the champion (of the people who don’t believe in champions)
gamora is the greatest champion sakaar has ever seen.
she’s undefeated, merciless, a blur of green and metal as she whirls across the battlefield, sword elegant in its brutality and motions confident, sure. there’s no one like her, never has been. they can’t match her style, her ability.
sakaar is the home of lost things, and gamora has been lost for a long, long time, since she stole a ship from her father’s men and flew until the engine died, died, died.
she drifted in space, for awhile, rations low and desperation high, and then - and then.
some would say she was lucky, to land on a planet like this, where she can thrive.
some would say otherwise.
gamora doesn’t care much, can’t. nothing matters except the winning, the surviving. it’s not much, but it’s a life.
and people love her here. they adore her. it’s been a year, and she’s still not used to that. she’s not sure she ever will be. she can numb everything else out, but not the love. it’s too foreign. it will always be too foreign.
that comes with being the last of your kind, really - it’s a constant isolation that pricks at her skin, even in a crowd. it’s a pain that leaves her eyes burning and terrifying, more angry or more sad no one can ever be sure.
someone once said that if you live long enough, you can see the same eyes on different people’s faces.
the grandmaster introduces gamora to scrapper 142, and it’s like staring into a mirror.
there’s a tense pause, gamora’s gaze locked onto hers from across the room, every one of her nerve endings on fire, and then - the scrapper breaks the odd, aching peace, knocks back a swig from the bottle of alcohol she seems to carry with her everywhere, demands more money than she deserves from the grandmaster, and leaves.
just like that, it’s over.
she doesn’t expect to see the scrapper ever again, doesn’t expect to feel the burn of her eyes just one more time, doesn’t want to, really, doesn’t want the unsteady footing, the unchecked change.
but since when has she ever gotten what she wants? since when has the universe worked in her favor?
they meet. they drink. they spar.
gamora calls her scrapper; scrapper calls her champion.
there’s no sweetness on sakaar. there’s no sweetness between them. that’s something they couldn’t dare, wouldn’t risk.
and yet. gamora’s smile is a little softer, the scrapper’s laugh is a little warmer, and there are a hundred thousand other things they shouldn’t do, shouldn’t say, that happen anyways.
it shouldn’t be a surprise, though it still is, when scrapper pulls gamora into her arms for the third time that week, mirror image wildfire eyes sparking with something gamora hasn’t seen in years, and says, “call me brunnhilde.”
gamora hesitates, calculates, risk assessment running through her head.
“only if you’ll call me gamora.”
a kiss works to seal the deal.
theartofmadeline
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