Clint looked up, haunted. "We did," he whispered. "Exactly that."
The others leaned in, listening as he spoke—slow, broken, and devastated....
***
On the planet Xandar—a massive hub where countless beings from across the galaxy came to trade and exchange goods—a sudden flash of light erupted in a quiet valley. Two figures were thrown out of the beam, landing hard on the ground: Natasha and Clint.
"This must be Xandar—the place Rocket mentioned," Natasha said as she slowly stood, adjusting the device on her wrist and switching back to normal clothes.
Clint nodded and said, "Let's move. We need to get a spaceship—and track down a criminal."
Natasha nodded in agreement. "Fortunately, Rocket gave us some credits."
She pulled out a sleek, metallic card—small but clearly valuable. "This works across most systems. Should be enough to buy a ship… and maybe even a slave or two."
Clint raised an eyebrow. "Slave?"
Natasha sighed. "Rocket said some criminals are sold as slaves here. If we're lucky, the one we're looking for is already in chains."
Clint shook his head with a grim look. "Let's just hope we can find them before things get messy."
With that, they began making their way toward the main city—a vast, vibrant expanse of alien towers and neon signs, buzzing with noise, activity, and the subtle tension that always came with galactic black markets.
The streets of Xandar pulsed with alien life. Neon signs blinked in every color imaginable, advertising everything from food pods to genetic enhancements. Dozens of species bustled past Clint and Natasha—some towering and armored, others small and slick, slithering or gliding along the crowded walkways.
They kept their hoods up and movements subtle. Even here, on a world where anonymity was common, Earth humans stood out.
"We need to move fast," Clint muttered. "The longer we're here, the more attention we attract."
Natasha nodded, eyeing the flashing signs above. One caught her attention—a crescent-shaped icon with Xandarian glyphs that Rocket had taught her to read: "Ship Traders' Row – Level 6".
They made their way to an open platform where dozens of ships were docked. Merchants called out to potential buyers, boasting about speed, firepower, stealth tech.
After some haggling—and flashing Rocket's credit card—they managed to buy a modest but efficient vessel. Small, fast, with light cloaking features. Perfect for what they needed.
With that handled, they headed for their true target.
Beneath the clean façade of Xandar's commercial sector, Rocket had given them coordinates to a black market—a hidden slave den deep below the city's foundation.
The entrance was disguised as a ventilation shaft behind a run-down merchant stall. Natasha keyed in a code Rocket had provided, and the metal slid aside with a hiss.
They descended into the underbelly of Xandar.
The air grew heavier. The lights dimmer. The hum of traffic above gave way to whispers, growls, and the distant sounds of chains.
They entered a long, narrow corridor guarded by two tall, lizard-like beings wielding electrified spears. One stepped forward.
"Purpose?" the guard asked in a low, hissing tone.
"Buying," Natasha replied calmly, flashing the card.
The guard scanned it, then nodded and stepped aside. "This way."
The market was unlike anything Clint had seen. Cages lined the walls—some with aliens snarling, others silent and resigned. Each cell bore a glowing tag with the captive's bounty level and skills. Some were fighters. Some were hackers. Others—simple criminals sold like tools.
Natasha whispered, "Keep your eyes open. The one we want might be in here."
Clint's jaw tightened. "This place is a hellhole."
As they walked deeper, a merchant with cybernetic eyes approached them. "Looking for something special? Fighter? Thief? Assassin? We've got a few new arrivals—just caught last week."
Natasha narrowed her eyes. "Show us."
He led them to a reinforced cell at the far end. Inside was a humanoid alien—bruised but conscious. The tag read: "High-Risk Criminal. Former Syndicate Enforcer. Apprehended on Sector 9. 35,000 credits."
Clint stepped closer. "That's him. Match on Rocket's file."
The merchant smiled greedily. "Good eye. He's dangerous—but obedient enough with the right tech."
Natasha didn't hesitate. She handed over the card. "We'll take him."
As the merchant prepared the transfer, Clint leaned toward her. "You really think the Soul Stone will accept this sacrifice?"
Natasha didn't answer right away. She stared at the criminal as the cell opened, and the collar locked around his neck.
"I don't know," she said quietly. "But we'll find out soon enough."
The reinforced collar clicked into place around the captive's neck—a compact but brutal device with built-in shock control and a neural tether. He glared at them as the guards shoved him forward, but said nothing.
Clint kept his bow slung, one hand on a stun baton merchant had thrown in "just in case." Natasha moved ahead, leading the way as they exited the underground market.
Back above ground, Xandar's false gleam was jarring after the rot they'd just walked through.
Their new ship was waiting in a docking bay tucked behind a cargo terminal. It wasn't sleek, but it was fast and clean—and already preloaded with Vormir's coordinates.
As the engines roared to life and the stars stretched ahead of them, Clint looked back at the prisoner. He was strapped into the backseat, arms secured, eyes quietly calculating.
"He knows we're not rescuing him," Clint muttered.
Natasha didn't look away from the controls. "Doesn't matter. He's not meant to walk away."
There was a long silence as the ship jumped to hyperspace.
Vormir – Hours Later
The skies were still purple. Still endless. The wind blew through the lonely cliffs as the ship hovered near the ancient altar.
They stepped out, boots crunching on old stone. The prisoner stumbled as he was dragged out after them, his eyes darting nervously between the sharp cliffs and the ominous silhouette waiting near the top—the hooded figure of Red Skull.
"Clint Barton. Natasha Romanoff," the wraith intoned. "Once again, seekers of that which requires sacrifice."
He tilted his head slightly.
"And you've brought… an offering?"
Natasha stepped forward. "He's alive. A criminal. No attachments. No future. Not even a name."
Clint added, "He's a soul we're willing to give up."
The ghostly guardian seemed to study them, as if weighing the truth behind their words.
"The Stone does not demand death," he said softly. "It demands meaning. It demands loss. The pain must be real."
***
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