It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Three meetings

They bump into each other in 1992 (Earth years, because the complicated history of 'time' on Sakaar is far too complex for Girls' night).

It isn't planned, because why, in all of the Nine Realms, would Brunnhilde ever wish this upon her life. She's out collecting idiotic beings- those that made the unfortunate decision to lose their way at the edge of the galaxy- and at the same time, Vers is on planet hunting down a Kree deserter. So, life being glorious life, they meet in the middle of the wasteland, the 'Devil's anus' merely a cloud in the distance.

"Crap," Brunnhilde says.

"Crap," Vers says. Then, "I need the guy on your left."

"This guy?"

"Yeah. That guy."

"What'd he do? Spit in your Supreme Intelligence's breakfast."

"Started a civil war on Aphos- delta after murdering about a dozen innocent people and leaving the rest to die," Vers says, with absolutely no humor in her voice. She crosses her arms and cocks her head.

Normally, Brunnhilde would say, "Yeah, right. You're joking," because a sentence like that is all kinds of vulnerable and ridiculous; but one look into Blondie's eyes, and she knows she's dead serious. Brunnhilde inspects the killer in question- middle aged, thin lips, balding- before turning back around.

"I'll think about it," she finally says.

Vers raises her eyes. "You'll think about it?"

"Yeah. A guy like this is worth at least 300 thousand units. Could make a world of difference in a scrapper's life, and he'll probably die in the arena anyway... so, ya'know-" She makes air quotes with her fingers.

"Justice."

Vers narrows her eyes.

Brunnhilde narrows hers back.

There's a small moment, a tiny little sliver of a second where she thinks she's breaking Vers' resolve, but Blondie's gaze falls on the Kree deserter and the two prisoners attached to him and smirks. "Sure," she says. "If you can catch him," and with a blast of her fists, she's releasing all three chains.

The scrapyard descends into chaos.

There are fists being thrown, words being yelled... Brunnhilde's jaw is thrust forward as the Coati she collected from the West pummels her in the face before taking off across the field. The Terran she nabbed from the East is heading in the opposite direction, and the Kree deserter murder man is escaping straight up in the sky.

He's unconscious, courtesy of photon light.

"Gotta run," Vers says, throwing him over her shoulder, and then she cringes. "I mean fly... I mean go... whatever. See you around, maybe- but hopefully not."

Two seconds later, she's gone, blowing smoke and fire through the air. Brunnhilde just stands there, stunned.

Vers flies.

Blondie. Freaking. Flies.

When did she learn how to do that? Has she always been able to do that? What kind of Kree super soldier is she... who is she, what is she?

The questions are spiraling through Brunnhilde's brain, but as Blondie's outline fades smaller and smaller, Brunnhilde's frustration grows. The awe gives way to anger, then hatred, then rage... hot, fiery red rage.

Her face is burning as she raises her fists to the sky.

"Seriously!" she screams, words mixing with curses and scathing phrases making little to no sense. "What have I ever done to deserve this- stupid flarking Kree! Stupid flarking war-"