Or at least, that’s what he thinks for those spare moments where he’s still mostly coherent. They make sport of it for a little bit, warriors that they are. Give him a handful of seconds to try to fight back. And he does alright, thanks to the training Drax and Gamora had forced on him, the drills they had made him run, over and over and over. (Arms up. Guard your head. Time your blows, you impatient ass, do you want your brains splattered on the walls?)
He can do this, he thinks. He doesn’t need help. He can totally do this. He can—
A meaty fist, straight into the side of his head that makes him see stars, sends him crashing against the wall.
The two guards are stronger. Better. They let him get to the door a couple of times, his hand stretching for the control before they drag him back. They get the rhythm of him, and after that, the game is over.
Un-fucking-fair, he thinks, the third time he’s sent spinning to the tile floor, spitting out blood.
Five minutes feels like an eternity, and this time when he falls, he doesn’t get up. Tries, though. He gets his hands underneath him to push up onto all fours. Only manages to lift himself part of the way before his arms give out, and he falls back against the tile. Tries again, with even less success. He thinks he hears one of them scoff above him, tutting his disapproval. ]
Thought he’d last longer.
[ A boot nudging his side, then a murmur of agreement. ]
I’ll call—
[ A knock on the door, though Peter hardly notices. Tries to keep the blackness from encroaching on his vision. Tries to focus on breathing. Tries to get up again, because some animal instinct is compelling him to get to his fucking feet, because you’re going to die here, Quill. You’re going to fucking die if you don’t—
A body flying overhead, slamming against the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact. It falls to the floor in a heap. The whipcrack of electricity, the smell of ozone, and the blue-skinned Kree collapsing nearby, sizzling and twitching.
Peter can’t quite lift his head, manages instead to loll to one side to see what fresh hell these last few seconds have provided and— ]
You.
[ It’s little more than a wheeze, the word creaking out of his lungs on a ragged exhale, and he tries to push himself up again. ]
Fuck. You fucking— [ He coughs, spits blood. ] —you— sold me out—
no subject
Or at least, that’s what he thinks for those spare moments where he’s still mostly coherent. They make sport of it for a little bit, warriors that they are. Give him a handful of seconds to try to fight back. And he does alright, thanks to the training Drax and Gamora had forced on him, the drills they had made him run, over and over and over. (Arms up. Guard your head. Time your blows, you impatient ass, do you want your brains splattered on the walls?)
He can do this, he thinks. He doesn’t need help. He can totally do this. He can—
A meaty fist, straight into the side of his head that makes him see stars, sends him crashing against the wall.
The two guards are stronger. Better. They let him get to the door a couple of times, his hand stretching for the control before they drag him back. They get the rhythm of him, and after that, the game is over.
Un-fucking-fair, he thinks, the third time he’s sent spinning to the tile floor, spitting out blood.
Five minutes feels like an eternity, and this time when he falls, he doesn’t get up. Tries, though. He gets his hands underneath him to push up onto all fours. Only manages to lift himself part of the way before his arms give out, and he falls back against the tile. Tries again, with even less success. He thinks he hears one of them scoff above him, tutting his disapproval. ]
Thought he’d last longer.
[ A boot nudging his side, then a murmur of agreement. ]
I’ll call—
[ A knock on the door, though Peter hardly notices. Tries to keep the blackness from encroaching on his vision. Tries to focus on breathing. Tries to get up again, because some animal instinct is compelling him to get to his fucking feet, because you’re going to die here, Quill. You’re going to fucking die if you don’t—
A body flying overhead, slamming against the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact. It falls to the floor in a heap. The whipcrack of electricity, the smell of ozone, and the blue-skinned Kree collapsing nearby, sizzling and twitching.
Peter can’t quite lift his head, manages instead to loll to one side to see what fresh hell these last few seconds have provided and— ]
You.
[ It’s little more than a wheeze, the word creaking out of his lungs on a ragged exhale, and he tries to push himself up again. ]
Fuck. You fucking— [ He coughs, spits blood. ] —you— sold me out—