Peter Quill's face hung on a wanted poster nailed above the bar, and the bounty printed under it climbed by the hour. He tore the poster down and stuffed it in his coat. Six weeks ago his crew had split for good, scattered across the galaxy after one argument too many. Now he needed them back. One clean job, done together, could wipe his name from every poster like this one. But he had no idea where any of them had gone. The dive bar smelled like burnt oil and spilled ale. Rough spacers packed the booths, trading lies and coin. Peter had come here on a hunch. Someone always knew something at a place this old. He asked the bartender the same question he'd asked in three systems. Had anyone seen his people? The bartender didn't answer. He just tilted his head toward the back corner. Peter looked. A woman sat alone, boots up on a crate, cleaning a knife she didn't need to clean. His stomach dropped. He knew that posture. He'd flown beside it for years. She was one of his, the one who fought hardest and forgave slowest. He crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it. "You look terrible," she said, not glancing up. "You bought a bar," he said. "You hate people." "I hate flying with you more." She set the knife down. "You've got a price on your head now. I heard." "That's why I'm here." He pulled the crumpled poster out and dropped it on her table. "One mission. All of us. We clear my name, then you can go back to pouring drinks for drunks who can't pay." She stared at the poster a long moment. Then she laughed, short and mean. "There is no 'all of us.' You broke that." "So help me fix it." "I don't know where they went." She leaned back. "But I know who does." She slid a data-chip across the table. "Coordinates. A contact. He tracked the others after the split. Wanted to sell the locations to the highest bidder." Peter picked up the chip. "And the highest bidder is?" "Whoever posted your bounty." She met his eyes. "You've got maybe a day before he sells. After that, every hunter in the sector knows where your crew is hiding. Including the ones who'll shoot first." Peter closed his fist around the chip. He had come looking for a rumor. He'd found a clock instead. "You coming?" he asked. "No." She picked the knife back up. "But I'm not stopping you. That's the best you'll get from me today." He left the bar with the chip in his hand and the poster in his coat. His crew was findable now. So was he. And someone was already racing him to reach them first.

Peter reached his ship at dawn with the data chip burning a hole in his pocket. His crew's coordinates sat inside it, but coordinates meant nothing if he couldn't fly. He climbed into the cockpit and hit the ignition. The luminous trim flickered, then died. The drive coughed once and went silent. He tried again. Nothing. His ship, the fastest thing he'd ever owned, sat grounded like a dead bird. Somewhere out there, a contact was already loading his crew's locations onto the auction block. Peter had hours, not days. He slammed the console. "Come on. Not now." "Yeah, that'll fix it," said a voice behind him. "Real technical." Peter turned. Rocket stood in the hatchway, a half-eaten ration bar in one paw. Peter hadn't seen the raccoon since the crew split six weeks ago. They'd flown together for years, argued more than they'd agreed, and Rocket still fixed engines better than anyone alive. His metal arm caught the cockpit light, and a gun far too big for his body hung across his back. "How'd you find me?" Peter asked. "Didn't. Found your ship. Heard it choking from two docks over." Rocket shoved past him and pried open a floor panel. "Your drive's fried. Coupling's slagged." He tossed a blackened part over his shoulder. It clanged on the deck. "Can you fix it?" "Course I can fix it." Rocket dug into the wiring, his metal fingers moving fast. "Question is why I would. Last time we talked, you told me to fly off a cliff." "I need to reach the others." Peter crouched beside him. "Somebody's selling their locations. Today. To whoever wants me dead." Rocket stopped. He looked up, and the sarcasm drained from his face. "The others. All of 'em?" "All of them. If I don't move now, they're gone." For a long second Rocket said nothing. Then he yanked his gun off his back and set it beside the panel. "Hand me that scorched part. And the tape from the wall." They worked in silence. Rocket rerouted the drive through his own gun's power cell, jamming wires where they didn't belong. Sparks bit Peter's knuckles. Twice the whole panel smoked, and twice Rocket cursed and kept going. "Try it," Rocket finally said. Peter hit the ignition. The drive roared. The trim blazed to life, and the whole cockpit hummed under his feet. "You beautiful little maniac," Peter laughed. "It'll hold for one jump. Maybe two." Rocket climbed into the seat beside him and buckled in. "After that, this bird's dead for good. So wherever we're going, we don't come back the same way." Peter stared at him. "We?" "You think I fixed your drive so you could crash it alone?" Rocket set his gun in his lap. "Punch in the coordinates. Let's go get our people before somebody else does." Peter fed the chip into the console. The ship lifted, wounded but flying, on a drive that would only last one shot.

The wounded drive howled toward the pulsing dot. Peter's ship shook as he pushed it faster. Then the console flashed and a voice cut through the cabin. The rival's ship had opened a hail. "Stand down, Quill. This kill's already bought." The bigger ship loomed on the screen, its guns lit. "Keep coming and every port from here to the core hears your name. You'll never dock anywhere again." Rocket froze at the panel. His metal arm clicked as his paw tightened around the strange gun in his lap. Six weeks ago he'd stormed off Peter's ship and slammed the hatch. Now he was back, patching wires and cursing under his breath, and Peter still didn't fully trust the peace between them. "He's not bluffing," Rocket said. "You answer that with silence, you're a target at every fuel line in the galaxy." "So I answer it loud," Peter said. "That's the dumbest—" Rocket stopped. "Say more." Peter pointed at the hail signal. "He's talking to us. That means his channel's open. Groot. Can you climb into that broadcast and turn it around on him?" Baby Groot sat up in the seat pocket. He'd nearly drained himself cracking the chip's lock, but his eyes sharpened. He looked at the open channel, then at Peter. "I am Groot." *(I can reach it.)* "Do it, buddy." Groot stretched a thin root to the comm port. Shoots split and threaded into the wiring. His face scrunched. This mattered. The rival's voice sputtered mid-threat. Then the man's own words looped back out across every open band in the system—his bounty, his ship's tag, his threat to shoot a marked target for money. Broadcast wide, for anyone listening. "He just told the whole system he's here to murder somebody for coin," Rocket said. He barked a laugh. "On his own channel." The rival's ship swung hard. Not toward Peter now. Away. Other markers had lit at the edge of the map—ships that policed this space, drawn by a broadcast confession. The hunter ran before he became the hunted. Groot pulled his root free and swayed. "I am Groot." *(Done.)* Peter grabbed the throttle and dove toward the crew member's dot, clear now. "We beat him." But the console chimed. The looping broadcast had carried more than the hunter's shame. It had carried this system's coordinates too—Peter's coordinates, tied to his name, sent everywhere at once. Rocket read the screen and his ears flattened. "You wanted loud. You got loud. Now everybody knows where we jumped in." Peter's jaw tightened. The drive coughed. One jump left, maybe two. He'd cleared the road ahead and lit a fire behind him. Somewhere out there, more hunters were already turning toward the beacon he'd just made of himself. "Then we grab our crew," Peter said, "and we're gone before they arrive."