C249 2 vs 1

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Gamora and Nebula stood before Peter, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp. The years had hardened them—Gamora's once-vibrant green skin was now crisscrossed with faint scars, her braid replaced by a practical, shoulder-length cut. Nebula's cybernetics gleamed under the ship's lights, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Peter blinked. Then blinked again.

"Okay," he said slowly, "either I'm hallucinating, or you two are really here. And since I don't think I've gone mad yet…" He smiled teasingly. "Where's your Masters? Don't Jedi Padawans usually travel with them?"

Nebula's lips twitched. "We're Knights now, Peter. No more babysitters."

Peter's smirk deepens. "Knights? Since when?"

"Since a while ago," Gamora said, stepping forward. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a competitive spark Peter remembered all too well. "Yoda recalled us after Geonosis. Said you might need… specialized help."

Nebula smirked. "Turns out, you do."

Peter exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Well. This is… unexpected."

…

..

.

The training room was empty save for the three of them, the matted floors absorbing the sound of their footsteps. Peter ignited his black-bladed lightsaber, the hum of the unstable plasma filling the space.

"Alright," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Show me what you've learned while I was away."

Gamora and Nebula exchanged a glance—then moved as one.

Gamora came in high, her emerald-green blade slashing downward in a diagonal arc. At the same time, Nebula lunged low, her blue saber aiming for Peter's knees.

Peter moved.

His blade met Gamora's in a shower of sparks, his free hand snapping up to unleash a Force push that sent Nebula skidding back. He pivoted, dodging Gamora's follow-up strike by a hair's breadth, then twisted his wrist—his saber spinning in a deadly flourish that forced her to leap away.

Nebula recovered fast, charging in with a series of brutal, efficient strikes. Peter deflected each one, his movements fluid, almost lazy.

"Not bad," he admitted, ducking under a swing that would've taken his head off. "But you're telegraphing your lunges, Nebula."

She snarled—and that's when Gamora struck from behind.

Peter didn't even turn.

His hand shot out, fingers curling. The Force rippled, and suddenly Gamora was yanked off her feet, slamming into the ceiling with a grunt before crashing back down. Nebula seized the opening, her blade slicing toward Peter's ribs—

—only for him to sidestep, hook his foot behind her ankle, and send her sprawling onto her back. His saber tip hovered at her throat.

"Yield?"

Nebula glared. "Go to hell."

Gamora groaned from the floor. "We yield."

Peter deactivated his blade, offering a hand to help her up. "You've gotten better. A lot better."

Gamora took it, rubbing her shoulder. "And you're still insufferable."

"Well," Peter said, grinning. "You two fight like Jedi. That's the problem."

Nebula scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're too predictable," Peter said, tapping his temple. "Jedi forms are great for dueling Sith. Not so great for surviving war."

Gamora's eyes narrowed. "Then teach us."

Peter smirked, "Sure, let's begin…"

Gamora would come to regret her words…

…

..

.

Later, in the dim glow of his quarters, Peter stared at the datapad in his hands. The Atlas's coordinates blinked steadily—Knowhere. Safe. For now.

The door hissed open. Nebula stood there, her arms crossed.

"You've changed," she said bluntly.

Peter didn't look up. "War does that."

"You used to be louder. More… you."

That made him smirk. "And you used to never smile. Now look at you."

Nebula's lips twitched—just for a second. "Don't push it."

Silence settled between them, comfortable in a way it never had been before.

Outside the viewport, stars streaked by—carrying them toward a battle none of them were truly ready for.

————

Nova Prime.

Peter's Venator descended through a haze of smoke and debris, the planet's once-gleaming spires now scarred by the occasional orbital bombardment that slipped through the defensive fleets net.

From the viewport, he watched Kree warships lingering at the edge of the system—close enough to threaten, far enough to suggest retreat.

Too convenient.

Beside him, Gamora's grip tightened on her lightsaber. "They're testing us."

Nebula scoffed. "Or they're just running away."

Peter said nothing.

…

..

.

The Royal Command Center was a masterpiece of Nova architecture—soaring arches of blue crystal, holographic star maps pulsing like living constellations. But the grandeur was undercut by the tension in the air.

Nova Prime Irani Rael stood at the center of the war room, her regal bearing untouched by the war's strain. Her golden headpiece caught the light as she turned to greet Peter, her dark eyes assessing.

"General Quill," she said, her voice measured. "It's good to see you again. It's hard to believe the boy I met all those years ago would rise to such a position."

A murmur rippled through her advisors. A grizzled Nova officer with a cybernetic eye sneered. "This is the Republic's great hope? A boy?"

Irani's gaze snapped to him. "Commander Vell, you will remember your place." Her tone brooked no argument. "The Republic bleeds in its own war, yet they send us aid. That is no insult—it is a lifeline."

Peter bowed slightly. "We'll do what we can."

Vell snorted but said no more.

…

Inside the Nova war room, the holotable flickered to life, displaying the system's battle lines. The Kree had pulled back from three key worlds, their fleets regrouping near a dead star.

"It makes no sense," said Admiral Tal, her fingers tracing the tactical display. "They had us at their mercy. Why retreat now?"

The war room erupted.

"They're vulnerable!" argued a young Nova captain. "We should press the advantage!"

"Or it's a trap," Vell countered. "Lure us out, then crush us."

Peter remained silent, absorbing every detail. The Kree movements were too precise, too coordinated. This wasn't a retreat—it was a strategic withdrawal.

Gamora leaned in, whispering. "You're unusually quiet."

Peter kept his voice low. "Because they've already decided."

Sure enough, Irani raised a hand. "Enough. We pursue. If the Kree are weak, we strike. If it's a trap, we'll be ready."

Her generals saluted, though doubt lingered in their eyes.

…

After the council, Irani summoned Peter to her private chambers. The room was spare, lit only by the glow of the planet's defense grid outside the window.

"You held back in there," she observed.

Peter met her gaze. "It's your war. Your call," he shrugged. "Besides, I'm still the new guy. They won't listen to me until I've proven myself."

"I see…" Irani sighed, the weight of command etching lines into her face, her eyes glancing down at the starmap. "I don't know if we've earned this retreat… or if it's a noose."

Outside, a distant explosion flashed—another Kree probe testing the shields.

Peter's fingers brushed the holotable, pulling up the star map again. "While I haven't fully assessed the situation, as I said, I'm fairly certain this is a trap. However, our choices are clear: spring it now or wait for the enemy to regroup, reinforce, and hit us with even greater strength. You made the right call—we just need to be ready to turn their trap against them."

Irani's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you suggest?"

Peter studied the map—the Kree formations, the dead star's gravity well, the quiet, empty patch of space just beyond it.

"Hmm..."

————

Knowhere.

The Atlas shuddered as it exited hyperspace, the swirling blue vortex giving way to the jagged silhouette of Knowhere.

Tony Stark pressed his face against the viewport, his reflection warped in the glass. "So this is the famous home base Peter keeps talking about."

Knowhere was beautiful in its own way. It was a jagged, industrial satellite city, its spindly metal framework clinging to the broken planet it orbited like a spider on a carcass. Giant cranes dipped into the planet's crust, hauling up raw Coaxium—the lifeblood of hyperspace travel. The entire operation pulsed with a grimy, lawless energy.

The docking bay was crowded when they arrived. A group of figures stood waiting—Carina, her pink skin radiant in the dim light, and Oola, her green skin marked with intricate tattoos.

The two who've been leading Knowhere in Peter's place.

Rocket pushed past Tony, arms wide. "Hey, sweethearts! Miss me?"

Carina smirked. "Like a headache."

Oola's gaze swept over the newcomers—Tony in his armor, Optimus towering over them all, the Autobots at his back, and the humans who had never set foot in this lawless corner of the galaxy. "So," she said dryly, "you're the ones Peter trusts with his grand plan."

Tony crossed his arms. "Yeah, and we're thrilled to be here." He replied sarcastically.

Padmé stepped forward, ever the diplomat. "We appreciate your hospitality."

Oola's lips quirked. "Don't thank me yet."

…

Not long after their arrival, the stolen droid factories were set up in the deepest, most fortified sector of Knowhere—a cavernous industrial bay that had once processed raw Coaxium. Now, it hummed with half-assembled machinery, stacks of schematics, and the eerie glow of dormant battle droids.

Tony whistled. "Okay, I'll admit—this is a hell of a start."

Optimus knelt, his massive fingers tracing the assembly lines. "The infrastructure is crude, but adaptable."

Rocket clambered onto a console, pulling up holographic blueprints. "Alright, listen up! We've got three main jobs…"

Upgrade the factories with Cybertronian tech.

"Make 'em faster, smarter, deadlier…"

Integrate the droid programming with whatever the hell Quill's been cooking up.

"Just don't blow up the damn city."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the pep talk."

Carina handed Optimus a data chip. "Peter left instructions. He wants these factories capable of producing more than just droids."

Tony snatched it, plugging it into his wrist projector. The schematics that flickered to life made his breath catch.

Natasha leaned in. "What is this?"

Tony's voice was grim. "An army."

…

..

.

The next hours were a blur of welding sparks, shouted commands, and the groaning of metal as the Cybertronians reshaped the factories with their alien technology.

Optimus and Bumblebee worked on the assembly lines, reforging them with living metal that could self-repair. Arcee and Ironhide calibrated the programming matrices, splicing Republic droid code with something far more advanced.

Tony, meanwhile, was elbow-deep in a prototype chassis. "Rocket, hand me the—"

"Already got it," Rocket snapped, tossing him a hydrospanner.

Mikaela watched from a catwalk, arms crossed. "You two are weirdly in sync."

Tony didn't look up. "Trauma bonding."

Padmé, standing beside Carina, frowned at the schematics. "Peter never mentioned this part."

Carina's expression was unreadable. "Peter doesn't say a lot of things."

————

Outer Rim of Nova Prime System

The Republic Venators hung in the void, their sleek hull dwarfed by the Nova armada surging forward. Peter stood on the bridge, his fingers curled around the railing as he watched the tactical hologram flicker before him. The Kree forces had fallen back to the Graveyard Belt—a field of shattered planetoids and dead stars, perfect for an ambush.

Gamora studied the map, her green eyes sharp. "They want us to follow."

Nebula's fingers twitched near her lightsaber. "So let's not disappoint them."

Peter exhaled, glancing at the clone beside him—Captain Rex.

"You were right, General," Rex grunted. "Our scouts just confirmed it. The Kree aren't retreating. They're herding us."

Peter nodded. 'Sidious… what are you planning?"

A/N: 1902 words :)

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