Sky Full of Stars | Peter Quill (REMASTERED)

EPISODE TWO.

EPISODE T W O:
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WHAT DOES THE MORNING ROUTINE OF A MECH stranded on an ice planet with no one around for miles (unless you count the mob boss living in the basement of your craphole rental) and nothing to her name but a bag of clothes and tools, look like?

Pretty depressing, honestly. It's not like I stick to a strict regimen, but I guess my body likes schedule. And by that, I mean it enjoys waking up at the worst time of the morning, when the world's still soaked in darkness and all I can hear is silence and my pounding heartbeat. Sleep is a nightmare, no joke intended. I think I need it to live, but it's also probably killing me, what with the constant horror show waiting for me in my dreams. I'll be honest; I try to avoid it at all costs.

But after a couple days of fighting it off, I'll crash. And I wake at just about four in the morning sweat and tear soaked. After a couple minutes of (embarrassing) panic, I get up. Take a freezing cold shower. Stare at my reflection and wonder how the hell I got this far. Rummage through leftovers and enjoy a smorgasbord of whatever hasn't gone bad. Get dressed. Debate showing up to work. Decide I have to because I need money. Fiddle with whatever's lying around, then head off to work, strapped with all my belongings in a knapsack like a raggedy runaway.

I sigh and shove my arms into my jacket, which is still soaked through from the walk home yesterday. I still feel half asleep, in that ears filled with ice-water, foggy brain trying to panic without the energy to, sort of way. There's a paranoia lingering in the back of my mind that always comes when I sleep too long. It's itching at my skin, trying to warn me against leaving my apartment, like the end of the world's waiting for me out there. And, sure, I'd believe my brain — if it didn't think try and say the same thing every single day.

I lock my door, leaving my paranoia inside, and tuck my jaw deeper into my thin coat collar. Cold's already nipping at my neck and turning my blood to ice, and I already regret my decision to breath this morning.

Another beautiful day of misery.

Lirad's out the next few days. Don't know where, don't know why. But it means I get to take my sweet ass time walking in the miserable blistering hell that is Vargo, and I'm going to take that as a good thing. At least I won't be getting fired when I show up to work ten minutes late and covered in icicles.

As I near the familiar bay, through the fog of sleet and ice, I see something new. Well, something other than empty tarmac and that stupid 'REPAIR AND REPARATIONS' sign. I squint through the walls of sleet, trying to get a better look, and...

"Great fecking Krite," I swear. "You've got to be kidding me."

I stomp up the ice-coated bay, trying very hard to ignore the flashy M-ship sitting to my left. Which is hard, considering...it's a goddamn ship. Still, I'm doing my best work pretending the thing isn't there and I'm completely alone to open the mech shop. So good, for a moment I don't hear the desperate cries of a certain ship's owner chasing me as I unlock the shop's door.

"...ey! Grumpy! D'ya hear me!"

Only for a moment.

"Piss off," I throw over my shoulder, slipping through the heavy side door. He follows right behind despite. "Seriously. Leave me alone."