[ ...what fresh hell has she brought upon herself.
gamora sits on the roof's ledge -- facing inward -- with a sword on her knees. it's no godslayer; the closets, infernal as they are, won't grant her her rightful blade. and as peter approaches, manners flapping loose in the wind, it's evident that she'd been sharpening the weapon's edge.
but, on his arrival, she sets the sword aside by leaning it against the ledge's lip. with a creak of leather, she stands. ]
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gamora sits on the roof's ledge -- facing inward -- with a sword on her knees. it's no godslayer; the closets, infernal as they are, won't grant her her rightful blade. and as peter approaches, manners flapping loose in the wind, it's evident that she'd been sharpening the weapon's edge.
but, on his arrival, she sets the sword aside by leaning it against the ledge's lip. with a creak of leather, she stands. ]
Swallow, Peter. [ a beat. ] Then try again.