MARVEL'S GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY

DANCING AMONG THE STARS

The neon lights of a distant city pulsed on the horizon, painting the alien desert in shades of electric blue and purple. The sky above was a blanket of stars, twinkling like a thousand disco lights, and Peter Quill—Star-Lord, as he liked to remind people—moved to their rhythm, dancing across the barren ground.
“Wham bam, shang-a-lang and a sha-la-la-la-la-la! Wham bam, shang-a-lang and a sha-la-la-la-la-la!”
Silver’s "Wham Bam Shang-A-Lang" blasted through Peter’s headphones, his body moving in time to the beat. He slid to the left, spun on his heel, and threw his arms in the air as if he were performing for a crowd of thousands instead of just a few curious alien creatures hiding in the nearby rocks. His red Ravager coat flared out with each twirl, and the dusty ground kicked up beneath his boots.
This was the part of the mission Peter lived for—the calm before the chaos, the dance before the heist. Yondu had sent him here on a simple job. Sneak into some rich guy’s vault, hack his account, and make off with a cool million credits. Easy, right?
Peter grinned to himself, taking a moment to enjoy the solitude. These were the good days—before things got messy, before blasters started firing and spaceships took off in a hurry. Out here, under the stars, with his Awesome Mix playing and no one around to tell him to stop goofing off, Peter was free.
"Man," he muttered between lyrics, "Yondu has no idea what he's missing."
The thought of Yondu brought a smirk to Peter’s lips. The old blue Centaurian had sent him on more dangerous missions than he could count, but this one felt different. Maybe it was the promise of a million credits, or maybe it was just Peter getting better at the whole “professional thief” thing. He liked to think it was the latter.
Peter continued his impromptu solo, spinning in place before moonwalking a few feet back to where he’d left his hover bike parked on the ridge. The target’s vault wasn’t far—hidden beneath the sand dunes and guarded by a handful of hired goons who, according to Yondu’s intel, were more bark than bite.
“Wham bam, shang-a-lang and a sha-la-la-la-la-la!”
The song hit its chorus again, and Peter threw his arms wide, belting out the lyrics as though he were in the middle of a concert. He knew it was silly, but it was moments like these that reminded him why he loved the life of an outlaw. The galaxy might be a chaotic, dangerous place, but it was his chaotic, dangerous place, and he intended to enjoy every second of it.
As the song faded, Peter finally took a breath and tapped the side of his headphones, pausing the music. The silence of the desert returned, but he could feel the energy still buzzing in his veins.
“Alright,” he said to himself, taking one last look at the distant city lights. “Time to get rich.”
He hopped on his hover bike and revved the engine, the machine purring to life beneath him. With a smirk and a kick, he shot forward, the wind whipping through his hair as the rocky terrain blurred past him. The vault wasn’t far—just a few minutes’ ride across the desert.
As he raced toward his destination, Peter’s thoughts drifted back to Yondu. The old Ravager had been a pain in his side for as long as he could remember, but he was still the closest thing to family Peter had. He’d never admit it to Yondu’s face, but Peter had learned a lot from the guy. How to survive, how to fight, how to lie through his teeth when needed—and how to steal a fortune from under someone’s nose.
“This one’s for you, old man,” Peter muttered with a grin as the vault’s entrance came into view, half-buried beneath the sand.
He slowed the bike and dismounted, scanning the area. It looked quiet, just like Yondu had said. The guards were likely inside, keeping their eyes on the vault, completely unaware that a Ravager—no, a legend—was about to rob them blind.
Peter tapped his wrist communicator, pulling up the schematics Yondu had provided. The vault’s security was top-notch—locked behind some seriously advanced tech—but Peter wasn’t worried. He’d hacked worse. All he needed was to slip inside, crack the vault, and transfer the credits before anyone knew he was there.
Piece of cake.
He approached the entrance, a smooth metallic door hidden beneath layers of rock and sand. With a flick of his wrist, Peter brought up his multi-tool, the device humming softly as he started to hack into the lock. The door hissed as it slid open, revealing a dimly lit corridor leading down into the vault.
Peter allowed himself one last cocky grin before stepping inside.
“Let’s get paid,” he whispered to himself, slipping his headphones back on.
He hit play on the next track, and as the music swelled in his ears, Star-Lord danced his way into the belly of the vault, knowing that in just a few minutes, he’d be a million credits richer.
What could possibly go wrong?
Peter made his way down the dimly lit corridor, humming along to the beat of the next song in his Awesome Mix. The vault walls were smooth metal, lined with subtle lights that flickered as he passed. It all seemed too easy—like one of those setups in an old Earth movie where the hero waltzes in without a hitch, only for things to go sideways in the third act.
But Peter wasn’t worried. He had a knack for making it through, even when things did go sideways.
He reached the end of the hall, where a massive vault door loomed ahead, sleek and imposing. This was it. The million-credit jackpot just on the other side. He could practically smell the money. Grinning, he knelt by the console, pulling out his multi-tool again and flipping through Yondu’s instructions on his wrist display.
“Alright, Star-Lord,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s see if you still remember how to hack a high-end vault.”
The console in front of him blinked to life as he connected his device. Layers of security encryption rolled across the screen, but Peter’s fingers danced across the interface, decrypting the codes with ease. Whoever this rich guy was, he hadn’t anticipated someone with Peter’s particular set of skills.
As the final layer of encryption fell, the vault door began to rumble, slowly sliding open. A cool breeze escaped from within, carrying with it the sterile scent of freshly minted credits—or maybe it was just the smell of victory.
“Boom, baby,” Peter said, standing up and dusting off his jacket. “That’s how you do it.”
He stepped inside, expecting to be greeted by stacks of credits, maybe a fancy holodisplay with some over-the-top security measures. What he didn’t expect was the large, cylindrical vault room to be almost empty, save for a sleek, glowing terminal at its center. A single device—some kind of holographic bank interface—hovered above the pedestal.
Peter frowned. “Okay, not exactly a pile of gold coins, but I can work with this.”
He approached the terminal, pulling out his data pad to interface with the system. The moment he connected, the screen lit up with a soft hum, displaying an account balance that made Peter’s eyes widen.
“Holy—”
He wasn’t prepared for the numbers on the screen. One million credits, just like Yondu had said. Whoever owned this account was loaded. He initiated the transfer, his heart racing as the numbers began counting down, transferring from the vault into his own hidden account.
“Nice and easy,” Peter whispered, glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting guards to come storming in at any moment. But the vault remained eerily quiet.
Just as the transfer was about to complete, the lights in the vault flickered. A low, ominous hum echoed through the room, and Peter’s wrist communicator buzzed to life. Yondu’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“Quill, get the hell outta there! The Nova Corps just pinged the location of that vault. I don’t know how, but they’re comin’ for you, boy. Move!”
Peter cursed, yanking his data pad away from the terminal just as the transfer finished. He bolted for the door, sliding his multi-tool back into his jacket. The credits were his, but now he had an entirely new problem.
As he raced down the corridor, the sound of blasters charging reached his ears. He slid to a stop at the corner, pressing himself against the wall. A group of heavily armed guards had appeared at the entrance to the vault, their bulky armor glinting in the low light. Nova Imperium insignias were stamped on their chests—definitely not the low-rent security team Peter had expected.
“Yondu, you didn’t mention Nova Imperium was involved!” Peter whispered harshly into his comm, peeking around the corner as the guards spread out to cover the exits.
Yondu’s laugh crackled through the line. “Guess that makes this a bit more excitin’, don’t it? Now quit complainin’ and get outta there before they make you space dust.”
Peter groaned, slapping his forehead. “I hate you sometimes, old man.”
The guards moved into position, blocking the only visible exit. Peter’s heart raced as he tried to think of a way out. He could hear one of the guards speaking into a comm, alerting backup forces. If he didn’t move fast, he’d be surrounded.
With no other options, Peter took a deep breath, tapped the side of his headphones, and cranked up the volume. David Bowie’s "Moonage Daydream" filled his ears, the cosmic guitar riff hitting just as he sprang into action.
He vaulted over a nearby crate, blasters drawn, firing before the guards even had a chance to react. The corridor exploded in a burst of light as Peter dove and rolled, taking down two guards before they could even raise their weapons.
“Hey! You guys hear the one about the Ravager who took down the entire Nova Imperium platoon with a smile and a mixtape?” Peter called, grinning as he fired off another shot.
The remaining guards scrambled for cover, blaster fire lighting up the corridor. Peter ducked behind a pillar, returning fire as he plotted his next move. He needed to reach the entrance before reinforcements arrived—or before his luck ran out.
Just as another guard fell, Peter’s wrist communicator buzzed again. Yondu’s voice came through, sounding both amused and annoyed. “Quill, if you’re not on that bike in the next sixty seconds, you ain’t gettin’ another job from me, ya hear?”
Peter smirked. “Relax, Yondu. I’ve got this. I’m practically—”
Before he could finish, a blast hit the wall just inches from his head, sending sparks flying. Peter winced, then bolted from cover, sprinting toward the exit. His hover bike was just outside, and if he could make it there, he had a shot at escaping.
“—gone,” Peter muttered as he skidded into the open desert, his boots kicking up sand as he sprinted for the bike.
Blaster fire trailed behind him, but Peter dove onto the bike, gunning the engine as he shot off across the dunes. The wind whipped through his hair, the stars above seeming to blur as he sped away from the vault.
The Nova Imperium wouldn’t catch him—not today.
As he raced toward the Milano, a satisfied grin spread across Peter’s face. One million credits richer, and a hell of a story to tell.
All in a day’s work for Star-Lord.
The stars blurred into streaks of light as Peter zoomed across the desert on his hover bike, leaving the chaos of the Nova Imperium vault behind. The soft hum of the engine was a comforting contrast to the intensity of the blaster fire he’d just escaped. The million credits were secure, burning a metaphorical hole in his account, and for now, that was enough to keep him satisfied.
Peter slowed down as the city’s neon skyline loomed ahead, casting a pulsating glow across the horizon. This was just another backwater world on the edge of a star system nobody cared about—one of a thousand such places in the galaxy. But for Peter, this was a brief stop before bigger things. The universe was vast, and he had plans—plans that didn’t involve running jobs for Yondu forever.
As he neared the outskirts of the city, Peter felt the adrenaline wearing off, the thrill of the heist fading into the reality of what came next. He’d won today, but Nova Imperium wouldn’t take the loss lightly. They’d come after him, eventually. He’d have to keep moving—find somewhere to lay low for a while.
“Guess the million credits wasn’t the easy score I thought it’d be,” he muttered to himself, glancing at the horizon as the city came closer.
The bike hummed to a stop at the edge of the city’s marketplace, a bustling hub of alien life. Vendors peddled exotic goods from across the galaxy, their stands glowing with strange lights and smells that filled the air. Peter dismounted, flipping his headphones off his neck and slipping them into his jacket. He couldn’t help but grin as he wandered into the crowd, blending in like just another face in the sea of beings that made up this world.
This was the part he loved about being on the run—getting lost in places like this. Nobody knew who he was, or cared. Star-Lord was a legend in some corners of the galaxy, sure, but here? He was just a guy with a Ravager coat and a cocky grin.
As he weaved through the marketplace, he passed a stall selling ancient trinkets from long-forgotten civilizations. One of the pieces—a sleek, metallic cube that pulsed with faint energy—caught his eye. He paused, leaning closer to inspect it. The merchant, a scruffy Rodian, eyed him cautiously.
“That piece is from the Eighth Quadrant,” the Rodian said, his voice a garbled mix of basic and his own native language. “Very rare. Very expensive.”
Peter raised an eyebrow, feigning disinterest. “Oh yeah? Looks like a fancy paperweight.”
The Rodian narrowed his eyes. “This ‘paperweight’ has been sought by collectors for centuries. Priceless.”
Peter smirked, tapping the cube lightly. “How much?”
“More than you can afford, Ravager,” the merchant said, crossing his arms. “Credits don’t impress me.”
Peter laughed, stepping back. “You’d be surprised what I can afford, buddy.”
He left the stall behind, continuing deeper into the market. The truth was, he could buy whatever he wanted now, but that wasn’t the point. The million credits weren’t about the money—they were about freedom. They were his way out of Yondu’s shadow, a way to chart his own course through the stars.
Peter stopped by a food vendor and bought something vaguely edible—a spiced meat skewer from a species he couldn’t pronounce—and took a bite as he wandered toward the edge of the marketplace, where the neon lights faded into the shadow of the towering buildings beyond. The noise of the crowd began to fade, and soon he was alone, just him and the distant hum of the city.
He found a spot at the edge of a platform overlooking the lower levels of the city. Sitting down, Peter took another bite of his skewer and gazed out at the sprawling urban landscape. This wasn’t Earth, and it never would be, but there was something about it that made him feel at home. The endless, chaotic life of the galaxy, constantly shifting and moving, was where he belonged. And yet, there was always that faint tug—memories of Earth, of his mother, of a life that had once seemed so far away.
Peter pulled out his headphones and slipped them on, the familiar strains of a new song filling his ears—“Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone. His lips curled into a smile, and for a moment, everything felt right again.
But the galaxy was never quiet for long.
Just as he was settling into the rhythm, his communicator beeped—a high-pitched, insistent tone that meant trouble. Peter groaned, pulling the device from his pocket.
“Quill,” Yondu’s voice crackled through the line. “Where the hell are ya? We got problems.”
Peter sighed, leaning back against the railing. “What now, Yondu? I just finished the job. You said I could keep the credits. It’s my score this time.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t about the money,” Yondu growled. “That Nova Imperium vault you just hit? Word’s spreadin’. They know it was you, boy. And they ain’t happy. Get your sorry butt off that planet before they send half the galaxy after ya.”
Peter glanced down at the busy marketplace below, the flickering lights of the city seeming a little less inviting now. “You’re kidding, right? They’re not that mad about a million credits.”
“Oh, they ain’t mad about the credits, boy. They’re mad about the other thing.”
Peter frowned. “Other thing? Yondu, what the hell did I steal?”
Yondu hesitated for a moment, which wasn’t a good sign. “Look, you took somethin’ important—some kinda data file. I don’t know what’s on it, but whoever’s in charge of that vault? They want it back. Bad.”
Peter stood up, his heart sinking. “You sent me in there without knowing what I was stealing? You realize how dangerous that is, right?”
Yondu’s laugh was cold and sharp. “Danger’s part of the job, boy. Now quit complainin’ and get outta there before the Nova Corps show up.”
Peter cursed under his breath, shoving the communicator back into his pocket. So much for a simple heist. He grabbed his hover bike and headed back toward the Milano, feeling the weight of his so-called victory starting to crush down on him.
This was supposed to be the job that set him free. Instead, it had just painted a target on his back.
As he revved the engine of his bike and shot off toward his ship, Peter had the distinct feeling that things were about to get a lot more complicated.
Peter sped through the city’s neon-lit streets, his hover bike weaving between towering buildings and beneath walkways crowded with all manner of alien life. The marketplace’s vibrant chaos was quickly fading behind him, replaced by the low hum of distant starships and the faint flicker of the stars above.
Yondu’s words echoed in his mind, a nagging reminder that this was more than just a heist gone wrong. He’d stolen something big—bigger than credits, bigger than he had anticipated. Whatever was on that data file had people more dangerous than the Nova Imperium ready to come for his head. The thought was a weight in his chest, but Peter shoved it down.
“Just gotta get to the Milano,” he muttered, pushing the bike’s throttle. “Get off-world and figure it out later.”
As the Milano came into view—a sleek, gleaming beauty of a ship tucked away in a shady docking bay on the edge of the city—Peter allowed himself a moment of relief. His ship was his sanctuary, his ticket to anywhere in the galaxy. Once he was in the cockpit, he could plot a course far away from whatever heat was about to come down on him.
He parked the hover bike and jogged toward the Milano’s ramp, tapping on the panel to open it. The ramp hissed and lowered slowly, and Peter sprinted up, slapping the panel to close it behind him. He could already hear the distant sirens—either Nova Corps or something worse.
Peter raced through the narrow corridors of his ship, making a beeline for the cockpit. The familiar hum of the Milano’s systems greeted him as he threw himself into the pilot’s seat, flicking switches and prepping for takeoff.
“Alright, baby,” Peter said, gripping the controls. “Let’s get out of here.”
The engines roared to life, a deep, satisfying thrum that Peter had always loved. The Milano was his pride and joy—a fast, reliable ship that had saved his skin more times than he could count. As the docking bay doors slid open above him, Peter pulled back on the throttle, the ship lifting off the ground and shooting into the night sky.
The city’s lights quickly fell away, replaced by the vast expanse of space. Stars stretched out in every direction, endless and inviting. Peter let out a long breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders start to ease.
“See? Easy,” he said to himself, tapping the autopilot and leaning back. “No big deal.”
But that feeling didn’t last long. Just as the Milano broke through the planet’s atmosphere, Peter’s ship’s sensors began flashing with alerts. A proximity warning blared, and Peter glanced at the display, his heart sinking.
There, on the edge of his radar, a Nova Corps ship loomed—large, heavily armed, and heading straight for him.
“Aw, come on,” Peter groaned, slamming his hand on the console. “Can’t I get one break?”
He took the controls again, manually overriding the autopilot as the Nova ship closed in. It was broadcasting a signal, one he couldn’t ignore—an automated order to power down and prepare to be boarded. Peter’s jaw tightened. He had maybe thirty seconds before they’d be within range to disable his ship.
“Not today,” he muttered, pushing the throttle forward. The Milano shot ahead, its engines flaring as Peter dipped into a sharp bank, dodging toward a nearby asteroid field.
The Nova ship followed, relentless. Peter clenched his jaw, weaving through the scattered asteroids, dodging and spinning with practiced ease. The Milano was fast, but so was the Nova ship, and Peter knew it wouldn’t be long before they caught up.

Suddenly, the Milano’s comm system crackled to life, an unfamiliar voice cutting through the noise. “Ravager vessel, this is Nova Corps. Power down and surrender immediately.”
Peter rolled his eyes, muting the transmission. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
A blast of energy grazed the Milano’s shields, sending a ripple through the ship’s hull. Peter swore under his breath, jerking the controls to avoid a second shot.
“Alright, Star-Lord,” he muttered, “time for Plan B.”
He had no Plan B. But if there was one thing Peter was good at, it was making things up as he went along.
Peter veered hard, diving into the densest part of the asteroid field. The rocks were huge, some the size of cities, and navigating through them was a death sentence for most pilots. But Peter wasn’t most pilots. He expertly dodged and twisted between the tumbling space rocks, the Milano’s engines straining as he pushed them to their limits.
The Nova ship wasn’t as agile. It followed him in, but Peter could see it struggling to keep up, its larger frame scraping against the smaller asteroids as it tried to keep him in sight.
“Come on,” Peter urged the ship, glancing at his sensors. “Just a little closer…”
And then, in one swift move, Peter jerked the Milano up and around a particularly large asteroid, cutting his engines for just a moment. The Nova ship barreled past him, unable to adjust in time. Peter smirked as the Milano shot out from behind the rock, the Nova ship struggling to reverse course.
He was in the clear.
“Not bad, Quill,” Peter said to himself, settling back into his seat as the Milano rocketed away from the asteroid field. He checked the radar again—the Nova ship had been left behind, still entangled in the debris. For now, at least, he was free.
But that freedom was temporary. He knew it wouldn’t be long before Nova Imperium or someone else tracked him down again. There was something in that data file they wanted badly, and Peter had no idea what it was.
Peter exhaled slowly, flipping open his data pad to check the transfer. Sure enough, the file was still there, encrypted beyond his immediate understanding. He ran a quick scan, but whatever it contained was hidden beneath layers of security protocols he hadn’t seen before.
“What did I get myself into?” Peter muttered, shaking his head. He needed to find out what this file was, and fast. And for that, he needed help.
He couldn’t go to Yondu—no way Yondu would bail him out of this mess, especially since Peter had technically completed the job. And he definitely wasn’t going to turn himself over to the Nova Corps.
As he stared at the encrypted file, an idea began to form. There were people in the galaxy who knew things—people who owed him favors, or at least who didn’t want him dead yet. If he could track one of them down, maybe they could help him figure out what this file was and why it was worth killing over.
Peter glanced at the stars on the navigation display, his mind racing. He had names—contacts scattered across the galaxy, most of them sketchy at best, but someone out there knew what this was.
He leaned forward and set the Milano’s coordinates for Knowhere, the enormous space station at the edge of the galaxy where secrets were traded like currency. If there was anywhere to start looking for answers, it was there.
Peter smirked as the stars blurred into streaks of light around him.
“Alright, Star-Lord,” he said. “Let’s go see what kind of trouble we can find.”