"Our strength grows out of our weaknesses." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Strength within Weakness
It figures that Peter is making him fix the ship's engine during the mother of all heat waves. However, in this particular situation, Rocket feels inclined to extend an olive branch of amnesty in his bumbling Captain's direction; partly because Rocket knows as inept as his captain is at reading the geological shifts in a given planet's climate, even the most seasoned of pilots get their asses handed to them by electrical storms hidden in the clouds of a planet's atmosphere, and partly because he actually enjoys fixing machinery-especially machinery as big as a starship engine.
Or, he should say he enjoys fixing things that look like they have a prayer to begin with, unlike the charred; smoking remnants of a perfectly functioning engine he is trying his level best to bring back to life. The entire engine looks like the brainchild of an amateur welder and reeks of burning oil and exhaust. Also, upon closer inspection Rocket finds that not only is the engine fried, but the protective shell coating the engine block is burned away as well. He contemplates writing it off as a lost cause, but Rocket isn't the type to leave any machine-no matter how irreparable the damage seems-unrepaired. So with a determined look knit firmly into his brow, he picks up his wrench and goes back to tightening the bolts securing the engine to the hull.
A string of curses hot as the unforgiving sun searing his naked back pours from between his clenched teeth as his wrench slips out of his claws and into the crystal clear water of the port. Cursing his captain for choosing the one planet to crash land on that is as lacking in proper ship ports as he seems to be in brains, Rocket angrily rifles through his toolbox in search of another wrench.
A chorus of awed noises brings Rocket's nose in line with a group of gawking children and for the briefest of moments Rocket wonders just how much like a cornered animal he looks. Their eyes avoid his half startled, half wary gaze in favor of marveling at the ship almost as if this was their first time seeing something so magnificent and they were trying to drink in every detail without a drop to spare.
Rocket is by no means a trusting individual and even as the kids continue to fillet the ship with their looks of unrestrained wonderment, Rocket's own face regards the group of callow ankle biters with a guarded cautiousness that most people reserve for the most recalcitrant of individuals.
"It's so huge!"
"There's gotta be like at least a hundred people on that ship."
"You think they're pirates?"
"Maybe they're in the army or something!"
The gaggle of starry-eyed children only seem to grow more excited the more they stare at the marvel of modern technology prostrated before them like a gift from on high. Rocket does his level best to ignore the swell of "ooh's" and "ah's" from the aggregate of ecstatic children; but the curse that is his exceptional hearing makes every exclamation from the collection of striplings nearly two hundred yards away seem like the most grating, voluminous din his ears have ever experienced.
"Check it out guys, that guy over there must be the captain!"
The wrench in his paw ceases to torque as nearly all of Rocket's joints tense and lock as the spindly hand of fear grips his hammering heart. He swears that if even one of those children comes near him and starts asking him questions he isn't sure he'll be able to keep his blaster paw under control. However, he underestimates the speed of an impassioned child and before he can even turn to get a look at them the children are upon him, question upon question being foisted into his unprepared ears.
Rockets blinks in equal parts surprise and annoyance, eyes listing over the faces of each beaming child with a look that severely contrasts each smiling, eager face staring back at him.
"Are you some kind of general or something?" One child asks.
"Are you a space-pirate?" Another questions.
"How big is your crew; a thousand guys, ten thousand?"
Rocket revels in the look of fear that slowly bleeds onto the children's faces when he curls his upper lip back and a snarl that even he feels is a tad too vicious egresses from his chest. However, the baseless reprimandation only dissuades the children ever so slightly, and within the same minute they are back to flinging questions in Rocket's direction.
"Get outta here you little ankle biters, can'tcha see I'm tryna work? Didn't your parents ever teach you not to bother someone when they're busy?" Rocket has the mother of all castigations primed and ready on the tip of his tongue, but before he can even begin to chastise the incorrigible kids gathered around him, his keen animal senses pick up on a presence directly behind him.
"Cool!"
Rocket's blood goes cold as he realizes exactly what the elusive tyke is referring to. He whips toward the child such as to give him the earful of his life, which only exposes the implants peppering his back to the children he'd been scolding.
"Woah!"
"Awesome!"
Rocket feels trapped, so much so that without even realizing it, his feet are wheeling backward.
"Scram you filthy little buggers!" It takes all the resolve Rocket can muster not to stagger as he steps or stutter as he speaks.
"What kinda animal are you mister?" a little boy in a filthy, aged baseball cap asks.
"He's obviously a beaver, stupid!" one offers.
"No, he's gotta be a weasel or something." another argues
"Weasel's ears don't look like that dummy!" a third shoots back.
"Check it out guys, he even has a tail!" Rockets turns his head to find that one of the children is standing behind him and is firmly holding onto his tail. His attempts to get it out of the clutches of the child only further exposes the implants dotting his back to the children laughing and cheering on their companion.
Rocket offers the child gripping his tail a predatory snarl as he finally succeeds in yanking the appendage he prizes most from the child's short, stubby fingers.
"Um, mister?" Rocket skewers the little girl tugging on the leg of his jumpsuit with a hard, hawkish eye. "Why do you have those thingies in your back?"
The edge on the question that the innocent child thrusts through the surprisingly supple front that walls off his most visceral emotions reminds Rocket of the sting of a scalpel slicing his flesh. Eventually, a heavy, pregnant silence descends over the group as the children eagerly await Rocket's answer.
"Ain't none of ya damn business." Rocket fights hard to keep the usual acerbic sizzle in his tone.
"Did bad people hurt you?"
Rocket feels an ineffable chill dance up his spine and for the first time since the hoard of children imposed their frenzied, thirsting minds upon him, he doesn't feel the least bit combative.
"Yeah…" The word leaves his maw with a frailty caused entirely by both his sudden, unlikely coming to terms and the fact all of the air seemed to somehow be stolen from his lungs.
"Why?" The way the little girl cocks her head coupled with her disarming mannerisms and large, inquiring eyes makes every second that ticks by feel like an added weight to his already heaving chest.
"I don't know…"
"Why not?"
"Because I don't…"
"Why?"
"Because people aren't usually in the generous kinda mood when they're stickin' all kindsa stuff into ya!" The conglomerate of younglings seems to get smaller as they all shrink backward at the sudden rise in volume from Rocket; but before long the awe and surprise that Rocket finds so extremely grating eventually slithers back onto their faces.
"What kinda stuff?"
"Stuff that shouldn't be there!" Rocket growls.
"You mean like some kinda super cool robot parts or something?"
"Yeah, like the stuff that gives you superpowers?"
"No," Rocket starts. "I mean the kind of stuff that turns you into a freak a' nature."
"Can you show us Mister?"
Rocket's brow ratchets up his forehead a considerable distance. "Excuse me?"
A swell of enthusiastic begging rings out from the group of young-in's, and Rocket finds that his carefully constructed defense isn't as impenetrable as he likes to tell himself it is.
"I dunno" Rocket grins," the guys I stole this tech from could be watching us as we speak."
A collective gasp is heard amongst the children and their eyes go wide in alarm.
"The bad guys?"
"Yeah, the bad guys-" Rocket turns his back and waves a dismissive paw in the direction of the group, an arching smirk turning the scowl on his lips upside down. "-but you guys wouldn't want to hear a story like that."
"Yes we do!"
"Yeah!"
"Please!"
Rocket turns on the group of children so quickly it elicits more than a few startled gasps from the crowd.
"Alright, alright; but you gotta keep your voices down or they'll hear ya." The children all nod simultaneously, already hanging on Rocket's every word with bated, anxious breaths. Rocket makes a show of scouring the rooftops for made-up evil henchmen before he instructs all the children to huddle into a tight hunched circle.
"The guys I stole this tech from-" he gestures toward his back, trying hard to keep his face grim and serious. "Are super evil mad scientists."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, and when I finally busted outta the prison they had me locked in, I decided to steal a little bit of their tech for myself before I split."
"What does it do?"
This time Rocket can't help but smile.
"It lets me beat the crap outta the bad guys."
"Can you show us?" Just when Rocket thinks the children's can't look any more fascinated, their eyes suddenly grow even larger and sparkle a little more bright.
"Eh what the hell, I guess a small demonstration wouldn't hurt."
"Yes!"
Rocket grins and with a deft flick of the wrist brandishes a small, handheld pistol from his belt loop. "You kids ever seen a Spaghetti Western"
He fully expects the ubiquitous confusion as the kids attempt to process the concept that admittedly sounds ridiculous to even him.
"Forget it; it's an Earth thing, not important." Rocket scans the immediate area for things to shoot with his pistol. He spots something in the distance and his eyes become set, focused slits. Without warning he fires two shots seemingly at nothing; then, after a pregnant moment of stillness and anxiousness, a loud crash followed by loud expletives ring out from the same direction.
"What the fuck?!"
"Fucking A!"
The biggest, sloppiest grin Rocket thinks will ever have the pleasure of gracing his face lifts the corners of his maw. The children all turn back to Rocket with both confusion and what looks to Rocket like adoration.
"Woah."
"I didn't even see what he hit."
"Do it again mister!"
Rocket pushes the cap the eager boy is wearing over his face with a gentle, almost fatherly assurance.
"Can't let the bad guys see all my moves, kid."
The disappointment is communal among the children, and even Rocket's own facial features twist downward when pit against the overwhelming disappointment.
"Hey don't worry about it kids. Maybe one day you'll grow up to be as badass as I am."
"Really?"
"You mean it?"
"Of course I do. It just takes a bit of luck and a lot of elbow grease." At that precise moment, Rocket feels as though he's made a meaningful impact in the lives of all of the aspiring children gathered around him. For a split second his single pair of eyes meets five pairs of eyes injected with inextinguishable hope and desire, and he feels an admittedly worrying amount of pride swell up from his gut and bleed into the rest of his body.
"There you guys are!" A disheveled looking child shouts as he comes to a stop in front of the group of his peers hunched over and out of breath. "Miss. Jasper is worried sick about you all!"
"We just wanted to get a closer look at this cool looking ship."
"Yeah, I've never seen a ship so big."
"Plus it's way bigger than the ships that we usually see down here."
"And we even met the captain." The boy in the baseball cap says excitedly, stabbing a finger in Rocket's direction. Rocket is once again thrust into the spotlight; however, this time he feels much more willing to accept being the topic of conversation. "He even has these cool robot parts and everything."
The words leave the child's mouth with not an inkling of forethought or consideration, and even as the still heaving child stares up at Rocket with incredulousness lining the pits of his eyes, Rocket merely smirks back, as if to ask the child if it isn't the coolest thing he's ever witnessed. Rocket feels like a changed being. He is fully aware that the cybernetics inside of him paint a grim, macabre picture of a past rife with pain and fear; however, in that moment he feels strikingly liberated. It feels as though the circuitous mess of metal and wires intertwined with his very being no longer represent the morbid past he feels he cannot escape, but a rich tapestry that can tell any number of interesting stories-sad or otherwise.
It is a feeling akin to the shedding of skin, comparable to the first rays of sunshine following an extended stretch of gloom and sweet as the most righteous of vindication; a feeling which Rocket hopes will never leave him anytime soon.
"Seriously?!" The child sounds as awestruck as he looks.
"Yeah!" his cohort confirms, with just as much enthusiasm. "Isn't it cool?"
The other child simply nods, his eyes seemingly glued to Rocket. He allows himself a minute of shameless, open mouth staring before he forcibly breaks the almost hypnotizing hold Rocket's mere presence seems to have on him.
"That's cool and all but Miss Jasper is really mad at you guys. She told me to tell you if you didn't get back in ten minutes she was going to throw away all the ice cream she just bought yesterday."
A collective gasp is heard from the children, their faces growing worried and tense.
"Go on, get outta here ya little pests" Rocket grins a lopsided grin, shooing his sycophantic admirers away with the wave of a forepaw. Some of the children take off for their home immediately while others falter slightly, looking back at Rocket with wistful longing in their eyes before their feet finally start to move.
"Bye mister!"
"Yeah, thanks for showing us all that neat stuff!"
"Bye beaver man!"
Rocket watches all of the kids as they disappear down the dirt roads that lead into town and out of sight; all except the little boy wearing the blue baseball cap, who looks the saddest of all.
"Goodbye mister…" the child sniffs, rubbing his moistening eyes with the back of his hand.
"Ey, enough with the water-works kid." Rocket flicks a cylindrical object toward the kid who barely catches it in his fumbling hands.
"What's this?"
"Somethin' to remember me by." The child holds the empty plasma shell casing in front of the gleaming sun to get a better look at the souvenir he's been given.
"Wow thanks mister!" The child beams, his eyes bright as the sweltering sun.
"It's Rocket."
"What?"
"My name, it's Rocket."
"That's a funny name" the child snickers. Rocket's eyes shrink to tiny slits.
"Keep that up and I'll give you a more permanent souvenir." The child only continues to laugh despite Rocket's threat.
"Hurry up and get back home before you miss the ice cream kid." Rocket's voice is gruff and serious sounding, but the child knows he isn't serious. Suddenly, a pair of arms wrap themselves around Rockets waist.
"Bye Mister Rocket."
"See ya around kid." Rocket's eyes are back to being soft and somber, and he embraces the child just as tightly as the arms squeezing his waist. Their embrace lasts for another scant moment before the child slips away from Rocket, taking one last look back at the kindhearted starship captain before tearing off in the same direction as his companions.
"Mister Rocket?" There is a painful pop in Rocket's spine as it goes almost completely rigid.
"Buzz off Quill, the repairs won't be done for a while yet."
"I'm more interested in the little fans you managed to acquire." Even though there is an apple obscuring most of his mouth, the fact that he is grinning with his entire face makes Peter's smugness almost impossible to miss.
"They're just some annoyin' little pipsqueaks who don't know not to bother a man while he's working, that's all." At this point, Rocket sticks his head back into the housing of the engine he was fiddling with earlier, partly so he doesn't have to see the smugness practically pouring off of Peter's face, and partly because he feels his own face looks less than convincing.
"So, that little gunslinger act you pulled-which I can't believe you'd even think about doing and are so in trouble for by the way-was all some kind of clever ploy to get them off your back?" Rocket can practically taste the bits of teeth he is grinding off as they sprinkle his tongue.
"Will you just leave me alone so I can finish fixing this freakin' engine and we can get off this backwater planet!" Peter moves to sit by Rocket while he pretends to be tightening a lug nut instead of making rivulets inside of the engine housing with his claws.
"I'm only messing with you man." Rocket manages to pull his claws from the surprisingly pliable metal of the engine enough to pull his head out and peer out at his captain.
"About the kids and all…" The brief meeting of their eyes doesn't deter Peter at all. "You're still in trouble for shooting whatever it is you shot."
Rocket's scowling maw is back in the engine housing once again.
"I know how you feel though." There is a temporary pause in the noise inside of the engine hull.
"Well not personally but…" The awkward tail end following Peter's statement, makes Rocket's ears perk up in what he convinces himself is merely curiosity.
Peter shifts slightly. "I knew this kid-back when I lived on Earth-had to use crutches all the time."
Rocket pretends to continue tinkering but keeps an ear open to absently listen while he seethes.
"I think he had polio or something, I dunno. Anyway, one day this giant of a kid comes up to him-I mean this kid is like five feet tall already; bullies everyone in the school and has yet to be stopped; and the kid with the crutches usually got the worst of it."
Rocket is genuinely curious now, but he doesn't interject.
"So the big kid comes up to him one day and asks "why do you always use those crutches everywhere you go?"
Rocket's head is free from the engine housing now, his entire attention on his captain.
"You know what this kid says?" Rocket rolls his eyes.
"He tells him he has them so he can 'beat up the bad guys with em.'" Peter notices the floored look on Rocket's face before he tactfully tries to cover it up with a snicker.
"How the heck is a kid with crutches supposed to beat up a giant?"
Peter shrugs and takes a bite of his apple. "I dunno, but after that, nobody picked on him."
There is a definitive pensiveness in Rocket's eyes. "What's this hafta do with me?"
"I dunno," Peter shrugs yet again and Rocket feels himself getting angry all over again. "You just remind me of him is all."
With that, Peter gets to his feet and makes his way back onto the ship while casually finishing off what's left of his apple.
"What the hell, I ain't no cripple Quill!" Rocket grouses , angrily grabbing his wrench and shoving himself back into the engine housing, the barest of smirks gracing his maw before a grimace of concentration replaces it as he continues tightening lugnuts.