i know when i die my soul is damned
It had been three years since the Snap ( though the humies called it some stupid ass name . . . what was it again? Blah. Bleep. Blurt. . . Blip. The humies called it the Blip. Melodramatic idiots) , and Nebula and he had gotten used to Quill’s backwater planet every time they had to have an in person meeting with Earth’s Avengers. He and Nebula had crashed at the Avenger’s Compound for the night and he had scurried out of his guest room for a walk. His mind wouldn’t turn off and he wanted to gaze up at Earth’s night sky. The stars were different than he was used to and its unfamiliarity made the absences ache less. He was glad it wasn’t day time.
It filled him with equal parts awe, guilt and bitterness to see Earth’s blue skies and know that he was alive. The only thing that made it bearable was that he knew that the rest of the universe was suffering as well. Suffering from the loss of family. Loss of friends. An inescapable void where loved ones should have been.
It’s really good to have friends.
He could almost feel the cold hard metal grate of his old cage against his back. The dimly lit room and smell of feces, wood shavings and fur. The hazy and naive feeling that warmed his belly. Feelings of hope and belief of dreams. Of being free.
What a joke.
His heart stutters as the phantom smell of blood and Lylla’s glassy dead eyes stare back at him. The image of Teef’s and Floor’s corpses sprawled on the floor of the only home they had ever known. Before he could feel the familiar excruciating pain of a panic attack, a familiar frain of music catches his ears.
“This’ll be the day that I die”
The trill of piano keyes and thrumming guitars ensared his mind and instead of the Evolutionary’s cold creeping voice, he remembers Quill talking about America and Pie? Some song about the day that music died?
This will be the day that I die.
A sultry feminine voice cuts into his thoughts as she sings under her breath so quietly, if he wasn’t a cybernetically engineered being, he wouldn’t have been able to hear.
Did you write the Book of Love?
And do you have faith in God above?
He looked up and is surprised to find that his paws had lead him to the Compound’s Living Area. His eye catches the silhouetted hunch figure of a petite red headed human woman in the dimly lit room.
The familiar bite of alcohol lingered in the air and Rocket debated whether to interrupt the pity party that he stumbled into. Before he can make up his mind the decision is taken out of his hands as Romanoff acknowledged his presence.
“Are you going to join me for a drink or are you going to lurk in the shadows like some creep?” Romanoff said dryly.
Her body language had not shifted once to let on that she knew that he was there. It reminded him unneringly of Gamora’s and Nebula’s ability to know whenever someone entered a room. Some assassin/child soldier shit that he never poked too hard at. He was a dick but not that much of a dick.
“Hold your horses Romanoff. I was just wondering what insensitive asshole decided to play American Pie at two in the morning.” Racoon quipped back though there was no heat behind his words.
Romanoff’s answering smirk made his shoulders relax. He only knew a few humies that enjoyed his sense of abrasive humor. He actually liked Romanoff. She reminded him of a mix between Gamora and Nebula. Compassionate and kind. . . cold and calculating. And something that was all her own.
Something unnervingly familiar that he saw in his own eyes when he peered in the mirror. The look of a survivor.
There was this hint of danger that lurked behind her eyes that reminded him of the caged wolves back at the Evolutionary’s ship. There was a reason why the Evolutionary chose to experiment on more docile animals.
He took his time moseying on over towards the wooden chairs right next to Romanoff facing the home bar in the corner of the room. Hopping onto the seat, he silently slided over an unused shot glass towards Romanoff who poured a generous shot of vodka.
He glanced at the corner of his eyes to see Romanoff give him a discerning glance. From the way she was singing, he expected red rimmed eyes and tears but her emerald green eyes were dark and mournful. Not a tear in sight.
He shot back the vodka and savoured the familiar burn of alcohol. It didn’t matter what planet it came from. Alcohol was alcohol. Though Romanoff’s alcohol burned and tasted like shit, he still enjoyed the artificial warmth that came from the booze. It wasn’t no Aldebaran Whiskey but it would do on a night where his dead seemed to linger. It was bad enough that he and Nebula still expected to hear the shink of Gamora sharpening her swords, or the bleep and bloops of Groot’s Arcade Defender. Hell, he still expected to hear Mantis’s whiney voice and Drax’s stupid laugh as the two bickered or Quill’s spluttering when Rocket ragged on him.
Romanoff shot him a small smile as she gestured with her glass of vodka to the speakers playing “American Pie”. “You know Earth music? Specifically, ‘American Pie’?”
A pang of sadness thrummed in his chest as he cleared his throat and busied his hands with a glass and Stark’s overpriced whiskey. Unscrewing the cap off of a 72 year old Macallan, he poured three fourths of his glass before taking a sip.
“Quill was always playing his mixtapes all the damn time. You humies make some weird ass music but Don McLean and Glen Campbell were not half bad.”
Romanoff’s amused expression and the easy mirth in her eyes caused something sour to twist in his stomach. An image of Romanoff’s team whole and intact flickered into his mind and made that feeling twist into something dark and ugly.
“So, what’s a broad like you doing up so late listening to sappy music? Throwing a pity party or let me guess . . .” he snapped his fingers a few times, “you had a wittle nightmare and hoped mommy would tell you that everything would be ok?” The words poured out of his mouth, mocking, dark and vitirolic without his volition.
What was wrong with him?
Oh, that’s right. He was a fucking monstrous experiment that got all his friends killed. He couldn’t help that he was selfish, jealous asshole that let his dark ugly twisted feelings bubble up whenever he was on Earth.
Earth. A bitter mirror image of the life he was supposed to have. A nightmare that felt like dripping blood from his paws, agonizing grief and hatred.
The New World.
Counter-Earth.
That festering bitterness and self hatred that used to be soothed by Groot’s growling words and grounded presence and later on, by the chaotic joy and madness of being with the Guardians. Nowadays, he couldn’t seem to find any peace from his dead unless he was working.
Romanoff’s expression didn’t even shift. Her breath and heart beat was even. No look of indignation or annoyance flashed like it would with Quill, Drax or Gamora. But that slight warm and friendly atmosphere that Romanoff invited him to cooled.
She gave him a smile. A vapid empty smile that he knew she allowed him to see through and replied, “Oh you know. The usual reasons people like us can’t sleep at night. Dead friends and family. People we’ve killed. Deaths we’ve caused. Being unmade over and over and over and over again.”
He tensed as each sentence seemed to worm into the cracks of his heart. His usual defense mechanism roared to life as anger slithered into his veins. Instead of flipping his lid like he usual did with the Guardians, he gave a bitter bark of a laugh and volleyed back, “And what would you know of being unmade? Of being torn apart and put back together over and over again until you were a monster.”
“I was one of twenty-eight. My designation was #4.” Romanoff responded a humorless smile on her lips. Dark brown eyes met emerald green and Rocket saw something cold, dark and predatory in her eyes. What was even more discomforting was the look of understanding in her eyes. A kindred soul who understood what it was like to be made undone in service of being used as an expendable tool or weapon.
The fur from the tip of his head, down his spine all the way to his tail bristled in response as those cold eyes dissecting him. He felt like prey among a predator. It wasn’t until her words sink in did Rocket feel like the shittest being ever.
One of twenty eight. Twenty eight dead humans? Designation number four?
His stomach lurched uncomfortablely as he resisted the urge to rub at where the numbers 89P13 were tattooed on his skin. Batch 89. Rocket knew that Romanoff was an assassin. Had met enough of the galaxy’s underbelly to know a cold blooded killer when he met one but he didn’t think that the humies that had produced the soft hearted and goofy Peter Quill were also the kind to torture, mutilate, and experiment on their own kind.
He should have known better.
Didn’t matter the planet or galaxy. People sucked and often than not, would choose to crush others under their boot if they had the power to do so or to save their own skin.
He was the first one to break the staring contest as he ducked his head in shame, staring at his drink. His ears flattened down on the top of his skull as his right thumb rubbed against the glass. All his biting anger and self hatred seemed to leech out of him, leaving his hollow husk in its place.
“I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to assume.” Rocket murmured his eyes downcast and remorseful.
A slight scoff broke through his guilt as his eyes whipped over to see Romanoff’s cold demeanor defrost slightly.
Her eyes had thawed slightly as she took a sip of her drink and replied, “Apology accepted. It’s difficult being the only one to survive. The only one to know the names of the people you lived, breathed and slept with. The ones you were trapped with.”
He gave a slight nod to that.
He was about to pour himself a shot of Stark’s pretentious whiskey but Romanoff leaned over and with a challenging stare poured her Russian swill into his glass.
Without breaking her stare, he tipped back the shot glass and refused to cough as what had to be at least 95% ABV spilled down his throat.
Fuck. That burned. He was apologetic but he wasn’t going to show a hint of weakness.
Romanoff’s amused eyes said that he failed to hide his grimace at the shitty alcohol that she was drinking.
“Doroteya”
“What?” Rocket asked confusedly.
“One of the girls that I grew up with. Her name was Doroteya.”
Romanoff eyes swirled with a mix of emotions. Grief, rage, sorrow, and regret.
“I don’t remember all their names but I will toast to the ones that I do know.” she said with a sad but determined grin.
Raising her shot glass, she toasted to Rocket and the dark of night.
“May you rest in peace. If you are in hell, may you get the chance to eternally maim and torture our captors, experimenters, and kidnappers. When I die, I will join you.”
Rocket felt his stomach churn with grief and understanding.
Grabbing three more shot glasses, he filled them up with his preferred whiskey. He saw out of the corner of his eyes, Romanoff line up fifteen more shot glasses.
“To Floor. May you get to roll around the floor and play to your hearts content wherever you are.”
He gulped down the shot.
“Roza, Sariya, Tatiana, Zoya and Anna.”
Romanoff downed five shots and Rocket was slightly impressed. From what he could tell, Romanoff was enhanced with some type of serum. Not to the extent of Captain Man with a Plan Sparkly Pants but still strong enough that it took a hell of a lot to get her drunk. His own enhancements made it harder for him to get drunk as well.
“To Teefs. May you get to eat a lot of good food and put those gigantic tusks to work. May you also get to crack jokes and continue to spread joy”
“Lara, Irina, Katya, Klara and Marya.”
“Lastly, to Lylla. May you get to see the sky, clouds, and night sky. I hope it was everything you dreamed it was. One day, I will see you guys again. I’ll take you guys flying and we’ll have so much fun. I’ll also tell you all about my adventures and . . . my team. My family.”
His vision became a bit blurry and watery. Swiping at his face, he wiped the tears.
“Alisa, Nadia, Sveta, Catherine . . .”
He heard Romanoff’s voice hitch at the last name as she said, “Yelena”.
“I will see you all again, sestras. Yelena, I hope wherever you are, you are giving people hell, dancing and flipping around, and singing. Being dusted wasn’t a cool way to die, so you better come back. I will see you again. Whatever it takes.” Romanoff grimly swore. A lone tear fell down her cheek.
Grabbing one last shot, he clinked his shot against Romanoff’s and swore, “Whatever it takes.”