Chapter Text
Rocket paid no attention to the pleas of mercy coming from beneath him.
His claws were sore and blood soaked into the fur on his arms. More whimpers and groans came from the other demon, making Rocket look down. He didn't learn their name; he had neither the attention nor the care to. Airstrike told him the target, and he delivered. All he needed was their face and he could spot them from a mile away. This one – his latest victim – had bright orange feathers and rounded horns that bent downward. Orange blood flowed down half their face, and one eye was so swollen and bruised you could barely tell they were a demon at all. Their tail laid limp on the ground along with their ruined claws, gruesome products of Rocket and his hammer. Cuts on their legs oozed more blood, soaking into their fur and clothes, dying them a morbid, rust-coloured hue. Rocket inhaled the air: it was humid and rang with a metallic tang to it. Fear and despair were painted clearly on the demon's face despite the injuries. Mumbles of mercy and empty promises left their lips like a never ending chant of prayers. Rocket scoffed internally. If the gods answered their prayers at all, he would have been saved a long time ago.
Apparently, the Spawn couldn’t care about him enough to give him actual parents, or a sibling at least – although those were rare instances. He got lucky that there were inphernals willing to take him in. In Playground, if you were a strayspawn, your gang was your family. You need them to survive.
But everything comes with a price. For protection, you must do service for them in return. In Rocket's case, he carried out jobs for the gang. This was one of them.
He kicked the demon to the end of the alleyway he had cornered them in. It was a tight space between rundown buildings from Blackrock's attempt to spread their propaganda. The ground was littered with trash, syringes and broken glass. Rocket was grateful he wore his boots today.
The demon's body rolled until it hit the wall with a heavy thud, the only sign of life being the shallow rising and falling of their chest. They left an orange trail behind them, some catching on glass shards and needles.
"Hey," Rocket said, nudging the body with his hammer. "I don't know what you did, but you did something. And now, you're getting what you deserve. Get up, you're not dead yet."
They didn't move an inch. Their chest barely rose and their breaths were getting slower. Rocket knew that they weren't going to put up much of a fight. A shame.
He sighed. "It was…almost a pleasure."
He almost shivered in delight when the head of his hammer collided with the demon's skull. It was so satisfying, hearing the sounds of armour meant to protect you, be the one to kill you in the end. Their head was completely caked in blood and a part of it was caved in now. He kept smashing their head in, each hit bringing him a surge of twisted joy. Blood splattered across the walls and his goggles. Once their head was thoroughly pulverised, he let his hammer fall to his side and panted. He analysed the state of his ruined hoodie. Blood dotted the blue cotton, staining it brown. He groaned. That's the third one this month.
He turned to the mauled body. This place was in enemy territory. If he was caught dragging a body out, he might as well have held up a sign that says 'Free Kill' while running around naked. On the other hand, a body was evidence that he had encroached on their land and left them to clean up the mess. But, they didn't know him; and he didn't know them. He used his claws to cut a finger, stuffed it in his pocket and left the body to rot.
-
By the time he reached the door to his room, it was nightfall. Somewhere in the distance, the mechanical footsteps of Biografts could be heard as they went on their nightly patrols, accompanied by the noises of the creatures that call the jungles of Playground home. Above his head, the Canopy was still alight with life, demons not knowing how life below was. Some hung from the branches using their tails, chatting and biting into colorful local fruit.
DFA's main sleeping quarters were meant to be apartments for Blackrock residents, but the project was abandoned and his people took over. Their leader, Airstrike, refurbished the place and made it livable. It wasn't anything like the proper houses in the Canopy, but where you slept didn't matter, as long as it was safe. Rocket's room was on the third floor.
He creaked open the wooden door, wary of intruders. Fortunately, there were none. He shut the door quietly behind him and locked it. Once he was sure no one was coming, he collapsed on the ground, exhausted. He wanted to sleep right then and there on the cold hard half-tiled floor. His body craved rest. In the end, he submitted to it, leaving reality for a dreamless void.
-
The light of morning filtered past Rocket’s eyelids, tearing him from the sweet release of sleep. His ears flicked as they registered the sounds of the local fauna getting ready to start their day. To some, it would be considered music, the song of nature. To Rocket, it was the annoying alarm calling him awake every day of his life.
He didn’t remember much when he first spawned. The gang, who called themselves Death From Above, practically raised him. They taught him everything he knew, or at least the things he needed to know.
Rocket sat up from his position on the floor, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. The blood from yesterday formed a crust on his fur. The clock on his nightstand beeped 9 a.m. He took a second to fully realise what time it was.
Shit. He was late.
He quickly slipped off his stained hoodie, grabbed a clean one, and ran out the door. He made a mad dash for the staircase, hopping over overgrown vines and vegetation that the weekly trimmings failed to control. The entire place was devoid of gang members, fueling Rocket’s growing apprehension. He jumped from platform to platform until he hit the bottom. There, he dashed out the emergency exit and went into the nearby building, putting on his hoodie on the way there.
He snuck in through a cut in the chain-link fence that surrounded the area. Before him was a double-storey cement building with a metal gambrel roof. The louvre windows were boarded up and the walls had paint on them, peeling and faint from Playground weather. They were once bright blues, reds, purples and greens, but from the lack of maintenance, dulled to a mix of brown and grey. Rocket suspected a school was being built here, and the gangs didn't like that very much. It looked like the builders didn't get past the hall.
Rocket unlocked the shutters and entered the building, all the while making sure his tail was in one piece. Once, the shutters fell on it and it was bruised for weeks. He was immediately greeted by the sounds of loud operating machinery, accompanied by demons shouting instructions and orders over the din. He pulled the shutters down behind him. When he turned, he was face to face with none other than Airstrike.
He yelped and stumbled backwards a little, but caught himself.
"Ah, Rocket. Good to see you. I was wondering where you were," she said.
Although Airstrike wasn't quite as tall as the members under her despite her age, she made up for it with more admirable qualities. She was incredibly astute, forth-thinking and knew her gang well. She had forest green horns that pointed upwards in a sharp 'L'. Her fur was light brown and black stripes formed a zig-zag pattern on her arms. Her tail was cut off during a scuffle with a rival gang. An air of authority was always around her, showing who's really in charge. Out of everyone, she was the only demon who managed to earn his respect. The first time Rocket met her, he assumed she was just another member who feared his reputation. A moment later, he was pinned to the ground.
He reported only to her and her alone. She taught him how to use his launcher on missions and gifted him the suppressor – a tool that worked similarly to a gun silencer, but fitted specifically for his launcher. She always gave him free roam on his missions, allowing him to explore as long as he got the job done.
Rocket had no idea how or where she got the funding for the gang’s expenses, but if there’s one thing he learnt during his time here, it’s to never ask anything about anything. That’s a good way to guarantee your death in less than 24 hours.
Airstrike checked her watch. "9:15. You're late. Mind telling me why?"
Rocket sighed. There's no point in lying. She'd be able to sniff him out no matter how hard he tried to hide it. "I…overslept. Sorry, boss."
"'Sorry' isn't going to do anything for me. Get to station five and help Firework with his firearms. He's working on a prototype that may get us a fair amount of scrub from those Blackrock demons. For all their talk of control, they can't even keep their own citizens in check. Anyway, don't be late next time, okay? And put away those claws. You're working with explosives, not a scratching post for horned cats."
Rocket nodded and Airstrike left him, boots stepping on bits of metal and glass. He reached into his pockets for his ear plugs, only to find out that he'd left it back in his room. He pinched his eyebrows together.
"Damn it," he muttered. Guess he'll have to suck it up for today.
He settled for pressing his claws onto his ear flaps as he walked. It muted the noise somewhat but he still wished he had brought his ear plugs. The clanking and whirring of heavy duty machinery was deafening.
The hall was separated into 6 stations, each meant for a different purpose. They all were equipped with the proper tools and resources needed for that specific task. Station 1 was scrapping. Their job was to destroy any and all patrolling Biografts in the area and salvage them for parts. Blackrock's pride and strength reduced to molten metal at the claws of Playgrounders. Ironic.
The station was the biggest and busiest of the six, mainly because of the sheer number of Biografts deployed into Playground territory. Last Rocket's heard, they were widening the tunnel that led directly to Playground, increasing the efficiency of transportation. As if that was the only case. The scraps are melted, shaped and made into new parts and weapons to use for their own gain or sell them on the market.
Today, they were hauling a massive Biograft onto the scrapping deck. It had purple markings and horns instead of the usual orange and was covered in a thicker armour plating than the regular Biografts. Three pieces of metal stuck out of its arms and were pointed upwards, resembling wings. It twisted and turned its body in odd directions as it wrestled its way out of the demons’ grips. It flung itself onto one of the nearby demons, nearly crushing them under its weight. Luckily, they were pulled out of the way before the Biograft could smash them into the floor. It turned its head to look at Rocket, exposed wires sending sparks everywhere. Its optics pulsed light in an even rhythm like it was counting the seconds that passed.
It locked eyes with Rocket...and charged.
Its metal claws spread wide, ready to trap its victim in a literal bone-breaking hug. Rocket didn't move. He felt the familiar weight of the hammer in his left claw, the rough texture of the wood giving him comfort. His weapon was his only friend. As the Biograft leaped at him, he brought his left arm out in a swing, slamming the head of the hammer right into its skull. The metal gave way and stray sparks flew. The Biograft's body was thrown to the side and scraped across the cement floor, making squealing noises as it came to a stop right in front of the second station. Its optics powered off and the purple markings faded to black. He walked over to it, hammer still in hand. He lifted up his left claw and started bashing the Biograft's head repeatedly, each hit exposing more circuits and wiring. It felt good. So, so good. The feeling of the metal 'flesh' bending under his unrelenting barrage of hits brought a surge of bliss to his mind. Knowing that anything can be brought down with the right amount of strength was what drove his desire. The urge for more always called. And he always answered.
He didn't stop until the Biograft's head was nothing but a mess of pulverised titanium and circuit boards. Bits of purple crystal and glass were littered around what used to be its head. Rocket pulled away its large chest piece to find what he was looking for: its core. A fist-sized crystal sat in the place where a regular heart would, more wires attached to it and leading to its other limbs. It wasn't in the shape the orange crystals were; instead, it was much pointier, small spikes sporadically protruding from the surface. He ripped it out from its frame and held it in his claws. It glowed a lavender hue and Rocket could feel the energy radiating off it. This...this was new.
He didn't notice the entire hall was silent the whole time.
He gave a disgruntled growl and tossed the crystal to a random demon.
"What are you all staring at?" he yelled, his voice echoing through the hall.
The gang members instantly went back to their work, trying to make it as if they never witnessed everything; but that didn't stop the occasional glances and whispers thrown his way. As he continued on his way to station 5, a claw on his shoulder stopped him.
"Hey, what the fuck was that?" Airstrike exclaimed. "You just caused us thousands in Bux! That Biograft was new, experimental. Do you know how much that could have gotten us on the market? Do you?"
"It tried to attack me," Rocket explained.
"That doesn't mean you turn its head into a fucking pancake! It was already damaged before you got your claws on it. One hit was enough."
Airstrike sighed and massaged her eyes. "Listen, I like you, Rocket. You're tough, resilient, and you have a terrifying reputation. Your only problem is that you get too carried away by your emotions. Keep them in check next time."
Rocket knew this conversation all too well. It's the same one he has with himself every night. "I'll try."
"Good. Get back to work. And don't destroy anything else."
"I won't."
Rocket watched her walk back to the first station, where several angry looking demons stood around the Biograft on the scrapping deck. They were gesturing wildly at her and Rocket, their mouths opening and closing like they were yelling at her. They probably were. Airstrike kept a cool face and said something to them. If whatever she said was meant to calm them, it didn't work. Instead, they became angrier and approached Airstrike menacingly. Their mouths opened to speak again, and this time, Rocket could hear what they were saying.
"Why do you keep him around, 'Strike? He's brought nothing but trouble to this gang's doorstep. What is he to you, your pet?" One of them sneered. He had a pair of long grey horns that curled around the sides of his head and pointed outwards. His white fur had grey patches and black spots on it with red accents. His tank top was stained with oil and grease.
"Because he's an excellent member and gets things done when I tell him to; which is what you should be doing right now," Airstrike replied, her mouth twisting into a frown.
The demon scoffed. "Oh really? That's all? Are we just going to ignore the fact that he blew up half a wall here once? Or the fact that on his spawnday, he nearly almost killed Firework and Noisemaker? Or that-"
"He is part of this gang whether you like it or not, Jet. So shut your mouth."
"Or what? You'll get rid of me? You're a smart demon. You know that'll only prove me right."
Jet gave a wry smile and leaned in closely to Airstrike's face. "So what will it be, boss?"
Airstrike said nothing. Jet strided away, laughing and high-fiving his station mates. Rocket watched as their leader stood there in defeat, powerless to do anything. Airstrike had her face in her claws as she left the building through a side door. She knew he was right. Rocket hated that he was right.
That prick. She was the one who did all this – gave them a roof, a place to return to. A place where you can call home if you really wanted to. He was merely a worker, yet he challenged her because she stood up for Rocket. Why direct your anger at her? Why not him?
Every consequent thought fed the fire burning in his head. It grew and grew until his mind was consumed by it. His hammer was still in his left claw, lying in wait. His claws itched, and they itched with the intent of violence. It kept coming back to him like a trusty boomerang. That's what led him here – not friends or allies or anything else. This feeling is the one thing he could rely on. Everything comes and goes eventually but not this. He loved this. The adrenaline after each completed mission was a high he chased. The Biograft wasn't enough. Red appeared at the corner of his eyes. The itch sprouted into a desire, a need.
And he never failed to quench it.
He sprinted for Jet, who was prying open the Biograft's plating with a crowbar. A decent weapon, but he has handled worse. He hopped on the deck, earning startled yips and grunts from the demons there. He looked directly at Jet, baring his teeth and snarling.
Jet was unamused. "'Strike, if you decided to send your pet after me, it's not funny."
"I'm here for you, Jet," Rocket spat. "Airstrike has nothing to do with this."
Jet scoffed. "Real scary, this act of yours. Now be a good boy and get off the deck."
Rocket remained perched, his snarl wider. Jet rolled his eyes and started walking away. His hammer sat at his side. It almost seemed as hungry for blood as he was. He leapt off the deck. Jet yelped as he found himself pinned on the ground, a weight on his back. Rocket binded Jet's legs with his tail.
Jet squirmed. "What the fuck are you doing? Get off me!"
Rocket caressed the side of Jet's face with the metal head of his hammer almost tenderly. "I'm going to enjoy this," he said, the adrenaline already taking hold of him.
He brought his hammer above his head, its surface glinting in the light. With his other claw, he held Jet's right arm in place, adjusting himself so his weight prevented Jet from getting up or being able to use his tail. The hammer came down.
Jet screamed as the bones in his claw shattered under the force of Rocket's swing. Pieces of bone stuck out of his skin, grey blood oozing out of the protrusion. Rocket twisted and yanked his fingers in ways they weren't supposed to, pushing them in different directions to his will, Jet whimpering and groaning through it all.
An idea popped into Rocket's head: he didn't have enough strength to rip out Jet's horns, but he could take something equally as important. He entertained it for a little while, smiling at the pain he was going to put this bastard in. He pressed on the broken tips of Jet's fingers with his palm, making his claws poke out of their pouches. He pinched one of them, feeling its smooth, almost-porcelain surface. Then, he pulled. The claw popped out of its housing, spilling blood onto the floor, and Jet howled. It wasn't a regular howl; it was raw, unfiltered and full of pain. It was music. And Rocket wanted to continue dancing to it. When he was done, Jet's hand was a horrifying, bloody sight to behold.
He switched his attention to Jet's left hand. But first, he was going to offer something.
"Jet, I know you're a smart demon," he said with as much venom as he can muster. "So let me offer you a choice. You either leave our boss alone and never mention her name again, or I make sure even the best healers from Thieves' Den won't be able to fix you."
Jet spat onto the floor. "Go to the bowels of the Inpherno, pet."
Rocket shrugged. "Your call."
Rocket yanked Jet's left arm backwards until he heard a 'pop', making Jet let out another scream and struggle more. He grabbed Jet's claw and fastened it to the ground. He was going to make this hurt.
"Remember, you did this," he whispered in Jet's ear.
Instead of aiming for the palm, this time, he aimed for his fingers. He slammed his hammer onto his thumb first, turning it purple and earning a pained grunt. Not enough. Next finger, a hiss.
"Change your mind?" Rocket asked.
Jet only groaned in reply.
"Alright then."
He put the last three fingers together. He wedged the claw of his hammer beneath them and pulled upwards, getting a satisfying simultaneous crack. Jet banged his head against the floor. To top it all off, Rocket crushed the last of his finger bones and gave him another good hit to the palm, completely destroying any bones that lay beneath. A bone shard even splinted off and went on the floor. Both of Jet's claws looked like the Biograft's head. Grey blood flowed down his fur and pooled on the floor. Bones sat at awkward angles and tissue could be seen below his fur and skin.
Rocket put his claw to Jet's neck, sliding it along his throat, making a thin slice in his skin. Jet hissed in pain. Rocket chuckled at that.
"Never had someone actually face you, Jet?" Rocket taunted.
Jet smiled and laughed. "This is nothing. You have to do a lot more than that, pet."
Rocket grinned. "It would be my pleasure."
He grabbed Jet by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to a corner of the hall, his grip firm despite Jet's scratching his arm. He threw him against the corner, sawdust and spider webs sticking to his clothes. Jet tried to get up but Rocket pressed his foot on his chest. He pulled the fur on Jet's neck so his head was raised.
Rocket raised his eyebrows. "Anything more to say?"
Jet simply spat in his face. Rocket gave a disgusted groan and wiped the saliva off.
"You're gonna' regret that."
He balled his claw into a fist. He hurled his hand into Jet's smug face over and over again. He didn't stop when blood began flowing down Jet's nose. He didn't stop when his claw began to ache. He didn't stop when Jet's blackened eyes closed and his entire face was wet with blood. The thrill of his success drowned him in bliss. He smiled as he continued punching that prick's face in. He didn't stop.
He loved this.
His claws slid out of their pouches. They wanted to join in, eager to inflict more pain. He let them extend fully until they were essentially weapons of their own. He placed one directly on Jet's swollen eyelid and-
"What the hell is going on?" Airstrike yelled. "I got a call from-"
She cut herself off when she came upon Rocket and Jet. Her jaw dropped, eyes trailing to Jet's mangled face. She covered her mouth and took a step back, shaking her head.
"What have you done?"