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Deep in the recesses of his philosophical thoughts, long put to bed by endless nights of airborne orgies, En Dwi Gast knew he would meet his end in a manner like this. He had tried to delude himself with alternative descriptions of his fighters, convince himself they liked their high-stakes, adventurous life on Sakaar, but he knew better. A slave will always revolt. History proved it again and again. It was only a matter of time before his did. Although it wouldn't have happened so quickly without the aid of those Brodinsons or whatever haughty names they called themselves.
The mob leader got a single blow in, a real humdinger square on the bridge of his nose, delivered by a top-quality mace he had so generously furnished them. But before Gast could hit the ground and fully comprehend the sudden, disorienting jolt to his face, he instead felt the distinct tingle of being transported: rescued. There is no tingle like that of ones particles being scattered like a swarm of frantic firefleas. Gast never cared for the feeling, too much loss of control, too much chaos and unpredictability. He hated being dependent on machines to piece him back together right, but this one did and his particles reformed right where they left off in the grand scheme of physics. Blood gushed from his nose and a dizzying pain knocked him on his ass. He rode it out, laying his throbbing head back on the residual warmth of the transporter surface. He was pretty sure that undignified braying was him. It was hard to tell when all your senses sang like the arena’s breakout alarm.
Someone else was in the room. Naturally. If his nose wasn't shattered he would be inhaling what Knowhere's fashion district tried to pass off as high end cologne. He finally relented to open his eyes and roll his focus to a pair of shiny black shoes reeking of arrogance. Squatting above the shoes was a blurry, furry annoyance whom he now regrettably owed his life to. He rolled his head and groaned some more.
“I told you to pay your fighters,” came the inevitable 'told you so' in that small, creepy voice.
“Shaduuuuuuup,” cried the Gast, sitting up and snatching the highly saturated drink his brother was offering. He tossed the succulent garnish behind him and drained the delicate glass with one tilt.
“You’re welcome,” said Tivan.
“No, I am not welcome,” argued Gast, “because I didn’t thank you, and I’m not going to. You saving me is returning one of the many, many favors I granted you, the priceless relics I let you scavenge from my planet. The bodies of defeated fighters I handed over to you, you twisted hoarder. Without me, you’d never have built your famed Knowhere collection, which you let one of your own slaves, in her personal revolution, lay waste to. So don’t you lecture me about not paying my staff, hypocrite. You don’t get to bust my balls on that. The Sakaarans do. The fighters do. Hell, even the android bartenders do. You don’t.”
“You are mistaken,” replied Tivan, handing his brother a handkerchief. “My assistants were always compensated. Karina was merely upset that I did not offer medical.”
Gast rolled his eyes, snatching the embroidered square and mopping his nose and upper lip. He groaned more, almost wishing the mob had killed him and spared him the shame of being indebted to Taneleer. Tivan would collect. That’s what he did best.
“So what now, Tanny,” Gast griped nasally through the bloodied cloth. “Are you taking me to Knowhere to gloat?”
“Better.” Tivan smiled. “Thanos is on the move, and I have his heading.”
Gast needed a moment to give his fellow elder a 'how stupid can you be' look before speaking. “Nothing involving tailing Thanos can possibly be better. I will happily return to Knowhere and suffer your obsidian thimble collection tour if Thanos is the other option.”
“It is better because we have front row seats to Thanos's interception of Asgard’s ark.”
“Assgard you say?” Gast couldn't hide his personal interest in this.
“Asgard,” Tivan corrected.
“That means Assgardians,” Gast continued. “That means that Thunder Lord pest, that Asslord who stole my Valkyrie, and my Hulk. And that greasy schmoozer who promised me something called The Destroyer but instead hijacked my best fighters. That means these underhanded ass people will get what’s coming to them, from the biggest, cruelest thug in the known universe." He found his smile again. "Oh my god, I almost feel sorry for them.”
Tivan arched his brow.
“Almost, almost,” Gast emphasized, struggling to his feet with a new found mission. Tivan rose with him.
They exited the transporter room and strolled down the corridor. Tivan's pace was classically too slow for Gast, even with his throbbing senses. "Stop holding out on me already, what's your hook with the big purple?"
Tivan only responded with his annoying half-chuckle of omission.
"Come on, brother, let me in on it," Gast pushed. "You know I have pieces to the bring to the table."
"Of course you do. That is why I rescued you."
"Aw, how sweet of you," Gast said sarcastically. "Now spill it."
Tivan smiled, escorting his brother into a plush sitting room. The dimly lit game table at the center immediately stirred a familiar comfort in Gast, making him forget the pestering pulse behind his swollen eyes, and the humiliating crush of losing everything he had built.
"After a round, perhaps," said Tivan. "Best two out of three?"
Gast could work with that. He immediately claimed his rightful side of the table, running his hands over the perfectly polished surfaced, the gold trimmed geometric designs beckoning challenges old and new. Here, at the game table, Gast would begin his ascent again. He smiled, widely, and met his brother's dark-rimmed eyes with a gratitude spoken only with, "I'm blue."