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i.
she crawls into the cot, careful, silent, and curls her body around the smaller girl, her blue contrasting against Gamora's green in the dim light. face presses to the familiar comfort of her sister's spine, between the shoulder blades; her sister's hands slide over her arms, rubbing.
'it's okay,' Gamora whispers. 'it's better we don't train together.'
Nebula knows her sister is right. as much as she hates being forced to be around the others, there is a thrill at getting a chance to fight them, beat them, shove their faces into the dirt and make them regret mocking her and teasing her and sneering down at her. she does not want to fight Gamora. she does not know what he would do if he saw her hesitate; if he thought she cared about a sibling.
much better to punish the ones who taunt them for their smallness, their soft flesh, the last remnants of grief and loneliness that they can't hide.
she hugs Gamora tighter, trying to forget the signs that it's getting harder and harder to see those in her sister these days. all she has is Gamora; all she wants is her sister and to survive, to become great, great enough that they can take him down, hold his head up to their siblings that adore and worship him.
'you'll never love him, right?'
Gamora goes tense, cold, and Nebula regrets asking. her sister's hands grip her arms, tight, almost hurting but she relaxes before she starts to leave yellow-brown marks on blue skin. 'never.'
ii.
she rises shakily onto her hands and knees, heaving, the taste of metal in her mouth, coming out in violent coughs of spittle. pain reverberates through her body, flesh throbbing and machine fried, sparking, struggling to re-calibrate. her broken, beaten body at Gamora's feet, her face grim and cold and victorious with the promise of remaining unmodified for another day.
'stay down,' she says and there is nothing left in that voice of Nebula's sister who held her at night, who promised her they would find a way to make him stop. 'stay down, you are defeated.' it isn't concern, it's just blunt fact.
Nebula wishes Gamora would at least have the decency to gloat. break her last few hopes the way she helps to break her body every damn day.
'go to hell,' Nebula spits, blood spraying on her sister's boots. 'oh wait, we're already there.' she shoves off of the ground, spins to strike at Gamora with her robotic arm, wanting the metal to hit her sister square in the ribs, wants the impact to spread throughout Gamora's entire body until all she knows is the shaking, shattering pain. inches; there's only inches between her fist and her sister's chest when Gamora steps back, grabs Nebula's wrist with one hand, and shoulder with the other.
their eyes lock.
they used to clean each other up after fights with the others, used to tell each other stories of their homes; used to keep each other's tears and the need for physical comfort a secret.
'you're right,' Gamora whispers; there is nothing but determination in her gaze. 'we are in hell.' she twists, hand on Nebula's shoulder moving, striking at the elbow where robotics connect to flesh. 'and you would do well to remind there is no room for mercy here.' she yanks the wrist; when she stands, the forearm and hand go with her, but Nebula falls to the ground screaming.
blood drips from the dangling, smoking wires.
Nebula curses her through her screams, through the pain, and this time when she sees the flinch Gamora tries to hide, it isn't enough.
her sister is dead.
iii.
no amount of modification, no amount of training, no amount of crushing any sign of affection towards those who are not him, can eradicate the needs of their bodies, no matter what Thanos wants - he either has living beings or he has machines, mindless beasts. those are the foot soldiers. the children of Thanos though, the generals and commanders and elite warriors are still living, breathing, bleeding beings with physical needs.
they must eat. they must sleep. they shit, they get sick, they get dirty and bloody, they shower, they mend. and in the dark, hidden from any prying eyes, they fuck.
Nebula knows that Proxima and Corvus do it; she's crept around at night, the whirring and buzzing in her body keeping her from get any peace, and heard the noises that come from Proxima's cramped quarters.
she resents them more than she hates them now, and she hates them more than any of the others. save him. save Gamora.
their blood connects them, a tie that Thanos refuses to sever. despite the obvious bond, they've never hesitated; never put each other above Thanos, so their affection slides.
assholes.
she's watched them with each other, sparring, willing to destroy each other at the whim of their father, and afterwards, they are together, mocking the new ones, the sniveling, soft bodies, the young and fresh; and after that, they're in the dark, getting what their bodies need but will never be able to trust enough to get from another source.
Nebula needs too.
judging from the pent up tension in Gamora lately, even their father's favorite isn't immune to bodily functions and carnal urges.
she crawls into the cot, careful, silent, and curls her body around her sister's fuller, harder body, so familiar yet not anymore. she hugs tight, too tight, and finds her old hiding spot. Gamora's spine, right between the shoulder blades; Nebula bites through the thin shift. her sister's hands move to her arms, tugging.
'let go or I make your other arm useless and in need of replacing,' Gamora hisses.
Nebula growls, lets go only to shove her sister onto her back and straddle her, the forefinger of her latest replacement opening to let out a long, thin blade. she presses it to Gamora's throat, imagining the sweet, near black ooze of her sister's blood pooling out from her neck, soaking into her hair and her sheets and dripping onto the floor. she flinches when she feels the blade at her thigh, pressing in dangerously firm where even a small nick could be lethal to the pathetic flesh Thanos hasn't yet modified.
Gamora quirks an eyebrow, smug.
'I didn't come here to hurt you,' Nebula offers up lamely, trying desperately to save face.
'you have done nothing to convince me otherwise.'
the robotic finger returns to normal with a few clicks and hisses of compressed air. Nebula weighs her options, hesitant to seem weak, needy, refusing to ask and seem desperate; so she gambles instead, something she does too often during combat, according to her father and lately her traitor of a sister. she moves in, presses her mouth to Gamora's before the other girl can get an idea of what's happening.
the hands that used to wipe her tears away and tend to her injuries are now flat against her chest, threatening to shove her away.
she doesn't stop kissing the girl that used to be her sister until her sister left her in the dust; doesn't stop kissing the only person she can trust to be her lover and give her what she needs. she knows the same is true for Gamora; father's favorite pet, the others all see, and they hate her for it, want to take that favor from her.
there is no one else here who wouldn't sooner slit her throat than go down between her legs.
'no one can know,' Gamora whispers. her hands are moving down, sliding under Nebula's shift, cool enough to make her jump but not enough to shy away. 'he would never let us be near each other. you know he's scared of us together.'
Nebula sneers and moves the robotic hand down between Gamora's legs, fingers quickly finding the spot that will make her sister finally cry out. her other hand moves to Gamora's throat, flesh wrapping around and almost gently squeezing flesh. 'not anymore, you've seen to that. but I promise - no one will know. sister,' she whispers, voice dripping with mockery at what was once an endearment.
something flickers in Gamora's eyes for a moment, but then it's gone, and she's prodding and prying at Nebula's body with the same lack of tenderness Nebula is giving.
iv.
all those nights she asked her sister to never love him.
all those times Gamora promised. all those times Nebula let that be enough.
she always saw them becoming lovers; always knew that there would be nobody else they could ever trust to be safe with during such weak, vulnerable moments. but she saw them as sisters when it happened, as the two girls who would take down Thanos together finding the comfort they needed from each other.
instead it's empty and angry fucking, fueled by the viciousness that lingers after every bloody fight. it's satisfying a need, scratching an itch and moving on, somehow deepening and widening the space between them.
all those nights she asked her sister to never love him.
all those nights she should have asked her sister to never stop loving her.
v.
there is nothing between them now.
Nebula knows this because they no longer spar. because he sends them on missions together at times, when the mission requires Thanos' finest soldiers. Nebula knows this and tells herself so no longer cares; no longer mourns.
they have long since stopped using each other for sexual relief. they've all but stopped talking, except the occasional barb or critique of each other's performances, Gamora almost always with blunt and impersonal tones, Nebula with derision and contempt. they have stopped acknowledging there ever was anything - comfort, love, tears, want, need, sex - between them beyond the gaping chasm, littered with the ruins of all that could have been.
Gamora is still the favorite, and Nebula bides her time as second best, waiting for her moment to strike.
she dreams of ripping out her sister's insides, stuffing mechanical parts and electric wires and computer chips where organs and muscle and bones used to be. let her sister know what modification is like when it is to replace and not merely enhance. she fantasizes of ripping Gamora's heart out of her chest, maybe devouring it before her sister's fading eyes; then her sister would always be with her, a part of her.
deep down where shattered hopes lay buried in her mind, Nebula knows it isn't Gamora, it never was, that did this to her. that marked each defeat at her sister's hands with a new, better, improved body part. or so their father always said. deep down, where shattered hopes meet the constant paranoia that Thanos ingrained into her wiring and veins, she is convinced that all the tech and machinery he forced on her was meant to keep her always just behind his little favorite.
but that doesn't matter, she tells herself. she will still best her sister. she will prove their father wrong about her, and she will destroy him, piece by piece.
they are stationed together with Ronan the Destroyer, a whelp who considers himself an equal to Thanos, and it amuses Nebula to no end. and in the end, she prefers his company over her father's any day. she prefers the mutual respect he bears for her and her sister, no inherent bias towards perfect, precise Gamora; there is no show of preferential treatment, no forced constant competition.
it's so fucking refreshing, being free of that heavy cloud of their father's obsessive, blatant favoritism. Nebula forgot what it was like to breath without the weight of it on her chest. she forgot it when she lost the ability to breathe without the aid of a mechanized lung.
this is her time; her chance. to finally prove herself Gamora's equal, better, and watch the smug certainty in her father's eyes falter when she shows how far she's come.
vi.
'of all our siblings, i hated you the least.'
it is a truth and a lie.
she has never hated their other siblings with the same passion she has ever felt for Gamora. she's never been able to stand their presence, either.
but there is softness - weakness - in Gamora's voice now. now. and it boils in Nebula's blood.
there is no room for weakness in this world. it was Gamora, not Thanos, that taught her that.
vii.
she crawls into the cot, careless, shaky, and curls her body into itself. in the dim light there is only blue. she thinks of the sight of her sister, lying motionless in space; as if she was sleeping, but she never slept so peacefully. neither of them ever could.
it was satisfying for only a moment; a hollow victory, her triumph over Gamora stolen from her by Gamora's own dulled edge and delivering the kill by a necroblast in the air, not by her own hands, not on the ground, not in real combat.
Nebula thought it would be enough simply to have best her sister, no matter the means. instead she just feels empty. empty of everything except her screams; her only friends through the pain and the modifications and everything else. they fill her body until she cannot contain them.
so she screams. she thinks of her sister's body, floating motionless as if asleep in the cold empty of space, and she screams.
she does not cry. she does not mourn. she does not rejoice. just screams.
her sister is dead.
viii.
what do billions of lives matter, if Thanos dies with them?
in a way she's spared her sister the experience of such a calamity. Gamora should have thanked her, but even in her softening state, Gamora was all pride. the best of Thanos' best.
and now Thanos can die, thinking his favorite is gone.
yes, that is worth all the lives in all the galaxies to Nebula.
ix.
it is not relief to realize her sister is not dead. it is only a cruel, hateful thrill at the chance to take her sister down in combat, as it should be. there is nothing grateful in her when she sees Gamora, alive, fighting, fighting for all the reasons that would make Thanos so disappointed. she only feels disgust and contempt and the need to hurt, maim, kill.
all those days training, ending with her beaten down at Gamora's feet, taken to be modified to greater extremes than any of the others, no matter if she was still better than them.
she was never Gamora; she was never enough.
no, there is no relief. there is no gratitude. no happiness, no love. those have all been replaced by misery and envy and metal and wiring. there is nothing recognizable in her - but when she looks at the traitor she calls sister, she sees the tiny, green thing brought back from a planet that earned Thanos' disdain and punishment. She sees the glassy eyes, the trembling lip, the soft, red hair tied up to be cute, not functional.
it was a lie.
of all their siblings, she hates Gamora the most.
x.
'i wish i had hair like yours,' she whispers in the dark, blue fingers combing through deep, vibrant red. she is eight years old in two weeks, only three weeks behind Gamora. 'do you think it's because of your hair he likes you better? because it looks like blood?' she's only joking, really. to be Thanos' favorite is a blessing and a curse, and something neither of them strive for. why aim for the favor of the monster who destroyed all you ever knew? but she knows that Thanos prefers her newfound sister; knows that when he fixes his eyes on them, he wishes the were two of Gamora and none of Nebula.
she is not even sure why he keeps her alive. she is not sure why he keeps her at all.
her sister stiffens; back ramrod straight. in the blink of an eye she is looking at Nebula, smooth, green features hovering centimeters from Nebula's face. 'he likes me better because i obey. and if you want to survive, you should too. you hesitate. you show weakness. in combat we are not sisters, we are enemies. never forget that. in Thanos' eyes, we are his children but always, always each other's enemies.'
'but Proxima and Corvus-'
'will always put Thanos before each other. so they can be whatever they like to each other.'
it is quiet for a long time after that. Nebula braids her sister's hair; fingers weaving through the blood red strands, trying to find comfort in their softness, trying to keep from yanking on the knots, trying to avoid tangles. she has always braided her sister's hair, always been gentle, always savored those moments in the shadows of the small room Gamora sleeps in, the two of them as close as possible on the cramped cot. she wants to stay there forever; all of her insides are twisted, a mesh of wires and jittery nerves, circuits sending signals of apprehension over her sister's words.
there is a widening gap between them, even when they lay curled into each other to sleep.
her fingers tug near the end, a delay between her mind and the circuits in the wires of her new forearm and wrist. she can feel her sister grimace but Gamora makes no sound. she starts to apologize, but her sister's words hang heavy in the air still.
we are always, always each other's enemies.
Nebula finishes the braid. she doesn't apologize for the tug. she doesn't try to avoid any knots. she braids her sister's hair less and less after; as the training becomes more grueling, as the modifications intensify, as more of Nebula is changed and replaced, as the battles become more vicious, there is less room for kindness. Nebula finds a small satisfaction in the last few times she is allowed to braid her sister's hair, finds it in every knot she breaks through, every sharp tug, the hair pulled back too tightly, strands tangling up in exposed wiring and machinery when the new parts are still crude and unfinished looking, meant only for function with little thought to passing as something flesh and blood and living.
she never forgets a thing her sister says. she stores them away, reminders that what they had is lost.
they will always, always be enemies.