The Benatar drifted through the stars.
No direction, no power, no hope.
The ship's engines had completely shut down three hours ago. The last of the backup energy was being used to maintain life support and basic navigation.
Quill leaned against the pilot's seat. Rocket had treated the wound on his right leg with emergency spray; the bleeding had stopped, but the bone had yet to heal.
Whenever he tried to stand, excruciating pain shot from his knee all the way up his spine, making his vision go dark.
He did not care.
Gamora had been taken away.
He had watched Thanos drag her away, watched that black warship vanish beyond the edge of the galaxy.
He had reached for her, but he could not reach her.
He had called her name, but she could not hear him.
He had chased after her, but his ship was not fast enough, his weapons were not strong enough, nothing he had was enough.
"Three percent energy remaining. Estimated operational time: four hours and twelve minutes," the ship's voice system reported, its tone calm to the point of cruelty.
Rocket crouched in a corner beneath the console. The broken bone in his left arm had been secured with bandages and a metal splint.
But his movements were still stiff, and every motion made the corner of his mouth twitch.
His black eyes were fixed on the energy readings, his round pupils reflecting the steadily falling numbers.
"Three percent," he repeated hoarsely. "In four hours, we'll be space junk."
Drax had been pulled out of the wall.
He had not walked out on his own. Thanos's punch had caved in his abdomen, displaced his spine, and broken at least four of his ribs.
Groot had dragged him out of the wall.
Groot himself was