Star-Lord, page 8
part #1 of Marvel Wastelanders Series
“Oh.” The bartender’s response became defensive and cold, his eyes narrowing in deep suspicion. “Oh. Him.”
“Yeah. Cap’s a buddy. You know who I mean?”
“Oh yeah, I know who you mean.” The bartender leaned on the bar and studied Quill with a renewed interest. “He’s dead.”
Hearing the words sent a shockwave through Peter Quill. It felt as though someone had just stolen the ground from beneath his feet. He felt as though he was falling into a bottomless pit of what is happening and he did the only thing he could do. He went straight into denial.
“No way, man. He’s not… you can’t tell me… no, he’s not dead dead, right? Captain America doesn’t just die. Maybe he’s just… you know. Retired.”
“Nope. Dead and buried thirty years since. Along with the rest.”
“The… rest?”
“The self-styled police of the old world. The fallen fascists.” He spat a gob of phlegm onto the bar right in front of Quill, who jumped back instinctively. “All dead.”
“Fascists? No, you gotta be wrong. You’re confused. What about…” Quill sought around for an example, then snapped his fingers. “Iron Man.”
“Dead.”
“No way! OK, how about… Thor?”
“Dead.”
“But Thor’s like, an actual god.”
“Demi-god.” The correction annoyed Quill beyond measure, but he gathered his senses and stared at the bartender.
“When did this happen? How did this happen?” Slow, dawning awareness came over him and he shook his head. “Doom. It was Doom. Was it Doom?”
“In part, yeah,” said the bartender, and spat another gobbet in front of Quill. “But not just Doom. Whole bunch of them. Kraven, Baron Zemo, Red Skull. I could go on for hours. Everybody who was sick and tired of getting endlessly policed. Folks who wanted a change. A new world order.”
“Give me a break. This is crazy. It makes precisely zero sense. Are you telling me that one day, all those guys woke up and decided to go on a killing spree?”
“Of course not. It didn’t happen in one day. It took time and planning. Careful planning. Like every other war.”
“This is bull,” said Quill. “I’m not buying this. A bunch of two-bit villains ganged together and wiped out the greatest heroes the world has ever known?” The bartender leaned forward still further, close enough that Quill could smell his rancid breath. He recoiled slightly.
“Might wanna watch your terminology there, pal,” he hissed. Quill became acutely aware that he was approaching a potential minefield and he proceeded in true Quill style: straight ahead without caution.
“What, villains? I’m not allowed to say villains? Doom…”
“Doom provides,” said the bartender and the words were echoed around the bar.
“Doom provides?”
“Yes,” said the bartender, not taking his eyes off Quill. “Doom provides.”
“What is that, a catchphrase? Like… he’s some sort of cheap fast-food joint? What is this? What is Doom to you people?”
“Doom rose up in a time of chaos,” parroted the bartender. “He gave us order. He protects us. Doom provides. Doom…”
“Is a jerk!”
If you could bottle silence, then what followed in the wake of Quill’s pronouncement would stock an entire shelf. The bartender pointed a thick finger at his ear.
“What did you just say?”
“Doom is a villain, man. A villain! Capital ‘V’! The works.”
“Say that again and you won’t live long enough to pay your tab,” said the bartender. “There’s folks a-plenty who will see to that. Or maybe Kraven will hunt you down and put an end to your blasphemy.”
It was at that point that Red Crotter, drinking himself insensible in the corner, intervened. He’d witnessed the entire exchange and felt driven to step in to prevent things getting any worse. He sidled up beside Quill, nudging him with one shoulder. “Don’t mind him,” he said to the bartender. “He’s just yanking your noodle. Ain’t that right, Starsword?”
“I…” The reality of this situation was suddenly all too much for Quill to bear. He sagged visibly and pushed the whiskey glass towards the bartender. “I am gonna need you to pour me more whiskey. A lot more whiskey.”
“Keep an eye on him, Red. There’s too many folks taking an interest in his yap and you know what happens to folks with big mouths in these parts. I don’t want to clean up the mess. Not in my bar. You got it?”
“I got it. More whiskey. This one’s on me, friend,” said Red. “Let’s move it to the corner, hey?” The drinks were replenished, the moment of tension broken and Red brought Quill over to the corner booth where he sat down heavily, his head in his hands.
“You OK in there?” Red asked.
“Dead? How can they all be dead?”
“Come on, pal. Here. Let’s drink a toast.”
“To what?” Quill’s voice was hollow. Everything he’d ever known about Earth had overturned in a heartbeat. His entire existence was crumbling around his ears and this stranger wanted to drink a toast?
“To the end of the world, of course.”
They clinked glasses and they drank.
•••
“May I ask,” said Cora, “what you spoke of?”
“If I could remember, I’d tell you,” replied Quill. “Red here had me drinking that Snakebit stuff and it did a real number on me.”
“We did what any two old men do when they get together and drink. We reminisced about the past. What had happened, what had changed, what we missed – and there’s a lot to miss about the world we used to live in.” Red took off the baseball cap he’d been wearing and ran a hand over his balding pate before putting it back on.
“I remember bits of it. It was fine. I was mellowing out a bit. And then Rattlesnake Pete got up in our grilles.” Quill shook his head. “What a slimeball.”
“To be fair, you were making fun of his teeth.”
“I was only doing that because he was telling you about how you should be paying your taxes! I was standing up for you!” Quill held his hands out in mock-protest.
The smallest hint of amusement lifted Red’s serious expression into something akin to a smile. “You made yourself all big. Stood right up to him, you did. Practically bounced him back with your gut, sending him back five paces and telling him to lay off. Then the fight started.”
Quill rubbed at his jaw and winced as that revealed another of the bruises he’d picked up that day. He frowned. “Did I throw the first punch? I don’t think I did. Did I?”
“Yeah, you did, but only because there were a bunch of guys trying to stab you.”
The two older men looked at one another and there was a brief silence, a moment of shared recollection. Then Quill grinned. “So there was a fight. A good ol’-fashioned bar brawl.”
“Excuse me?” Cora attempted to cut through, but Quill was caught up in his story now.
“There was a fight. Punches flew. People were flipped across tables and everything, and then I threw a chair at the tank behind the bar.”
“Smashed it in one,” supplied Red.
“I have something to say, please.”
“Red, did you see the look on Pete’s face when that snake came sliding right on out of that tank?”
“I didn’t,” said Red and the two began laughing. “But man, did I smell the piss dribbling down his leg.” The truck veered slightly as the wheel wobbled beneath the laughter. “And then I said I’d meet you at the stables and you said, ‘Get down’, because that was when the pistols came out…”
“Everyone? Hello? Excuse me?”
Quill was by now laughing so hard he could no longer speak. Eventually, he shook his head and wheezed slightly. “Anyway, I don’t remember much after that point because of the Snakebit.”
“For real? You don’t remember getting locked up? I mean, you were demanding a lawyer and you were singing what you insisted was your prison playlist. Cash. Elvis. The Clash.”
“Excuse me!”
The laughter was cut short by the intensity of Cora’s tone, and they all turned to look at her. “Excuse me,” she said again, more calmly this time, “but my antenna is picking up on some communication that may be of interest to you.”
The spell broke, the story ended, and the harsh light of reality dawned once again. Rocket looked between the two old men and shook his head. “Go ahead, Cora,” he said, softly.
“I will share the transmission,” she said. “It is being broadcast on a loop.”
The next sounds to come from the recorder were in the hard, synthetic tones of the Doombot, or at least one of the Doombots, as it made a pronouncement.
“…two fugitives at large. Last seen in Outpost 13. Identification: Red Crotter and a man going by the alias Moon-Lord. Both described as elderly, males – one white, one a person of color. Both have thinning hair and scruffy beards.” Quill looked outraged at this but said nothing. The transmission continued. “Accused of: failure to file taxation, destruction of property and general disturbance of the peace. Local citizens have been deputized. Suspects, when located, should be detained, questioned, and summarily executed. All Doombot units in sectors 10-14 should be on alert.”
The transmission ended and this time the silence was painful. Finally, Quill broke it. “Great,” he said. “Just great. Now we’re the bad guys. How are we the bad guys?”
“Let’s not linger on the how here, Quill. Let’s think about the ‘what’. As in, what the flark are we gonna do now? Get kitted out and move onto Doom?” Rocket’s voice held a hint of despair. The matter was settled by Red’s next words.
“Well, that’s my farm up ahead. Here’s my advice as to what you do next. You get some sleep, some food, and you get ready.”
“For what?”
“For what’s gonna come next.”
Chapter Four
Blood Farmer
Entry C1451Z2G
Location: Near the edge of the Black Hills, in the region now known as the Wastelands. This fifty-something acre farm – owned by Red Crotter – has proved to be an oasis in an otherwise blighted environment.
Red Crotter’s farm was nothing more than that. A farm. Although the decidedly dilapidated shack that Red led them towards was barely worthy of the name “farmhouse”, it still successfully gave off that vibe. It was dark when the truck pulled up and they heard the soft, background hum of a generator. At their approach, security lights flared into life. Quill made out the shapes of other low farm buildings nearby: a cow shed, a barn… the usual.
“I ain’t much used to having guests,” Red explained, swinging open the door and ushering the group inside. “So, you’ll have to make do with what I have.” Once they were all in, he lit a fire and a few old-fashioned oil lamps. The firelight lent a strange ambience to the proceedings and Quill felt a curious sense of otherworldliness that his many adventures on other planets had never brought him. Once the fire was established, Red reached for a shotgun mounted on the chimney breast, before settling in an old, battered rocking chair facing the door. He lay the weapon across his lap and then rocked gently, a beatific smile on his face.
“Hey, Red?” Quill was watching him. “You’re cutting quite the picture of contentment there. Gun in your lap, smirk on your face…”
“Well, pal. It’s been a long while since I felt this good.”
Strange, but Quill could definitely get behind that feeling. He switched his attention to Rocket, who was looking for all the world like he had just smelled something particularly disgusting. He’d taken up a position by the window next to the door, staring out into the farmyard. He looked up as he sensed Quill’s gaze on him and scowled even more deeply.
“What? I ain’t moving from this window until the sun comes up. I’m telling you this for nothing. If I see so much as a prairie dog out there…” He slid his rifle to charge. “…I will knock the glass outta this window and blast it to space.”
Quill said nothing and Rocket resumed his vigil. Cora spoke up from where she stood in the center of the room.
“The transmission from the Doombots went quiet an hour ago.” She made the announcement quietly, sensing that volume was not required in this rustic setting.
Red nodded. “If they ain’t come yet, they won’t come until full light,” he said.
“How do you know for sure?” Rocket didn’t shift his gaze.
“Because nights out in the Wastelands will eat you up. On top of that… well, I’m an old man. Where would I go? They know that. Hey, Quill. Toss another log on the fire, would you? Days might be hot here, but the nights are cold.”
“Sure thing, Red.” Quill picked up a cut log from beside the grate, throwing it into the crackling flames where it was quickly subsumed. He stared into its glow for a while. “Feels kinda good, sitting by a fire. You know, I can’t remember the last time I did this.”
“Did what?” Rocket looked round. “Stayed awake all night waiting for local vigilantes to find and kill us before feeding our guts to a Doombot? Me neither.”
“No, Rocket. Just took time to sit by a fire. With friends. While there’s that, well, there’s still good in the world.”
“Amen to that,” said Red, and Quill sat on the floor between him and the fire. Rocket grunted in disgust, turning away. Cora just watched them. A silent observer, just as she had said. After a while, Red’s voice shattered the companionable moment. “I’ve helped you this far. But you gotta give me something here. What are you after? Why do you need to get to Doomwood?”
“We can’t tell you,” said Rocket from the window.
“Hold on, Rock,” said Quill. “We aren’t supposed to. That’s not the same as can’t.”
“Well, I could maybe help you out some more. Get those guillotine collars off your necks for one. I got an anvil out back that I use for shoeing horses. Maybe…”
“They’re adamantium, Red, and real tight against our throats. Don’t think anything you’ve got here is gonna help us with that one.”
“You’ve helped enough, old man,” said Rocket. “Don’t worry yourself about what we’ve got to do next.”
“That’s rich,” said Red, and he stopped rocking, which was somehow more ominous than when he’d been in motion. “I spent the last few years ducking every time a drone passed overhead. I’ve got vested interests in things changing around here. When the Guardians of the Galaxy turn up in the Wastelands making demands and creating chaos… hoo boy. You bet I want to be part of whatever plan they got.”
“Your trust is appreciated, Mr Red Crotter,” said Cora.
He flapped a hand at her. “Just Red, OK? Just Red. Maybe you can tell me, if they can’t. What the heck are they after?”
“I have observed how things work and as such I suggest a trade may be in order. You tell us more about what happened to Earth, and Star-Lord and Rocket will tell you more about…”
“Hey, hold on, skinbot!” Rocket turned. “You don’t speak for us!”
“Hang on, Rocket. Cora’s got a point. Face it, buddy, we’re running blind here. We need all the intel we can get if we stand any hope of pulling this off. Fine. Let me show you what I’ve been hauling around in my pack.” Quill picked up his bag from the floor and rummaged around, producing the mirror-map they’d got from the Collector.
Rocket made a low, threatening growl. “You show him that, then some Doombot is gonna get it out of him. They’ll torture it out of him. They’ll cut off a toe, maybe. Or get him to eat a wasp’s nest. Or whatever else they do for fun around here.”
In response, Red racked his shotgun. “You see this? When – if – I go down, it’ll be guns blazing. There won’t be any discussion.” Quill handed him the mirror and Red set the shotgun down to take it. “What the heck does a broken mirror have to do with any of this?”
“Take a look,” said Quill, quietly. “You’ll see a lot more than your shriveled-up old face in the glass.”
Red snorted, partly insulted, partly amused. “Fine,” he said, peering into it. His brow creased. “Stars. I see… stars.” As he watched, Quill opened his mouth to explain what was going on, but Red interrupted him before he even started. “It’s a map. A route. Through the stars to Earth, to here.” He looked up at Quill, something between surprise and interest in his eyes. “What does it lead to?”
“The Black Vortex,” said Quill, feeling only slightly robbed of his moment to explain things. “Doomwood is where we need to be according to the map.”
“A map.” Red snorted. “You’re following a treasure map?”
“Kinda,” said Rocket. “But not for us. It’s a job, see? And if we don’t retrieve the treasure, these guillotine necklaces…” He pulled a face. “I don’t imagine I gotta get graphic on you here.”
“No, you’re good.” Red looked up at Quill again. “What is this Black Vortex, anyway?”
“Some sort of super-famous, super-powered, cosmic artifact of ultimate power. You submit to it, it turns you into a sort of god. Wait. Wait! I have just had a genius idea!” He sprang to his feet – slowly. Things in his body didn’t work quite as well or as efficiently as they’d once done.
“I hate it when he gets a genius idea. Look at him. All excited like he’s solved the problem. Sit down, Quill, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Hush up and listen. Remember how we were desperate to get the Black Vortex back to the Collector and then I had that great idea about collecting it ourselves before we sold it on the black market?”
“An idea which I immediately shot down.”
“Well, I take that idea back.”
“Take it back? You can’t take it back, I shot it down. Nothing’s ever been more shot down than that dumb idea. Look, Quill. We agreed to the job and we’re gonna follow it through.”
“No. No, we’re not. Hear me out, Rocket, hear me out.” Quill danced from foot to foot, excited and engaged with whatever madness was playing out in his head. “We’ll submit to the Black Vortex!”
“No.” Rocket had seen it coming. Frankly, he was amazed it’d taken Quill so long to get there.
