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Plunk, plunk.
Wet, moist. Each new drip of some liquid reached Rocket’s ears, and they twitched until he finally rose. He groaned. Everything hurt, and he was sure some of his ribs weren’t in the spot they were supposed to be.
The creaking of metal and rust and even the occasional distant footsteps. Something was familiar about all of this. Where the hell was he? What happened?
Right, a stupid space fight. What else? They were all together fighting off a frickin’ army of… something, the name escaped his mind. But he and Peter got separated from the group. They encountered more. More and more and–
A shrill scream sounded in the distance. Rocket cringed and he walked to the bars of his cage. He finally got a good look at his surroundings. He was in a damn cage. The rusted metal, the leaky pipes, the screams. No.
It can’t be. No, it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be back here. Rocket never thought he’d be back here in his lifetime, as he swore it to himself. His breathing quickened and he gripped onto the bars so tight his knuckles went numb. No no no no. Flashes. Bright flashes of pain. A white light, blinding. The shrieking and obvious terrified squeaks from an animal. Some animal. Some poor, poor animal. The first time, pain so immense he passed out. The next four times, passed out. But on the fifth and every day forward, a conscience was born. He’d stay awake. Awake for the pulls and tugs and shredding.
Rocket walked backwards until his back hit the back of the cage and he slumped down, cowering. His eyes were filled with tears.
Limb from limb, over and over again. Ripped apart, reassembled. Arms removed, shoulders broadened, bones shifted and added, arms burned back on. Finished? No. More work needed to be done. He can think, he can breathe, he lives. But he isn’t living. All he is is a mind beaten by pain and torture.
Don’t scream. A muzzle is attached. Searing pain cuts open his back, like a hot knife through butter. Nuts and bolts and metal rods are inserted into his spine. Now he can stand up straight. Complete? Am I the perfect living thing yet? No.
Rocket whimpered as tears slipped down his cheeks and trickled down his whiskers, sliding to the end and falling off.
“No no no…” he kept repeating, shivering and jerking at vivid memories, “No more… Please!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, begging. No more pain. No more! It was torture! I’m perfect already, please just stop! I want to die. Kill me!
“Rocket!”
The raccoon opened his eyes, chest heaving and body shaking. Who was that? Who knew his name? Quill. He didn’t answer. It couldn’t be Peter Quill. He was back at Halfworld, he had no friends here.
Peter was in a cell adjacent to Rocket’s. And he remembered clearly everything that happened to them prior to being knocked out and shipped to this random prison-like place. These guys in full-body masked suits came up to them and drugged them. They were fighting damn well, too. But he woke when he heard screaming. Rocket’s screaming. What the hell were they doing to him!? No one tortures his goddamn friends!
“Rocket?” Peter called out again when he got no response. He stood up and looked around. He didn’t see another cage.
“Noho!” Rocket wailed. Peter’s head shot to the right and he walked to the wall of the cell. He put his hand against it.
“Rocket! Rocket, where are you?”
“No more! P-Please! Please… stop….” Rocket whimpered again and slumped to the floor, cowering in a ball. It was too much. He was too deep into his imagination and memories.
Peter’s eyes were wide. What the hell was happening? He did deduce that Rocket’s cell was directly beside his. He pressed up close to the wall and spoke, “Hey! Whoever the hell you are, you leave him alone!” he still assumed someone was administering torture to his friend. Then again, he didn’t hear another presence. There weren’t any other noises that suggested foul play other than Rocket’s constant screaming.
“Rocket… Rocket, buddy, it’s me,” Peter knelt close to the ground, speaking into the wall.
“I’m done! I don’t need anymore, please!” Rocket’s cries continued. He was being torn apart and put back together again like a toy doll. Over and over again.
Peter frowned and he was worried someone would hear him and maybe come and do who knows what to silence him, “Rocket, listen to me! Do you hear me?”
And Rocket groaned some more, sniffling. He could hear Peter. He knew it. He had to be there.
“P-Peter…” Rocket whispered.
Peter heard his name and he smiled in relief in his cell, “Yeah! Yeah, Rocket, I’m right here. Buddy, it’s okay. I’m here.”
God, this was an odd scenario for Peter. He was the one constantly needing assurance and comfort from the group. It was literally always his ass acting like an insecure baby who needed love and care. But dammit to hell, he could dole it out, too.
Rocket crawled himself to the wall he heard Peter’s voice coming from. Or at least the wall he assumed it was coming from. Everything was echoing and shaky, especially blurry.
“I-I can’t…” Rocket exhaled.
“The hell does that mean?” Peter tried to keep a lighter edge to everything, despite the nerve-rattling moans he heard Rocket making, “You can. And I need you to right now. Focus for me. We gotta get outta here, Rocket.”
Rocket sighed and another few tears leaked from his eyes, “W-We can’t… it’s impossible.”
Peter rose a brow, “Impossible? Says the guy who’s broken out of dozens of prisons. No one’s hurting you, Rocket. You have to snap out of it.”
“I-I’m scared, Pete…” Rocket shivered.
All of a sudden, a chorus of footsteps were heard. Peter looked towards his caged bars and saw two of those same completely covered alien-things standing at his cell. Another two passed his cell and he heard Rocket scream.
“Hey!” Peter stood up and slammed on the cell wall, “You leave him alone!”
The two guards at his cell opened it up and Peter started swinging at them immediately. He only managed to hit one before he was taken down and tazed with a cattle prod. His vision went blurry, but he knew he was being hoisted to his feet, cuffed, and began getting led away from the cell. He could see slightly in front of him. He saw a struggling raccoon, pleading and screaming. That wasn’t Rocket. Rocket didn’t plead for anything.
“No! Rocket!” Peter shouted, getting another jolt with the tazer. He groaned and slumped forward, darkness surrounding him.
When he woke, he was in a bright room. Too bright to even properly open his eyes.
“Finally, you’re awake,” an odd, fuzzy voice spoke to Peter. It was clearly either disguised or some voice he’d never heard the inflections of before.
“W-Where’s… Where’s my friend?” Peter asked and he squinted his eyes open.
“Back home,” the voice let out an evil chuckle.
Peter didn’t know what that meant and he almost didn’t want to, but he had to get out of here and find Rocket.
“Why don’t you tell us how you know your friend. Rocket Raccoon, I believe you call him,” the voice sounded in the room.
Peter only now realized he was strapped to a chair with something strapped to his head, “Screw you,” he huffed.
But the minute he said that, a sharp jolt of electricity stemming from his head shot through his entire body. Peter jolted upwards in the chair, but the straps held him down. He screamed loudly, feeling like his whole body was on fire. When the sensations stopped, Peter slumped in the chair, taking deep breaths.
“How do you know 89P13?”
Peter took in a breath and he spat, “Go to hell.”
This time, one of the henchmen walked into the room, right up to Peter, and clocked him in the jaw. Peter tasted blood and he spit, knowing a tooth of some kind was certainly dislodged.
And this repeated for an unknown amount of time. For Peter, this felt like eternity. It brought back his own memories of being tortured for being part of the Ravagers, getting caught, and then interrogated about their inner workings for hours. But he would not say a single thing about Rocket.
Bloodied, weak, bruised. Peter felt he couldn’t hold out anymore. His head hung in the seat, eyes shut because they were muddled with blood and swelled from being punched.
He heard the sound of scuffling somewhere near. A gun was shot. And then the door to this room slid open and a knife was slashed through the alien, cutting him clean down the middle, severing him.
“Peter!” it was Gamora. She quickly ran to his bound body and untied him.
Peter lifted a shaking arm and gripped Gamora’s shoulder tightly, looking her in the eye best he could, “W-Where’s Rocket?”
“Drax got him. Peter, we have to leave,” Gamora insisted, helping Star-Lord to his feet. She led him out to where the ship was waiting for them. Gamora laid Peter on the ground once they were safely inside the ship since she had to run and pilot the Milano.
Peter did not yet feel relief on the ship. He tried sitting up, but he grabbed onto his ribs, “Rocket…” he gasped for breath, needing to see his friend to ensure that he was safe. A small hand touched his arm.
“I am Groot.”
Peter laid back down with a groan. Rocket was alright. Thank god. Thank god…
When Peter Quill woke up, it wasn’t in a damp, dingy cell or in a brightly lit torture room. It was in his cot on his ship, with his friends close by. He sat up but cringed and laid back down, holding his ribs. Shit, something was wrong. But he used his other senses and deduced that there were bandages all across his middle. And stitches across his face and one long scar on his chest.
“Peter?” Gamora peeked her head into his cot after drawing back the curtain.
Peter sighed and he tried giving her a smile.
“It’s good to see you awake,” she remarked and said, “I’ll get you some water.”
When she returned, she sat on Peter’s bed with him, trying to update him on how they located him and Rocket.
“How-How is he?” Peter asked. He still hadn’t seen his friend.
“He’s…” Gamora sighed, “He’ll recover,” she said, unsure of her own answer. Peter frowned and he shut his eyes, grunting.
“Sons of bitches… I’ll kill them all, Gamora. I swear to god…” Peter gritted his teeth together, giving himself a headache.
“Shh, Peter,” Gamora rubbed his arm gently. “You should rest more.” She gave him a painkiller and let him sleep off the pain some more. It would be a trying few days and weeks.
A week later, Peter was back on his feet. He was still sore since his ribs weren’t fully healed, but he and the team agreed he could go back to work.
“Welcome back, Star-Lord,” Gamora greeted Peter with a smile when she saw him enter the cockpit in clean clothes and a bright look in his eye.
“Good to be back. So, where’s Rocket?” he asked, looking around at everyone else not to see the raccoon.
They all glanced around at each other. And baby Groot pouted, mumbling, “I am Groot…”
Peter frowned, “I-I… I’m gonna try and talk to him…” and of course he was sure that the others have all tried that already. He needed to see his friend.
Peter walked back to the cots and he pulled back the curtain covering Rocket’s. He saw the raccoon in his top bunk with a screwdriver in hand, pieces of metal laying about his bed. He was obviously trying to invent something on the spot. Rocket glanced up, figuring it was Gamora or Drax trying to get him to eat something again. But upon seeing it was Peter, face clearly scarred and bruised, he ditched his mechanics and went up to Peter. He didn’t care how this made him look. He threw his arms around Peter’s neck and hugged him.
Peter was totally taken aback by this. No one ever touched Rocket let alone giving him hugs freely. But this was also extremely depressing. The experience drove Rocket to be so needy of touch that he was giving it out at will. Peter hugged him back.
Rocket retreated back into his bed and he stared at Peter, “You look like shit.”
Peter nodded, “Well, I know how much you like the look. I figured I’d treat you.”
Rocket huffed and he showed a small smile, fleeting and almost sad. But it was there.
“How’re you… you know,” Peter asked, leaning his arms on the upper bunk bed.
Rocket shook his head, “Don’t wanna worry you about it…”
“Well, I want you to. I ain’t leaving until I talk to you,” Peter made his point clear by climbing up into Rocket’s bed and sitting in it.
Rocket watched Peter and he sighed, “I… I don’t feel great…” he rubbed the back of his neck.
“They tortured us,” Peter said, assuming they did the same to Rocket what they did to him, “You’re not supposed to feel great. But, I want you to know that I didn’t give them a damn thing. They asked me the same question: how do I know you? And I spit at them and told them to piss off. I thought you’d be proud,” Peter grinned softly, shrugging.
Rocket stared at Peter, an ear twitching as he listened and he sighed, shaking his head, “Oh no…”
“What?”
“‘S my fault…”
“What? Rocket, no–”
“It is!” Rocket countered, “You wouldn’t have been hurt if it wasn’t for me!”
“Rocket woah woah, hold on! This isn’t because of you!”
“How isn’t it about me, Quill?” Rocket spat, “Do you know where we were? We were at Halfworld! The frickin’ looney bin for the most twisted, insane, evil…” he got choked up thinking about those sick bastards.
“Halfworld,” Peter repeated, “That’s the place where…” his eyes widened and he swallowed nervously.
Rocket huddled into himself again and he nodded. Peter knew why Rocket was so triggered being there. All those memories.
“What did they do to you when they separated us?” Peter asked. That was the question burning inside of him since it happened. While he was being beaten an shocked and tortured, was Rocket being treated the same?
“They ran tests on me,” Rocket sniffled, “Just made me do different tasks. Then it was at the end when I…. when I…” his eyes grew wide and terrified.
Peter sighed and shook his head. He looked at Rocket, the usual snarky, badass raccoon he knew was still in there. But he was broken. Peter reached out a hand, to which Rocket flinched at first. But Peter went slowly and he scratched his fingers from the top of Rocket’s head to the back of his neck. Rocket sunk forward, the touch relaxing him and calming him. As Peter pet him, he paid closer attention to the metal rods sticking out of Rocket’s back. The raccoon had been in bed with a bandage around his ribs, without a shirt. So all of the deformities were visible. Peter took care to avoid them as he pet the raccoon.
“I’ll never let that happen again.”
Rocket looked up at Peter and he nodded. Peter could tell that didn’t mean jack shit to Rocket.
“I swear. I’ll never allow you to get captured like that again. I’d let it be done to myself a dozen times over before they’d ever get to you again. I’ll go back there myself and kill them all for doing this to you.”
Rocket couldn’t believe what Peter was saying. The funny guy leader of the group was showing him how much he cared about him. Rocket wanted to hug him again. Damn emotions. He avoided the hug by tapping Peter’s thigh and looking up at him. He hoped his eyes said all they needed to.
“We need you back, buddy,” Peter sighed, “We’re here for you.”
Rocket nodded, “Yeah, I know. I was just waitin’ for your pretty face to talk some sense back into me.”
Peter grinned, “Ahaww, you think I’m pretty?”
Rocket chortled softly, “Don’t get used to it, Star-Bum.”
Peter cooed, “But you love me, don’t you? Come on, admit it.”
“I ain’t saying it,” Rocket pointed a finger at Peter. This was nice. The two of them back to bantering like old friends.
Peter smiled and he chuckled, “Fihine, don’t say it. But I know you feel it. In here,” he poked where Rocket’s heart would be.
Rocket smiled, “I think you confuse love with heartburn. Or a stomachache,” he returned his own poke to Peter’s belly. The strawberry blonde twitched and he giggled.
“Hehey, no poke backs.”
“Says who? I don’t play by any rules,” Rocket climbed into Peter’s lap and he dug his claws into Peter’s ribs. Peter yelped at first since his ribs were still healing, but Rocket knew how to proceed so that he only hit the healed ribs that were extra sensitive.
Peter cursed and he fell backwards on the bed, pushing half-heartedly at Rocket, “ShihiHIHIT! ROCKET! Knohock it ohoff!”
The raccoon grinned, whiskers twitching as he wormed his small paws into Peter’s armpits. He squealed and tried curling up, arms now glued to his sides.
“Geez, with a grip like this, I don’t know if I’ll ever get my hands back,” Rocket teased. Peter was too busy laughing to respond. To add insult to injury, Rocket slipped his fluffy tail into Peter’s rucked up shirt, brushing it back and forth against the sensitive skin.
Peter jumped, nearly knocking Rocket off, “NOHO! NohohohahahahahaHAHA! Thahahat tihihihickles, youhu dick!”
Rocket sniggered, “That’s the idea, ya big baby.”
Rocket was home. He had a family made up of his best friends all around him. And being able to laugh with them again was something special. He’d never take it for granted again. He now had his own world, lightyears and lightyears away from the one that created him. And he was the ruler of this world, and he damn well loved it.