[*pokes mun* “Nope, she’s not dead. Only sleeping.”
Apologies-- I know it’s rather cliche but a variety of work and other things are kind of kicking my ass at the moment. I’m determined to get this storyline finished, and continue with the blog. Just...slowly. Slow and steady.]
Peter Quill knew Gamora was brave. She never fled from a fight– be it with a Vanlivvian space biker or the ravenous bugblatter beast of Traal. Not to mention, she also was currently the Milano’s designated spider killer.
But despite all this, Quill didn’t think he had ever seen the warrioress as courageous as she was that one hazy night on Trantor. They left the ship as dusk fell, bidding farewell to the other Guardians under the guise of purchasing parts for the Milano. Most likely it wouldn’t have mattered either way– the others were already submerged in a deep dispute about the latest contestant on Sontaran Idol– but Gamora had not gained her reputation as the deadliest woman in the galaxy without being very careful.
The two walked down the disembarkment ramp connecting the Milano to Trantor’s spaceport, hands almost touching.
Ronan sighed, giving the screen on his phone a dead-eyed stare. Researching the Guardians of the Galaxy had turned out to be unreasonably difficult. Sure the five had practically destroyed the Kree warrior-- not to mention his ship and half of his army-- but they still had no coherent backstory.
For example Star-lord’s heritage. How likely was it that a random human from Missouri turned out to be the son of Ego the Living Planet? Absolutely zero. In fact, Ronan was prepared to bet his Kree Kingmakers signed football that he had just made it up on the spot. That would serve the arrogant little human right.
And Rocket. He lied in basically every interview he was in. Not even subtly. Like saying there was no grenade attached to his belt when there was clearly a grenade attached to his belt. One time he even stole the reporter guy’s cybernetic leg which Ronan thought was just plain creepy. Even Korath the Pursuer wasn’t that creepy and he just stood around and spied on everyone all day.
Then Drax...Ronan had to admit it was a little disturbing to find out that this random guy from the middle of nowhere hated his guts. It almost made him want to send an apology card or something. But the intern had a feeling that it would only make things worse-- I mean what was he supposed to say, “I’m sorry for your loss. I only did it because an eight-foot-tall grape was breathing down my neck.” Yeah, right. The only thing a card would do is give Drax an address to kill him at.
And Groot. Systems...what even was Groot? Who even was Groot? Ronan certainly didn’t know.
For a while, the intern drifted from article to article, dreaming of Candy Crush level 71. How long had it been since he had matched those red little jelly beans? The minutes had melted together so much that even Ronan wasn’t sure.
In fact, he was about ready to give up and tell Thanos they all were ex-carnies. The Mad Titan probably would believe him. It was probably what he wanted to hear anyway.
But just as he was on the verge of closing the final tab, Ronan caught sight of something...interesting.
“GUARDIANS IN LOVE???”
It was clickbait-- the intern knew that. Probably fabricated by some spaced-out asshole that wanted attention. But wait a moment... was that a photo? Gamora and Peter Quill holding hands?
Ronan took a screenshot, image-searched it and...Systems, it was all over the web. Trending on Spacebook...already a Galactic Herald article... heck it was even a meme.
The intern grinned-- part because the meme was, indeed hilarious and part because...
Well, forget telling the Thanos they were all carnies-- Ronan had a much better story to share.
I realize that I have gotten somewhat off track in the practice of complimenting people these last few days. A momentary lapse– as most of you already know, I am made of stronger stuff than to forget my goal in three days.
Perhaps then I’ll continue with Gamora’s little friend group. After all, their opinions appear to be quite important to her.
Hmm.
Groot: I admire your unshakable focus upon whatever goes on within that small electronic device you cradle. After all– not many beings in this galaxy possess the internal fortitude to gaze upon the galaxy’s most wanted criminal and return, unruffled, to their previous task. Very brave.
The Destroyer: Admittedly, I still don’t know much about you besides this title and the fact that you are a warrior of some repute. However– that is enough for me to hope that when we meet at last, it will be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.
Rocket Raccoon: You seem to disregard all laws– both of the galaxy and of physics itself– in favor of your own philosophy. And while this “philosophy” mainly seems to espouse the excessive use of heavy weaponry, I still appreciate your free-thinking spirit.
Star-lord: Your name rhymes with harpsichord which has always been one of my favorite Earthian instruments.
Even I can tell that was a rather sad exercise in composing compliments. I suppose I might still have a long way to go in the process of becoming a likable figure.
All the same, the exercise did prompt me to realize that I know a great deal less about these Guardians than I previously thought. And that ignorance is clearly not ideal.
Hmm, how to resolve this issue… I certainly don’t have the time for in depth research...planets to conquer, worlds to save… Glaive and Midnight are celebrating their anniversary… Maw has his book club...
I don’t think Ronan has anything particularly important to do this afternoon.
I realize that I have gotten somewhat off track in the practice of complimenting people these last few days. A momentary lapse-- as most of you already know, I am made of stronger stuff than to forget my goal in three days.
Perhaps then I’ll continue with Gamora’s little friend group. After all, their opinions appear to be quite important to her.
Hmm.
Groot: I admire your unshakable focus upon whatever goes on within that small electronic device you cradle. After all-- not many beings in this galaxy possess the internal fortitude to gaze upon the galaxy’s most wanted criminal and return, unruffled, to their previous task. Very brave.
The Destroyer: Admittedly, I still don’t know much about you besides this title and the fact that you are a warrior of some repute. However-- that is enough for me to hope that when we meet at last, it will be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.
Rocket Raccoon: You seem to disregard all laws-- both of the galaxy and of physics itself-- in favor of your own philosophy. And while this “philosophy” mainly seems to espouse the excessive use of heavy weaponry, I still appreciate your free-thinking spirit.
Star-lord: ...Your name rhymes with harpsichord which has always been one of my favorite Earthian instruments.
Corvus Glaive-- Your efficiency in battle occasionally comes close to reaching my own. Keep working to temper your bloodlust and one day we may be evenly matched.
Ebony Maw-- I appreciated your entry for this year’s “Azgoth of Kria” Poetry Competition, most especially the closing lines:
“High he held his gauntlet before the children of the stars
Yet not as lofty as his ideals
For if power was the blood through his veins,
this creed was all life carried within them”
The imagery alone was so magnificent that to count you among the galaxy’s greatest literary minds would be an understatement on par with...well, calling myself a minor celebrity. I wish you the best of luck as the contest continues.
Proxima Midnight--Your personal ambition is only matched by your fidelity. A recent example-- when the planet of Polypacia offered you a queenship in exchange for your loyalty. Do not think I was not watching. And for a few moments, I’ll admit my cynical nature got the best of me but... seeing you toss the crown jewels into the mouth of that active volcano was nonetheless one of the proudest moments of my life.
Cull Obsidian-- On an excursion into the Magrathea system a few weeks ago, I did actually acquire the chance to try out that scarf you knitted. It kept me delightfully warm-- not only due to the polyfibrous material, I’d like to think, but due to all of the heart you put into it as well. And don’t worry about Ronan disliking the sweater you made him. I’ll see to it he comes around eventually.
I found her in the training arena on the lower levels of the Sanctuary II, beating the will to live out of my other lieutenants. As I entered the room, the battle came to an abrupt pause. Corvus Glaive paused in the middle of an (admittedly rather sloppy) roundhouse kick. Cull Obsidian stopped mid-flying kick. Even my daughter froze--though her hands remained in a tight grip around Proxima Midnight’s neck (which itself was approximately two feet higher from the floor than it was supposed to be).
“...What may we do for you, Lord Thanos?” rasped Proxima’s dangling head.
I paused briefly, somewhat rattled by the sudden attention. “Please. No need to stop on my account. I’m just down here to give Nebula a compliment.”
There was a rather loud thud as Proxima Midnight dropped to the floor.
Then my daughter squeaked in a tone octaves higher from its usual metallic timbre. “A...what now?”
“A compliment. Surely you’re... familiar with the phenomenon?” Now I was the one to sound hesitant. Was the subject of commendation always this confused? First Ronan and now… But then again, Nebula was almost as great a perfectionist as myself. Perhaps she thought herself unworthy of praise.
Almost as though to confirm my theory, my daughter’s next words had the air of a challenge. “Alright then,” she said, “Go ahead. Tell me what I’ve done well.”
Thankfully, I had come prepared. “Your tactics have improved noticeably in the last few months. When you fight, you are prepared not only for styles similar to your own but also those that are wildly different. Like Glaive’s. Or, of course, Midnight’s.”
I gestured to the other lieutenant who was still lying upon the ground, gasping for air. But it was a clear victory for Nebula-- but still she looked unconvinced.
“Really--” My daughter’s eyes met mine in a gaze mixed with confusion and defiance. “What if she kicked me in the stomach? Or punched me in the face when my guard was down? I mean, there was no way you couldn’t have noticed that father-- short of going blind in your old age.”
I sighed. Of course I had seen the openings in my daughter’s stance-- not to mention the fact that she was completely ignoring Glaive’s advance behind her. But that was besides the point.
“There is always room to improve, Nebula. The important thing is that you’re shrinking that gap with every hour that you train-- and at the moment you are.”
“Okay, fine. But what if I was on the field of battle?” My daughter continued to argue against herself with a surprising vehemence. “There’s no way to improve if you’re dead within seconds.”
I shook my head in mild frustration. “Nebula. Please don’t be morbid. You know I would never let that happen to you.”
“Why not? You can’t control everything, father--”
“Not yet.” I amended.
My daughter gave her usual scowl. “--whatever. Besides I’m not even being morbid-- I’m just repeating the same damn thing you always tell me whenever I--”
Unfortunately the last of her words would remain a mystey-- because it was just then that Corvus Glaive stuck his beaked nose into the conversation. “Not to be ungrateful or anything but I was wondering why Nebula was the only one of us who’s receiving compliments.”
There was a brief silence as the rest of us-- even his wife who was at last pulling herself to her feet-- shot him a look.
“What?” The lieutenant pouted.
I shook my head. “Honestly Glaive, must you even ask? Nebula is the only one who I compliment because if this was a real altercation, she would be the only one to see the next sunrise.”
He took a few moments to consider and then nodded. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”
“Maybe because it’s simple logic?” Lieutenant put properly in his place, I was able to return my attention to my daughter. “So as you were saying Nebula?”
Yet for some reason she gaped at me as though I was yellow instead of a light lavender.
“As you were saying?” I prompted again.
And finally, my daughter took a deep breath, uttered three words--
“I despise everything”
--and stormed out of the arena.
A few moments of silence passed as my lieutenants and I exchanged a mutual look of confusion. Corvus Glaive shrugged as if to say “Oh well. What can you do?” Cull Obsidian gave a nervous cough. Meanwhile, Proxima Midnight stumbled to my side, a hand on my back in a gesture of solidarity.
“This,” she said, “Is why I’m never having children.”
Glaive nodded then glanced at me as though expecting some sort of affirmation. I tried but there was no answer that came readily to my mind.
Perhaps my brain was still stuck in those few moments where my daughter had declared, in all sincerity, her frustration at the world.
First-- Ronan. As usual, he was in his office, surrounded by half-empty coffee cups and prodding at something intently on his tablet. I cleared my throat and, for some reason, he nearly jumped out of his seat. “What do you need?” he asked shoving the tablet into a stray drawer-- likely in order to give me his full attention, “I was...uh, just in the middle of some very important intern work.”
“That’s exactly it,” I told him with a smile. Smiling, too, appears to be high on the list of likable things. “You appear to be unusually efficient today and I’d like to offer my regards.”
“Your...regards?” Ronan stared at me.
“Yes.” I pause somewhat. “Does that surprise you?”
“What? No.” The intern laughed nervously, fidgeting with the drawer handle behind his back. I was fairly convinced by now that he was lying but, as the falsehood seems only an attempt to spare my feelings, I forgave him.
“Well. Either way, know you are appreciated Ronan,” Then there was a moment in which we both were quiet. I’ll admit I was not entirely sure where to go from there. The internet had waxed poetic on the benefits of compliments but had offered no instructions on what was to be done after they were given.
Thankfully the intern cleared his throat rather awkwardly and the silence was broken. “Alright then. Well...uh, thanks for checking in. I’ll probably get back to work now so…”
I nodded, admittedly grateful for the conversation to be over. But as I left, I couldn’t help but have my doubts.
On one hand-- this did not seem to be the way a compliment was supposed to go.
But on the other...well at least there was still an entire ship of people with which to figure it out.
Throughout my research on likability, I’ve heard over and over again that most people who were defined “pleasant” often hand out unwarranted or unrequested compliments. Though the concept is never really something I’ve experienced-- neither in my youth on Titan nor in my later years among the stars-- I thought I’d try my hand at it anyhow.
Hmmm. Apparently another way to become likable is to disclose your flaws. While this strikes me as more contradictory than anything else, I suppose it’s worth a shot.
First--I am overly critical. Ronan tells me this all the time. Nebula too. Occasionally even Corvus Glaive if he’s in a cocky mood.
Unfortunately I must admit that their opinions, altogether, do have some truth to them. I have spent years training myself to see the flaws in a system: sociological, military or otherwise. And when it comes down to it, the conscious mind has always been to me just another system. Thus the ability, which has proved so useful in the field of life, often acts only as a hindrance when it comes to interpersonal relationships.
Second--I am much too stubborn. Though I imagine if you have any idea of who I am this does not even remotely come as a surprise. Indeed, I would pursue a task to the ends of the galaxy-- regardless of defeat, regardless of rejection-- if I truly believed it was right. But I do wonder sometimes...does this pride prevent me from becoming a more effective leader? Does the perfection that I hold myself to mean that I will never make a dent in the fate of the universe? I have no answers to these questions-- at least not yet.
Finally, I am not a -- how do you put this -- comforter. My domain restricted to fact or what could become fact. And while emotions serve a purpose, they are ultimately forgettable, gone from this world the moment one ceases to exist. So I ask-- is it not understandable that I would attempt to focus on something more permanent?
...
Well. I suppose it isn’t really that simple.
Even in the times that I have seen pain and have desired to heal it, the words just don’t...flow in the same way that they do for others. I can tell Gamora that the chances of her screwing up that same swordplay routine she’s been practicing for months are statistically negligible but I cannot offer the same platitudes that other parents do. That isn’t to say that I haven’t tried-- because I have-- but, however I speak, the words just sound...stilted.
Perhaps it’s just me.
Perhaps it’s because I’m not her real father.
I cannot decide what option is worse.
On that note, I suppose I’ll end the list here. Despite my newfound desire for likability, to speak of flaws in detail is also to reveal weakness. And I have more than my share of formidable enemies already.
...Infamy is tiring sometimes. I do hope that this works.
No. I won’t fake it. Actually things aren’t great. A couple of days ago I told one of my friends about the whole “daughter” thing and now he’s not talking to me. Which might’ve been a perk if we were doing anything but fighting a half-robot biker gang on the Vanlivvian moons.
Speaking of laughter, most sources confirm that telling jokes is one of the easiest ways to become likable. And while I’ll be first to admit that comedy was never really my...thing, I suppose that it’s worth exploring. Particularly considering my current goal.
Ahem.
I begin. “Why was six afraid of seven?”
Upon hearing my words, the same question strikes your fancy and you ask me why.
Finally, after an appropriate dramatic pause, I respond either “Because seven eight nine.”
or “Because seven ate nine.” depending on your phonetic predisposition.
…
I assume it’s amusing because the main idea-- numbers eating each other-- is so contrary to reality. And Ronan has confirmed that this is the most likely reason why others would laugh at the joke.
All the same-- this contrariness is the fundamental part of humor that’s always bothered me. Why would someone obscure the fact of a thing? And why do other people find pleasure in this falsity?
It makes little sense to me. Never has.
…
Also if I’m speaking personally, I find the idea of mathematical cannibalism to be somewhat disturbing.
Today I told Nebula about my decision to become likable.
At first, she stared at me for a few minutes. Then, she asked whether or not I was kidding.
It was a strange question, of course, because I rarely kid.
Nonetheless assured her I did not jest: I indeed was attempting to improve my image. Then the strangest thing happened. She just laughed and laughed for a good five minutes straight. I suppose the idea of her father of conforming to societal expectations does have some comedy to it but...five minutes worth?
Oh well. I’m glad at least one of us finds some joy in it.
Reading sociology articles is just not the same without the ability to begin a passionate debate in the comments section.
