"Shit, boys, this price is suspiciously low. Is Deathstroke doing charity work this time?"
A small spaceship in space had shut down its engines and drifted slowly like a piece of driftwood. Everyone sat in the cockpit watching the televised broadcast, each of them holding a phone as well.
The Guardians of the Galaxy were also near Earth at the moment. After all, in a sense, Star-Lord was the most experienced human space traveler. Even Carol, who had served in the Kree Empire, could not compare to him. His flight hours spoke for themselves.
Gamora complained that the spaceship's price was wrong while shaking her phone furiously. She had won prizes for nine consecutive rounds already, getting a pile of human household goods and daily necessities: night lights, skin-tightening lotion, eyelash curlers, and so on.
"I am Groot."
The tree man was doing the same thing. In his previous nine lottery rounds, he had only won a bottle of organophosphate pesticide. He suspected Deathstroke was targeting him.
"Groot says Deathstroke is definitely selling at a loss, and I agree. From the perspective of a genius mechanic, if this spaceship really has all the specifications they claim, taking it to Xandar and selling it would easily get you several thousand Credit Points. Going by the purchasing power of Earth currency, exchanging those few thousand points for supplies and using them to bribe voters should be enough to get someone elected governor."
Rocket Raccoon understood quite a lot these days. He often followed Star-Lord to Earth, and being smart, he had learned plenty.
Perhaps because he loved learning, the prizes he drew today were mostly books—primitive information carriers—such as Postpartum Care for Sows and other books on animal husbandry.
"I don't think Deathstroke would take a loss." Yondu, seated in the back,