Author's note: I first considered doing this as a one-shot, but one idea flowed into another and now I'm busy writing more of this whenever I get the opportunity to do so. That this began as a one-shot is also why the first few chapters will probably be short. In the case of this chapter, it happened to end at a decent enough location in my view anyway. This is the first time I've really tried my hand at fanfiction. Reviews and critique/constructive criticism/advice are all greatly appreciated.
He had always imagined dying would be painful, but this wasn't. He felt as though he were…floating?
No, not floating. You can't float when there's nothing for you to float on. Or rather, when what you would be floating on is vaporising and then depositing around you. There's no atmosphere, no temperature that's significant enough to allow the water to maintain its liquid state. You're just there, another part of the debris field where a thriving planet used to be.
They hadn't realized that while they formulated a plan of attack, their foe was being informed of every step. They hadn't, couldn't have known that there was a spy for Ronan the Accuser among the ranks of the Ravagers with whom their leader had spent a major part of his life. By the time they saw it, it was already too late.
Rocket knew his implants were working in overdrive to keep the most important part of his organic body alive, at the expense of the other bits and pieces that required oxygenated blood. He wouldn't have been conscious for as long as he had been, if his brain weren't still functioning. Wouldn't have been able to think, even as the rest of his body was succumbing to the reality of his situation, trying to come up with a plan to fix it—to make things right. Space was cold, but in the effective vacuum, Rocket couldn't feel it. The only indication were the ice crystals that coated his unprotected body.
Ha. Everyone told me space was supposed to feel cold. Maybe they all lied.
He'd have curled his lips into a smile, if his muscles only were working right. It was funny, really. He had always pushed others away, used to being virtually alone in the galaxy. Now the galaxy finally had enough and the cyborg found himself pushed back, pushed into a void far larger than the one inside of him that he was afraid to fill. Rocket's thoughts wandered, away from survival, and to the team that he knew he had failed. By the time he had seen it, it was already too late.
The assassin was the first to speak, standing and looking up at the human who called himself Star-Lord.
He just looked back at her, an expression almost like surprise flashing over his face for the briefest of seconds, as though he was expecting them all to remain seated, passive, while the galaxy went to Hell around them.
"I have spent most of my life surrounded by my enemies. I will be grateful to die among my friends."
The one calling himself the Destroyer stood next, face hardening with resolve. As he spoke, the faintest of smiles crossed the man's face.
"You are an honourable man, Quill. I will fight beside you, and in the end…see my wife and daughter again."
Rocket started to open his mouth to speak, when Groot rose and faced Star-Lord. He felt his mouth hanging open and his expression involuntarily became one of surprise. He maintained said expression as the tree's vocal cords permitted him to say only, "I am Groot" and the words were subconsciously given meaning, a meaning that only came from years spent learning the subtle nuances of Flora Colossus speech patterns.
"Futile though any plan to stop the Accuser may turn out to be, I would be honoured to stand firm as your ally and friend, Star-Lord."
The four standing—Quill, Gamora, Drax and Groot—turned almost simultaneously towards Rocket. He felt their expectant gazes boring into him, and the mammal shook his head gently, closing his eyes for a brief second. The words were out of his mouth before he realised he was going to speak, lighthearted tone masking the unwanted fear gripping his mind.
"Awh, what the Hell? I don't got that long a lifespan anyway…"
Through half-closed eyelids, Rocket could make out specific bits and pieces of the debris strewn around him. A few crushed and charred Nova Corps Starfighters; a very out-of-place looking cybernetic hand, sparks emanating from the interior surface; a familiar sword drifting towards him, ice spread across its blade.
Shit. Gamora ain't gonna like that…
Rocket laughed; or at least, forced his body to move as if he were laughing, although nothing was funny about the situation he was currently in. It took a lot more effort than he anticipated to grab the blade with both hands, bringing it close to his face. He knew the action had cost him valuable time, diverting blood flow from his brain to his limbs. But it was worth it, to hold onto something…some part of the people who he had ended up with. Rocket cradled the sword for a few seconds, then looked past it, eyes fixing on another blade—more like a twenty inch piece of metallic shrapnel—sticking out of his stomach, a dark reddish ice coating the surface.
Oh. So that's why I don' feel cold…
His lips curled up into a smile. He couldn't stop his thoughts from drifting towards Drax, and what he had told him before they reached Xandar.
They all knew the risk involved. They had each prepared, in their own way, for the seeming inevitability of failure, and of death.
Gamora meditated quietly in one of the Eclector's rest areas. Quill sat with Udonta and Obfonteri on the bridge, awkwardly shooting the breeze as if they were old friends—in a way, they were. Groot was pruning some of the more wild-looking sprouts off of his barky hide.
It had taken Rocket a while to locate Drax. He was kneeling, alone, in a small room with a viewport that spanned the entirety of the wall, allowing the occupants a view of the cosmos. The Destroyer's head was bowed, and he held his knives delicately with his forearms crossed over each other. The blades were turned inwards, and for a moment Rocket thought he was going to impale himself.
"Uh…Drax? You…you alright, man?"
The man's head turned slightly and cocked towards him and Rocket immediately felt uncomfortable, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, avoiding his gaze.
"N-never mind, I'll…I-I'll leave you to it—"
"You do not have to leave, my furry comrade. Sit down."
The man pulled up into a sitting position, placing his knives on the ground in front of him and gesturing for Rocket to sit next to him. After the briefest of hesitations, he did so, curling his legs up against his chest and resting his head on his knees.
"I…I didn't interrupt you, did I?"
"No. I was merely praying before we depart to fight Ronan."
Rocket blinked, confusion evident on his face as he looked at Drax.
"Preying on what? There's nothing in here that'd count as edible…unless you were serious about…uh, about—well, about eating my species?"
"I was quite serious. My people would boil the skin from your kind's corpse, roast the meat over an open flame and season it with herbs before serving. I will not do the same to you, though. Although you resemble them, you are different from those dumb creatures on my home world. I meant praying…as in communing with the gods of my people. Asking for their blessings to be upon us when we reach Xandar. Have you never prayed before?"
The raccoon-like creature didn't answer immediately, wringing his paws together. Drax wondered if he had crossed some unmarked line, when Rocket spoke, a faint bitterness marking his tone. "…No. No, I haven't. Guess that was never something important enough to be taught how to do, back—way back when. Before I…before I met you folks."
Drax nodded, seeming satisfied with his response. The two sat in silence for a few moments, when Rocket spoke again.
"Hey, Drax. For what it's worth, I-I'm sorry about what I said earlier. About your wife and kid. They didn't deserve that, especially not from me. I know what it's like to…to lose people like that…"
The Destroyer's brow furrowed in such a way that Rocket couldn't quite figure out what was going through his head. He stood and moved towards the viewport, his face reflecting off of the interior glass. "Were they loved ones, rod—Rocket?"
A slight nod was the only reply that Drax received. It was the only reply needed, too. "…I forgive you, friend. I understand that your words came from a place of anger. Of guilt. But I know that you, too, will see them in the end."
"How…how could you know that, Drax? Why do you sound so certain?"
"Some truths are as simple as having faith. It is…comforting to believe. It helps to ease the pain of my loss."
They once again fell silent. The minutes stretched into hours as the two just stood, watching as Xandar's three suns came into view. Resolve hardened on both of their faces when Quill's voice sounded over the intercom.
"It's showtime, people. We all know the plan, so let's get it done."
…
The plan had almost worked, too. But it hadn't accounted for Ronan destroying the entirety of the Xandarian fleet. It hadn't accounted for Ronan surviving the Hadron Enforcer. And it hadn't accounted for Rocket failing to notice, as he flew his M-class ship towards the Dark Aster with the full intent of crushing the Accuser under its hull, that the Kree fanatic had levelled his weapon towards him and was staring him dead in the eye—smiling.
He didn't see it before it was too late, too late to avoid the purple blast of energy that gutted his ship, the force of the impact thrusting his small body forwards and into the controls. As his vessel plummeted, Rocket had fought to keep steady, fought to avoid crashing into the unarmed civilians their plan was meant to save. And for the most part, he had—instead, landing ungracefully on the surface of the ocean that surrounded the Nova Corps' headquarters. What felt like an eternity later but he knew was only a few minutes at most, he saw a telltale purple glow light the horizon. He could almost feel the anguish of millions of innocents tearing into him, and the screams which cried out for the briefest of moments before being extinguished, engulfed by the wave of destruction that would soon cover the entirety of Xandar's surface.
In the final moments before the blast engulfed his own vessel, one moment of clarity—or desperation, considering the damage already sustained by the ship—caused the smallest member of Star-Lord's ragtag band of misfits to engage the emergency ejector seat. By some miracle, it worked, cushioning his body in a viscous protective shell and launching the seat out from the cockpit just as the wave struck the ship. A deafening roar filled his ears as the sea beneath Rocket literally turned to smoke—no, steam—and propelled him further into the air, which was quickly becoming thin, the atmosphere evaporating from the surface up as the Infinity Stone's power reached the core of the Xandarian home world. Rocket was faintly aware of the wreckage of his ship scattering, a large chunk of it rapidly approaching him.
I'm sorry, guys…I failed you.
As Rocket's vision began to finally start fading away at the edges, he was unsure of why he brought his forehead to rest against the flat of Gamora's sword. He was unsure of why he began to silently plead to any spirits or whatever deities that may be able to hear him. He had never been one to believe in something as abstract as faith, but now that his cybernetics had slowed to a crawl, unable to force any more oxygen into his brain, Rocket found himself begging for relief.
Begging for salvation.
Begging for forgiveness.
In the last few seconds before his consciousness faded completely, Rocket would have sworn aloud were he able to. Cutting through the darkness of his vision came a light, almost blinding him with its intensity. He was aware of an all-too-familiar figure approaching, the eyes on the mask glowing an unmistakable crimson. Aware of a strong yet gentle grasp drawing his shaking body—why…am I…shaking…?—towards the light.
Haha…of course…it has to be you…
Rocket's eyes slid shut and he allowed the light to envelop him.