Proxima Midnight's blue lips pressed together slightly.
She knew who Gamora was—Thanos's adopted daughter, once an assassin, now a traitor.
She did not understand why Thanos still wanted to spare her life, but she would not ask. Thanos's orders needed no explanation. They only needed to be carried out.
"Yes, Master," she said.
Thanos sat back down on his throne.
He looked at the red points of light on the holographic screen, something burning in his amber eyes.
It was not anger, nor was it hatred, but a kind of will.
An absolute will that could not be shaken by any hardship, any setback, or the existence of any enemy.
"Loren Morgan, I will come for you myself. When that time comes, you will know what true power is."
He spoke softly, so softly that only he could hear it.
In the vastness of space, the Benatar sped through the stars.
This ship was Peter Quill's most prized possession. No, his only possession.
It was not large—one could even call it crude—but it was fast, fast enough to escape any pursuit.
Over the past year, Quill had flown it out of the ruins of Xandar.
He had slipped through Ravager encirclements and sneaked past Kree patrols right under their noses.
Every time, the Benatar had pulled through.
But this time, Quill was not so sure.
Because this time, the ones chasing him were not Ravagers or Kree, but Thanos.
"How much farther?" Quill asked, his fingers dancing rapidly across the navigation panel as he set the jump coordinates.
"Four hours to Knowhere," Gamora's voice came from behind him, cold, precise, carrying that uniquely unquestionable certainty of hers.
"If we don't get caught in the next hour."
"We won't get caught," Quill said, though there was no confidence in his