The so-called landing field was a chaotic cargo dock. The moment the spacecraft's rear hatch opened, the bustling scene outside, filled with people and steaming air, came into view.
Many merchants were waiting here. Whenever a spacecraft landed, they swarmed over to ask what cargo it carried, trying to get the firsthand price so they could resell it.
Transport hovercars and workers moved back and forth between the spacecraft, while flying vehicles of various sizes took off and landed from time to time. This was merely one small glimpse of Xandar, the commercial machine. Who knew how many similar landing fields were scattered across the planet?
Naturally, once they stepped out of the spacecraft, merchants came up to ask Deathstroke what he was transporting and whether he could give them a "landed price."
"It's cargo someone else already ordered. Stop asking. We signed a contract! Move along!"
Star-Lord, wearing a fake mustache, stepped forward and skillfully dispersed the crowd scrambling for profit. Watching the aliens of all shapes and appearances leave, he sighed in relief.
"Don't tell Xandar's crooked merchants too much. These people kill without spilling blood. One second they might finish a deal with you, and the next, they could secretly report you to the Nova Corps for smuggling."
"Sounds like they don't have much of a reputation for honest business. Would anyone really come to a place like this to fence stolen goods?" Su Ming had taken on Commissioner Gordon's appearance again, even recreating the brown trench coat. A cigarette hung from his lips as he lowered his head and walked toward the edge of the field.
The noise of countless spacecraft taking off and landing never stopped. This was clearly not a good place to talk. It was too loud.
Star-Lord hooked both hands over his