A new assignment for the galaxy's hired hands!

On the Throne, Link emerged from his long silence.

Sacrifice the one I love? What kind of cosmic joke is that?

All this time, I've been the one taking things from other people. Since when did anyone else get to make the rules for me? And they want me to trade Harley for it? In their dreams.

Link inwardly ranted, but his gaze turned colder than ever.

He had never believed in any bullshit destiny or fate. If the rules favored him, he used them. If they worked against him, then he would... smash those rules!

But before that, he needed more information.

"Kraglin, tell your people to stop playing and get over here," Link called toward the lounge.

The veteran Marauder, who was just losing his last credit to Harley's straight flush, scrambled over to the Throne as though he had been granted a pardon.

"Boss! What are your orders?"

"Activate the highest level of encrypted communications and connect me to the Galactic Relic Recovery Department."

"Huh?" Kraglin froze.

"That bunch of hired hands who call themselves the Guardians of the Galaxy," Link said impatiently.

"On it!"

A moment later, a holographic communications interface unfolded before the Throne.

On the screen was the familiar, cluttered bridge of the Milano. Star-Lord, Peter Quill, was wearing the headphones of his battered old Sony Walkman, bobbing his head to his favorite hits. Rocket Raccoon cradled an energy cannon bigger than he was, making some unknown modifications. Drax was wiping down his twin blades. Groot... was still a little sapling, dozing in his flowerpot.

When Link's outrageously handsome face appeared on the screen, the music on the bridge abruptly stopped.

Star-Lord jolted, took off his headphones, and stood at attention, plastering a professional fake smile across his face. "Boss! What can we do