C67 Crew’s Wariness

C67 Crew’s Wariness

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The hum of the ship's engines cut through the vast emptiness of space as they sailed toward Naboo. Inside, in a dimly lit room, Peter Quill sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed in deep meditation.

Around him, the ship was quiet, save for the occasional clank and murmur of machinery. The subtle glow of the force shimmered along his body, a visible manifestation of his efforts to regain balance.

Peter's breaths were measured, each inhale a gathering of peace, each exhale a release of turmoil. The events at the Iron Lotus replayed in his mind. He could still hear the chaos, the cries of pain, the final silences he had administered. His power had surged then, a tempest of dark force energy that had been both thrilling and terrifying.

Yet as he meditated, Peter felt no remorse for the violence he had unleashed. The echoes of the women’s cries, their desperate struggles for dignity and safety, had justified his actions.

To him, those Ravagers had forfeited their right to mercy by their heinous acts, especially since they could have just paid for pleasure like any other brothel patron.

And while the dark side had lured him with its seductive call, promising power for justice, he hadn’t lost control for a single second. But of course, the aftermath always required him to find his center again, which was why he was meditating right now.

This wasn't the first time Peter had walked this line—flirting with the darkness to serve what he saw as the greater good. The force was a tool, and like any tool, its use could shape the wielder.

Sitting here, in the solitude of his ship, he reflected on the necessity of balance. How easy it was to tilt to one side of the other if left unchecked, how it could turn justice into vengeance or mercy into weakness.

As he delved deeper into his meditation, Peter revisited the faces of the women they had rescued. Their expressions, a mixture of relief and residual fear, were imprinted in his memory. It was for them, and others like them, that he wielded his powers. Each rescue, and each intervention felt like a step toward balancing the scales, albeit a step accompanied by the occasional bout of darkness.

His thoughts shifted to his quiet captive. In the ship's brig, Stakar Ogord remained unconscious in the same cell that had once confined Groot. The heavy cell door was sealed, trapping the once formidable Ravager leader, now just a subdued prize en route to be cashed in.

The man's fate was sealed, now in the hands of Naboo's authorities. Peter had ensured a thorough capture, to say the least. The cell holding Stakar was a small mercy compared to the fate that awaited him on Naboo—at least, that's what Peter hoped.

————

Within the ship's common area, tension simmered beneath hushed conversations. The crew, scattered around, spoke in tones that mirrored the uncertainty of their thoughts.

Howard, the duck, was pacing back and forth, his voice tinged with irritation. "I'm telling you, I'm sick of being bossed around like some henchman!" he grumbled, waving his cigar expressively. "One minute we’re a team, the next, we’re glorified babysitters and cleanup crew."

Groot, his towering form slightly slouched, shifted beside the viewport, the stars casting fleeting lights over his wooden features. "I am Groot," he countered firmly, his voice deep and resonant, challenging Howard's frustrations.

Sat nearby, Cosmo remained silent for a long moment. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, her concern palpable even in her silence. Finally, she spoke. "Do you think something is wrong with Peter? Why were his eyes glowing like that?"

As the authorization code cleared, the voice returned, slightly warmer but still formal. “Code verified, Star-Lord. You are cleared for landing at the Royal Palace. Maintain your current course and speed.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder to where Howard was muttering under his breath about "unnecessary security protocols." Groot stood silent and watchful beside him, his eyes on the passing clouds outside.

Cosmo stared out of a side window, eying the escort ships, “Is it just me, or do they seem very cautious?” She remarked.

Peter nodded. “Stakar and his clan seem to have left deep scars here.”

Revan, his form flickering with the fluctuation of the ship's energy, nodded solemnly. “Indeed. Their actions have cast long shadows...”

Peter’s jaw clenched as the memory of the brothel’s horrors returned—the cries, the fear, the dark surge of his own powers. Stakar’s actions had not just been violent; they were vile, and reprehensible.

Suddenly, Peter felt a sharp pang of anger at the thought that the man in their brig might have done worse than kill the former Queen and her handmaidens...

Shaking his head to dispel the dark thoughts, Peter steered the ship towards the designated landing pad near the Royal Palace. As they touched down, he felt the weight of the eyes upon them—not just the guards, but unseen watchers assessing their every move.

The ramp lowered with a hiss, and Peter, mask now in place, strode out with purpose, dragging their blood-covered bounty behind him.

Beside him, Groot’s form loomed large, an implicit threat to any who might consider the crew easy targets. Howard, still grumbling to himself, followed, flanked by Cosmo, whose gaze swept the area with quiet intensity.

Revan remained behind in the ship, his Sith-like spectral form too dangerous to reveal to just anyone, especially with the possibility of a Jedi nearby.

At the base of the landing pad, Captain Panaka awaited, his expression unreadable. “Star-Lord,” he began, his voice betraying a hint of disapproval. “The Queen is expecting you and your... decorum.”

Peter chuckled, understanding the unspoken message. “You must be Padmé’s minion? It's good to finally put a face to the voice.” He spoke in a casual tone, which only seemed to heighten the tension between him and Panaka.

With a curt gesture, Panaka held his tongue and led them into the palace and through its grand corridors, where the damage from the Ravager attack was still visible despite efforts to restore the regal ambiance. The guards were numerous, their eyes sharp and assessing.

Howard’s irritation peaked as they confiscated his Tommy gun at an entry checkpoint. “Give me back my baby!” He shouted, ruffling his feathers indignantly.

Peter put a hand on his head, his voice low. “Let it go, Howard. They’ll give it back when we leave...”

Finally, they reached the throne room, where Queen Padmé awaited, her posture regal yet lined with fatigue. Peter’s gaze met hers, and without a word, he dragged Stakar forward and tossed him at the foot of her throne. The thud of the Ravager’s body hitting the palace floor echoed ominously as he began to groggily stir from his sleep.

“One vile piece of trash, delivered as promised,” Peter announced, his voice resonant and carrying a weight of justice.

A/N: 1900 words :)