Welcome to Earth
Cutscene: Welcome to Earth
IC Details

Gamora attempts to rejoin the Guardians of the Galaxy. Shadowcrest Manor has opinions about it.

IC Date: February 11, 2019
IC Location: Space, Gotham, Shadowcrest
OOC Notes & Details
Posted: 11 Feb 2019 22:16
Rating & Warnings:
Associated Plots

(Peter Quill segment written by Quill's player.)

Location: Local Interstellar Cloud, Local Bubble, Orion-Cygnus Arm, Milky Way.

8.6 light minutes from Earth's atmosphere.

A single-occupancy starcraft slices across the orbital plane. Myriad blues, greens, and whites, the signature palette of the cradle of humanity, smear bright across the interior holoscreen that serves as the ship's canopy. Earth's inhabitants find the view breathtakingly beautiful; denizens of the greater cosmos, spoiled by the grandeur of ecumenopoli and terraformed landscapes of airy fantasy, inevitably find it wanting.

Gamora isn't seeing it at all, though the display is reflected in the dark pools at the center of pensive, golden eyes.

It's not too late to turn around.

She hears the leather of the undone driving glove she's wearing creak under the tension that lines out her arm, hand gripped tight to the throttle. With just a twitch of the wrist and a punishing crescendo of g-force she could be racing back the way she came with no one the wiser. They did not need her. She was — she is — a liability.

Admittedly, so are they. The small, trigger-happy mammal is prone to engineering doomsday devices in his sleep. His interspecies life-mate, the flora colossi, is blue-blooded — blue-sapped? — royalty, and few things in the known universe are more troublesome than aristocracy. Drax is…

Drax is Drax.

And Peter Quill, well. Where to begin? Or, perhaps the better question, as Drax might pose it:

Why to begin?

It would be wiser not to. All she has to do is turn around.

«"Now entering Earth's exosphere. Would you care to specify destination coordinates at this time?"»

The glove creaks. With her other hand she reaches out, the tips of her fingers hovering over the pilot's yoke. Just one light touch. Just one.

Her hand moves. Past the yoke, thumb jammed onto a glowing switch beyond. A comms channel opens up.

"Peter Quill, I am about to enter Earth's atmosphere. What are your coordinates?"

It's two in the morning when Peter Quill's com system goes off in his ear. Passed out on a couch, one arm flung over his eyes. One leg hanging off said couch. At the sudden noise he sits bolt upright. One hand gropeing for one of his pistols as the other one wipes the touch of drool from the corner of his mouth.

It was a long night ok.

"Gamora? Izzat you?" Sleep slurred words on the com are just a bit fuzzy. "Yeah I'll just forward em…I hope you have cloaking or something." A pause. "How you been?" Oh this is awkward. "…you get your…stuff—"

And the com goes dead. Squinting at it he covers a yawn with his hand. He better go find Rocket and Groot and tell them. Band's getting back together…

…and in exactly one minute forty five seconds he'll remember just where he is.

"PICK UP PICK UP PICK UP!" Is the frantic chant as he desperately coms her back.

…this will not end well.

How you been?

Gamora does not care to think about the matter of her choice to rejoin the Guardians, much less discuss it with Peter Quill. She kills the open commlink before he can initiate a tiresome conversation.


«"Coordinates confirmed. Trajectory calculated. Beginning approach. We will arrive at the specified location in forty-three seconds."»

Committed, now. She probes her insides for any trace of regret over her choice and finds none, surprised at the lack. Perhaps this is the right decision, after all. Perhaps this is where she's meant to be. Earth holds no horrors for her: she is a citizen of the stars. What could possibly go wrong?

The small, one-person starship lacks anything so structurally unsound as an actual canopy, but the external cameras capture the lurid glow of atmospheric entry, red light on her green face rendering her a somewhat unflattering shade of taupe. She triggers the cloaking field as the nameless craft rips its way downward, small details about the landscape below emerging: the lights of unsleeping cities encrust the darkness like gilt and jewels. The night glitters.

Unmoved, she changes the display, pulling up information about her destination.


Elegant dark brows crinkle together. The HUD informs her that they'll reach their apparently nonexistent destination in seven seconds. Tensing, she toggles the view to the exterior cameras again, glowing lines painted on the HUD indicating their approach, terminating at the shadowy bulk of a large and very obviously extant mansion.

Gamora watches it rise up at phenomenal speed toward the ship, continuing to exist, and slowly frowns. "Remind me to get your databases updated when we-"

And then her starship turns into a mollusc.

Little-known fact about Shadowcrest Manor: it benefits from magical security measures of all kinds, one of which dictates that trespassers are instantly turned into molluscs and teleported into an aquarium to be dealt with at the discretion of the manor's residents. One might fairly imagine that Gamora's starship ought to be exempt in light of the fact that it isn't technically alive, but biological species have long argued over the nature of sufficiently advanced artificial intelligences. Is true sentience enough to merit consideration as a living thing? Is self-awareness the fundamental requirement of life, or does that honor belong strictly to some other, more ephemeral quality?

For Gamora Zen-Whoberi Ben Titan, now bulleting toward Shadowcrest manor at hair-raising speeds without the benefit of a surrounding vehicle, the question is academic, to say the least. She hardly has time to widen her eyes and draw her sword — perhaps she intends to punish the house? — before she, too, turns into a mollusc.

A very, very angry mollusc.

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