Talking Shop

December 29, 2016:

Peter Quill needs a busted rocket boot fixed, and rather than trust his esteemed associate by the same name, goes to check out a local, promising mechanic.

Gotham Bay - South Point - Kinsey's Garage


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Groot


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

Finding places that will actually fix his level of tech on Terra is kinda difficult. That Stark guy did it, but he had a feeling it meant he owed someone something. Since /that/ wasn't the best of things for one Peter Quill he decided this time to try something /new/. Something fresh! Something…

…something where he didn't have to travel to a different city for because he was lazy.

And possibly slightly hungover.

But he boots needed repairs, and he wasn't quite sure Rocket wouldn't rig them with something to make them explode. So he went looking for someone that /might/ be able to help. Which, after a bit of digging, is how he found mention of a high tech shop right in Gotham!


He was on his way there now.

He brought Rocket with him for backup, also because the engineer was likely bored.

"So, that gemthing that I had you hide in your mouth and we used to make the cocoa? Yeah. Apparently some magical soulgem thing." He is saying to his friend as he saunters up towards the shop. "…and it had some hot chick inside it this whole time."


Rocket might be a little put off that Quill isn't trusting him to fix up his dumb boots. After all, if he wants anything to explode, it'd be done so intentionally. The main problem would be finding adequate parts to replace whatever's busted. Thus far, Rocket's not been very impressed with the tech around here. But he's been /very/ bored, yes. He's had to resort to buying (cheap) power tools to gut for parts, and as a result may or may not have cobbled together a few explosives, which in his opinion are still weak in terms of explosive yield. Blowing up buildings is nowhere the level of explosive power that he's used to handling, and it's very disappointing.

"What? No kiddin'…" he comments, furry brows arching as Quill idly mentions the funny gem they'd had from who-knows-where. "Thought it had a funny aftertaste." Shrugging, he comes to a halt as they find the shop in question. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jacket- no one's asked where he's scrounged up the money for some Terran clothing so he's not bothered to tell anyone- and he glances between said place and Star-Lord.

"So where's she now? And what was she doin' in there anyway? Sure she's not some vengeful demon or something? Oh, and this the place?"


The shop does not /look/ high-tech.

It doesn't even look like a shop.

It's a warehouse, or at least it was at some point in its recent history, which makes sense, given its location in South Point along the waterfront of Gotham Bay. A warehouse with massive, retrofitted bay doors. The only indication that this is a business — aside from what's visible through the two open bay doors, perhaps — are large, plain laser-cut steel letters stuck to the front of the exterior, spelling out 'G A R A G E.'

The interior is expansive. There are pits and bays for at least ten normal vehicles, and two areas in the back for things considerably larger than that, including markings on the floor to indicate space for a personal aircraft. The building itself is not new, but the white, polished, sealed concrete floors are, and so is much of the equipment, with only the more pedestrian items looking well-worn or second-hand.

In the far back on the right is a small enclosed building of sorts, accessible on a second-story level via a set of metal stairs.

There is blues-rock playing on speakers mounted to one sidewall, and the sound of some power tool or other whining and clattering a little bit further in — probably roughly in the vicinity of the old Volkswagon with the pair of long legs sticking out from underneath it. The legs are jean-clad, and the jeans are smeared with grease.


"Well she's vengeful all right," Quill cuts a roguish smirk towards the Raccoon. "But she'll come around." He /would/ tug on the collar of his jacket, but its strangely missing. In its place is something of brown leather instead of red, and not quite cut right either. "They always come around."

"But naw, she's human. Or at least mostly human. She's got some damn scaled bird dragon thing as a buddy, and is apparently staying with Zee now." A pause. "Oh and so is Thor. Long story."

Yeah. The Asgardians found them.

Thankfully the place is here so he doesn't have to explain. Perfect timing. A quirked eyebrow as he glances around the expansive room inside. "Huh, you could fit the Milano inside here I bet."

The sounds from the corner draw his attention and he jerks his head in that general direction. One dufflebag over his shoulder, his pistols at his side(no one told him it wasn't good to wear them around yet) and a grin on his face he ambles in that direction.

The legs are noted, and a moment passes as he tries to figure out if they belong to a guy, a gal, or other.

Other is totally a thing when dealing with aliens.

"So," He drawls over the smooth tones of blues-rock echoing in the building. "Heard this was a place to come if you want something fixed up."


"Huh." Yup, that's all he has to say in regards to hot chicks that come from mysterious gems. It's really nothing all that crazy, given all the stuff they've seen and gone through out beyond Terra. "Oh, you found Thor then. Now why were we trying to find Thor? Darcy didn't explain that one, but I think that's cuz you didn't much explain it to her. She did let me sit in her lap though," he smirks, poking his head inside the warehouse-garage.

Looking around in quiet assessment of the place, he nods his agreement. Did look big enough to house that ship. Maybe. They could probably make it work if the had to.

The raccoon that says he's not follows after his humanoid compadre, still looking around, you know, just in case anything Really Interesting might catch his eye. They do come to rest for a moment on those legs poking out of the Volkswagon, probably considering the same thing as Quill.


The ratcheting-whining-whirring-thudding sound stops. There is a clank as something underneath the car is set down, and the owner of the jean-legs with the Adidas shell-toe sneakers — definitely gal, unless guy or other has been uncommonly blessed with a feminine shape — slides out from beneath the old vehicle. A worn-out t-shirt in dark blue with a design on the front long since worn down to illegibility follows, and then a head, confirming gal, topped with dark hair done up in a messy, falling-apart bun. There is a long drill bit stuck through it.

Kinsey curls to sit up on the low, rolling backrest, and squints with hazel eyes across the distance, trying to wring oil off of her hands with a rag that looks as though it has been employed in that capacity all day.

Smiles, bright and friendly, a pearly flash in a face that also has some dark smudges on it. "Can I help y—"

She gets that far before she notices Rocket.

He must get that a /lot/. Kinsey isn't really any different, instant surprise, followed by clearly evident curiosity, and then the realization that she's staring and it's rude. Extranormals are not unfamiliar territory to her: you work for the Knightwatch for a time, you learn how wide the universe can be. So her smile turns apologetic, awkward. /Sorry!/

Still, though. A raccoon.

Where was she? "…uh, you?" Right. There you go. Good job, Kinze.


Quill just waits for her to regain that balance looking her up and down as he does so. Well she definitely looks the part of some kind of engineer. It's not really the surprise she shows at seeing Rocket that is unexpected, there is always surprise at seeing Rocket. /He/ was surprised when he saw Rocket. No, the fact that she got over it so fast is what catches his attention.

That means they might actually /have/ come to the right place.

"I think you just might," He drawls out easily as he lowers the duffel to the concrete slab that is the floor. "I'm Star-lord," Yup. He said it. With that rake's grin slashing easily across his face. "And this here is Rocket." He nods towards the raccoon with a grin. "We were just looking for someone that might be able to help us with a little bit of repair work. Seems you have the place for it."


Brow arching at the woman that's unfolded herself from the car, he waits almost expectantly for her to finish, maybe even quietly daring her to say anything otherwise. Terrans. But to her favor, the mechanic rallies on. Not very gracefully, but the shift in her expression is well-noted, given a shrug that might suggest there's no hard feelings. For now, anyway. She's got a few points more than others have by way of first impressions.

Rocket rolls his eyes as Quill introduces himself without a flinch- really, Star-Lord's as cheesy as a guy can get. "Yo," he says on cue as Star-Lord namedrops his, and he steps over closer, hands slipping from his pockets so he can fold his arms in front of him.


"Star…Lord? You're uh…nobility, or, something?" Kinsey looks down at her hands and the curve of her mouth tugs down into a small frown when she realizes she hasn't been wiping them clean so much as smearing the mess around with a rag that hit its limit about two hours ago. She tosses it off to the side on a tray of tools laid out on a towel, gets to her feet. Something about the movement is…not entirely natural. Not natural for a human being, anyway, though it might be difficult to pinpoint why without extrasensory assistance. Too smooth? Too something.

So his her walk, though that's a little easier to pin down: it's too smooth. "I'm Kinsey," she says, drawing up to conversational distance. "Sheridan. I'd, uh, shake your hands, but…" She holds them up, splay-fingered, for both of them to see: all of that oil crud. "I'm guessing you'd rather pass."

Looping slender thumbs into the outer corners of her back pockets, she glances from one to the other, then back again. "Well, I'd like to think I can handle whatever you throw at me, but I get the feeling you two aren't in the market for an oil change." Her smile tilts up to one side, a little wry. Beneath thick fans of dark lash, though, those pale, golden eyes are glittering with restrained excitement. The possibility of a real challenge works on her like a whetstone. "Why don't you tell me what you've got?"


Funny thing is that he /is/ nobility.

He just has no idea he is.

"Naw, just like the sound of it." He waves that off before reaching out to take that splay fingered hand in a shake. Apparently oil-crud doesn't bother him. When you live with Reavers you get used to stuff like that.

"Doesn't bother me any, Kinsey." He adds as he tries to puzzle out the oddness in her walk. Or he just really likes watching her walk. Its hard to tell which sometimes. There is a galace towards Rocket, to see if he caught it too before he question brings his attention back towards the oil-smeared machine doc.

"Easier to show ya." He adds as he reaches into a dufflebag. Out comes a boot. Heavy, encrusted with metal pieces, maneuver verners and control surfaces. Its not your typical boot in the least. "Don't suppose you have any experience with Xandarian rocket tech?"

It should be noted there is also the imprint of what looks like a very large hand crushed into the metal around the ankle would be.

…don't ever piss of Caitlin.


Oh, he's watching her- and not in entirely the same way as Quill might be. He flicks a glance in the man's direction, meeting that look briefly before he's looking back at Kinsey. An ear twitches, but he says nothing, although once Quill's done with a handshake, Rocket'll offer his own hand and maybe shake a finger or something- save them both the trouble. And maybe satisfy something of curiosity.

"He won't let me touch 'em because he thinks it'll end up a bomb. Which is dumb, because I'd rather just salvage what's left and make a bomb than make a boot that looks like one."


Kinsey's handshake is firm, brisk. She was military, and then government intelligence, and then something else altogether, so it is neither shy nor sloppy. She shakes Quill's hand readily, and then Rocket's, too, when he offers it.

The hand has warmth, yield. But for Rocket, it also has secrets.

Not that Kinsey knows that. Her attention is affixed entirely on the object that Quill retrieves from his bag, the fluorescent glare of the brilliant hangar lights sparkling off of /things/. So many things. Bits. Pieces. Her heart leaps in her chest, pulse ushered along on a tide of professional adrenaline. Almost immediately, she's reaching out to touch it, pick it up, turn it over. It doesn't matter that it's a boot. A boot that contained the Star-nob's sweaty, probably stinky man-feet. It's /beautiful/.

Kinsey processes what Rocket is saying only belatedly, and then double-takes downward, surprise yielding to humor. Her laugh is quick, warm, like a shot of whiskey, and she cocks one well-kept brow at Star-lord. "Well, he's got a point," she says. Who wants a boot-shaped bomb?

"I honestly wouldn't know if I've seen Xandarian technology before or not. I've worked with extraterrestrial and extradimensional technology, but it was always catalogued by identification numbers for security reasons."

She wants tools. She cradles the boot in one arm like a baby, and wanders off toward the side of the hanger, banks of tool chests standing all against one part of that wall. It's one of the least-used of these that she wants. It contains…things.

Strange and delicate things.

"So you're a demolitionist?" Presumably, that's a question for Rocket.


"Neither of you are helping the whole 'not giving my boot to Rocket' idea," Quill retorts with a smirk. "I want it back in one piece. Not exploded, or salvaged!" A shake of his head before he sighs, and he /would/ ask if she can fix it…

…but it's already disappeared. And the woman is already trotting off to get her tools. "I'm going to take that as a yes, you can fix it." Though the last part of her comment causes him to raise an eyebrow. "Huh. Government job? No loooves numbers and filing stuff than governments." A glance at Rocket. "I'm pretty sure they just make up the numbers because they don't want to go ask what all the stuff really is and look like idiots to the rest of the galaxy."

With a typical lack of shame the pilot does follow Six over towards her wall of tools, trying to get a peek into her box more out of idle curiosity than anything else. "I'm pretty sure Rocket here can make anything into something that explodes given enough time."


The raccoon grins crookedly at Kinsey. And then he watches, maybe a little amused at the attention and….maybe even reverence? with which she treats the busted rocket-boot. Trailing after the both of them as Kinsey seems set to dig right into the thing, Rocket shrugs, even as Quill replies.

"What can I say. It's a hobby. That may or may not have been nurtured from inhumane, scientific experimentation. I could probably turn that car me an' Groot claimed into a sweet piece of instant destruction but I figure we might need the wheels. Pfeh. Wheels. I'm surrounded by the eternal reminder of how grounded people are in this place."


"The government bit was a regrettable necessity. You can't get your hands on the really good stuff here without making some compromises to supervision." As she speaks, Kinsey is opening and closing drawers, quickly enough to give only glimpses of the contents. There are some things that would be immediately recognizable to someone familiar with 'typical' spacecraft — some things that are universal, and decidedly not terrestrial — but there are other things that look custom made, and more than a few things that look like medical equipment. Of the kind that people talk about when they return from 3 days in the woods, talking about little men with big, grey heads and bulging eyes. They look sharp. And pointy. And maybe like they're meant to go places that nobody wants sharp and pointy things to go.

'Inhumane, scientific experimentation' causes a little hitch in her otherwise smooth and efficient search through her drawers. Kinsey pauses, drawer half-drawn-out, and looks over her shoulder at Rocket, something complicated in her face. Disturbed, upset, in a muted sort of way. Pity? Or grief. Or /guilt/. She seems to hesitate on the verge of saying something, and then seems to decide against it, returning to her rooting around.

"Who is Groot? Someone else from — is it Xandar? Xandaria? X— oh, here we go." The case she retrieves is black and matte, long and flat. She takes both it and the boot over to a table spread with bits of something else, which she sweeps impatiently off to one side.


"Naw, none of us are from Xandar. We just crashed there…" Peter lets out a bright burst of laughter at that. "…actually we really /did/ crash there didn't we, Rocket?" A smirk at that before he turns back to the talk at hand. "But anyway, we are from all over the galaxy. Technically I'm from the midwest here in the states." He adds wryly with a slight shrug. Crazy ain't it.

He does watch with intrest as Kinsey starts her work, impatiently from the look of it. Silently he slides a second boot out of the bag and just sets it on the side of the table for her. Don't want to interrupt the master too much.

He caught that look from her, and its noted. However she doesn't seem like she's reaching for a phone to call the scientists in to strap them both to tables. So Quill makes no mention of it.

…and if she does, well it'll give Rocket something to blow up.

Besides, there are more important things to focus on right now.

"You and Groot have a /car/? Then why the hell did we walk here?!"


With all those delectable tools of trade in the drawers, it shouldn't be any surprise that Rocket gravitates closer to that end of the workspace. He'll even try tugging them open to get a better gander at the contents, at least unless he's shooed off, in which case it would be with great reluctance.

"Pal'uv mine," he says, not branching out on the subject of Groot since he doesn't see much reason to. Besides, Quill answered the other half of Kinsey's question. "All met there too, actually." The raccoon sighs as though reminiscing the good ol' days. And they kinda were, save for the whole getting thrown into another jail and then saddled with the responsibility of an ancient energy source that could obliterate all life on a planet. No biggie.

Another look is thrown at Quill, followed by a shrug. "'cuz you didn't ask? Anyway, I needa work on it some. I can't use the peddles without sitting on someone's lap." Which explains why he'd sat on Darcy's, if he'd been asked about it. "Groot takes too much space, and you know how he is at driving. -okay, actually you don't, but you can picture it, and it's not a good idea."


Kinsey does /not/ shoo Rocket, but she keeps an eye on him. That end set of drawers contains equipment she might actually die to protect.

It's also situated beneath a security camera that appears to be avidly tracking his position, and beneath the security camera is a small, white box with a single black hole in the front. The purpose of that hole is not clear.

"Ever since learning that there were people from places other than Earth," Kinsey says, her tone drifting toward distraction as she begins to delicately dismantle the destroyed exterior pieces of the boot, "I've asked myself if I'd travel to some of those places, given half a chance. I never could make up my mind. There's already so much we don't understand about the world I live in…I don't know how I'd cope with so many other words obeying so many other rules. My head might explode."

Deft fingers manipulate delicate tools, exposing fine mechanisms, electronics, energy sources she'd never find here. She sets the tools down, and lightly places her fingertips on the exposed nervous system of the boot, eyes distant. Maybe overcome with wonder. /Awe./

…which isn't really what's happening at all. Inside, motes of Kinsey's consciousness are trickling down through her arm, her fingertips, into the boot, and expanding through the damaged systems like ink through a series of transparent conduits, creating a map as she goes. The Thing becomes a Place. Circuits and links that might have taken her hours to puzzle out the purpose of reveal themselves, and all the while the AI in her skull catalogues everything.

This takes…some seconds. Long enough for it to get a little /weird/, maybe.


"So thats how you sweet talked Darcy into it," Quill gets it now. "She wouldn't have to walk." He knows better than to ask where the raccoon got the car. Its just asking for trouble if he asks. So he doesn't ask. Its enough for him that no one is after them for theft and he doesn't have have to deal with any of it.

"Mmmm, its not /so/ different most places. Basics are the same at least. I mean sometimes you run into places where physics don't work the same as other places, but that's not too often. The sights you can see though. That makes it all worth it."

Now what sights Peter Quill thinks are 'worth it' might be highly debatable.

By then though she's going silent and…staring at the boots. A quirk of an eyebrow. They aren't /that/ awesome, I mean they are his and therefor inherently awesome, but they don't need to be oogled at like that.

Do they?

"You have any idea what she's doing?" He asides to Rocket as his eyes slide towards the engineer. And he pauses. Glances at his friend. Then meaningfully up at the camra and mysterious box.

…don't break anything while she's trancing on my boots dangit!


No trouble at all! The car'd only been sitting on that curb for the past how many weeks. Rocket was watching. Surely anyone who cared about the thing would've moved it by now. Anyway, he cared more so now it's their's.

Having not been denied his curiosity, the little Guardian fishes about through the drawers. He picks up something now and then, eyeing it before setting it back to grab at something else. And then he pauses as Quill speaks up, finally looking over at Kinsey. Well she /had/ gotten pretty quiet.

"…either she's just really never seen a space boot before or the smell finally caught up with her. Or the fact that she's been touching someone's stinkin' boot." Even as he offers these explanations, he's watching the woman shrewdly. His hands close upon another funky tool which he pulls out, turning it side to side. "What's this thing do?"


"Sorry…" She sounds absent, and then sharpens slowly. "Sorry, I was just…thinking. I'm sure this is old hat for the two of you, working on things like this, but it's the exception down here, not the rule. I wouldn't want to screw up your things by confusing it with some other kind of architecture I've worked with, right?"

Raking loose strands of hair impatiently back into her hairline, she plucks tools and does…/things/ to the boots, gradually resurrecting circuitry in areas that haven't been outright smashed by — what even /could/ have done this? Was he run over by a herd of elephants?

She's so distracted, so caught up in what she's doing, that she forgets to turn her head to look at the tool that Rocket is holding before saying, "It's for expanding synthetic webbing designed to harness electrochemical impulses across muscle tissue." Hazel eyes remain riveted to the boot. This boot is the best thing to happen to her /all week./


Alright. That seems like a logical normal explaination for what she was doing. So Peter, self proclaimed Star-lord, he just rolls with it. Nodding slowly as he leans up against the wall. "So curious here, what are we gonna owe you for this? I mean I'm up for a bit of negotiation and all. Dinner with me, ride in the Milano, just boring cash money." He grins once more as he watches her work. At least right up until she answers Rocket without even looking behind her.

That causes him to raise not one but both eyebrows and glance towards the engineer. Well that was interesting. Does she have eyes in the back of her head?

"So you understands what that means Rockeand those boots don't smell that bawait. Used them to kick demons. They might."


Rocket's looking at her again, and frankly could care less about whether the boot gets even worse or not, because it's not the end of the world. Once Kinsey starts to work on the thing, he frowns a little, because as cautious sounding as she'd been, the woman sure seems to know /exactly/ what she wanted to do as she picked through those circuits.

It's because he's watching her that he knows she hasn't been looking at all at him while he's been rooting around those drawers. Truthfully he hadn't even taken a good look at it himself, but at a glance it hadn't looked very familiar. Now he does look at it, although he keeps Kinsey in his peripheral.

"Oh yeah~" he muses, fingering his chin as though it's obvious to him now that she's clarified what the tool's for. And maybe to him it might be, given his particular understanding of things. "Across muscle tissue, eh…" He brings a clawed finger to trace the tool's lines before he sets it back in the box, breaking away to grab another unfamiliar thing. "And this one?" he asks, looking again at her. He's just found a new game.


Tiny tools like dentistry equipment stitch cables together, straighten bent pins. Confident, quick movements. The map of every mechanism remains luminescent in the dark theater of her skull.

"Hah," she says, to Star-lord's offer of dinner. "I'll take the boring cash money, please. I have bills to pay. Or alternately, something that I can turn into boring cash money. Or, if you've got something you think I might find /really/ interesting, from an engineering perspective, we might be able to negotiate. But the materials I'm going to need to fix these — " She gestures with the hand she's been holding the boot steady with, indicating the bent parts she removed earlier, "— are not materials naturally found on this planet. Mind you, I can get them, but they're expensive. That's the risk you run when you wind up in a place like this, I guess. Like driving a German car in Tokyo. It's gonna cost you." She keeps this unhurried rambling up, something for her mouth to do while her hands and several other bits of her cognition are busy with the boots.

When Rocket asks her that second question, there is an oh-so-brief pause in the movement of slim fingers, a tiny hitch, like a skip in a record. "It's a replacement lens for a microscope," she says, working onward.

But it isn't. It's very clearly not that.


"Suit yourself," Peter relies as he leans there to smile towards her. "Boring money it is." He can figure out how to get that boring money eventually. Until then he has some Asgardian gold as a stipend so that'll have to do. "Though we sometimes have things that might be interesting enough to pass your inspection. Rocket builds stuff in his sleep sometimes. I have no idea what they do." He glances towards the raccoon as he smirks slightly. "And we might be able to provide some of the materials if you can provide the know-how."

At her response to Rocket though he eyes the item, then eyes the raccoon again. I mean he knows next to nothing about what that is, but he's pretty sure that's not what she said.

Maybe the first one was a fluke?


"See Quill, she's just like us. Money's where it's really at. Makes the galaxy go 'round. Or desperate people do crazy things." Rocket idly twirls the tool currently in his hand. "Not like we figured you'd have any Iridean fuses lying around. I coulda told him he just needed to either downgrade and work with what we can find, or go break into a military compound or a space center." Because those two places are the best bet for some hi-tech gadgetry.

Brows raised at Kinsey's next response, he looks from her to the tool he's holding, obvious doubt on his face. "You don't say," he comments flatly. "Terra must got some straaange microscopes. Or maybe that's why they're so behind in technical advancement." He hands the tool off to Quill before using a couple of the lower drawer handles to lever himself up to pull a higher one out. His eyes are wandering the rest of the place as he does so, since he can't really see what all's over his head. Just like a grabby, curious five year old.

"Most of the time? They're stuff to blow things up," he admits, grinning Quill-wards. "Oh yeah, I stashed a bunch of stuff under the couch, so don't jump on it."


"In his sleep, huh?" One of Kinsey's brows goes up, and she looks over her shoulder with one canny hazel eye visible between strands of pitch dark bang, appraising the raccoon with the smart mouth and the dry wit. "Maybe throw in dinner with Rocket, then."

Instead of Star-lord? What kind of heresy..?

Her turned head allows her to look at the object he was holding, and she adopts a girlish expression of playful rue, giving them both a shrug. "Well, there are about a hundred tools in that drawer. Can't get it right every time."

She finishes whatever it was she was doing, whatever specific task, and sets that tool aside, straightening, hands pressed into the curve of her lower back, coaxing a quiet pop out of one of her vertebrae. "You know, it sounds like he could've fixed these just fine, and I bet he wouldn't have charged you as much as I'm going to. Is this all some kind of clandestine ruse, or something?" Good-humored skepticism rolls out across her pale, expressive face. "Not that I have the foggiest idea what you'd be after."


"Hey, whatever floats your boat and gets us a price break." Quill shoots back with a grin before he looks towards Rocket with a smirk. "Well I don't know where may military compounds are to borrow things from. Not that I think they would be taking requests." A pause. "Not that its ever stopped me before either." He adds with a wicked grin.

He takes the tool, tossing it up and catching it idly. Movements calm, measured, his reflexes are top notch even if he seems to have little control of his mouth.

His eyes slide back towards Six with a grin. "You got me, I heard there was a pretty mechanic in the area and couldn't help but find out if the rumors were true or not." He says as his eyes dance with humor. He's confident at least. That's gotta count for something.


"Hey, I'd take that offer," Rocket quips. He certainly won't say no to a date night, especially when he's ninety-five percent sure that if he asked any girl they'd just be all 'aw yer cute' and not take him seriously. Another thing he hated about Terra. It was like people never saw talking whatever-he-wases around here.

His fingers close around something else and he pulls it out, squinting at it before he drops it back into the drawer for something else. "Oh, you never know. Us bein' stuck here and all, my demands run pretty high." Most of his usual entertainment was either inaccessible or disapproved of on this planet. Chances are it'd probably be disapproved on other planets too, but it seems ten times worse here.

Casting a look towards Kinsey, he shakes his head. "He's always like this."


"It's not about boat-floating. It's about professional interest. It's not every day I meet an engineer from space," retorts the woman with the dark hair, pivoting around to lean one hip against the worktable, lean arms folding across her ribs. She tosses the raccoon who is /standing on her toolchest drawers oh my god/ a little lash-flutter of a wink. Apparently extraterrestrial technology is enough to get her visitors a considerable amount of leeway that she wouldn't typically accord to anyone else.

Even for someone like Star-lord. She tilts her head, angles him a wryly patient look, one leg crossing loosely over the other in her lean. "Mmmhm. Flattery doesn't decrease the sticker price, sorry. I've got a bottom line. Don't get me wrong…" More of a head-tilt, an assessing trickle of gold-green eyes, "You /are/ pretty cute, but I've already dated somebody just like you, I think. Twice." She crinkles a nose sprayed with freckles like pale constellations, lets the coral curve of her mouth finally adopt a full smile, knowing and underpinned with mischief. "Learned my lesson the second time, obviously."

'He's always like this,' Rocket says.

"I was getting that impression."

After a beat, she pushes one of her shoulders back a little, a twist of the torso that indicates the bench behind her without forcing her to unfold her arms. "Unfortunately, I can't do the rest of this tonight. I'll have to reshape some things, and if I can't do that without snapping the really bent ones, I'll have to fabricate them. You have some contact information so I can let you know when it's finished?"


"Don't know any other way to be, Rocket." Confirms Quill as he laughs. One last catch of that tool before he reaches out to place it on the table. Then a pause before he smirks towards Rocket. "And see. She thinks I'm cute." Yup. Trust Quill to focus on the most important part of a statement. There is a smirk back towards Six though before he shrugs. "I'd say you've never met a man like me, but you've obviously heard that at least once before." He returns her smile though, laughter in his eyes. "So I'll say instead I got my secrets. Sounds better like that anyway."

His eyes slide across her form to the table there and he nods. "Honestly I'm just glad I found someone round here who doesn't try to tackle us and take us to some higher authority, or run gibbering from us when Rocket there opens his mouth."

A pause before he searches over the coat and pulls out a cellphone. Looks new at least. "Well yeah, I can give you that. We can hash out a price later. Once we settle a few other things. Cellphone work or you prefer an address?"


At least he's light! Rocket smiles slyly at Kinsey in return. "Well, payment or not, I wouldn't mind dinner with some interesting company," he says. "Whaddya say? You dated two of him already, so how about some time with a one of a kind guy like me?"

He flicks a look at Quill. "Cute, but yer a repeat, Quill. You needa get some new lines." Although he doesn't argue about being glad to find people who don't flip out upon first sight and hearing him talk. Seems like a good number of the ladies they've met have been pretty accepting of that! And all hot to boot!


"Phone's fine, as long as you make sure you pick up when I call. You don't come to pay, you don't get'em back. And don't think," she adds, bundling the boots up and carrying them across to a longer bench beside the tool chests, "That you can just get in here and steal them back. I'm not going to report you for all of that /theft/ talk, but trust me: you don't wanna poke your noses in here without my say-so."

She sets the boots down, plucks a thin phone up from the same counter, and thumbs the screen on, flashing the pair a look that makes it difficult to tell whether she's bluffing or not. "And if you do? Don't say I didn't warn you."

A few flicks of the thumb, and she has the screen she needs. "Alright, I'm ready for the number. Numbers?" The additional question implies she's not joking about dinner with Rocket, though she is decidedly silent on the subject of whether or not it's a /date/.

How would that even — what would —

She just decides not to think about it.


"As long as I'm not dead I'll pick up," Comes the easy reply from Quill. He grins slightly wider though, eyes twinkling at the threat. Some people might be angry, some intimidated. He is just amused. "Listen to her Rocket, she might make a good Guardian." He adds towards the engineer as he tosses her the numbers in rapid succession.

It spells out 'Str-lord'

Because of course it does.

A glance at Rocket then as he quirks an eye. If he wants to give her the number, Quill isn't gonna say no. "Have at then, fuzzybutt. And my lines are just fine! They are classics. Nothing wrong with classics."


Rocket digs into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a phone, tapping at it a few times before he gets it to the right screen. Stupid claws. These things are /not/ made with creatures like him in mind!

"You just keep tellin' yerself that, Quill," he says. And hey, if Kinsey hasn't objected to the matter of it being a date, it is totally a date. He grins, rattling off his number to her. It's nothing special, but he's not Cheese Lord.


It's as Kinsey is entering the number into her phone that she realizes there's something about it that has been bothering her, something tickling at her memory every time he's said his name. Star-lord. Star-lord.


Golden-green eyes rise slowly from the white glow of her phone's screen, examining the man with the jacket more closely, lips parted by the slow surprise of her revelation. The memory plays itself back for her whether she wants it to or not; of the peculiar intruder to her garage late the other night with her disturbing lack of causality-permanence and her strange job offer.

What she'd said as she left.

("?Oh, and one more ting, maybe call it, first bit of business. Godlings got this man in a cage down here, think they got the only discretion, yeah? Something bout he touched on some girl or.. I dunno wot but, anywho… he goes by Star-Prince. Guess he's some kind of royalty, but not related to Kings or Queens. If you run into Peter FUCKING Quill, you give us a call fam. He's got whole crews lookin' to merc him, best we find him first for bounty that will be kinder. /Believe/.")

Pearled teeth push into the cushion of her lower lip, her expression taking a turn for the pensive, maybe even slightly worried.

When she stirs again, it's to take Rocket's number down, and only after that does she slip her phone into her back pocket and pose her question, looking at both of them from over the top of gracile but oil-stained fingers, curled thoughtfully in front of her chin. "So…have the two of you ever heard of something called The Agency?"


There is a quirk of an eyebrow at that question. Peter Quill frowns just slightly. "Darlin, that's a leading question if I ever heard one." He finally replies as he leans back against a convenient table. One hand crosses across his chest, the other braced with his hand held by the opposing and his elbow just gently resting on the butt of one of his paired pistols.

"I haven't heard of anything called The Agency. But they sound either law enforcement, which…barring the Nova Corps…don't seem to have much appreciation for me or my friends. Or mercenaries. Or bounty hunters. None of which are really known to be friendly." His eyes are curious now, just wondering where she heard that name.

"Rocket? You run into them? You and Groot were hunters before we met up." A pause before he smirks and looks back towards Six. "They were trying to collect a bounty on me."

…he seems oddly proud of that fact.


"I get your number too?" Because that's only a fair question to ask! Rocket arches a brow at the woman before glancing at Quill. Frankly he's not sure where that question's leading either. He can't not agree with what his fellow Guardian guesses at, however.

"Heh, trying? We would'a gotten it too, if Nova Corp hadn't picked us up. We did all the work for them!" Snorting, he taps a finger on the side of his phone. After all that they still weren't filthy stinking rich. …although right now they were at least hanging out in a swanky mansion with free booze.

"But yeah, I ain't heard of no 'The Agency.' Either they got no imagination or they think the capital letters- I'm assuming there are capital letters on that- are all the intimidation needed."


Kinsey, listening, roots in a drawer and comes up with a scrap of paper and a pen. This, she scrawls her number onto, tossing the pen aside with a clatter and handing it down to Rocket, though she's listening to them all the while. Good at multitasking, is Kinsey Sheridan.

A lush smirk follows Rocket's observation. "Right? It's an awful name. I told their representative I thought so, and she said it was 'Agency.' As in, 'free will.' She wasn't making a lot of sense. She was /really/ vague. But she was also nanoaugmented to the point that I was completely unable to distinguish where her cellular biology and the machinery began or ended. Full integration."

The memory of it prompts her to shake her head, threading her (still oily) hands back into the even darker rills of glossy dark hair, barely at this point staying corralled into the messy bun in the back.

"She came to give me a job offer. Which is /really/ flattering, and…anyway. But I don't like how vague they were being. And I've just remembered that they mentioned you. Pretty sure it's you. She said 'Star-Prince,' but if you're actually also 'Peter Fucking Quill,' then it's for-sure you. She said there were a lot of people after a bounty on you, but that this Agency would treat you better, and I ought to turn you over. But…"

She stands a long moment, then shrugs lissome shoulders, looking a bit deflated. "I'm not really a 'sell people for cash' kinda girl." Pause. Glance at Rocket. "No, uh, no offense, or anything."


"We are all agreed then, its a horrible name." The man introduced as 'Star-lord' replies. Then a sigh as he rakes his hands though his dirty blonde hair as frowns. "But yeah. I'm Peter fucking Quill." His confession comes with a smirk as he looks back up towards her. "Full integration borg eh? Rocket you'd love to get your hands on that wouldn't you?" This time a grin for Rocket as his mind swirls with possibilities of what might be happening.

"Agency. Free-will. Sounds like a load of bullshit to me. What do you think? Hunters looking to cash in on our bounty first?" He glances at Rocket as he asks this, though his mind is working in overdrive at this point.

"But yeah, there are a fair few people out there who want a piece of me. Not for anything too serious, except Yondu." A smirk.

Dear old sorta dad. Pissed that Peter screwed him out of a big deal. Pissed, but a secretly proud Peter is betting.

Not that it'll stop him from killing him if he catches up to him.

He is quiet for a bit then nods slowly. "Thanks, Kinsey. Really. Most people we know would sell us out so it means something." He pauses though and glances at Rocket. "The question is what to do about it."


Kinsey saves him the trouble of plugging in numbers then and there, so Rocket takes that slip of paper with a grateful grin before he tucks both that and his phone back into his pocket. "Nanoaugmented, eh?" He whistles lowly. "Not something common around here though, is it?" He smirks back at Quill. "You know me too well. I mean, it'd be something to do at least! But yeah, I dunno. I mean, are they specifically after /you/? Who all around here knows…well, /cares/ what all you did out there? Unless you really did do something here that really pissed someone off. Not entirely impossible, right?"

They take it in stride pretty well, having a bounty on their heads. Or on a friend's head. It's kind of become normal.

"Eh, none taken," Rocket says to Kinsey, his smile faint but lopsided. "'sides, I wouldn't do it to Quill now. We've been through a lotta crap together."


"I don't think they're /from/ here." Something in Kinsey's tone implies understatement. "This girl was blinking in and out of existence. And I had an eye on her from multiple angles. Some of the versions of her stopped existing. As in, she was existing in multiple causalities at the same time. That's extradimensional technology. Whoever this outfit belongs to, it's not ours. Not Earth."

Which is what makes it so /interesting/.

Placing her palms on the countertop, she gives a little push of the feet and slides up to sit on it, heels dangling against. Fingers curl over the counter's edge, nails kept neat but necessarily short for her work drilling against the inside of the cabinet. "You know, I'm retired— " She stops, realizes, backtracks with a short breath of a laugh. "Uh, from my old job. Military R and D. Tech intelligence…stuff. But I'd say since you know they're looking for you now, if you can arrange some kind of preliminary precautions, the best way to find out who they are and what they want is probably going to be meeting them. I could arrange that, obviously. And I'm curious to know who they are, too. You'd just have to be /really sure/ you could get away if things looked bad for you."


"I have no idea what the hell they could want from me, I mean its not like we've done anything bad to anyone but Yondu." A pause. "Recently." A longer pause. "And no one from this solar system." Then she explains and he just sighs.

"Yeah, that sounds like some serious outfit. And definitely from out of town. Kicking down their door would be a nice angle, but since we don't know where they are…yeah. Might as well see what they want."

A smirk then is tossed towards Rocket. "I think we can figure some way to get out of things if it was a trap. Rocket's busted out of most of the prisons in the Galaxy, little ol' trap shouldn't be hard to get out way out of." A pause. "Besides, we got some friends we can call on for backup."

A pause again as he looks towards the mechanic and that odd 'conscience' thing exerts itself. He fights it, but its really damn annoying. Very damn annoying to be honest. So annoying that he finally gives in.

"So…if we do this…you gonna be alright? If they figure out you sold em out, they might not be entirely happy about it and since you are having dinner with Rocket, and you are fixing my boots, don't want to put you out too much."


"Oh, so nothing unusual then." Because who knows who's looking for them /outside/ of Terra. "But it would probably be good to get some dirt on who they are and what all they want with Star-Lord here," Rocket says, jerking a thumb at the man. "Hey, prison is one thing. If we're walking into a trap I want some decent firepower and munitions."

He looks between Quill and Kinsey then, nodding. "Military, huh. That explains some things," he muses, stroking his chin. "But Quill's right. We can be really sure, but you gotta be really sure too. Although you seem like someone who can handle herself. And in a way you're making us bait. But obviously if we don't get out of this in one piece, you don't get your info either."


Kinsey lets them debate, leaning back into the cushion of her palms on the counter and tracking their conversation with bright eyes. She remains more or less motionless until they involve her again with their concern — not an unwarranted thought, albeit one she's already considered. And Rocket has the line as to why, for which she offers him a little quirk of a smile, half-approval, half-apology. "Yes. Bait of a sort. But only if you want to be."

She draws her legs up just slightly, the rubbery soles of her shoes gaining purchase against the sidewall of the counter, propped there. She doesn't come across as /restless/, exactly, but her stillness is…limited. "Just make sure they don't realize I was involved in tipping you off. Right? If you decide to go through with it, I can tell them I'll let them know when you're coming by to pick up these boots. You'll make sure to have your…" She lifts and waves one hand vaguely. "…escape plan, contingency, whatever, in place. I don't want to know what it is. It's better if I don't. Just…" She ticks her gaze from one to the other, brows drawing together over a pleading sort of look. "Just, please don't destroy the garage? I put everything I have into opening it this year. I…need it."


"Eh bait is the best place to be in a trap anyway, they never see it coming when you kick your way out from the inside." Quill replies, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "Don't worry, they won't find out and…well…if anything bad does happen we'll keep property destruction directed elsewhere." A glance at Rocket. "Which means no bringing /most/ of your toys." A pause. "You only get to use the small rockets." This towards Rocket. Of course.

"Don't worry though, Kinsey." He grins easily towards her. "All goes well, we'll just find out what they want and no one even gets blow up."

…all goes well only .5 percent of the time. So…he just won't tell her that.


Telling them that they're bait only if they want to be just shovels more of the responsibility on them. He can't help but think this way. People always have angles and reasons and things they want. But at least Kinsey's willing to admit it- only after he pointed it out. At least she knows he's not a pushover.

Quill speaks up again before he can, so Rocket clamps his mouth shut to listen, only because he's curious to see what comes out of ol' Star-Lord's. His eyes narrow just a bit at the restrictions already being set on his selection of artillery. And was that a joke, Quill? Did you forget the bombs under the place you sleep? Rocket's about to put a choice word or two in, but then there comes the most ridiculous line he's ever heard. Well, after the having 'twelve percent of a plan' line.

"Pff-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! No one even….ahahah! That NEVER happens!"


Quill just gives Rocket this flateyed look. "Really? Come on man. Gimme some credit!!"


"Never!" Rocket sputters, still snickering.


Don't worry, Kinsey, says Star-whoever. And the Raccoon? Or whatever he is, but he /looks/ like a raccoon —

He just about pops a blood vessel laughing. Kinsey starts to laugh too, figuring that for a friendly joke, but the furry little devil /keeps on laughing/. He laughs far longer than a joke would necessitate. /Way too much laughing./

Kinsey's own laugh dwindles, fades slowly, gradually transitions into open concern. She catches her lower lip in her teeth, brows slid together.

"Maybe…we shouldn't do this at the hangar," she says slowly.


Peter just slowly sighs. Its a long suffering look. A look the leader of a group of scoundrels has when he knows that the damn furrball is right. "Stuff it, furrball!" He grumbles before he turns to look towards Kinsey.

"…yeah. Yeah. Might be best. Any unoccupied warehouses you know of around here. Rocket can get…" He looks at the madly laughing Raccoon. "…enthusiastic."


"I be/lieve/ the term you're looking for is 'effective'," Rocket corrects, finally breaking off from his laughing fit. Because shooting up things and blowing them up is /very/ effective when you wanna make sure no one will still be after you.

"But yeah. Probably be safer for you too, if we don't be anywhere near this place. Maybe we can be 'busy' somewhere else," he says, making with the air-bunnies with his fingers, "-and ask you to come drop the stuff off at a place. What do you think, Quill? We can pretend to set up…I dunno, /something/, in some abandoned place like a warehouse."


There is a shift in Kinsey's expression as relief edges out concern. So much relief that she doesn't hesitate to agree to this new proposition, nodding and then startling when the drill bit stuck in her bun tumbles out and clatters across the counter. She splays one hand over her collarbone, willing her heart rate to come back down. Whatever her easygoing exterior, whatever she knows, or thinks she knows, about this Agency has got her on edge enough that she wasn't ready for any unexpected, loud noises.

A small, controlled breath helps her to shake off that dribble of adrenaline. "Okay. Well. You have my number and I have yours, so…I guess I'll wait for you to figure out how you want to do it, and where. You can let me know. I'll work on your boots in the meantime. And, who knows? This goes well enough, maybe I won't charge you." Her lips curve, smile small and coy. "Maybe."


"I'll come up with something," Peter Quill assures the both of them. As Rocket knows, what this /really/ means is that he'll likely go home. Drink. Hit on someone in the house a while. Get a good nap in. Maybe go clubbing. Remember he was supposed to set up a warehouse ambush. Then rush at the last minute to try to find something.

…and it'll likely work out in the end…

Usually due to no fault of his own.

"I got some ideas, but yeah. We'll keep it far away from here. Don't want you or your livelyhood ta get caught up in whatever mess we don't know we happen to be in."

A smirk.

"I think all this sounds like a plan!"

Famous last words.


"We're still on for dinner though, right?" Rocket, always remembering the important things. He pointedly doesn't say anything regarding Kinsey's little jumpy moment there, but it's clear enough that this whole coincidence has got her a bit, well, /more/ than a bit concerned.

Fixing a look at Quill, he just runs a hand over his face, massaging between his brows.

"Oh, this'll be good."

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