Chapter Text
Early in the morning, sneakers fell onto wet grass, as Rocket trudged to the train that waited to transport him and the other phighters to the arena they'd be battling in. Despite the slight drag of his feet, it wasn't like Rocket disliked participating in phights, but everything had felt less interesting to him lately. He wondered if he'd subconsciously decided to participate simply because it was routine at that point. It's best he didn't think about it. He was here to have fun, after all. There were a few new inphernals joining the competition, he hoped that'd spice it up.
After boarding the train, Rocket immediately laid down on his back on the surprisingly comfortable seats of the car he was in, while the chatter of his nearby teammates filled his ears. He considered letting himself knock out, right there and then, but... On one hand, it was a good idea to get some rest before the battle, he'd need the extra energy, but he couldn't run the risk of waking up groggy and dragging his team down because of it. God, his eyes were heavy. Shifting onto his side for a more cozy position, he had to fight the urge to fall asleep. Whatever. Even if he did wake up groggy, the high energy setting he'd be placed in should properly wake him up. Hopefully. Rocket let his eyes shut and quickly began to drift off on his warm, cushioned seating.
Hours later, Rocket's eyes fluttered open when a chime, followed by a voice he didn't recognize, emitted from the train's P.A. system. "We are arriving to the arena soon. Apologies for the wait, and thank you for your patience," the voice said. Rocket stretched and yawned as he looked out the window. Judging by the sky outside, it seemed to be around noon now. As he expected, the nap did leave him feeling dazed and foggy, but he wasn't going to worry about that right now. He sat up straight so he could resist the urge to fall back asleep, and stared up at the light of the train until he began to zone out. Then, another chime snapped him back into being aware. Rocket got up as the train stopped and walked out the door.
Rocket stood and leaned against the wall of the elevator hall in Hotel Elephant as he waited for the match to start. His team was pretty decent, but he had no idea what the other team was made of. Hopefully his was good enough. He had Medkit, Biograft, Skateboard, and Hyperlaser, all of which he was pretty confident that they'd be useful, but he'd seen some large inphernals when both teams were boarding the train. Whatever, it shouldn't be that bad.
The speakers blared and Rocket's team, dressed in blue, began to run out of the hotel and outside to the arena's focal point. While several pairs of feet hit the concrete floor, Rocket began to examine the players on the other team. He could only recognize two of them, Sword and Vine Staff but the rest looked like really heavy hitters. Nevertheless, Rocket kept running. Coming to a harsh halt, he nearly fell over as he loaded his rocket launcher with ammo. He felt a little better, but the haziness from before wasn't entirely gone.
Rocket looked around with his gun pointed in front of him, searching for any phighters on the opposite team until he heard heavy footsteps from behind him that stood out from all the others. When he turned around, weapon still aimed in front, he was immediately met with a blunt strike on his ribs, knocking him off his feet and sending him far. His chest hit the ground harshly, and with heavy breaths that stung, a seething expression, and a tear pricking in both eyes, he turned around onto his elbows to see who could've possibly hit him that hard. A blindfolded large inphernal with purple horns and locs styled in a ponytail was sprinting towards him, a large hammer in his hand. He must've seen the scowl Rocket wore, because a large, cocky grin grew on his face. "Can't y' take a hit?" he chided, mockingly.
Rocket sprang up to his feet, clutching his damaged rib in one hand and his gear in the other. He was surprised that maniac hadn't broken any of his bones. He began to sprint back to the hotel, constantly checking behind him to see if that purple psycho chasing him had lost interest. After an eternity of running, Rocket's sore legs collapsed onto the floor of the elevator lobby, his head resting against the elevator doors. He started to relax in his position, but the thought of his team losing because he, quite literally, ran away from the fight. Like a coward.
Okay, fine, he'd get up in just a little bit, he had to let this pain subside at least a little before he could actually help his team out. He stared at the ceiling of the room for a while, trying his hardest not to focus on the aching pain in his side. Who the hell even was that guy? How was he that strong?
Once again, he heard loud footsteps approaching. Honestly, he was just surprised it took him this long to reach him again. As soon as he managed to stand up without faltering, the inphernal had turned the corner, dashed towards Rocket, and swiftly swept his legs with his own. "Shit!" Rocket yelled, "Everybody else is outside, why'd you come up here?!" The man above him pressed his armored boot onto his chest with a smile that pissed Rocket off even more.
"You're Zuka's kid, yeah? Thought you'd be more like him instead of runnin' away after one hit." Wow. Straight for the low blows. "Fuck off," Rocket responded with a wheezy tone of voice and a frustrated look in his eyes. His gear was on the other side of the room now, he hadn't been able to hold onto it after falling onto his back.
"What a disappointment. How'd a soldier like him end up with a kid who just runs away from a fight?" This guy was so agitating. Rocket was trapped under his thumb until he finally decided to score a goal for his team, which he'd probably just postpone for the sole purpose of making him feel small, especially when compared to his dad. He had to stay silent, anything he said would just make the smile of the fucker above him way bigger with every damn word.
"Why're ya silent now, kid?" God, can this guy just bash his head in already? It feels like he's spent hours on the floor just staring at him and listening to him talk. "Heh, good luck hitting anybody with those snail pace rockets!" the bigger man laughed, raising up his hammer. Eventually, a large blast crashed against the inphernal, sending him back to his spawn point. Rocket looked up to see Hyperlaser, offering a hand. "We're losing. Badly." He scoffed as he gripped the other's hand and pulled himself back up. The two ran outside of the hotel, gear in hand.
The rest of the match continued poorly for Rocket, with him being constantly off-balance, constantly missing shots, constantly having to run and hide from that purple bitch's devastating hits. He was basically free lunch meat for the enemy team. He felt awful. He felt like he was the weak link in his team. They'd all scored more points for the team, hadn't they?
The speakers blared again with fanfare, and Rocket's face scrunched up when the announcer yelled out the score. 14 to 20. They'd lost by 7 points. He walked up to the leaderboard after the game had ended, though he already knew he was probably at the bottom. His disposition soured even further when he saw the man who'd incessantly targeted him for the whole game at the top. Ban Hammer, his name was. Fuck him.
His team walked to the train, chatting happily as if they hadn't just been beaten horrendously. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they knew it wasn't their fault.
Rocket slumped onto the train and dropped onto the cushions, just like in the morning, but he was even more tired. He'd slipped up every moment he possibly could in the game, and it was the only thing on his mind. No matter how badly he tried to think of anything else, the thought of him screwing over his entire team just because he wasn't able. That whole game was bullshit. That was far from his best, and it was no one's fault except his own. He didn't want to go home, he felt like even stepping into his dad's house after that horrible performance would be disrespectful, especially since he wouldn't want him out here.
Rocket cursed as he slammed the door to his room. That match went horribly. He did horribly. And what the hell was Ban Hammer's problem? He hated being talked down to like that, he hated being compared to his dad, he hated the pain in his side and chest and back from being smacked around, he hated the burn in his legs from running away the whole game like a coward, and he absolutely fucking despised Ban Hammer. He wanted to lash out on something so badly, but punching a hole in the wall wasn't an option, and he sure as hell wasn't going to attack any random, innocent inphernals.
Shit, he couldn't do this anymore. He swiped a lighter he hid behind the curtains on his windowsill, gripping it tight with rage. He harshly pushed down the wheel repeatedly until the sparks were replaced by a steady flame. He stared at it for a bit in heavy contemplation. God. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. He quickly lowered his palm onto the fire, and his eyes quickly shut as he not to close his hand into a fist while his body tensed up. "Shit," Rocket mumbled with heavy breaths, a dark, burning spot beginning to emerge on his hand. His thumb holding the flint-wheel down faltered, until he let go of it entirely, causing the flame to disappear completely. He stared at the lighter in his hand for what felt like a life-time, before he launched it the wall with a loud grunt escaping his throat.
"FUCK!" he yelled out. He thought that'd help, that it would at least slightly let his frustration diminish, but now he was just angrier. Angry at himself for what he'd just done. He took out his phone from his jacket pocket, navigating to Sword's contact, ready to ask him for help, but... Rocket couldn't tell him. He couldn't tell anyone, for that matter. He couldn't tell his best friend that he'd hurt himself, especially over something this small. He imagined Sword being critical towards him for doing something that stupid, something so self-destructive because of a slight bad day. He knew that'd be severely uncharacteristic, that Sword would more likely break out into tears and comfort him until the sun fell, but he couldn't help but worry about that outcome. He powered off his phone, placing it on his nightstand and flopping onto his bed. He wanted to just cry in his bed right now. He felt so pathetic. He felt stupid.
And so, silently, Rocket cried, his tears staining the fabric of his pillow.
"litost" (of czech origin)
(n.) a state of agony and torment from one's own misery.