"It wasn't me!" Star-Lord protested immediately, gesturing at his own body as evidence. "I was dancing! You saw me dancing!"
"I was researching the engine schematics, you absolute moron!" Rocket's voice climbed toward a shriek, his fur bristling with mounting panic.
They both turned simultaneously toward Mantis, who raised both hands in innocent defense. "It wasn't me either. I was just... meditating. Contemplating the cosmic flow of emotions across—"
"Spacing out," Rocket translated flatly. "You were spacing out."
"It's not me," Drax rumbled through a mouthful of synthesized potato chips, crunching loudly in the tense silence. "You all know I cannot fly. The piloting controls confuse me with their many buttons and switches."
Every eye in the cockpit swiveled toward the one remaining crew member.
"I am Groot," the sentient tree said calmly from the pilot's seat, his wooden hands wrapped around the control yoke with what appeared to be practiced confidence. The ship's course remained steady, stars streaming past in orderly fashion through the viewports.
See? his tone seemed to say. I've been piloting this whole time. Stop panicking.
Rocket's face went from concerned to absolutely horrified.
"That control yoke is fake," the raccoon said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I built it specifically for you to play with. To keep you occupied. It's not connected to anything."
The silence that followed could have suffocated stars.
Groot's branches creaked as he slowly turned his head, wooden features arranging themselves into an expression of pure, distilled betrayal.
"I am Groot!" The normally gentle tree's voice dropped into registers that made the hull plating vibrate, bark crackling with barely contained fury. His words were so profane that even Rocket—who cursed with virtuoso creativity—looked mildly impressed.
"Hey, watch your language—" Rocket began.
"To be honest," a new voice interrupted from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, "you people are really noisy."
Black matter erupted from the ship's air conditioning vents like oil given malevolent life. It spread with terrifying speed, flowing across bulkheads and ceiling panels, consuming the pristine white interior with creeping darkness. Orange circuit-like patterns pulsed through the substance, reminiscent of advanced Galvanic Mechamorph biology.
But this wasn't just any Upgrade transformation—the color scheme was wrong, the energy signature twisted and aggressive. This was Mad Ben's version, corrupted by his delinquent nature into something more predatory.
The liquid-like substance pooled on the cockpit floor, rising and coalescing into a humanoid silhouette. Features emerged from the amorphous mass—spiky orange hair, that contemptuous sneer, the telltale Omnitrix symbol on what passed for a chest.
"This spaceship has been requisitioned by me," Mad Ben said with exaggerated politeness, his voice carrying undertones of electronic distortion. "Please remain quiet, or I'll be forced to break your hands and feet. Nothing personal."
"Shit!" Star-Lord recoiled in disgust, already fumbling for his Element Gun. "Drax, you absolute idiot! What did you bring onto our ship?! Some kind of parasitic alien?!"
He didn't wait for permission or tactical analysis. The Element Gun came up, energy capacitors whining to full charge.
"Nobody minds if I blast this thing, right?"
Before anyone could answer—or more likely, object—Star-Lord pulled the trigger.
Elemental energy discharge lit the cockpit like a miniature sun. Lightning, plasma, and kinetic force converged on Mad Ben's Upgrade form. The electrical current proved particularly effective, exploiting the natural weakness inherent to Mechamorph physiology.
The black matter filling the spaceship began to writhe and contort violently, contracting like a slug encountering salt. Smoking holes appeared in the substance as it desperately tried to pull itself together, retreating from the damaged sections of the ship's systems it had infiltrated.
The Omnitrix symbol on Mad Ben's chest flickered erratically, its stabilization systems struggling to maintain the transformation under sustained assault. After several seconds of electronic screaming, green light flashed through the cockpit.
Mad Ben reverted to human form, landing in a crouch on the deck plating. His orange hair stood on end from residual static, clothes smoking slightly, but his eyes burned with fury rather than pain.
"You're dead, kid," he snarled, his hand already slamming down on the Omnitrix dial.
"No, you're dead!" Star-Lord shouted back with manic glee, all fear temporarily overridden by visions of wealth. "That's my hundred million credits walking around! My retirement fund!"
"Plus an entire planet!" Rocket added helpfully, bringing his own oversized rifle to bear. The weapon was comically large for his small frame, but he wielded it with practiced ease.
Drax pulled his twin daggers, dropping into a combat crouch that made his massive muscles bunch with barely contained violence. Even Groot's branches sharpened into spike-like protrusions, the peaceful tree transformed into something far more dangerous.
"Fire!" Star-Lord commanded.
Multiple energy beams converged on Mad Ben's position from three different angles, each one calculated to leave no escape route. The coordinated assault would have impressed any military tactician.
The expected result—Mad Ben's body being blown apart by overwhelming firepower—didn't occur.
Green light flashed across his form as the transformation completed. His body crystallized in an instant, flesh and bone replaced by emerald geometric structures. The laser beams struck his Diamondhead form and refracted wildly, scattering in dozens of directions.
Several of the deflected shots punched through the hull, alarms immediately screaming about atmospheric pressure loss.
"Hey! Watch where you're shooting!" Star-Lord immediately deflected blame, his Element Gun still smoking.
"You're the one who needs eye surgery!" Rocket roared back, already scrambling toward the emergency hull patch kit. "Guess who has to fix these holes every time you start something?!"
"You're having an argument about this? Now?"
Mad Ben stared at them with genuine confusion, momentarily thrown by the sheer dysfunctional insanity of this crew. His Diamondhead form differed slightly from the standard version—while still primarily emerald green, his crystalline body incorporated design elements from his delinquent aesthetic. The clean lines of the original transformation had been replaced with punk styling: jagged purple crystal spikes erupting from his shoulders like rebellious studs, his characteristic black-and-white color scheme transformed into something resembling a crystal cowboy outfit.
He raised one hand almost casually.
Dozens of razor-sharp crystal projectiles erupted from his palm, each one whistling through the air like bullets. The barrage resembled the legendary Crystal Peak Sniper from Hollow Knight's crystalline mountain, overwhelming through sheer volume and precision.
Star-Lord and his crew scattered like roaches when the lights turned on, diving behind consoles and ducking beneath panels as crystal shards embedded themselves in bulkheads with metallic thunks.
Drax, characteristically, charged straight forward instead.
"COWARDS!" he bellowed, his battle cry shaking the hull. "Face me like warriors!"
His skin possessed extraordinary toughness, far exceeding what his movie counterpart had displayed. Years of combat training and genetic enhancements had transformed him into something approaching a living tank. He barreled through Mad Ben's crystal barrage like it was rain, muscles absorbing impacts that would have shredded ordinary flesh.
He crashed into Mad Ben's Diamondhead form with the force of a freight train.
The crystalline structure shattered on impact, emerald fragments exploding across the cockpit like shrapnel. For a moment, it seemed Drax had actually won through sheer overwhelming physicality.
Then the crystals began regenerating.
Mad Ben's Diamondhead possessed the species' natural ability to manipulate silicon-based matter at will. The destroyed sections of his body reformed almost instantly, growing back from the remaining structure like accelerated geological processes. Drax swung his daggers in rapid succession, carving chunks from Mad Ben's body with each strike, but he couldn't keep pace with the regeneration rate.
"Shut up, you oversized meathead," Mad Ben said with evident disdain.
He swept one arm in a broad gesture. Crystals materialized from thin air, erupting from the deck plating around Drax's feet. They wrapped around the destroyer's legs, then his arms, spreading with inexorable speed until his entire massive frame was encased in emerald prison.
Drax looked like an insect preserved in amber, frozen mid-roar, only his eyes still able to move with impotent rage.
"Rocket!" Star-Lord's voice cracked with panic. "Contact Plumber headquarters! Immediately! Tell them we've got their target!"
He was already backing toward the escape pods, weapon raised but clearly preparing to flee. "We don't need the planet! Just the money! Just—"
"You think I didn't try that?!" Rocket wanted to physically assault Star-Lord for his stupidity. "Communications are cut off! We can't reach anyone! That thing's Upgrade form merged with our entire systems!"
"But I thought it was quantum communication?" Star-Lord said weakly, still clinging to desperate hope. "Aren't the Plumbers supposed to have the best technology in the known universe?"
"If your eyes were actually functional," Rocket snarled, pointing one clawed finger at Mad Ben's chest, "you would have noticed that guy is wearing the exact same transformation device as Ben Parker! He can manipulate any technology he touches!"
The raccoon was firing as he spoke, but every shot he managed to get off was deflected by hastily-erected crystal barriers. The moment he exposed himself to take aim, return fire nearly took his head off.
"So you're saying we're completely screwed?" Star-Lord asked in a small voice.
"Brilliant deduction, genius!"
Rocket's weapon clattered to the deck. His small hands shot up in the universal gesture of surrender, executing what could only be described as a textbook French military salute.
"Don't shoot! We surrender! We give up! Please don't kill us!"
Star-Lord, ever flexible in matters of personal survival, immediately dropped his Element Gun and mimicked the gesture. "What he said! Total surrender! We're very cooperative prisoners!"
Mad Ben actually paused his assault, crystals halting mid-formation as he stared at them with something approaching disbelief.
"With skills like yours," he said slowly, disdain dripping from every word, "you actually work as Plumbers? As field agents?"
"Plumbers? Us?" Star-Lord immediately denied any association, shaking his head so vigorously it was a miracle his neck didn't snap. "No, no, we're just temporary workers. Contractors. Outsourced labor."
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "We don't even get base salaries! No benefits, no insurance, no pension plan. The Plumber organization is honestly full of exploitation and corporate malfeasance. Terrible working conditions."
Star-Lord's eyes lit up as inspiration struck. "Actually, if you're planning to take down Ben Parker, we'd be happy to support you, boss! We've got extensive insider knowledge of their operations!"
"You'd actually call someone 'boss' just to save your pathetic life?" Mad Ben said, genuinely shocked.
The Guardians of the Galaxy had just shattered his understanding of how low people's ethical standards could sink. He'd seen cowardice before—hell, he embodied a certain brutal pragmatism himself—but this was something else entirely.
"Unfortunately," Mad Ben continued, his crystal form beginning to shift and reshape, "I don't need subordinates. I only need slaves."
"Master!" Star-Lord dropped to his knees so fast the impact probably bruised bone. "This humble servant awaits your commands!"
Rocket couldn't even look at him anymore. The second-hand embarrassment was physically painful, like watching someone debase themselves on a galactic broadcast.
Mad Ben seemed almost satisfied by this display. He pulled several sets of restraints from dimensional storage—heavy metallic shackles connected by short chains, the kind used for particularly dangerous prisoners.
"Put these on," he ordered, tossing them at Star-Lord's feet. "Hands, feet, and neck. Like the dogs you are."
Star-Lord complied with humiliating eagerness, snapping the restraints into place with practiced efficiency. The chains clinked as he moved, the collar sitting heavy around his throat.
The others, seeing no alternative, followed suit. Even Groot reluctantly accepted the bindings, though his wooden physiology made the fit awkward.
"At least we survived," Star-Lord whispered to Rocket, keeping his voice barely audible. "We'll send out a distress signal when we find an opportunity. This is just temporary tactical surrender."
"What are you muttering about?" Mad Ben's enhanced hearing caught the whisper immediately. "Where's my footstool?"
Groot began to rise, branches creaking.
"Not you—you're too hard. Uncomfortable." Mad Ben pointed directly at Star-Lord. "You. The fat one. Get over here."
Star-Lord—who was admittedly only one or two meals away from legitimate obesity—had no choice but to prostrate himself on the deck. Mad Ben stepped onto his back without ceremony, using him as a human footrest while he examined the ship's navigation systems.
"Raccoon," he called out without looking. "Input these coordinates."
He transmitted a star chart directly to Rocket's console, highlighting a specific destination.
"And don't try anything clever," Mad Ben added casually, grinding his crystalline heel into Star-Lord's spine for emphasis. "Or I'll kill all of you right now and fly this piece of garbage myself. Clear?"
"Crystal clear, boss," Rocket muttered, his claws already flying across the navigation controls.
Meanwhile, across the galaxy...
The Vreedle Brothers—Octagon and Rhomboid—stood aboard their own stolen vessel, the Annihilarrgh humming with barely-contained destructive potential in their cargo hold.
"This is gonna be great," Octagon said, his green skin reflecting the dim emergency lighting of their ship. "We're gonna pull off the heist of the century!"
"Yeah!" Rhomboid agreed enthusiastically, though he clearly had no idea what they were actually stealing or why.
Their targeting computer beeped, indicating arrival at their destination.
The planet looming before them in the viewscreen was relatively small, unremarkable in the grand scheme of galactic geography. Its atmosphere appeared breathable, its surface a mix of urban centers and wilderness.
The planet's designation flashed across their display: KVANT.
Earth - Several Hours Earlier
J. Jonah Jameson stood in his Daily Bugle office, experiencing what he would later describe as the happiest moment of his entire miserable life.
Someone—some anonymous billionaire with more money than sense—had purchased his newspaper company for an absolutely obscene amount of money. Enough to retire comfortably and never work another day.
But even better than the windfall was the other news: his son, John Jameson, had been selected for a prestigious space exploration program. The boy was finally going to be a hero, an astronaut, someone who'd make his old man proud.
"That's my boy," Jameson had muttered, actually smiling for once in his life.
Though the Plumbers possessed technology far beyond conventional human spaceflight, development remained uneven across Earth's nations. Many countries still pursued their own space programs using relatively primitive rocket technology, partly from national pride and partly from simple institutional inertia.
John Jameson's mission was supposed to be a simple orbital survey—nothing dangerous, nothing complicated.
The flight, however, encountered what mission control euphemistically described as "a slight mishap."
Which was putting it mildly.
The spacecraft's trajectory had been catastrophically altered by an unexpected gravitational anomaly. By the time the crew realized what was happening, they were being pulled toward an uncharted wormhole, their engines completely inadequate to break free.
Now John Jameson's ship hurtled through space toward an unknown destination, life support failing, communication systems offline.
The same planet.
KVANT.
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