C84 Red Room?

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Natasha's eyes widened as she stared at Peter, struggling to process the flood of revelations he had just shared. The med bay's soft lighting did little to soften the sharp edges of her shock. "Aliens... they actually exist?"

Peter nodded, his face an open book of sincerity. "Yep, the galaxy's teeming with them. Different races, different empires—it's all quite lively out there."

Sitting up a bit straighter in the hospital bed, Natasha absorbed this information, her mind racing. But before she could formulate her next question, Peter continued, pre-empting her curiosity with more startling details.

"The reason Earth hasn't had visitors from these parts of space is that you're smack in the middle of what's known as Wild Space. It's largely uncharted and pretty hazardous for travel."

Natasha's brow furrowed in confusion. "But you managed to get here. How is that possible if it's so dangerous?"

"Well," Peter started, leaning back against a wall, his arms crossed casually. "We've got Revan on the crew. He's traveled through Wild Space more than anyone alive right now. Plus, I managed to find the exact coordinates for Earth, which helped a lot."

This new piece of information made Natasha pause, her analytical mind piecing together the implications. "Hold on," she said slowly, "how did you have Earth's exact coordinates if it's in unexplored space? And why did you want to come here so badly? Earth is less advanced than other places you've described, right?"

Peter's smile was tinged with nostalgia as he answered. "I just got lucky finding those coordinates. And why come here? Well, because this is my home. I wanted to see it again, even if it's just a speck in the universe."

While Peter wasn't lying, as he missed his home very much, there was another layer he hadn't revealed, a reason steeped in foresight and ambition.

Earth, seemingly insignificant in the grand scale of the galaxy, was on the cusp of an era that would redefine its place among the stars—the age of heroes.

Soon, figures like Iron Man, Hulk, Spider-Man, and Doctor Strange would emerge, transforming Earth into a formidable powerhouse in the galactic arena.

Peter wanted to be a part of that transformation, to witness and perhaps influence the rise of Earth as it claimed its stake among the galaxy's most influential players.

This hidden motive was part of his drive to return, not just nostalgia or a longing for home, but a strategic position during a pivotal time in Earth's history.

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly, her voice soft with disbelief. "You're human? I thought you were..."

He cut her off with a chuckle. "An alien? Nope. I was born and raised in the great state of Missouri." He said, bringing out his best southern accent.

The room was silent for a moment as Natasha absorbed everything. The man before her, a human from Missouri, leading a crew of aliens across the galaxy, was far from any reality she had ever considered. Yet, here she was, in the midst of it all.

As the silence stretched between them, Natasha's curiosity couldn't be contained. "Wait, how did you leave Earth in the first place?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

A shadow flickered across Peter's face, a subtle tightness at the corners of his eyes—the first crack in his usually jovial demeanor. "…"

Natasha, with her years of training as a spy, didn't miss the sudden shift. She watched as a thoughtful frown creased her own features, regretting her question as she realized it might have stirred some painful memories.

But before Peter could respond, or Natasha could offer an apology for possibly prying too deep, the med bay door hissed open abruptly. "!?"

In a chaotic flurry, the entire crew—Groot, Cosmo, Howard, Rocket, Teefs, Lylla, and Floor—came tumbling inside. Their sudden entrance was a mess of limbs and surprised exclamations.

It seemed they had been eavesdropping outside, their collective curiosity too much to resist. In the commotion, one of them had accidentally bumped into the door control, triggering it to open and spilling everyone into the room in a comedic heap.

Revan entered behind the rest, maintaining a composed demeanor that suggested he hadn't been eavesdropping. However, with Revan, appearances could be deceiving, as he might have been using the Force to listen in from down the hall.

As the crew suddenly stumbled into the med bay, Natasha's initial reaction was a mix of tension and awe. Her body stiffened slightly, a trained response to the unexpected, but her eyes roamed over the extraterrestrial group with intense curiosity.

Among them, Groot was particularly mesmerizing—a sentient, walking tree, his presence defied everything she knew about biology and nature.

Regaining her composure just as Peter scolded his crew for eavesdropping, Natasha watched as the dynamic between them shifted to light-hearted chastising.

Then, the focus turned to her. Peter began the introductions, and one by one, the crew members shared their names in greeting, the atmosphere easing with every passing moment.

When it was Howard's turn, however, the gruff duck looked distinctly irked from being reprimanded earlier. With a sidelong glance at Peter, he remarked dryly, "I'm Howard. And you must be the seventh woman our f*ckboy Captain has saved for his own pleasure…"

The comment drew a few chuckles from the crew, but Natasha raised an eyebrow, glancing at Peter to gauge his reaction. Peter, sighing in annoyance, sensed Howard's underlying jealousy through the Force. It was clear that the duck was envious of Peter's luck with the ladies, even though he hadn't done anything with them… at least not yet.

Deciding to set the record straight, even if he didn't have to, Peter reluctantly explained, "First of all, I'm a virgin, so f*ckboy is just slander—"

"Ha! He admitted he's a virgin!" Howard exclaimed, cutting Peter off, looking smug with himself.

His laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls until it abruptly stopped as he caught the stern glare his captain was giving him. "I wasn't finished…" Peter said, his tone cold.

Howard's smirk quickly faded as he caught Peter's glare. He cleared his throat awkwardly, glanced around, and mumbled, "Uh, you know, I just remembered! I gotta go clean my Tommy gun," before scurrying off.

As Howard ran away, Peter's glare faded and he let out a scoff-like laugh, as he turned back to Natasha, continuing with a clear voice, "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," he began, his tone firm yet calm, "I want to make it clear—though I shouldn't have to, since we're not dating—that I do not save women just to take advantage of them, as Howard was trying to imply."

Peter then smirked and winked at Natasha, adding playfully, "Though I do seem to have a knack for saving beautiful women."

Natasha almost blushed, but she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't. Peter had already made her blush three times, and this time, she managed to hold herself together, preventing a fourth.

Smirking knowingly, Peter picked up on Natasha's subtle squirm and the brief bite of her lower lip. Although she hadn't blushed, her reaction was obvious, and it became especially clear when she caught the knowing smirk on Peter's face, which only made her pout.

Seeing her pout, Peter's smirk widened; he found it adorable.

Finally deciding he'd had enough fun, Peter turned his attention back to the crew. "Alright, everyone out," he said with a wave of his hand. "Let Natasha have some sleep. She's still technically injured, so she needs to rest."

As the crew filed out, Peter turned back to Natasha and glanced at the door, where she had earlier broken off the panel in an attempt to escape. "I'll leave the door unlocked this time, as we both know you'll just find a way out anyway," he told her, "but you really need to get some rest. And if you don't, I might just have to sedate you."

Reluctantly, Natasha nodded. "Alright, I'll try to get some sleep," she said, though her tone left Peter unsure if she meant it or was just appeasing him.

Shrugging slightly, he walked toward the door. "Goodnight, Natasha," he called over his shoulder as he exited.

But just as he reached the door, Natasha suddenly called out, "Wait, you don't have any questions for me? I mean, I thought you'd want to know a bit about me and why those guards were chasing me when you saved me."

Peter looked back and smirked. "Did you forget, Ms. Romanoff? I'm psychic. I already know everything about you."

Natasha felt oddly exposed under his gaze before he turned and left, the door closing quietly behind him. Left alone, she found herself genuinely wondering if Peter truly knew everything about her or not.

————

That night, Peter slipped into his bed aboard the ship, settling in with the familiar weight of his headphones snug over his ears. His Walkman hummed softly as it played one of his favorite tracks.

🚨Play Psycho Killer by Talking Heads🚨

🎶I can't seem to face up to the facts🎶

🎶I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax🎶

🎶I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire🎶

🎶Don't touch me, I'm a real live wire🎶

🎶Psycho Killer🎶

🎶Qu'est-ce que c'est?🎶

🎶Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better🎶

🎶Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh-oh-oh🎶

🎶Psycho Killer🎶

🎶Qu'est-ce que c'est?🎶

🎶Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, better🎶

🎶Run, run, run, run, run, run, run away, oh, oh, oh, oh🎶

🎶Ay-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya, ooh🎶

…

..

.

As the music floated around him, a sudden realization jolted Peter from his reverie. With a soft thud, his hand met his forehead. "Ah, sh*t!" he muttered to himself.

In the hustle of the day's events, he had completely forgotten to restock his supply of cassette tapes. His collection was small, and the thought of expanding it was exhilarating.

Determined, Peter made a mental note to head out first thing tomorrow to scour some local shops—or perhaps even venture into more modern territories of music devices. 'Are CD's and portable CD players a thing yet?' He wondered.

The prospect of upgrading his setup sparked a surge of excitement. While the idea of throwing away his beloved Walkman was out of the question—it held too many memories of his mother and Earth—he couldn't help but feel thrilled at the thought of upgrading.

Despite the excitement, the soothing tunes continued to play, and Peter's eyelids grew heavy. The rhythms eventually lulled him into a deep sleep, his last conscious thought a hope for a future filled with more music. The headphones remained on, a soft melody accompanying him into his dreams.

————

Budapest, Russia…

Red Room Facility…

Melina Vostokoff, a beautiful woman of imposing stature with sharp, angular features and dark brown hair pulled tightly back, maintained her composed demeanor as she entered General Dreykov's office.

[Insert picture of Melina Vostokoff here]

The room was spartan, containing only the bare essentials befitting a military leader's workspace, a reflection of the sternness of the man who occupied it. General Dreykov, a slightly chubby man with a closely cropped mustache and piercing eyes, the architect of the Red Room itself, sat behind his desk, his expression unreadable.

[Inset picture of Dreykov here]

"Melina," he greeted her curtly, his voice echoing slightly off the bare walls. Melina nodded, her posture rigid, betraying none of the concern that began to stir within her.

"Natasha has not returned from her mission. She has made no contact with the Red Room either," Dreykov stated flatly, his eyes fixed on Melina, as if gauging her reaction.

Melina's heart tightened slightly at the mention of Natasha, her daughter in all but blood, whom she hadn't seen in years. Yet, her face remained stoic, her training allowing her to mask any personal feelings.

"I see," Melina responded, her voice steady. The news was worrying, but showing concern was not an option in front of Dreykov.

Dreykov leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "I am assigning you to find and retrieve her. We need to know if her absence is a result of capture... or choice."

Melina's mind raced. Natasha's capabilities were well known inside the Red Room; the likelihood of capture was low. She knew the implication behind Dreykov's words: defection was a possibility. The thought chilled her, but she gave no outward sign of her inner turmoil.

"And if I find that she has fled from the Red Room?" Melina asked, already knowing the answer, needing to hear it spoken aloud.

Dreykov's expression hardened. "Then you are to terminate her. We do not tolerate treason, Melina. You know this." His tone was cold, final.

Melina nodded, the directive clear. "Understood," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

A/N: 2156 words :)

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