Peter Quill had learned to control his temper over the years, which would shock most people who had only recently met him (it just went to show how bad his rage could be back in the day). Earth had its problems, but it wasn't the absolute worst rock in the space-time continuum, and to top it all off: he actually knew how to use some of the kinds of technology in this universe and time period. "Primitive," his flarkin' ass.

He tried to behave. He really did. When someone let something slip, he politely tried to steer the conversation somewhere else, despite the twitching of his eyebrow. He tried to bite his tongue and drown his words with sips of his drink, but finally the words had worn him thin.

A rather bratty young Coluan man ended up with a glassful of chilled blue liquor thrown right in his face. The immediate area around him went silent. Peter shut his eyes and then quietly walked off. Better to let it end there than start throwing fists, as much as his were shaking at his sides.

Considering Peter's previous "explosion," this was rather poor timing for the Xanthans. Their sudden barking of demands as they tried to take someone hostage set Peter's brain to ticking away the steps between himself and them, on the floor, unconscious at best. He glanced around 180 degrees, taking in where the terrorists were setting their sights. Peter took every glance away from him to back up behind a decorative pillar.

He had a scowl on his face, and he quietly removed one of his guns from its holster. He gave it a quick look over to make sure it was functioning properly and set on an ammo that would be non-lethal.

"Well, time to lock and load, sirs." Peter looked around the pillar to see where his next opening to drawn in close would be.