Han Shot First

March 06, 2018:

Shots fired! A security breech in the Triskelion? The Guardians chat up an unusual intruder.



NPCs: None.

Mentions: Groot, Phil Coulson (Deadeye)


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

The first indication of something amiss is some pop-pop sounds usually associated with guns. Considering it is in the direction of the shooting range, though, that's hardly even interesting. Boring, really.

But then there's some shouting. And some more popping sounds. And some various agents start to move very, very swiftly over into that direction from other places.

Perhaps a gun exploded, or an experimental weapon didn't go as planned. But an agent who formerly was on guard duty nearby- that agent is now heading over that way and is drawing her gun and checking it, slipping into a low tactical run like you see in movies. Or in secret agents. So there's also that.

This…is rather an unusual turn of events. Rocket has to double-check that he hasn't lost sight of Groot again, and even checks his own hands to make sure he hasn't accidentally set off anything, which is silly, really, because the only thing he'd been poking at was the buttons to the microwave he's got set up on a little table in the Milano's hangar. The odd popping sounds are soon at odds with the popping sounds coming from the nuker as popcorn expands the bag within.

"Wonder what that's all about," he mutters, watching as agents go filtering by, making no real move to look into things himself. Why should he? Coulson paid him to fly and take up space in here. And make fun little weapons with nasty surprises.

The Peter Quill slowly sits up from where he was lying down. Listening to music and resting his eyes. One eye cracks open halfway at the familiar sound of gunfire. The first person he looks towards is. Predictably. Rocket.

"This wasn't your fault was it?" Asks the pilot as he opens one eye and peers down towards the mercenary that is in charge of exploding everything.

A visitor comes out of nowhere right by the ship. Literal nowhere, with a soft 'fuuuhhzzz' throb of sound that accompanies a weird teleportation. And it is an object in motion, close up and at full tilt of movement, that is teleporting. Bam. A sleek male in a red and black tactical suit, plus mask, gloves, etc etc, extensive amounts of gear, the usual — appears entirely from nothing, full mid-sprint stride, handguns in both hands out and to the sides.

With the liquid ninja pose for that nano-second, it's truly awesome, a great cover for an action movie if someone added some background explosions in photoshop -

Unfortunately, the nanosecond is tiny and time does NOT pause to linger on it. Extreme forward momentum directs the arriving ninja to slam face-first into the low underside of the lower wing turbine zone on the ship. SWLAM.

Fully clotheslined, he hit very hard, and lost his footing— onto his back, to then skid on his ass about five more feet underneath. While he is valiantly clinging to the guns— both hands come up to head and face with a strangled little sound.

There'd be some coherent expletives, but a broken face is hard to talk through. The effort is valiant though. It's mostly variations on 'fuck' with different descriptors of what should be fucked, at what speed, and how aggressively.

"-why do you automatically assume it was me?!" Rocket growls in Peter's direction. "…I mean okay, that's a fair question. But no! I had nothing to do with this! I've been making popcorn because Groot digs in the couch and eats the old ones he finds under the cushions!"

And then there's a strange sound that occurs right after the beep of the microwave to signal its work being done. Rocket straightens, but it's the next sound that follows that fully grabs his attention. Oh, he knows that one very well. It's a painful sound, usually for the one who's connected with their ship.

"What the hell as that-" he asks, bringing up two pistol-like weapons, not quite out of thin air but quick enough to have looked it. Pistol-like in that that is really about all one can describe them as for how he holds them. They're…kind of on the bulky side otherwise, and don't look like something you want to be hit with.

When the USO- Unidentified Sliding Object- is spotted, Rocket darts over for a clearer shot, his weapons raised. "….hey, you ain't that spider kid, are ya…"

"Because ninety percent of the time it is you," Grumbles Peter as he slips out of his chair as he pulls his headphones off and gets to his feet with a stretch. He is always wearing his pistols though even as he frowns slightly at the sudden noise and…

Well. His pistols are in his hands too at this point. Him and Rocket do have similar instincts there. Rocket goes one way, Quill goes the other to try to box in whoever it is that just hit his ship…

And pauses as he sees the figure.

"…spider kid? Is that a thing around here? Spider people?" A pause. "There is totally a planet of spider people out there."

The USO is laying under there. He'd put the guns back into holsters, and then just spread-eagled fully as if giving in to the whole of the embarrassing display, arms and legs out. Hardly intimidating. The expletives end when Rocket's voice yells underneath at him, though he doesn't move otherwise, not even to look. Yet.

"Spider-kid? - If he's here, send him under, I'm lonely. ALAS, just doing a complementary oil change -and, unexpected bonus for ME, rear tailgate alignment," he calls back, and lifts one hand in a clear thumbs-up indication. And then drops the hand. And semi-quietly talks to himself.

"'Spider kid'. Probably hasn't even read the new fan fiction. Fucking casuals. Wait. …did I post my recent one? Shit." He pats down his leg pouches for his phone and flips it out and unlocks it with some swipes. The light from the screen illuminates his mask a little more, since it's darker under the shadow of the ship. If he's aware of Peter he's distracted for the moment.

"January, January. …January January January January January January January. Feb, March… yes. I did." Victory. "Are their upper bodies spiders, lower body spiders, or something out of 'the fly'?" To Peter. Important questions. "If it's sort of a mermaid thing, I could be cool with that."

"Eighty-five!" Rocket insists. Which. Really isn't any better. But at least Peter's on track with him as they both circle the intruder, armed.

"Seriously Quill? You don't remember back when the Sakaarans… Eh, anyway, kid's a menace. They're always yellin' about him in the newspapers." The raccoonoid shakes his head, going back to eyeing beneath the Milano. "HEY! Get outta there!" he shouts in the red clad one's direction. "Groot, where's the flamethrower!"

"He can't carry a flamethrower it's like three times his size and he's flammable!" Quill shouts back as he peers back down under the ship at the man who seems to have some kind of concussion. He frowns slightly at him as he rambles on.

"Well its both but there are some that just have a few extra arms. And are sort of hot. But mostly the mermaid thing…why am I even answering you!"

A pause.

"This guy seems to be a menace, but not a kid and not a spider. So…that's something." A pause as he calls that back towards Rocket.

"I will claim that other fifteen percent!" happily helps their 'intruder'. "Sort of hot? Like a four?… out of four? Extra arms might make that five stars." Hopeful, blissful daydream.

And then he actually looks up and gets a full look at Rocket. And reacts.

"Holy SHIT," is the first remark, like a child (with a bad vocabulary) seeing his hero for the first time. He can't even stand it. And proves he is not even a little damaged (ok, not physically damaged) by rolling to his belly and wriggling fast and low over the ground as if coming up under barbed wire, towards Rocket. Fearlessly, really. "You are the coolest thing I have seen in at least a year. I don't keep track. And you have guns. And that vest. You are my spirit animal," their ninja 'hostage' says fervently. While possibly creepy and humorous, there's no immediate threat to the behavior.

"Selfie?" is then proposed, as he rolls back over onto his back AGAIN, back actually to Rocket's gun, and attempts to aim the selfie. "Yeah, point it more at my head. Dynamic."

The smaller Guardian nods- he'll agree with menace, even if he might not be completely sure of the exact meaning of the term. He doesn't hold much high expectation to getting the flamethrower anyway, especially considering that he hears munching coming from the direction of their couch and entertainment system setup. Rocket sighs.

…and then suddenly the ninja-intruding-whatever-he-is has scuttled out from beneath the ship and shimmied on over towards him. Brown-red eyes widen and then narrow with the furrow of fuzzy brows as Rocket levels his guns. "See, normally I wouldn't object to being called the coolest thing or whatever but this guy's seriously weirding me out, Quill." He just about jumps when the guy with the suspicious facemask is right up beside him- or his gun, rather, his finger tugging at the trigger.

Their ninja is fast, as it turns out, when he chooses to be. The selfie-camera is actually what clued him that he might need to move a little bit. And he does move in a swift little reflexive motion, free hand bolting back to direct the gun barrel just a bit to the side instead of through the back of his skull. Rocket may pick up that he could have done a lot more than that tiny nudge. There's very well trained physical control here, though the concussion part is still probably up in the air.

"Whoa whoa, a bit of warning, before you release like that, if you can; I at least want to be ready to swallow," their hostage yells. Not in pain, just loud. Because that went off RIGHT next to his ear, enough to clip it. Blood shows through the rip in the side of the mask at his ear, and drips to his shoulder.

"You're only making yourself MORE my spirit animal, by the way - and your competition is a Lisa Frank dolphin, so that really does mean something," he continues to say loudly, as his ear rings.

"I got it," he adds, pleased, of his selfie, looking down at the phone.

There's probably a nice fresh singe mark if not a warped spot of metal on the Milano where the shot ultimately ends up, thanks to those sharp reflexes. Rocket blinks and then jerks his guns back and perhaps even thankfully away from their strange stranger.

"What did you expect?! That should've easily been your head!" Could have? Well, Rocket wouldn't have felt particularly bad if he'd blown the guy's head off, even if in this instance it would have been purely accidental.

He's glaring again despite the obvious wound the masked one's suffered, because the man continues to babble- albeit loudly, as though he hadn't just gotten his ear near shot off. "Tch. Maybe I should call Deadeye and let 'im know we've got a screwball here."

"Not just any screwball. There's merchandise. I have lunch boxes and sweatshirts. Some leggings with my name on the ass. And no, my name isn't Juicy. But I guess that could describe me. I often am. But its Deadpool to YOU, spirit animal," Deadpool introduces himself to Rocket. He tosses his phone to his other hand and extends his right in a clear intention to shake hands, while rotating to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of Rocket. Who continually seems to want to escape him. The bleeding has stopped, of course. And the shouting thing finally ends.

"Let's meet Deadeye! Please tell me he resembles an opossum?" Upbeat. "But he might infringe on my newest gimmick of laying under vehicles. So maybe not."

"Deadpool?" Rocket squints. And then scowls. "Name's Rocket, not spirit animal. Terrans are so weird." And this guy's not even fighting a demon bear!

The hand offered to shake is just stared at as if the concept is a foreign thing, but then it just might be when this guy's basically trespassed on base and seems to think he's all buddy-buddy with them. Rocket scratches his head with the tip of a gun.

"No, Deadeye's one of the local Suits. Human so far as I know. …I'm guessin' you're the one everyone was shooting at earlier. These SHIELD guys ain't so crazy about randos traipsing on their property."

"Rocket. You're still only impressing me more," Deadpool prattles back, dropping his non-shaken hand and very obviously using it to smoooooth back imaginary hair on that side of his mask. With a little flip of wrist. Rocket wants weird Terran? Deadpool will set a new bar.

"Oh sure. Yeah. They hatin', they tryin' to catch me ridin' dirty," the merc shares, dumping both hands to his lap against his thighs. "Guilty. Always. Hater gonna hate." Such song lyrics!!… he gets distracted by it, hums a little T-swift. And then snaps back into focus.

"But I needed the gun range. I thought their targets would be sturdier than the real thing. But no."

He so does not want weird Terran. There are plenty of those to come by. Been to Gotham lately?

"….." Rocket grumbles, shaking his head as he shoves his weapons back into holsters. "You came all this way to use the shooting range? Pff. Nah, their targets suck. Better to just throw your own targets together at a junkyard." There are likely a great many piles of slag left in the wake of Rocket's arsenal testing in such places.

"Sometimes your targets shoot back, Rocket." Comes the voice of Peter Quill as he smirks, sitting on the top of the Milano's wing as he peers back towards the pair of them. His guns put away for now. A slight grin is on his face.

"Though. Totally going to agree with you here. Weird Terran. Though who am I to talk right? Right.""

"Probably," their ninja agrees. Probably to what? Maybe to his idea to come here. It might have been that. He did slam his head pretty hard into the wing of their plane. Or ship. Or whatever.

"Worked out though. Now we can visit spider-women of five-star quality." He winged this around towards Quill, pivoting on the ground to do it. Sounds like they have a new friend, quite possibly against Rocket's preferences. The new friend does rock back and then pops to his feet, though, dusting off his knees and butt with a distracted manner, while trotting over Quill's way, in a manner completely at odds with the ninja outfit. It's half prance, half skip. "I am the best wing man. At the very least, I'll run into wings with my face."

"Not for long," Rocket replies, throwing a sharp grin in Peter's direction. "And yeah, these are your people. Everything makes so much more sense in that perspective."

He eyes Deadpool as the guy goes to badger Peter, looking back toward Star-Lord with a weird expression and a shrug because he really has no idea what to make of the masked one.

Like Peter has any idea! He really doesn't.

"You know most wing men aren't supposed to actually hit wings right? I mean that's kinda painful. But you took it like a champ and…now…don't look like it's too bad…did you just regenerate that?"

Star-lord just raises an eyebrow. Then back to Rocket. Then back to Deadpool.

"How the heck did you even get in here anyway, I'm gonna guess you aren't with SHIELD." A longer pause as he glances back at Rocket. "So think he'll get us in trouble?"

"If the unasked, and very politely avoided question is 'does this guy have a concussion', I can't promise the answer is actually no. But by now…" Deadpool stops, and peels his glove back a hair, to reveal his Hello Kitty mega-watch. It is mostly magenta, but there is sleek, fashionable teal ribbing and polka dots on the strap. IMPRESSED? (I am.)

"Probably not." He pulls the glove back up with overly dramatic flair, like a doctor pulling on a plastic glove before a serious operation. Because there is a new question. Getting in. And then angles forefinger directly at Quill, and then sideways to the left of the compound. "You gets in …. Theeeeere," Deadpool says, reverting to quotes; this time, Labyrinth. He doesn't count on them to get it, though. "If I stay too long, I might turn into a goblin. So we'll limit that. But they mostly are fine with me. Just a little pew-pew. No more than good old Rocket here. What's a few shots between friends?" A pause. "A lot, actually. I get shot at a LOT." A pause. "By fans. For selfies. —No, sometimes rifles. But, you know."

He's really convincing about lacking that concussion. "Did I answer whatever you asked me?" A pause. "Magic unicorn dust? Teleportation knapsack? It varies."

Rocket fixes Peter with a look. "Like we need another crazy Terran to help us get into trouble." Wait, that came out wrong. …or did it.

The quote's lost on the raccoonoid. He doesn't watch many old Terran movies. 'cept for the one with the space wars. Good stuff.

"Okay, whatever. You magically appeared, sure. For someone who's intruding, you sure are laid back about it. But if the suits come this way firin' at you, I'm not in the mood for a game of dodge the bullets."

Well, at least he's not looking like he's ready to shoot Deadpool's head off- although Star-Lord had brought up a good point as Rocket has a good look at that ear again.

"True. You do make a lot of trouble on your own." The pilot replies with a smirk towards Rocket as he folds his arms over his chest.

Though that look cuts back towards Deadpool and he blinks. "Magic? You know I've totally have had enough of magic after that bear demon thing." The man grumbles as he sighs. "And yeah. You start getting fire sent our way and I'm using you as cover. This is our space and we don't like any more bullet holes in it than what Rocket puts there in the first place."

A pause.

"Or holes. I mean you don't really use bullets."

A longer pause. "And totally going to say you have a concussion. Since you're talking about pixie dust."

"I like bullets," Deadpool votes, though nobody asked him. "But I like the penetration of it." There's a hand gesture to go with it. A shotgun load motion.

He just leaves that there like that. And continues. "The suits shooting, well. If you REALLY want to be specific, I'm Han." A pause. "And I… shot first." Innocent little shrug of both hands, before 'Han' puts his phone away, finally, into one of the many pockets. Trades it for a candy bar. "But you know, we have an hot-cold relationship. Certain things they hate. Other things they'll hire me for. Not that they'll say so. Very secret squirrel over here. And nah, they won't shoot with you next to me. Or. will. they?"

Annnnd then he hops up to sit next to Quill. It IS overly friendly just in that he's behaving like he entirely expects to be welcomed, but isn't directly in personal space. That will come later.

For now, he offers Quill half. "Right or left Twix sort of guy?" Deadpool queries, tilting back and forth with each in a gameshow host style.

"Aw hell no, I'm Han," Rocket says almost out of reflex. Finally, a reference he gets! Of course, Peter might object.

"-I got this real sweet shotgun from some crazy lady out in Gotham though. I think that uses bullets. Or grenades. Was it grenades? I think it's some kind of grenade launcher." Pause. "But you're right. I'd prefer holes. Bullets are kinda limiting."

He glances at Deadpool. Oh right, the guy's still here. "Let's not test that. You can sit over there so that if they shoot you, you're nowhere near us."

"What are either of you talking about. I'm totally Han."

Yes. This is a thing. They all claim Han. "Han was the best pilot. So that's totally me."

This is a long running thing. A smug look towards Rocket is ruined by Deadpool leaping up on top of the wing next to him with a quirk of an eyebrow. "So. They hire you on occasion? Like…wait secret squirrel. Great spystuff. Mercenary spystuff. I'd say I didn't think SHIELD did that sort of thing, but then again they hired us."

A smirk at that again.

"Right or left…Twix?" A pause. "Man. Just HOW hard did you hit your head?"

"Yeah. SHIELD never would do such a thing as hire a mercenary, golly-fuck-gee-ass-willikers, no," A pause. "You can't tell, but I'm winking. A lot. Because their money is totes good by me." Deadpool drums the candy bar sticks a little against his thighs and then loosely tosses them over his shoulder into the dirt. The wrapper goes in a pocket. No need to LITTER on his new friends' place. Also he's collecting barcodes. "I figured you for a Righty." No explanation follows.

"If I take Leia, who will be Han then?" Deadpool wants to know. It's the weirdest, uncomfortable game of 'would you rather' yet. Deadpool swings his feet like a toddler in a high chair.

"Hey. Wait. Is Gotham chick a clown? Tell me she's a clown."

"Uh, 'scuse you, I'm clearly the best pilot. That's why Deadeye gave me the Quinjet." Rocket folds his arms, giving a nod of his head as if to say that that was that. Until Deadpool offers…well, it's not exactly a rejoinder so much as confusing. The raccoonoid looks over at him oddly. "Yeah, okay, not playin' this game." Problem. Solved. That's too many loonies in the kiddie pool.

"Eh, naw. Not a clown," he says as they round back to the subject of questionable Gothamites. "Dressed in frills and stuff. Goes by Moreau. Has a classy little bar and a buncha crazy gangsters she calls her pack." He shrugs.

"For once I'm going to agree with you, Rocket." Quill comments with a wrinkle of his nose. Yeah. Not going there at all. Deadpool wins this one. Totally wins this one. He isn't fighting him over that.

A quirked eyebrow though is angled towards Rocket though. "Huh, Moreau? I haven't met her yet. All the Gothamites I've met are freeking insane. Every time I go to that town now I get shot at. Or get poison butterfiles thrown at me or something."

Then a look back at Deadpool. "I saw a clown chick there. Walking around with someone in all green. But man I haven't been back since the poison butterflies."

Deadpool wins! BUT AT WHAT PRICE.

Deadpool kicks his feet one more time. And stills. "Yes. Clown chick. Adores weapons. Phallic paraphernalia. Mmmmmmmhmmm," Deadpool sounds entirely enamoured, by his tone of voice. There's probably some daydreaming going on with the cant backwards of his head, but then he's 'back'. Not that he was gone more than a few moments. Or that maybe he's been gone the whole time.

"I'm not from Gotham," is no doubt the question that could follow, so he'll head that off. "I just appreciate a good clown ass when I see it, like the next guy."

Rocket smirks. "Wow, I'd call those real problems, Quill." Or rotten luck.

He would've thought that Deadpool might be gabbing about imaginary clown chicks (because why, really?) but then Starmunch is confirming the madness, so what is the truth any more!! Sideeying the masked wonder as he goes mumbling about clown women ways that he's not sure what to make of, the raccoonoid just shakes his head and starts over towards the couch to check on his tiny tree tyke. Probably fell asleep in the popcorn bowl.

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