[ Peter was never naive enough to think he'd live forever.
Well, he had always sort of hoped he would, always sort of wished he would find the Fountain of Youth or something and live forever and ever, enjoying life and traveling the universe. It was a silly wish, especially given the fact that he was a Ravager, and Ravagers lived fast, died young, and tended to leave horribly mangled, sizzling corpses. When he accidentally wandered his way back onto the straight and narrow, dubbed himself a Guardian of the Galaxy, he had no idea that it would actually shorten his lifespan. But of course it would, of course it did, because there were more things at stake now than his own stupid life, and it took the mess with the Infinity Stone to make him realize that his life is nothing compared to an entire planet, an entire galaxy, an entire universe.
So when the Nova Corps contacted them, begged them for their help in thwarting almost universal annihilation, the Guardians set a really shitty plan into motion.
It was a suicidal strategy at best, even after fine-tuning. Peter doesn’t remember the particulars, except that there was a super weapon, a beam capable of taking out planets. He remembers they fought their way on to the enemy ship as it broke atmo on the planet of Khafreon Prime, ready to test its weapon on the unsuspecting populace below. He remembers setting the bomb to take out the weapon, the timer ticking down slowly, and the team struggled to fight their way out but-- something had gone wrong, hadn’t it? There were too many soldiers, he thinks-- and it’s so hard to think, right now, so hard to do much of anything but-- Something had gone wrong, there were too many--
The soldiers were going after the bomb, trying to defuse it, and Peter thinks-- why is his mind so sluggish? -- he doubled back to defend it, because what would be the point to get this far and have no results to show for it?
So he fell back, and then a wall of enemies separated him from the others, and he hunkered down next to the bomb, and-- fuck, why can’t he think?
He defended Rocket’s bomb, but-- he got stuck, didn’t he? He couldn’t fight his way out fast enough? Couldn’t get to the Milano before the explosion rocked the entire ship and sent him and thousands of shards of shrapnel flying through the air--
It’s silent here as he comes to, save for the ominous creaking of the bulkhead and blaring of alarms in the distance. He’s resting against a slab of metal -- he thinks it might’ve been part of that super weapon, but now it’s mostly useless scrap. Everything is bathed in a red light, or at least he thinks it is until he remembers his helmet is still in place. And he thinks it’d be nice to sleep, to just rest here and let blackness reclaim him. The smell of something metallic fills his nose and coats the back of his throat -- oil, probably, or grease, seeing as how he’s on a ship. He coughs wetly, and his mouth suddenly tastes like copper. He wants to spit it out, but his arms won’t listen to him, won’t move, so he swallows it back down.
Did the others make it out okay? He hopes they did. He doesn’t know -- in all the chaos, it was hard to tell who was and wasn’t still nearby, and he thinks he was mostly on his own, though every now and again he remembers hearing Rocket screaming, “BLAM! Murdered you!” or Groot crying out his own name, or Gamora and Drax’s voices joined in triumphant battle cries, or the fwoomp of Maya’s phaselock—
God. Maya. Peter’s fists clench limply at his sides. He doesn’t know where she is, but he really fucking hopes she’s alright.
The funny thing is, he’s not really in pain, but he thinks he should be. Mostly he feels numb and cold, and he should really be getting back to the others before they miss him. But-- his thoughts are fuzzy around the edges -- but the plan was to get back to the ship before the bomb went off, detach from the docking point and fly away, because-- why?
Because the enemy ship would be crashing. Because the weapon was housed in the primary control room, and the bomb was going to take out everything, and there was no way to control the ship’s free fall to the planet’s surface at that point. It meant sacrificing part of the city below (he hopes they evacuated in time), but better than the planet at large.
Ah. Well. He’s fucked, then.
And after a glance down at himself, at the sharp bits of shrapnel protruding out of his chest where metal definitely did not belong, he thinks he’s been impaled against the wall. So he’s doubly, triply fucked.
everything is awfullllllll everything is bad and you just wanna scream
[ Peter was never naive enough to think he'd live forever.
Well, he had always sort of hoped he would, always sort of wished he would find the Fountain of Youth or something and live forever and ever, enjoying life and traveling the universe. It was a silly wish, especially given the fact that he was a Ravager, and Ravagers lived fast, died young, and tended to leave horribly mangled, sizzling corpses. When he accidentally wandered his way back onto the straight and narrow, dubbed himself a Guardian of the Galaxy, he had no idea that it would actually shorten his lifespan. But of course it would, of course it did, because there were more things at stake now than his own stupid life, and it took the mess with the Infinity Stone to make him realize that his life is nothing compared to an entire planet, an entire galaxy, an entire universe.
So when the Nova Corps contacted them, begged them for their help in thwarting almost universal annihilation, the Guardians set a really shitty plan into motion.
It was a suicidal strategy at best, even after fine-tuning. Peter doesn’t remember the particulars, except that there was a super weapon, a beam capable of taking out planets. He remembers they fought their way on to the enemy ship as it broke atmo on the planet of Khafreon Prime, ready to test its weapon on the unsuspecting populace below. He remembers setting the bomb to take out the weapon, the timer ticking down slowly, and the team struggled to fight their way out but-- something had gone wrong, hadn’t it? There were too many soldiers, he thinks-- and it’s so hard to think, right now, so hard to do much of anything but-- Something had gone wrong, there were too many--
The soldiers were going after the bomb, trying to defuse it, and Peter thinks-- why is his mind so sluggish? -- he doubled back to defend it, because what would be the point to get this far and have no results to show for it?
So he fell back, and then a wall of enemies separated him from the others, and he hunkered down next to the bomb, and-- fuck, why can’t he think?
He defended Rocket’s bomb, but-- he got stuck, didn’t he? He couldn’t fight his way out fast enough? Couldn’t get to the Milano before the explosion rocked the entire ship and sent him and thousands of shards of shrapnel flying through the air--
It’s silent here as he comes to, save for the ominous creaking of the bulkhead and blaring of alarms in the distance. He’s resting against a slab of metal -- he thinks it might’ve been part of that super weapon, but now it’s mostly useless scrap. Everything is bathed in a red light, or at least he thinks it is until he remembers his helmet is still in place. And he thinks it’d be nice to sleep, to just rest here and let blackness reclaim him. The smell of something metallic fills his nose and coats the back of his throat -- oil, probably, or grease, seeing as how he’s on a ship. He coughs wetly, and his mouth suddenly tastes like copper. He wants to spit it out, but his arms won’t listen to him, won’t move, so he swallows it back down.
Did the others make it out okay? He hopes they did. He doesn’t know -- in all the chaos, it was hard to tell who was and wasn’t still nearby, and he thinks he was mostly on his own, though every now and again he remembers hearing Rocket screaming, “BLAM! Murdered you!” or Groot crying out his own name, or Gamora and Drax’s voices joined in triumphant battle cries, or the fwoomp of Maya’s phaselock—
God. Maya. Peter’s fists clench limply at his sides. He doesn’t know where she is, but he really fucking hopes she’s alright.
The funny thing is, he’s not really in pain, but he thinks he should be. Mostly he feels numb and cold, and he should really be getting back to the others before they miss him. But-- his thoughts are fuzzy around the edges -- but the plan was to get back to the ship before the bomb went off, detach from the docking point and fly away, because-- why?
Because the enemy ship would be crashing. Because the weapon was housed in the primary control room, and the bomb was going to take out everything, and there was no way to control the ship’s free fall to the planet’s surface at that point. It meant sacrificing part of the city below (he hopes they evacuated in time), but better than the planet at large.
Ah. Well. He’s fucked, then.
And after a glance down at himself, at the sharp bits of shrapnel protruding out of his chest where metal definitely did not belong, he thinks he’s been impaled against the wall. So he’s doubly, triply fucked.
What a way to go. ]