture my sole and curl around my foot. The blocking hand of Drax, risen in guard, absorbs the power of the ram and locks around my shoe, a masterful counter. The smile stays present on my face, the glimmer of my eyes sharper than ever, as I feel myself lift from the ground and take to the air.
Drax issues deep cry as he lifts and wrenches me up one handed, my stomach somersaulting as I'm swung overhead, the joints of my leg protesting. I go limp, loosening my muscles and twisting to fall back-first; my arms raising to cover and protect my head as I forcefully exhale, emptying my lungs in brace.
The upper of my back slams into the metal with great force, the meat bruising and bones fracturing, my hearing humming in constant ring. I flood my system with Chi to clear the disorientation, my eyes blurred and mind unfocused, when a shadow drapes my flushed face. My clearing vision, the world sharpening by the second, looks up to the cause, my eyes going wide at the large foot raised above, Drax intending to stomp.
The burn of acid running up my throat to coating my tongue, I rush to raise my trembling arms in guard while sending out a mental call in direction of my first fall. My wrists ache, fingers shaking, as my stacked hands cradle the press of a heavy, fury-filled foot stamping down, a grunt of effort pushing through my clenched teeth.
I strain to hold him up and resist, his strength beginning to get the better of me as he leans into his attack, putting his all in, when I feel the response to my call; a whistle of supernatural edge cutting urgently through air. The force pressing upon me lessens, the opposing effort vanishing, as Drax cry out in pain, his hoarse voice shouting.
I make my move, taking advantage of the opening I created, by hooking a leg behind his standing knee. My hands push away his held foot to the side as I pull the other, toppling him over him in spin until he collapses atop me, his dense weight pressing against and his back resting upon my front. My arms quickly lower to snake around his neck in rear naked choke, one across his throat to grip the bicep of the other behind.
My legs slink up in brush over his sides to wrap around his stomach, my feet meeting to hook and lock as I begin to tighten my hold, arms shaking with exertion. My eyes narrow in bolster against sharp elbows flailing into ribs as Drax thrashes and yells, the seconds beginning to tick by, a count of ten running down by the moment.
I mutter into his ear, an attempted soothing of his fight, his resistance prolonging the struggle, "Go to sleep!"
One drum after another beats my chest, the enclosed cage beneath suffering but holding strong. The encirclement of my garrotte presses his trachea into the crook of my elbow, restricting the flow of blood to his brain as he flounders to claw at my face. I turn it from his searching and angle it out of his reach, holding secure until I feel him start to finally weaken.
His arms flop to his sides, the cords of his muscle resetting them to standard position, as Drax faints into unconsciousness, the veins of his face bulging. After his eyes turn up into his head and his lids close, I release my prison of him and push him away, his front rolling to slap into the ground beside.
My breath comes out in pants as I stare up at the distant ceiling, feeling the sweat soaking my hair and my cheeks blushing with labour. My chest rises and falls in deep succession, my lungs filling with much needed air, as my tired soul groans out my earned victory, sounding into the deathly quiet, "...Fucking hell."
I sit up with a moan of protest, seating on my arse with legs curled and splayed in undignified position, and tilt my head to look over the carnage.
I sigh out, eyeing the trail of my battle from body to body, sighting the still screaming Mantis, her pitch piercing my hearing. My hands come up to wipe at my clammy face and gather the loose of my tangled hair, straightening and pushing it up behind my head, a twirl of my fingers securing in place.
Leaning forward, I rest on my hands and slide my feet under me to stand, swaying somewhat once upright; the bump to the head affecting me more than anticipated. I bring my hands before me in circle by my stomach, my fingers touching tips over lower dantian, as I wash my being with Chi. It floods through in a bathe of warmth, cleaning away the built up of fatigue and aiding the healing of tears and strains, broken fibres reconnecting.
I take comfort in it, the energy a pillow and pillar both, a support to sink into and lean against, then exhale. Feeling better already, I bend down to Drax and grip the jutting handle of Purpose, pulling it from its lodge in his leg with a smooth slide. Taking the hang of my robe, I pinch it over the blade and drag it down, wiping the lingering blood from its sheen, speaking to it as I do, "What would I do without you, hey?"
The now clean sword shivers in my hold, the promise engraved along its spine illuminating momentarily, before I twirl and store it back in its home. It vanishes from sight, returned to dantian, as I start to move off, passing by passed out Drax and stepping over broken Groot. I look down to him when above, noting the healing of his body, the length longer than before with familiar shape becoming apparent.
He makes no move as I stride by, his reasoning unknown but guessable, making my way towards the agonised Mantis, the magic keeping her aware against her will. I stop before her and observe her state, noting the unseeing of her black eyes, then reach out and summon the spell back. It disconnects from her, its arms retreating from her body and stopping their support, leaving Mantis to crumple down in ragdoll, limbs spread.
The makeup of its magic and its instilled instructions cause it to try and wind back around my wrist, a repeat of an earlier order, when I will it to still. A pleased smile dons my face as I regard it, the pinwheel of once mundane blood now full of Celestial essence, drawn from the mortal offspring of anomalous Ego.
I slide free the Ring donning my finger to float it before me and expand, the circle of its band lengthening to create a large enough opening. The contents of the paused space always existing the back of my mind, an awareness of all it contains, both energy and objects, I locate the most recent addition and summon it forth.
The unconscious Rocket cruises out head first and face down, his rounded ears leading the way, his horizontal body gently turning to look up. I envelop him in a wrapping of telekinetic cover and lower him to the ground, releasing him once he lands, then kneel down to crouch above him. Flinging the spell into the Ring, I close it up and slip it back on, then shut my eyes and fall into meditation; calm.
My mirror meets me as a portion of my Self drifts down to touch upon its surface, a quiet, tiny ripple spreading in gentle wave, falling low to rejoin the whole. The realm of my mind enters me to remove boundary, the separating bounds of my being fading away as we come together in meld. It guides me down into its depths, my feet sinking in as I lower inside, the surface rising up welcome me inside.
The human form I maintain disperses from bottom up as I descent, from toes to shin then thigh and hips, scattering to merge and integrate. I jut from its surface from tummy up, my hands placed upon its uppermost layer, and manipulate my inner power, the spiritual energy of my existence touching the world and proving its influence.
A vibrant blue outlines the reaching hand of my body as it lowers to rest upon the forehead of the sleeping rocket, the energy fizzing beneath the skin of my palm. It winds through his fur to flow across his closed eyes, a glow showing under their lids, as the magic enters his body to contact his mind. It touches upon the quiet of his resting mind, an ordered chaos of pure genius operating beneath anxious dreams and unguarded thoughts.
With no interest in the story of his life, some form of assuredly tragic backstory suiting a member of the Guardians, I search for the clear, near-recent memories. I swim deep to skim the borders of his consciousness, along the fuzzy, bleeding wall of his subconscious, unavoidably touching upon the most defined, significant experiences of his life; the ones he holds most dear and closest to his heart.
A flash of white-brown furred face, an upright otter standing taller than him and with rough, mechanical arms, comes to me in spike. I leave its bounds hastily, the all-consuming emotions of loss and love, of unresolved grief and rage towards unknown party, threatening to attach itself to me and unravel the splinter of my seeking mind.
Escaping the pit of swamping sorrow, I advance more cautiously, bobbing and weaving out of way of dark, flailing thoughts. A signal of feedback from this mental spell sees me changing course in move towards highlighted memory, a grouping of related events ordered for better recall. I dive straight inside, confident in my defences against untrained mind, and manifest in a cabin of a familiar spaceship, the Guardians standing around an occupied table.
Through gaps of the gathering, between the bodies clutching one another in support amidst the atmosphere of muffled crying, I see segments of lying, unmoving body. The sight of green, pale skin peeking out from leather attire causes me to furrow my brow and control the rate of the memory, time advancing in a blur, the area changing until I stand behind a seated Rocket.
He busies away before an unorganised workbench, an alien computer alive to the side as his small fingers twiddle with a familiar, bloodstained bullet. Harsh, broken whispers sound from him as he talks to himself, promises and regrets spoken to recently departed. Lined, purple light from a flat piece of tech runs over the bullet in detection, a beep from the monitor beside causing Rocket to whip his head to it.
Whatever findings show on screen sees him smashing his fist into the table, its contents rattling and jumping, before he turns to look deeper into the ship and call. A rush of steps, a mixture of light and heavy, run in stagger to his location, when then scene begins to run like liquid. It pools in a rainbow layer beneath my feet, leaving me standing in a darkness of unformed existence, waiting the next memory to play.
The water begins to rise in outwards wave, splashing against an imagined boundary and flicking up in droplets. A sense of vertigo comes over me, my body in reality feeling slightly queasy, when the water climbs in river up the transparent walls, streaming to gather above me in a daunting umbrella of mixing hue.
A drop drips onto my looking face, splatting against my eyes and causing my eyelashes to flutter, then another, then a third, my robe starting to soak as a rain falls over me. I turn my sight down, my wet hair hanging in stick across my face, to find an alien street flooded by downpour, the white noise of a torrential storm deafening.
Dim, neon lights of varying tints shine from their hang on lining, dark structures, breaking through the rapid fall to guide travelling souls their way. Warmth from shuttered windows emanate in welcoming glow, a deception calling out to arriving newcomers and young naives, when nearing splash of huddled feet draws my attention.
A covered group of differing heights, holding their hoods in brace against the wind and rain, jog past me. Orange light illuminating the face of the leading figure, showing the white complexion of the man, I follow after them, stepping through the beaded doorway of a near, small building. Time skips ahead as I enter, the room warping to show the revealed group sitting half-moon around a low table, a squid-faced alien dressed in an ocean-themed robe facing them.
A tentacle rises from below the table, the drape of its cloth falling off as it reaches out; the hand of Peter Quill passing over a pointed, metal object. The limb curls around the bullet and brings it in, raising it to its long, wet face, its large, rounded, black pupils examining it closely. It bubbles a sentence to the group in some form of language, the words untranslated by the memory, the sombre mood of the team shifting to anticipation.
The bullet lifts from the aliens grasp to float between before them all, more tentacles extending to point out, when the sight a familiar magic causes realisation to come over me. Pale orange, lighter in depth than the magic of my sorcery, rises from the arms in thick dollops to coat the bullet and swirl in opposing directions.
The arms undulate, waving gently in cast as more gurgled words sounds from the magician, its spell sinking into the bullet and engraving foreign letters. It lowers to hover above the plane of the table, slowly rotating to face the Guardians, when a pointed arm slithers close to touch its casing, a growing light issuing from it in response. It grows out to edge of the table, stopping at its rounded edge, before rising up and shaping.
A picture begins to show, its details coming into being gradually to reveal a golden-eyed, pyjama-clad women. Her loose, blonde hair draping from her tilted back head, her face to the sky, she leans back into her chair and laughs unabashedly. As I lay eyes on the reason for my recent troubles, the reality of what's depicted, a memory of my own remembered, plays in mind; Thor regaling me with a misadventure of his youth.
Just as a pair of male, animated hands begin to jut inwards from the edge of the spell, the image of my three day old self abruptly winks out, the seeming divination of my person ending. The bullet then clattered to the table, rolling without nudge towards the Guardians, stopping before the outstretched hands of Peter; one holding some form of currency, the other empty.
Getting what I wanted, I turn away from the group and begin to float up, my feet leaving the ground as I flick a mental switch, altering my spell. I break through the roof of the dwelling, leaving behind a rain of wreckage, the memory darkening and fading as it leaves my focus, returning to wait for eventual recall by its owner.
I fly up beyond the scope of the how, understanding as to the method through which I was found ruminating in mind, and escape the skull of Rocket. My palm leaves his soft head as I breath out a sigh and look down to study him with consideration, impressed by his ability. A stare from the corner of my vision sees me turn its way and find Groot staring in concern, the worry for his surrogate father clear as day.
Leaving Rocket where he is, I get up, shaking my hand to rid it of the weird sensations lingering, and walk to him. Standing over the disabled Guardians, I lessen the intensity of my Armour and manoeuvre the freed up Chi to the tips of my fingers, focusing on the aspect of its healing. Emitting it forth to blanket Groot, a coat of green covering him, I speak as leaves sprout and flowers unfold, the wood winding and lengthening,
"Your father is one brainy fella, no?"