C94 Widows

C94 Widows

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Peter’s trusty spaceship hovered above the floating Red Room base, its engines humming softly in the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space. Inside the ship, Groot, Howard, Rocket, Teefs, Lylla, and Floor prepared for their assault. The plan was simple but dangerous: now that the defenses had been destroyed, it was time to dock with the base, breach it, and eliminate any resistance.

As the ship magnetized to the side of the floating base, a loud clank reverberated through the hull. Rocket scurried to the control panel, his paws moving deftly over the buttons. "Alright, folks, time to cut a hole and make our entrance!" he announced, his voice crackling with excitement.

A high-powered laser from the ship’s hull sprang to life, cutting a perfect circle into the base. Sparks flew, and metal groaned as the docking doors swung open, forming a bridge between their ship and the Red Room base.

The moment the door opened, a barrage of bullets streamed into the Benatar. The soldiers in the base were ready, their guns spitting fire and death into the narrow hallway. The noise was deafening, the clatter of bullets echoing off the walls, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. For a few tense seconds, the only sound was the relentless hail of gunfire.

Then, silence. The soldiers paused, their guns smoking, eyes trained on the door. They glanced at one another, uncertain. Had they managed to kill their enemies before they even set foot in the base? The tense silence stretched on, each soldier holding his breath.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a giant plasma rocket shot out from the doorway, streaking down the hall with a trail of light. *Boom!* It slammed into the far wall, exploding with a deafening roar.

The blast incinerated half a dozen soldiers, their bodies vaporized in the fiery explosion. The remaining soldiers were thrown off their feet, stunned by the sudden onslaught.

Groot barreled through the smoke and debris, his massive wooden form a stark contrast to the sleek metal of the base. Rocket perched on one shoulder, his newly crafted rocket launcher slung over his shoulder, while Howard sat on the other side, a Tommy gun clutched in his feathery hands.

Rocket laughed maniacally, "Take that, you little f*ckers!" He fired another rocket, sending more soldiers scrambling for cover.

Howard puffed on his cigar, his beady eyes glinting with amusement. "Hey there, b*tches," he said, opening fire with his Tommy gun. Bullets sprayed across the hallway, ripping through soldiers like paper. Blood splattered the walls, and screams filled the air as they fell one by one.

Groot's wooden limbs moved with deadly precision. He grabbed nearby soldiers, lifting them effortlessly and smashing them against the walls. The sickening thuds of bodies hitting metal reverberated through the hall, leaving a trail of broken and unmoving foes in his wake.

Behind them, Lylla, Teefs, and Floor peeked out from behind the docking door. Lylla and Teefs held blasters, firing from cover. "Stay sharp, everyone," Lylla called out, her voice steady despite the chaos. "We've got to hold this position!"

Floor, unlike the other two, did not have a blaster. Instead, she stood ready by the button to close the door. Rocket had given her strict orders: if things went south, seal the door and regroup. Her beady eyes scanned the hallway, ears twitching with anticipation.

As more and more soldiers poured into the hallway to meet the intruders, a fierce firefight erupted.

Groot roared, his voice deep and resonant. "I am Groot!" He grabbed a soldier by the torso, lifting him high before slamming him into the ground with bone-crushing force. The soldier's scream was cut short, his body limp and broken.

Rocket cackled, "Boom, baby!" He fired another rocket, the explosion tearing through the ranks of soldiers. Flames licked at the walls, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

Howard, ever the sharpshooter, picked off soldiers with precision. "Take that, you filthy f*ckers," he muttered, reloading his Tommy gun. The gunfire was relentless, the muzzle flashes illuminating his determined face.

The fight was brutal and visceral. Each move was calculated, every attack precise. The crew worked in perfect harmony, their coordination seamless. Groot's strength, Rocket's firepower, Howard's marksmanship, and Lylla and Teefs' cover fire created a deadly combination. The soldiers never stood a chance.

One by one, the Red Room soldiers fell. Their numbers dwindled, their resistance weakening. Until finally, the last soldier fell, his body hitting the ground with a final, echoing thud.

The hallway was littered with the dead and dying, the once-formidable General Dreykov’s army reduced to rubble.

Rocket slung his rocket launcher over his back, a satisfied grin on his face. "Well, that was fun.”

Howard flicked the ash from his cigar, a smirk playing on his beak. "Anyone else feel like they just nutted?"

Groot looked down at him, his wooden face etched with confusion. "I am Groot?" he asked, no idea what that meant.

“?” Rocket looked at him oddly as well, too young to understand his raunchy humor.

Lylla and Teefs emerged from cover, their blasters still smoking. Lylla's eyes sparkled with relief. "We did it," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and triumph.

"Meet our medical droid," Peter said with a grin. "It's going to take care of you all."

The droid whirred softly as it approached Peter, who quickly explained the nature of their injuries. "Yelena lost a finger," he said, pointing to the young woman. "It's crucial that we reattach it as quickly as possible."

The droid beeped in acknowledgment, rolling over to Yelena's bed. It carefully took her severed finger, dipping it into a small container of odd-colored liquid. Yelena watched in wide-eyed amazement as the droid then used a laser beam to meticulously reattach the finger, the beam’s light glowing as it worked.

Natasha and Melina looked on in disbelief, their earlier fears of Yelena losing her finger forever dissipating. The droid's precision and efficiency were astounding, leaving them both stunned.

Yelena's eyes filled with tears as she saw her finger whole again. Overcome with emotion, she leaped off the bed, ignoring the pain from her bullet wound, and hugged the droid tightly. "Thank you, thank you!" she cried before rushing to Peter and wrapping her arms around him. "Thank you so much, Peter!"

Peter smiled warmly, patting her on the head. "No problem, Yelena. I couldn't let you walk around with just nine fingers, could I?"

As Yelena continued to hug Peter, she glanced over at her sister. Natasha's face was a mix of relief and a jealous pout. Noticing this, Yelena smirked evilly in Natasha's direction, as if to say, ‘He’s mine... What are you going to do about it?’

Natasha's pout quickly turned into a glare, and despite the fleeting thought of cutting Yelena’s finger off again, she knew she wouldn't actually do it.

Melina, observing the exchange from her bed, giggled softly, amused by her daughter's antics.

Peter glanced between Natasha and Yelena, puzzled by the silent interaction. He only saw Natasha’s jealous expression and guessed that she was feeling left out again. "Alright, Yelena, back to bed," he said gently, guiding her back, treating her like a child.

“...” Yelena pouted as he did this, clearly upset, though she didn’t say anything about it.

The droid then moved on to treat the rest of their injuries. It deftly removed bullets from their legs, cleaned and bandaged the wounds, and addressed Natasha’s cuts on her wrists and ankles. Its precise and efficient care left all three women much better than they had been moments before.

Once the treatments were complete, Peter stood at the door, a commanding presence. "You all need to stay here and rest," he ordered, his tone firm as he noticed their reluctance. "No arguments."

When they opened their mouths to protest, Peter’s voice turned gentle but resolute. "You need to heal. Let us handle the rest."

Seeing they wouldn’t win this argument, the women finally nodded in agreement. Peter gave them a reassuring smile before stepping out of the med bay, Groot following closely behind him.

As they walked down the corridor, heading toward the auditorium where the students and Black Widows awaited, Peter donned his mask. The battle was over, but he still had a few things to deal with.

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Peter and Groot walked with purposeful strides through the Red Room’s corridors, the auditorium just ahead. Revan, Cosmo, Rocket, Howard, Lylla, Teefs, and Floor awaited his arrival just ahead. The heavy doors of the auditorium opened, and Peter stepped inside, his crew flanking him.

The room was filled with the residents of the Red Room. Women of all ages stood or sat, the older ones clearly seasoned Black Widows, their hardened expressions betraying years of training and combat.

The younger girls, likely students destined to become the next generation of Black Widows, looked up at Peter with a mixture of curiosity and fear. A few men, presumably staff, were scattered among them, their presence almost negligible compared to the sea of female faces.

Every eye in the room was trained on Peter and his crew. Some gazes were wary, others shocked by their appearance, and many were blank, concealing any hint of emotion.

Peter ascended the small stage at the front of the room, his movements deliberate and confident. He paused for a moment, scanning the crowd, taking in the diverse mix of expressions and emotions—or lack thereof.

He cleared his throat, his voice steady and calm. "Hello, everyone. My name is Star-Lord," he began, his tone carrying a mixture of authority and empathy. "I know that this is a difficult and confusing time for many of you. But I want you to know that we’re here to help—“

Before Peter could continue, suddenly, an old, distinguished-looking woman stepped to the forefront of the crowd, her presence commanded attention. She had a stern face etched with lines of hardship and wisdom, her eyes sharp and cold. The way she carried herself spoke of authority and experience.

"Help?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "You come here and bring nothing but death, yet you say you want to help?" Her heavy Russian accent gave her words a biting edge. She spat on the floor in Peter’s direction, her contempt clear.

Peter raised an eyebrow, unfazed by her hostility. "And who might you be?"

The woman straightened, her eyes narrowing. "I am the Headmistress of the Red Room Academy," she declared, her voice resonating with pride and defiance. "I think the real question is... who are you?!”

A/N: 2498 words :)