EPISODE F O U R:
thirty-six hours.
IT'S BEEN ABOUT THREE DAYS SINCE THE CRASH.
It has been three days, also, since I have a) slept and b) had a moment of sanity, between Peter Quill trying desperately to kill me before I can fix his stupid ship, and his stupid ship not wanting to cooperate with me.
But if you are curious about how my work resurrecting a literal piece of shit is going, I will say that I am still the best mech in any galaxy anyone finds themselves stuck in. And I don't mean that lightly, because if someone can reincarnate this pile of nuts and bolts into a living, breathing, functional M-Ship again, they deserve to the highest of high titles.
And that's me. Calypso Halley Orellano.
Half delirious and half dead, but at least the M-ship's engine is fully functional again.
The engine will hold, and it'll probably fly pretty okay, too. I wouldn't keep it like that permanently, but for me? It'll do just fine. All that's really left for me to do is repair the small issues that have built over time and from lack of care — like the circuit boards on the wings, which I'm tending to now — and the internal issues. Autopilot and his nav system mostly.
I can't even appreciate my work, though. Everything hurts, and my eyes yearn to rest. My lids struggle to reopen every time they shut to blink, but it's a fight I push through every time, because sleep is not an option. Not right now, and definitely not in these circumstances.
Sleep is possibly my worst enemy. It's a drug I haven't been able to wean myself off, no matter how I try to quit it. I'll go strong, and then it takes me again and rips me back down to hell. And then it's like I'm eight years old again and my heads under the water, and there's screaming all around me and I can't tell if it's coming from my lips or the hundreds of dying bodies around me, and there are universes flashing before my eyes, and a message I can't fucking understand painted in a stranger I should know's blood, and I'm all alone and terrified and soaked to the bone with the paralysing realisation of my mortality.
The nightmares get way too real. They feel more like stories I haven't lived through yet, and in the worst way possible. It's like asking a god to see your fate, and they just show you all the ways you could die horrifically. It offers no help and it only makes you angry, and paranoid, and terrified of what waits behind every door. I have no time or interest in living my life scared of every step.
So. Sleep is barely an option when I'm alone and completely safe in my own bed. Sleep around someone else? When a million bad things could actually happen? Forget it.
I stifle a yawn and tighten the lug nut drearily. At least it's been quiet for the last half hour. My roommate has been on a call with someone. Possibly his boss, pissed that he hasn't shown face. Whatever the case, he's been inside the Milano, and it's given me the peace and quiet I've begun to crave more than nothing else.
Although...it's not great for my drooping eyelids. I yawn again and force my eyes open, fighting against the feeling of sleep overcoming me. "C'mon, Orellano," I grumble to myself and readjust my wrench in my hand. "Get the work done. Then we talk rest."
The sun is hell on my baking, weary skin.
All I want to do is sleep.
I think I'm in hell.
But, at least—
"Hey. How's it goin'?"
Okay, I think, scratch that positive line of thought. Hell is real and it's choking me out with it's cheap cologne.
"Shitty."
Peter Quill gives a low, long whistle, and I hear him shift nearer behind me, like he's trying to get a peek. "Always the optimist, eh?"
"Sure."
"How do I always forget what a conversionist you are?"
I blow a piece of hair off my sweat-covered forehead. I'm not confident he's using that word right, or if that's even a word, but I don't care enough to point that out. "What d'ya want?"
"Can't a guy check in on his friend?"
"Not friends."
"Partner in survival?"
"What," the wrench in my hand is slipping from the perspiration clinging to my skin, and it's gross and fuck, everything is so gross on my exhausted, delirious, sweaty ass body, whycan'tIjustdiealready, "do you need?"
Quill makes some sort of snarky remark behind me. It's not clever or worthy enough to be repeated. All you need to know is, it's stupid and he's stupid and annoying.
"Okay. Well, didn't come to chit-chat, don't worry. I'm here to ask you something."
"No."
He chuckles at this. "Heh. Well, not really asking. More tellin' you."
I pause what I'm doing and whirl around to look at him. "Huh?"
"I need to make a stop somewhere. And because I need you to finish fixing my ship, you're comin' with."
"Absolutely not."
"Perfect! Get in, I'll ready us to head out."
"No! No, Quill, we can't do that." His actual name slips naturally from my tongue. I try to ignore the fact that it wasn't a mockery of his moniker like usual. "I'm not gonna doing that."
He snorts and half-turns back to me. "What, you wanna stay here? Be my guest, but—"
"—we're not leaving. The ship's not fixed yet, and I ain't going anywhere with you, unless it's the end of this little fucking mess."
Quill shakes his head at me. "Nope. I gotta run an errand, and I still need you to fix my baby."
"I'll just leave when we land."
"I'll kill you before you could."
"Not before I kill you!"
A flash of something flickers in his eyes, before dying back down again. "So we'll kill each other. Then what? What does that get us?!"
"At least I'll be away from your fuckin stench," I shoot back.
Quill shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. I'd haunt your ass forever and ever, princess."
"Then I'll kill you again, and — Krite, why am I even arguing this? We're not going anywhere."
"What if I promise you 30% of the cut?"
That stops me.
He notices, with a great big wolfish grin. "Knew that'd getcha," Quill snorts. He tries to poke my nose, but when I move to bite his hand, he pulls back with a pout. "Whatever. You get basically half the cut, and then we continue the plan as...well, planned, each of us a little bit richer. Win-win, right?"
I glare at him with folded arms and wait for him to continue. Not because I like the plan, or agree with it. But the money's a good enough reason to at least hear him out.
"Here's the sitch. We fly a coupl'a hours away to a great little shithole called Tarnax. You stay with the ship and continuing tinkering while I run a little errand. I come back, you tell me how much you miss me, and—" he chuckles as my face sours, "you get the point. It's a small thing, it won't take long."
"No."
"No?"
I get to my feet, cringing as every single muscle in my body groans in pain. "No, Star-prick. No deal. No fuckin way."
"Come on. Why not?"
This man is impossible to reason with. How has he made it this far without a blaster shot to the head?! "No way am I stupid enough to let you take me off somewhere, now that your ship's in passable condition enough to fly. I wasn't born yesterday."
Quill looks offended at my accusation, which tells me maybe he isn't trying to double-cross me, but I still have no faith. "Cal, I swear this isn't like that. Really, I'm just trying to kill two birds here."
Why he wants to go to a random planet to...kill two birds, as he says, I don't know. But I don't care enough about that to question it, too. "If you're goin' somewhere, I'm getting off there too. Not sticking around to be your personal mech for aeons more."
"That's not the plan, either!"
"Really? Cause, who's to say you're not gonna keep me locked on your ship for the rest of my miserable life once I get you to prime con?"
"Uh — the fact that you'd probably kill me three days into that plan?"
Well. He's got a point there. But I'm still not folding.
"I'm not a dog you can tell to sit and wait patiently for you to get back."
"I know that," Quill groans, "I'm not calling you a dog!"
"You're basically saying that!"
"I'm not! I'm asking you to do me one, teensy-tiny little favour here!"
"I have done you favour, after favour, after fucking favour," I yell back, "and what good has that gotten me? Huh?"
He scowls at me. "Let's not mention the favours I have done for you, huh? You just wanna forget that I'm the goddamn reason you're still alive?!"
Like most, if not all of our fights, this goes on for a while. Reiterating the hour long argument is pointless. All that deserves to be mentioned, unfortunately, is that I start to bend my will.
I scoff and glance away towards his ship. A stupid idea blinks to life. "Well, who's to say I won't just make off with your precious ship while you're gone, huh? You think about that?"
At that, Quill starts laughing.
"What? What?!"
"N-no, sorry, I-I just," he pauses to cackle some more. It takes him a very long, irritating moment to catch his breath. "I just love the idea that you think you could."
"Yeah. I could. And would."
"Yeah. Sure. If you could fly a ship."
My brows furrow low over my eyes. Anxiety flashes hot in my chest. How did he — no, Orellano. It's fine. Keep your cool. "Do you really want me stealing your ship, Stardick?"
Quill chuckles again, low in his throat. "Come on, Callie."
"Don't—"
"—right, right, no nicknames, touchy, yeah yeah." He throws up his hands in surrender, though he immediately goes back to pushing buttons. "All'm saying is that there's no way you're getting off any planet without my help. And if you're not stupid like you claim, you'll realise this and keep your pretty ass with the ship, waiting for me to come back."
The way he needs to attempt-flirt every sentence is sickening and makes my sad excuse for last night's dinner want to come right back up.
"You don't know me," I throw back weakly. What a comeback, Orellano, I cheer to myself. You really got him there, idiot. Wow!
Quill laughs again. "I know you can't fly."
"Not true."
"Are you afraid? Is that it?"
"No!"
"I'd guess hand-eye co-ord issues, but you clearly can manage that." He rubs at his chin in faux-thought. "So you can fix and build ships, but can't steer one? How's that work?"
"I can," I lie, like a dumbass. "And it's not your concern. Considering what shape your piece of shit ship is in? Sure, you can fly the thing, but you can't keep it nice?"
"That is way different—"
"—how? How is that different!"
"Because I can do it. You're just a moron who can't fly a ship!"
"Don't call me a moron, moron!"
He sticks his tongue out at me. "Moron!"
"Dickwad!"
"Jerkface!"
"Asshole!"
"Shithead!"
"Thumbsucker!"
"Wuss!"
"Idiot!"
"You're an idiot! And the worst person I have ever, ever, ever met, Starfuck!"
He frowns a little at that, and instead of matching tone, his voice lowers back down. "Damn. That one's a little harsh."
Maybe a little too harsh. I've met worse people. Not like I'm going to say that, though. "So?"
"I — look. Sorry. Okay? I'm sorry. I'm being an asshole."
Yes. You are, I think. A part of me knows I'm also being an asshole, but fire meets fire, right? Opposites attract and the same sides of magnets repel like nothing else. It's just science.
"You know how I really know you won't leave? Or sell me out, or-or whatever?"
I squeeze my aching eyes shut. I'm too tired for this. Still, I'm curious enough to entertain this. "Sure. Why ever is that?"
"Because I know beneath the snark, and hatred, and rage all cooped up in ya, there's someone who can tell I'm not trying to fuck her over. And I know that you're the kinda person that holds up her end of a deal."
A snort escapes my mouth before I can stop it. "Yeah? This little side mission's implying that you're not."
"Well," there's a smile in Quill's words, rich and warm, despite the smarminess of...everything he is. "I'm a Ravager, y'know. We ain't exactly known for being the good type."
I turn back around slowly and survey him. He's standing tall against the burning sun, and it's forming a sort of halo around his ruddy curls, like the very universe is on this guy's side. Which is aggravating, but it does sort of sway my opinion. Not that I trust Peter Quill: I'm not an idiot. But I don't think he's trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I think he's in a tough spot, and trying to get out alive. I'm guessing the call he was on didn't go well, and he needs a fast solution.
"Fine," I sigh. "But on one condition."
"What, exactly?"
"I get half the cut."
Quill's face immediately drops. "No. No way."
"I mean. Suit yourself, but..." a thin-lipped, mirthless smile licks up my lips. "You and I both know I can't fly a ship. But I'll do an absolutely terrible job trying."
"You — I take it all back. You are such an asshole."
My smile grows a bit more genuine.
PETER QUILL GETS US OFF THE MOON SAFELY, a feat I wasn't sure possible. But he does, with my handiwork holding up at least long enough for the four hour flight to Tarnax.
Tarnax is not a pretty planet. Not by a long shot. It is a desolate desert wasteland, full of acrid air and sand everywhere. It has three suns, all of which brutal and painful on my back and neck, and nothing for miles but sand, sand, and you guessed it: more fucking sand. Why he couldn't have picked a nicer place to crash, I don't know. It feels unfair, that I keep getting stuck with the worst vacation spots.
It's like Vargo all over again, but instead of freezing my tits off, they're melting right along with the rest of my skin.
Peter Quill, however, doesn't seem perturbed by the change in weather. No, he's still sauntering about in his leather coat and all his shameless glory. He's like a Haughtcrot, that guy. No matter what, he's going to strut around and act like he runs the place.
"Alright, Cal."
"Don't—"
"—here's the deal. I'm gonna go run that quick little errand, while you keep doing your wonderful little gremlin thing." He mimics hitting a hammer with a lopsided grin. "I'll be a couple of hours. Like, thirty-six max."
My eyes nearly bulge right out of my head. "Th-thirty six?! Are you nuts? That is way more than a couple of hours!"
"You'll barely notice I'm gone. I mean, you'll miss me like crazy, but..." he trails off, still smiling like nothing is wrong. "Like I said. Thirty-six hours max. And if I don't come back after that, I'm probably dead!"
"Excuse me?!"
"Yeah. But I won't be. 'Cause I will definitely be back. So don't worry so much, Cal. I know you're like, in love with me, but—"
"—you will be back, in one piece, and it'll be in twelve hours or less." I take a step closer to him, stabbing an oil-stained finger into his jacket. "You got that, Stardick?"
Quill's grin doesn't flicker for a second. No, it grows, with a sly nature to it I don't appreciate. "Careful, Cal. One might start thinkin' you actually like having me around or something."
"I don't," I refute, "and we both know that. But I do need a ride off this blasted shithole. And you're the only jackass I've got right now. You are so not screwing me over by dying before you can help me."
It's like he doesn't hear a word of what I say. He bats his lashes and fakes a swooning motion, smile never fading. "Calypso, I never knew you felt like that! Gods, you must just love me, huh?"
"Great Krite, you are so annoying."
"And you're head over heels," he sing-songs back, "which I get. Completely. I'm adorable and irresistible. I knew it'd happen."
"You know what? I hope you do get offed, you slimy, thick-headed Pen—"
"—I'll be back safe and sound soon. Don't worry." He pats my hand, which is still pressed into his jacket for some reason, and I immediately retract it. "Then we'll get out of here, you'll get your 30% cut, and we'll talk next steps."
I huff. "Half. Half the cut."
"Yeah, yeah. I know." Quill smiles wide and pulls away. "Don't miss me too much, Cal!" And with that, he turns around and starts walking towards the absolute nothing in front of him. It isn't long before the wind and sand envelopes his form, disappearing completely from my view.
Still, I stand there for a couple more minutes. I don't know why: I just wait, like something else is going to happen. Like he'll tap my shoulder from behind and ask why I'm standing there like an idiot, or scream some whiny, petulant request I'll immediately deny. Or something.
But nothing happens, and I'm still left alone with his piece of shit ship, with no one around me but my exhaustion and my hopelessness. With a sigh, I trudge back inside the Milano.
"Frickin' jackass," I swear under my breath, rubbing my temples. Suddenly, all I can feel is my lack of sleep. My feet stumble and my head spins: standing seems impossible. Walking even worse. "Krite..."
Without even thinking about it, my body sinks to the hard floor. I barely notice the discomfort: I guess to the aching mess my body's in, the metal is like, the softest mattress to ever exist. Slowly but surely, my limbs unravel and my head slumps low. Sleep calls hard. It's getting a bit too hard to fight it.
"Maybe...maybe just a few moments..."
My eyes slip shut.
They open again, wearily surveying my surroundings. No one around. Just me. Peter Quill's gone. Everyone's gone. Just me and the desert.
My eyes shut again and this time, they don't reopen.
It's hot. Too hot. Everything burns, like my skin has been laid on fiery coals. Like I'm being cooked alive.
I can't open my eyes. Everything hurts too much, and the ache in the left one tells me my face might be too swollen to attempt to see out of it anyways.
Pain. Pain is everywhere. Where the hell am I? What is around me? I can hear voices, low and gravelly. They speak in tongues I don't recognise, and they're harsh and terrifying as I sit in my darkness.
I need to get out of here. I need out. Help. HELP.
My lips open, croaking a barely audible sound. Nothing else comes out.
With all the strength left in my barely living body, I open my right eye. The left doesn't even budge.
I'm in some kind of cell. Stone reaches from floor to ceiling. Chains bind my hands and legs to the wall, leaving me half-suspended from the ground.
I try to glance around, but my head is a thousand pounds heavier than it should be, and there's a buzzing in it that just won't clear. All I can see is darkness, and stone, and the shadows of beings passing underneath the crack in my stone cell door.
They continue talking. It doesn't sound good. I kind of wonder if they're discussing my ending.
My wrists twitch and wriggle in the chains, but it's no good. They're bound too tight. If I — the thought of snapping a bone, the age-old escape technique comes to mind, but it leaves just as quickly.
No. One hand free does no good. Can't free my other limbs, can't survive with four pointless limbs. I have no choice but to hang and wait.
Fear courses through my blood. I am going to die here. I am going to die. There is no way out. No one else knows where I am. My ship is too far away. And no one cares to come find me, even if they knew where I was slowly dying. I've dug my own grave.
I am going to die here.
The cell door pushes open. A hulking figure of a being shoves his way through the tiny cell opening, his head brushing against the top of the stone ceiling. They're made entirely of shadows, but the blackened silhouette doesn't inspire anything but terror inside me. I know this person could rip me to shreds in a second.
"So," they speak in broken Terran. Their voice comes out like a thousand stones gnashing against each other. "You. What...stupid plan, led you here?"
I try to talk, but my words come out bloody and useless. Wet drips down my tongue and chin. It tastes like iron and warns me my end is coming soon.
The being laughs, and the sound is even harsher. "Fool. Do not try to talk. There is no need."
They take a step closer into the room. A foul scent reeks off of them. It reminds me of decomposition, though I can't tell what specifically. They're massive. Built in every way. The light behind them builds a shadow composed entirely of rock-hard muscle. I don't see a weapon, but I don't think one's necessary.
"I think..." he steps even closer. I think he's male. The voice implies it, though everyone here could sound that horrifying. "I think I am going to have fun, killing you."
"P..." I try to beg. I can't even manage that. More blood splutters from my smashed mouth. "Pl..."
"Oh?" The figure crouches so it's closer to my face. His breath reeks of death. "Are you trying to beg for your life, little gnat?"
I swallow back blood and more. I can't tell anymore. I can barely keep my good eye open.
"Go on, gnat. Beg for your life. Maybe I will spare you."
My pride is shattered, just like the rest of me. I weep from both eyes and try to do as he says. I will do anything to live. I don't want to meet death yet. "Pl...ple...ase...please..."
The figure chuckles. "Hm. Pitiful, just like the rest of you."
He straightens himself back up, towering over my slumped figure. I glance at his fists: twice the size of my head. He can crush me in a heartbeat. I wonder if that's his plan. Or if he'll draw this out. Make me suffer for whatever I could have done.
"I am going to enjoy this greatly, Peter of Quill. I hope that brings you some satisfaction before you die." The being raises his fists high. "I know it will bring me some."
I don't want to die.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to die.
I DON'T WANT TO DIE. I DON'T WANT TO DIE. I DON'T WANT TO—
My eyes open and meet the steel hull across from me.
Frozen in place, I dart my gaze around, searching my surroundings.
I'm still on the Milano. There's no pain, except an ache in my neck. Probably from the awkward sleeping position. My hands are not bound, my feet are free. No one is here except for me, and everything is just as I left it.
I force my fingers to move, to fold and re-straighten again. My legs shakily do the same, unravelling from the folded position they had been laying in. I can move them all. I'm find. Nothing is wrong with me, because it was just a stupid dream.
Still, an aching sensation akin to paranoia lingers as I rise to my feet. Fear sours on my tongue as I fix my ponytail, and worry — not for myself — makes it hard to focus on anything I try to do. Even as I try to get back to my work and forget about my stupid cat nap turned nightmare.
"Just a dream," I assure myself, with little reassurance in my tone. "Just a stupid dream."
My eyes meet Quill's fancy holo table. A set of blue numbers glow softly in the darkness of his ship. The time. It's been barely an hour since I fell asleep and since he took off.
"Thirty-five to go," I mutter to myself, still with the impending feeling of doom weighing on my shoulders. "Thirty-five, til the jackass gets back. You'll be fine. He'll be fine. Everything'll be fine, Orellano."
But if that's true...why do I feel like something really, really bad is about to happen?