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After marveling at his new army, Peter stands at the war room's holo-table, Knowhere's neon glow seeping through the windows. His crew surrounds him, a diverse force poised to shape the galaxy's fate.
Tony lounges to his left, smirking confidently. Optimus Prime towers opposite.
Natasha leans close, her touch grounding Peter. Mikaela and Padmé stand nearby, their presence warm but commanding.
Groot sways gently, Cosmo's tail wags, and Howard the Duck sips a drink, grumbling. Rocket, Teefs, Lylla, and Floor chatter animatedly.
Carina and Oola stand proud, Knowhere's stewards. The room hums, holo-schematics of droids and warships flickering alive.
Nebula lingers at the edge, her face tight. The women surrounding Peter spark her jealousy, a silent burn.
Revan's ghostly figure shimmers faintly, watching his apprentice. This moment will define Peter's path.
"So, who wants to play galactic chess with our new army?" Peter quips, his voice steady but charged with excitement.
His humor draws chuckles, easing tension. Natasha's lips twitch; Tony rolls his eyes, amused.
Peter's leather coat catches the neon glow, Star-Lord in command. His Mechu-Deru hums, tied to the schematics.
"We've got droids, ships, and credits to burn," he says, grinning. "But what's the play? I need your brains on this one."
Peter leans forward, his grin sharp, ready to lay out the plan.
"Okay, option one," Peter says, tapping the holo-table, a sim of Jedi cruisers flickering. "We team up with the Jedi, and fight the Separatists under Yoda's lead—full Republic support, but it's their show."
He pauses, eyeing the crew, voice charged. "It's a big play, but we'd be diving into their war, their rules. Thoughts?"
The crew shifts, weighing the gamble. Joining Yoda means power but chains, a high-stakes bet.
"Wouldn't we just be their pawn?" Natasha murmurs, her hand brushing Peter's.
Peter shifts, his eyes glinting with mischief. The holo-table hums, showing Separatist droid armies in disarray.
"Option two," Peter says, smirking, arms wide. "We hit the Separatists as Star-Lord's crew—no Republic, no Jedi, just us, free to call the shots."
He leans in, voice dropping. "It's risky as hell—the Republic might tag us as hostiles by mistake—but we'd own the fight. Who's up for rogue style?"
Mikaela grins, drawn to the chaos. Her bold nod sparks murmurs amongst the crew.
"It could get messy if the Republic mistakes us for enemies though," Peter admits, scratching his neck, his tone half-serious.
Peter's gaze sharpens, his Mechu-Deru tingling with suspicion. The holo-table shifts, displaying Kree warships in formation.
"Option three," Peter says, voice low, intense. "The Kree are out there, and I'm betting a Sith is pulling their strings."
He jabs the holo, Kree fleets glowing red. "If we hit them now, we take out a big threat before it causes more problems. It's a bold move, but we'd be cutting off trouble at the source—who's in?"
The crew leans in, the Sith's shadow looming large. A preemptive strike feels like a tempting idea.
Padmé's eyes narrow, calculating. "But it pulls us from the Republic's war," she cautions.
Peter pauses, his expression turning serious. The holo-table dims, Knowhere's defenses glowing faintly in the sims.
"Last option," Peter says, voice low, deliberate. "We stockpile the army, hide it in Knowhere's shadows, and build our strength quietly."
He gestures at the holo, showing droid factories humming. "Wait for the right moment—when the galaxy's ripe for us to strike. It's playing the long game, but we'd be untouchable. Thoughts?"
The crew exchanges glances, sensing the weight of restraint. Waiting feels safe but heavy with anticipation.
"It's safe here," Oola offers, her lekku twitching. "We could quietly build up our forces without anyone noticing."
Peter scans the crew, his charisma binding them. "I've got my own opinions, but you're my crew. Speak."
"Blow something up, Quill!" Rocket cackles, claws tapping the holo-table. "Kree, Separatists—I don't care!"
"Purpose guides power, Peter," Optimus rumbles, his deep voice steady. "Choose a path that serves the light."
"I am Groot," Groot rumbles, branches swaying gently. Cosmo barks, "We're with you, Captain!"
Nebula's gaze burns as Mikaela leans into Peter, staging her support. She clenches her fists, silent but seething.
Gamora catches Nebula's look, smirking faintly. The sisters' tension simmers, sharp and unspoken.
Peter leans on the table, eyes sharp. "I appreciate the support, but what do you guys think we should do?" he asks, ready for their voices to shape his war.
The war room crackles with tension, the holo-table flickering with battle sims of droids and warships. Peter's Mechu-Deru tingles, weighing each perspective as the debate ignites.
Optimus speaks first, his optics unwavering. "Aid the Republic. Honor demands unity against chaos."
"The Republic's a mess," Tony scoffs, arms crossed. "That Dooku guy's got the Senate on strings. We should hit the Separatists solo—our tech, our rules."
Peter nods, sharing Tony's distrust of the Republic. The crew murmurs agreement—Dooku's Senate manipulations sour their faith.
"Screw politics!" Rocket cackles, claws tapping furiously. "Let's blast 'em all! Kree, Separatists—my guns don't care who's first!"
Padmé's voice cuts through, calm but firm. "Stockpile the army. Rash moves could spark political fallout we can't afford."
Her caution draws nods from Knowhere's stewards. "I agree," Carina says, eyes sharp.
Oola's lekku twitch, reinforcing Carina. "Let's build in secret. We're not ready for a full-scale war."
Natasha's eyes glint, her spy instincts sharp. "The Kree are the real threat right now. I say we deal with them first—something's off about them."
Mikaela leans in, smirking confidently. "Tony's got the right idea. Our army's tech can crush the Separatists without any help. Let's solve this civil war first, then deal with the Kree later."
Her words spark Tony's grin, the holo-table flashing with droid precision. The room buzzes with their shared confidence.
"We should just stay out of it," Howard grumbles, downing his drink. "It's not our problem anyway… but yeah, Kree are trouble."
Nebula speaks, her voice sharp but hesitant. "Kree. Hit them hard." Her eyes lock on Peter, craving his approval, her crush pushing past jealousy.
"You're trying too hard, sis," Gamora whispers, smirking. Nebula glares, cheeks flushing faintly, but she holds her ground.
The crew's voices overlap, heated but united. Their diversity—human, Cybertronian, animal, alien—mirrors Knowhere's chaotic and diverse strength.
Rocket's claws scrape louder, impatient. "Kree or bust, Quill! Let's light 'em up already!"
Padmé nods, her gaze steady. "Stockpiling avoids missteps. The galaxy's volatile—wait for clarity."
"Wait? Nah," Tony counters, sarcastically. "We've got AI droids that make the separatists droids look like toys. Strike now, Quill."
Natasha's hand grazes Peter's, urging focus. "Kree's Sith link is the priority. Trust my gut on this."
Peter's leadership faces its test, just as Revan thought it would.
He listens, expression changing with each idea. Join Yoda? Go rogue? Hunt Sith? Or hide?
Peter raises a hand, about to respond. "Alright, let's—" A blaring comms alert cuts him off.
Peter raises a hand, about to speak. "Alright, let's—" A blaring comms alert cuts him off.
A comms alert blares, slicing through the war room's debate. Carina scrambles, patching in a holo-call.
Irani Rael's image flickers on, her face bloodied, and frantic. "Peter! Xandar's fallen! The Kree… they're—!" The connection seemed to be bad, her voice cutting out for a moment.
Peter freezes, stunned. When he left, the Nova Empire was winning, with Kree fleets in retreat—how could Xandar collapse so fast?
Gamora tenses, her hand on her saber. Nebula's eyes widen, a foreboding feeling welling up inside her.
The crew exchanges grim looks. Tony's smirk vanishes; Optimus' optics narrow, his frame alert.
Irani's voice cracks, pleading. "Help us! Our people are dying!" Her desperation chills the room.
Natasha's hand hovers near her blaster, instincts flaring. Mikaela grips Peter's arm, her face pale.
Padmé's hands clasp tight, her poise shaken. Rocket snarls, "What the hell's happening over there?"
Irani's plea turns to a scream, sharp and raw. A gurgle follows, her holo-image glitching wildly.
The call captures what appears to be her dying groans, each breath a knife. "Peter… Please… save the Nova Empire…"
Her voice fades, the holo flickering out. Silence grips the war room, heavy as a black hole.
Peter's fists clench, his power in the force flaring. 'What happened? I was just there a few days ago… Ever tying was fine…'
Suddenly, Irani's communicator crackled to life, seized by an unseen hand. A chilling, resonant voice echoed through the comms. "Whoever this may be, know that you'll be next—"
*Crush*
After leaving those parting words, the communicator was swiftly destroyed, ending the transmission.
Gamora freezes, her hands trembling. Nebula's face pales, her breath catching—that sounded just like Thanos, their father.
The Mad Titan's voice shook the comms hub, a low growl of absolute power. The crew stiffens, alert.
Nebula's eyes widened, swallowed by fear. Thanos' shadow drags her back to years of torment.
Peter's jaw sets, his mind racing. Thanos' involvement in this war spells nothing disaster…
————
Hours earlier, Xandar's skies blaze red. Kree fleets, swollen with Thanos' Chitauri, shred Nova's golden defenses.
Wreckage rains, ships burning in arcs. Outriders swarm, their shrieks drowning Xandar's cries, a relentless tide.
Inside Nova Corps headquarters, Irani Rael stands bloodied but unbowed. Her blaster hums, cutting through Outriders' ranks.
Admiral Tal fights beside her, grim-faced. "Hold the line!"
Irani shouts, broadcasting pleas for Republic aid. Her voice echoes through comms, desperate. "Xandar has fallen! Jedi, Republic, anyone—help us!" The signal crackles, fading.
Outside, Ebony Maw leads the ground assault, black robes swirling. His telekinesis hurls Nova soldiers, bones snapping.
Sidious' dark touch fuels the Kree's ferocity, their blades gleaming with unnatural hate.
Xandar's marble headquarters trembles, walls cracking under bombardment. Screams echo, blood pooling on polished floors.
Irani reloads, her face set. "For Nova!" she roars, rallying troops as Chitauri drones breach the gates.
Tal's blaster jams; an Outrider's claw grazes her. Irani pulls her back, firing, her courage a fading beacon.
The tide turns, unstoppable. A shadow looms at the entrance, massive, unyielding—Thanos, the Mad Titan.
His armor glints, dwarfing the chaos. Each step shakes the floor, his presence a void swallowing hope.
Nova soldiers charge, blasters flashing. Thanos swats them like insects, their bodies crumpling against shattered pillars.
Irani locks eyes with him, defiant. "You'll never break us," she spits, raising her blaster, hands steady.
Thanos' low growl rumbles, chilling. "Your empire is dust," he says, striding through laser fire unscathed.
Maw watches, smirking, his loyalty absolute.
Thanos reaches Irani, towering. His hand snaps out, seizing her throat, lifting her like a ragdoll.
She chokes, vision dimming, but her voice holds. "The Nova… will rise…" she gasps, eyes burning.
Thanos sneers, his grip tightening. Her neck snaps, a sickening crack echoing in the ruined hall.
He tosses her corpse aside, lifeless on blood-stained marble. Tal screams, firing wildly, but the Chitauri overwhelm her.
Thanos turns, unmoved, his voice a command. "Burn it all," he orders, his army surging forward.
Maw bows, robes billowing. "As you will, my lord," he purrs, telekinesis shattering the headquarters' core.
Xandar's skies choke with smoke, golden spires collapsing. The Nova Corps' heart stops, its defenders broken.
Irani's comms unit, clutched in her dead hand, still hums. Her final plea reaches Knowhere, a ghost's cry.
Thanos steps over bodies, plucking the communicator from her cold dead hand.
The headquarters burns, marble scorched black. Chitauri howl, Kree ships blotting out the stars above.
Irani's defiance lingers, a spark in the wreckage. Her death marks Thanos' wrath, a menace unchained.
Xandar's streets flood with invaders, citizens fleeing. The Nova Empire crumbles, its light snuffed out.
Thanos pauses, armor gleaming in the inferno. He activates Irani's comms, his voice set to haunt whoever is on the other end.
"Whoever this may be, know that you'll be next—" He snarled, his massive hand pulverizing the comms, heedless of any response from the other side.
A/N: 2005 words :)
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