C80 Damsel in Distress

C80 Damsel in Distress

Check out early access chapters on my Patréon, currently 14 chapters ahead!

——————

The ship touched down softly in the desert outside Los Angeles, its hull cooling as the cool air swept over it. It was the middle of the night, and the area was shrouded in darkness, the silent expanse of sand providing the perfect cover. Peter had chosen this spot precisely for its isolation—far from prying eyes and well off the beaten path.

Once the ship was secure, Peter hit the switch to lower the ramp. The heavy metal touched down on the sandy soil with a dull thud, and the crew readied themselves to step out onto Earth, for many of them it was the first time. Peter led the way, his boots hitting the ground with a soft crunch.

Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with the cool night air, tinged with the distant scents of civilization and the unmistakable hint of pollution. "Ahh, good old polluted Earth air," he grinned, his voice tinged with both sarcasm and nostalgia.

But as he surveyed the quiet landscape, a sudden, subtle disturbance rippled through the Force, a desperate call for help echoing across the vast, empty desert. Peter’s expression shifted from relaxed to alert as he tuned into the sensation, his Jedi instincts kicking in.

Turning back to the ship, he spoke quickly, "I'll be back in a sec. Just have to check something." Without waiting for a response, he dashed into the cargo hold, grabbing a speeder bike. The engine roared to life under his expert touch, and with a nod to his crew, who looked on with a mix of curiosity and concern, he sped off into the desert night.

The bike’s lights cut a bright streak through the darkness as Peter followed the pull of the Force, the sense of urgency growing with each passing second. The desert flew by in a blur of shadow and light as he raced toward the source of the disturbance, ready to face whatever awaited him in the solitude of the vast desert.

————

Earlier in the night, a 14-year-old red-headed girl braced herself against the cool metal of her car door, Natasha Romanoff, the newly minted graduate of the Red Room Academy. Her mission had been clear—eliminate a key tech mogul who was about to sell critical data to the Red Room’s enemies, or so she was told.

[Insert picture of Black Widow here]

It was supposed to be a straightforward job, her first out-of-country solo mission as a fully-fledged Black Widow, a title she had only just recently bestowed.

Natasha had executed her mission with lethal precision. The target had been at a lavish party, his security detail underestimating the young woman who slipped inside thanks to her stunning looks and superb training. But escaping had proved more challenging than she anticipated. Her exit was chaotic, marked by gunfire and the screech of tires.

The bullets had started flying the moment she'd left the scene, her pursuers relentless and ruthless. She’d managed to dodge most, but one had grazed her shoulder.

“Ugh!” She grunted as she rushed into her sleek, stolen two-door sports car, taking off out of the driveway.

As Natasha darted through the streets of Los Angeles, weaving between slower vehicles, the roar of engines echoed behind her. A convoy of blacked-out SUVs, each filled with armed men and women bore down on her, their headlights cutting through the darkness like predatory eyes fixed on their prey.

“F*ck!” She shouted as she noticed the cars catching up through the rearview mirror, one hand on her open wound, keeping constant pressure, the other hand latched to the steering wheel.

The chase continued, the city lights blurring into streaks as her car hurtled toward the isolation of the desert. Her training had prepared her for pain, for danger, but the raw fear of being chased, hunted, was something new, something ferociously real.

Finally, the inevitable happened—a bullet found its mark, shredding the tire of her car. It spun out of control, throwing sparks into the night as metal scraped the asphalt, before crashing into the sandy outskirts. Natasha crawled from the wreckage, her body screaming in protest, her training the only thing keeping her conscious.

With a sharp intake of breath, she stumbled into the desert, her steps unsteady as blood dripped from her leg and shoulder. The sound of her pursuers' vehicles grew louder, their headlights sweeping the landscape like searchlights.

She ran as fast as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. But the desert was vast, unforgiving, and as the headlights closed in, Natasha found herself slowing, her injuries overtaking her resolve.

*Bang!*

The tension in the air was palpable, a thick blanket that seemed to suffocate the very breath from the desert night. Natasha, despite her training, found a gnawing worry curling in her stomach for the stranger who had inexplicably decided to risk his life for hers, even after knowing she was a killer.

She was about to voice her concern, to urge him to reconsider his bold stand, when the leader, tired of the standoff, made his decision.

"You've had your chance," he growled, and with a swift movement, his finger tightened on the trigger. A single bullet sped towards Peter's chest.

Time seemed to slow for Natasha as she watched, horrified. But Peter, with an astonishing calmness, lifted his hand. The bullet halted mid-air, suspended by an unseen force, before it whipped back, flying straight to the leader. It struck with deadly precision, embedding in his head and dropping him instantly to the ground.

A stunned silence fell over the group as the leader's body thudded onto the sandy soil. The other armed individuals looked on in shock and fear, their understanding of the situation upended by the impossible event they had just witnessed.

Peter looked around at them, his expression somber. "I told you it wouldn’t end well," he said simply.

Natasha, still on the ground, stared at him, her mind racing. She had seen many things in her time with the Red Room, but this—this was beyond anything she could comprehend. Peter hadn't moved from his spot, yet the leader was dead, and not by any visible means.

Sensing the hesitation among the crowd, Peter's voice softened. "You can just leave if you want. You don’t have to do this," he urged them. "Your leader is dead, but you don’t have to join him. Go home, live a long and happy life."

His words seemed to resonate with some, as their guns lowered slightly, the harsh resolve in their eyes wavering. However, not all were convinced or ready to abandon their mission.

Driven by fear and the need to eliminate what they couldn't understand, one shouted, rallying the others. "It’s just one kid! I don’t know what he did, but he can’t do it to all of us. Let's just kill him!"

As they pulled their triggers, a barrage of bullets hurled towards Peter. But with another wave of his hand, he stopped them all with his telekinesis. Then, with a grim face, he returned the bullets to their senders. Each bullet found its mark, and one by one, the remaining defiant attackers fell, their bodies hitting the ground with finality.

Natasha watched, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and awe. The reality of her savior's abilities was clear and terrifying. Peter was not just a man; he was something else entirely—something powerful.

With the immediate threat neutralized, Peter turned to the few who had heeded his warning and not fired. He shooed them away with a flick of his hand. Terrified that they might be next, they dropped their weapons and fled into the darkness, leaving Peter and Natasha alone amidst the carnage.

As the dust settled and the silence of the desert enveloped them once more, Natasha looked up at Peter, her eyes reflecting the moonlight and her newfound perception of the man who had just saved her life.

“W-who are you...?” Natasha asked, stuttering over her words.

“Me?” Peter pointed at himself as if he didn’t know who she was talking to. “I’m Star-Lord!”

“Star-Lord?” Natasha repeated, a small laugh escaping despite the throbbing pain of her wounds. “Okay, who are you really?” She asked again, thinking he was joking.

“Why does everyone make fun of my cool nickname...” Peter crouched down, depressed, drawing circles in the sand with his finger.

This behavior only seemed to make her laugh even more. And it only tapered off as her strength waned, her blood loss taking its toll. Her chuckles faded into shallow breaths, and her eyes fluttered as she struggled to maintain consciousness.

"Natasha?" Peter's eyes widened as he rushed to her side, his voice holding a note of urgency.

Her eyes fluttered weakly, the effort to keep them open visibly taxing. As her consciousness waned, a sudden realization pierced her haze of pain and disorientation. Her gaze fixed on Peter's face, confusion and suspicion flickering through her dimming vision.

‘How did he know my name?’ she asked herself, but before she could ponder any further or voice her question, the darkness that edged her vision swelled, consuming her awareness completely.

A/N: 2300 words :)