Chapter 265. Aboard the Ravager Vessel
On the desolate fringes of a forgotten galaxy, where the stars hung like cold, distant diamonds in the void, a massive, rusted hulk of a ship drifted through the silence. This was the territory of the Ravagers, and at its heart stood the Eclector, the flagship commanded by the infamous Yondu Udonta.
«Consider it done. Just make sure the units are transferred the moment we secure the goods,» Yondu growled, his voice a gravelly rasp. He crossed his arms over his chest, his lips peeling back to reveal a grin of crooked, yellowish teeth. Before him, the flickering blue light of a holographic projection displayed the face of a man who had offered a small fortune for a very specific prize.
Yondu was a striking figure, his skin a deep, mottled cobalt that seemed to absorb the dim light of the bridge. He wore a heavy, weathered leather duster, the mahogany hide scarred by years of skirmishes and space-faring grit. But it was the metallic, crimson fin atop his head—a jagged mohawk of technology—that commanded the most attention. It wasn't merely for show; it was a sophisticated neural uplink used to guide his Yaka Arrow, a weapon that could whistle through a dozen hearts before a man could blink.
The mysterious patron finished his instructions and the transmission hissed into static before vanishing. Yondu's grin widened into a look of pure predatory satisfaction. He turned away, beginning to whistle a jaunty, rhythmic tune—a melody he'd picked up from a certain Earthling's cassette player years ago. His boots thudded rhythmically against the metal grating as he walked, his spirits buoyed by the promise of a payday that could buy a small moon.
Forty billion... Peter Quill thought, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had been lurking in the shadows of a bulkhead, intending to speak with Yondu about a mundane supply matter, when he'd accidentally stumbled upon the deal of a lifetime.
Peter, known more ambitiously to himself as Star-Lord, had never truly felt at home among this band of cutthroats and thieves. Since the day he was snatched from the green fields of Earth as a boy, he had lived as a half-wanted outsider, tolerated by Yondu but despised by much of the crew. Lately, the itch to leave—to find his own destiny among the stars—had become an unbearable throb. But escaping the Ravagers was like trying to outrun your own shadow. Now, however, the universe had handed him a golden ticket.
Waiting until Yondu's whistling faded into the distance, Peter crept toward the terminal the captain had just vacated. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes darting across the flickering monitors of the bridge. Finding the coast clear, his fingers danced across the controls with practiced ease, pulling up the logs of the recent encrypted transmission.
The playback flickered to life. The target: an artifact simply known as «The Orb.» And then came the confirmation of the price.
«The Orb? Are you kidding me? Forty billion?!» Peter hissed under his breath, his eyes bulging. In an instant, his mind was flooded with images of a pristine ship of his own, fine Corellian wine, and enough credits to never have to smell a Ravager's unwashed leather duster ever again.
He shook his head violently, trying to clear the haze of greed. He needed to move, and he needed to move fast.
The buyer on the screen was an eccentric-looking old man with hair as white as a supernova and eyes lined with dark kohl—perhaps a racial trait, or perhaps just the vanity of a very wealthy man. He looked human enough, but in this corner of the galaxy, appearances were often the first thing to lie to you.
Peter bit his lip. Should he steal the Orb and go to this guy directly? Or find a new broker? Dealing with Yondu's contact was a death wish if the blue-skinned captain ever tracked him down.
«Screw it, I'll figure out the 'who' later,» he muttered, his pulse racing.
The data Yondu had received was comprehensive. The Ravager intelligence pointed to two possible locations for the artifact: the bustling hub of Praxius-9 or the abandoned ruins of Morag.
Praxius-9... Peter scanned the notes. Archaeological dig sanctioned by eight galactic empires? Yeah, hard pass. I'm a thief, not a suicide squad.
Then his eyes settled on the second option. Morag. Receding water levels. Status: Abandoned. Low risk.
«Perfect,» he whispered. «Morag it is.»
For three centuries, the planet Morag had been a drowned world, its civilizations buried under leagues of relentless ocean. But recent astronomical shifts had caused the tides to retreat for the first time in an epoch, exposing the ancient vaults to the air once more. It was a window of opportunity that wouldn't stay open long.
Peter grabbed a portable data drive, his hands trembling slightly as he initiated a lightning-fast copy of the planetary coordinates and the Orb's signatures.
Just as the progress bar hit one hundred percent, he paused. A devious, lingering spark of resentment toward the crew that had bullied him for years flared up. He didn't just want to beat them; he wanted to humiliate them. He navigated to the core directory and initiated a deep-level format, wiping the mission data so thoroughly that even the best Ravager tech-heads would find nothing but digital dust.
«There. Try finding the needle in the haystack now, boys,» he smirked.
As a final touch, he pulled up a basic drawing program and sketched a crude, neon-pink unicorn in the center of the main display, signing it with a flourished 'P.Q.'
Task finished, he slipped his headphones over his ears, the familiar beat of '70s pop music drowning out the hum of the ship. He moved toward the hangar bays, keeping his stride casual, his heart a rhythmic drum in his chest as he neared the Milano, his pride and joy.
He passed a few crewmates in the dimly lit corridors, nodding with a practiced, nonchalant ease.
«Hey, Kraglin! Looking sharp today,» he called out, waving a hand at Yondu's first mate.
Kraglin squinted at him suspiciously. «Yeah, whatever, Quill. You need somethin'?»
«Nah, just passin' through. See ya... eventually!» Peter chirped, his voice a bit too high as he hurried along.
He reached the Milano, the sleek orange-and-blue hull a welcoming sight in the gloomy hangar. He climbed into the cockpit, the smell of recycled air and old snacks greeting him like an old friend. He took a deep, shaky breath.
«Everything's set. Time to go for the gold,» he whispered, flipping the ignition toggles.
The engines roared to life with a defiant thrum. Moments later, the Milano shot out of the Eclector's launch bay like a bolt of lightning, banking hard before disappearing into the shimmering distortion of a hyperspace jump.
When Yondu finally returned to his station, humming his tune and ready to plan the route, he found a blank screen. His jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the floor. As he saw the glowing pink unicorn mocking him from the center of the bridge, his face shifted from cobalt blue to a dark, bruised purple of pure fury.
«PIIIIIIITEEEEEERRRRR!!!!»
The roar tore through the ship, vibrating the very deckplates. Yondu stormed onto the command bridge, his heavy coat flapping like the wings of a vengeful demon.
«Where is he?! Find him! Now!» he screamed at his navigators.
«Boss... he's gone. He wiped the logs and scrambled his transponder signature. We can't track him,» a trembling technician reported.
Yondu ground his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. The Yaka Arrow in its holster twitched, responding to his murderous intent.
«That little piece of... that ungrateful brat...» he hissed, his eyes narrowed to slits.
The only saving grace was that the rest of the crew didn't yet realize just how many billions Quill had just flown away with. If they knew the price on that Orb, there would be a mutiny before sundown.
«Find him!» Yondu bellowed. «I don't care if you have to tear the galaxy apart! I want him back here in chains!»
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