The Panic at Club A

"Okay, I'm just going to go ahead and admit it: I'm not a very good negotiator. In fact, I'm pretty awful at it. Chances are that I might just end up making things worse. That's happened multiple times. Things always tend to get bloody. I won't deny it,"

Peter Quill bounced his gaze between the two classmates flanking him from the left and right. Neither one looked like they were going to back down anytime soon. Rocket Racoon's claws were still hooked tightly around the trigger of a gritty dirty blaster cannon three sizes too big for his small frame, and Loki looked far from yielding his grip on his staff. They humored him by pretending his open palms were keeping them from blasting a hole through his torso, but he had no idea how long that courtesy would last.

"So with that in mind, how about we just put our weapons on the floor, and just talk this thing through like civilized lifeforms? What do you guys say?"

Peter flashed a smile to put Rocket and Loki at ease, but neither seemed to notice. Even though they were starring right at him, their silent gazes burned two holes right through his neck to meet the other's.

"Oh! Right, right, my bad," Peter exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "'Civil' means something completely different at this school. Forgot. Sorry about that. How about 'rational'? Does 'rational' work for you guys?"

More silence. Weapons were still drawn, and Peter's smile began to fade.

"Don't like that word either, huh?"

Still no response.

Peter made an audible sigh. "Okay, you guys are pissed at each other. I get it; I get mad too. Everyone does. And when people get mad, sometimes they say or do things that they don't necessarily mean..."

"Quick lesson in heavy weapons etiquette, Quill." Rocket finally spoke. "You don't pull a Sphaleron Launcher on people just to watch 'em flinch. You pull a Sphaleron Launcher out to turn people into stains."

Loki's chuckled audibly at Rocket's thinly veiled threat. "Oh you poor, poor deluded little vermin," He said, shaking his smirk-smeared head. "It's really quite difficult to tell what's more hilarious: your never-ending quest to build a weapon grand enough to distract from your unfortunate stature, or that you honestly believe you can fell an Asgardian god with a bundle of scraps you cobbled together from your trip to the refuse bin."

"You really want to test me, Flark-nuts?" Rocket growled; teeth bared, claws tensed around the grip of his gun. "Because I've got a pop quiz for ya: if you can take a shot from this, and come out with at least three functioning organs, I'll leave your grave urine-free."

"Hrm...I don't think that's a very fair test. Mr. Rodent," Said Loki.

"What? Feelin' vulnerable all of a sudden?" Said Rocket

"No, no; no for me. I was referring to you," Said Loki. "Because if you fire that overgrown toy at me, you will miss..."

Peter had to close his eyes and shake his head. It had to be a trick of the blue light coming from Loki's brightening scepter. There was no way anyone could have a smile that wide.

"...and before you can try again, I will have flayed the fur from your vermin flesh, and fashioned it into a toilet seat.

"That's it!" Rocket's gun let out a high-pitched whine to announce its priming. "Get ready to shove a scantron and a #2 pencil down your pants, 'cause your ass is getting standardized."

"No. No. We're not doing this. Weapons down!" The Star Lord's hands fell out of the air on Loki's staff, and the muzzle of Rocket's gun, and forced their aim at the ground. It wasn't the smartest thing he could've done, but it was the best he could come up with in the span of two seconds.

"Nobody's getting blasted," Peter said, looking at Rocket. Then he turned to face Loki. "Nobody's getting skinned, and nobody is getting shot."

"That's straight up untrue; and you know it, Quill." Said Rocket

"You should know better than to fib to the God of lies, Star-Man." Said Loki. "Now kindly remove your hand from my scepter; for your own sake. The spell of bone stripping I've prepared doesn't discriminate between targets and idiots."

"No, I'm being serious here." Peter said with a strained tongue. "I just got back to earth, and I'm not letting you guys wreak the only dance floor on campus."

"What about Club Galaxy?" Said Rocket.

Peter made a face shortly before nodding in acknowledgement. "...yeah, but you and the others are the only ones that go there," He said. "I haven't met anyone new in four or five months, and wreaking Club A definitely isn't going to help that. So please, I'm begging you guys, just chill out and put down your weapons."

"First of all, my poor, naive, Star-Man; I couldn't care less for the state of your social life," Said Loki. "Second, how dare you insist I 'chill'. I am the son of Laufey: king of the Frost Giants. Thus, I am always 'chill'."

"You just got through sayin' you were gonna to peel my fur off, you da'st liar!" Rocket exclaimed.

"I can be wrathful and chill at the same time," Loki said defensively. "I'm a god; I can wield whatever emotion I want."

"Okay...okay that's fair enough," Said Peter. "What if I pray to you?"

Loki's smile shrank into a surprised visage. "I'm sorry?"

 "What if you what?" Said Rocket, his rage receding as well.

"You just said you're a god?" Said Peter. "So that means you take prayers right? Well what if I prayed to you to make up with Rocket?"

"You'd lose the last strand of respect I have for you, for starters," Said Rocket.