“This is irritating,” Nebula hissed under her breath. She shucked off the attachment on her wrist, and threw the twisted, smoking metal to the ground. There was no hope of repairing it. The technology had been piece-meal to begin with, and it had never been designed for so much use. The amount of universes she’d seen over the past month were innumerable -- and none of them had been the one she was seeking. All she wanted was one where the right people were alive and the wrong people were dead. (The prospect of killing her father herself was no longer as tempting as it had once been. She preferred to ignore that possibility altogether.)
She blasted the useless piece of tech with a shot from her gun. No need to worry about it being picked up by the wrong hands. Then she turned and marched into the street. Still New Yorg, that much was obvious. “What is the date?” she demanded loudly, to anyone who would answer. Most of the terrans seemed distracted, they were busy screaming. Nebula arched a brow. “Is there some kind of attack, or is this one of those riots that occur after sporking events?”
