It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Hate at first fight

"Sakaar lives on the edge of the known and unknown. It is the collection point for all lost and unloved things- like you."

~

Sakaar is a twenty-month journey from Asgard... if your ship is fast, your timing is right, and you're chill with refueling on Xandar in the middle of a bloody war, which Brunnhilde isn't.

So, maybe that's why she picked this place.

She has nowhere else to be... nothing else to do besides rot in an Odin- forsaken wasteland of garbage- and it IS garbage. All of it. Every skyscraper, house, and person is an atrocity - so she stays, because she, in all her failed Valkyrie glory, is garbage as well.

She drinks. She passes out. She forgets... and then she drinks some more.

Drinking is a good way to destroy memories, and she's had about enough of those. Which is why- at 0900 standard hours on her only day off this week- she's sitting in the 'Dierw,' nursing her third alcoholic beverage of the morning with a splitting hangover and a heart urging her to destroy something. Perferably a living something.

"Hey, 142-"

"What."

"You the one that got that Autanian last week?"

"What of it? Gonna lecture me about my ethics-"

Sal rolls his eyes. With a sigh, he's sliding a couple drinks down to a few D'Rillians, all of which are incredibly drunk. "Wasn't judging," he murmurs. "Just wanted to know if it was you or not. He beat out Sigol last match... I lost about 300 units."

"Could've told you that."

Brunnhilde slides the top of her armour over to reiterate, exposing an array of purple and blue bruises; all fresh. Her entire body hurts- feels like a Titan slammed their foot into her gut and ripped out her spine.

It's invigorating.

"Anyway, GM gave me half a million for him."

Sal grimaces, "Should have filled me in."

"My bad," she lies, finishing off her ale. She slams it on the table and wipes her mouth. "I'll give you a heads-up next time. You know, if you're good with splitting the profits half and half."

"Yeah, wasn't born yesterday... flarking scrappers," he mutters. "I'll do 80-20, and that's being generous." He tosses her glass into the bin before lightly slinging the drink towel over his shoulder. She doesn't even have to ask for another. He just points to the back and then to her credit pack.

"New shipment last night- if your drunk 'slosh' and units can wait five minutes."

"Ooof. Gonna be a rough one."

He doesn't reply, just waves her off, and after collecting a few more whiskey bottles and watered-down mixed drinks, he heads down to the basement- which isn't actually a basement. Just more garbage.

Because everything, and everyone is garbage.

With a grumble of impatience, Brunnhilde slumps against the bar. She rests her head on her arms, eyes wandering to the front door, where a couple Hauk'ka are plotting murder and a couple Rikava men are trying to prevent it. The D'Rillians are wasted, a group of Telri are threatening bodily harm... even in the early morning, tensions are running high. Last night's fight culminated in a stand-still, with both contestants killing each other before anyone was crowned victor, and now, half the idiots on this planet have descended here: to drink, to complain, to fight-

They all suck.

She hates them.

She hates bars, too, not that she'd ever admit it aloud, because trying to explain the whole traumatic backstory of, "The love of my life is dead and I'd rather drink in silence to forget about it instead of coexisting with thousands of fucking Sakaarans, because that's what I deserve" is a hard concept to get across. No one gives a crap about her past: not the GM, not Sal, not Scrappers one through one thousand... and at this point in her life, Brunnhilde is also exhausted from giving a crap.