I Didn't Ask to Get Made

Chapter 2: Glass

"Ah, what the hell, I don't got that long a lifespan anyway."

"How old am I?" he asks one day.

"Ah, you would be a little over a year now," the White Coat answers, peering at him through thick glasses. He is an elderly man, heavy-set, with a gentle demeanor. When he speaks, his voice is thick with age.

"When we extracted you from the embryonic chamber, it was Mendrix-Ondar-28, by the Prime-standard calendar," the White Coat recalls. "I remember it well."

The subject recites the digits and words to himself, committing them to memory. The words are unfamiliar to him, and he makes a mental note to request a data-segment on calendar systems and their history, for when the feed resumes. But for now, he is curious to learn more about his own history.

"Could we go see it?" he asks. "The embryonic chamber? I don't remember it."

"No reason you would," says the White Coat amiably. "You were too young." But he is willing enough, and so together they make the short trek down the white, uniform hallways of the laboratory, towards what the White Coat points out as the development wing of the facility. The subject, even with restraints, moves at a considerably faster pace than the old scientist, so he scampers ahead, waits, and circles back to the lightly wheezing man, only to scamper ahead again, and so forth until they finally reach a gray door marked 'Delivery Room'.

They step inside, and the subject blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. The White Coat, with a huff of effort, kneels beside him to unlock his restraints—heavy, metal clamps that encase his front paws entirely, forcing them together. The restraints are standard procedure during transfer from one room of the facility to another, although the subject has never really understood why: even if he were set loose in the halls, unrestrained and unsupervised, all the doors are bio-coded—only authorized staff are free to come and go. As if reading his mind, the White Coat throws him a sympathetic glance. "Fool things, these," he indicates the restraints with an apologetic smile, and the subject decides that, for a White Coat, this one isn't so bad.

The subject rubs the feeling back into his wrists as he takes in the sight of the room. It's impressively spacious, filled with four long rows of dusty glass cases that he realizes must be the embryonic chambers. Compared to the other rooms he's seen, there's very little equipment: he suspects that most of it has long since been shipped out to other rooms and wings of the facility. All that's left is a computer console at the center of the room, a few empty medical carts scattered at random along the rows of chambers, and dark, gaping cabinets that line the wall opposite the door.

The pair begins to pace the length of the room. As they pass by each chamber, the subject takes note of its label: 815, 816, 817...

"Don't mind the dust," the White Coat says, running his finger along one of the glass surfaces. "This wing hasn't seen much use lately. Not much call for embryonic chambers in this facility, ever since you ushered us into Phase Two of our project," he chuckles. "But when you're ready," he adds in a serious tone that makes the subject want to stand up taller and take note, "when the world sees you and realizes what you're capable of—then who knows? Our accomplishments in this facility—your accomplishments—will almost assuredly result in new projects, new scientific directions. We can expand our work here, ushering in entire paradigms of thought on genetic and cybernetic modification!" Clearly, the White Coat is in his element: the old man beams as he relays his dreams of the future with an almost religious fervor.

820, 821, 822...

"Just think of the possibilities, young one!" he continues, more and more animatedly. "Think of what we'll achieve together—"

823, 824, 825...

"The new generations of specimens that will be born here, that will learn and grow and be transformed, just like you were!" His enthusiasm is infectious. So infectious that, despite all the horrors that the young subject has suffered at the hands of the White Coats, he almost lets himself be swept along by the scientist's words. Almost.

"Eight twenty-six." The subject comes to a stop.

"Hmm, what's that, now?" the White Coat asks, sounding mildly annoyed at the interruption.

"This says 'eight twenty-six'," he says quietly, reading the faded label. "This must have been my chamber."

"Ah, so it was." The White Coat straightens his glasses and leans in for a closer look. "Subject 826. Yes, this is where it all began for us, young one."

The subject runs a paw along the glass. He's not sure what he had expected to see, but it certainly wasn't this: one of the glass walls is completely shattered, and further inspection of the chamber reveals blackened, damaged cables connecting it to the main power supply. Confused, he looks to the surrounding cases to see if they are in a similar state, but his is the only one so severely damaged.

"I don't get it," he says. "What happened here—can you tell me?"

"I'll do you one better," says the White Coat. "I'll show you the footage if you want." He ambles over to the central console and lowers himself into a chair with a grateful huff. The subject scrambles up on the chair next to him, standing on the seat cushion so as to see better. With a few practiced motions, the White Coat passes the series of bio-checks and types in a password, pausing only to direct a bemused look at the subject, who is caught sheepishly trying to peek at the keys. He delivers a voice command, and suddenly a virtual screen is projected before them.

The footage is slightly blurry—not the crisp and clean quality the subject is used to receiving from the feed—but the setting is clear enough: it's the Delivery Room. The only light sources in the footage are the small safety lamps delineating the room's perimeter, and the embryonic chambers themselves, which are illuminated from within. The chambers cast a pale blue light that is refracted through the amniotic fluid, creating hypnotic patterns: the light dances across the walls and equipment in ever-moving strands. The effect would have been oddly soothing, were it not for the contents of the chambers.

Most of them hold deformed, bulbous monstrosities. Some of the creatures are limbless. Others have giant skulls, swollen far beyond any question of natural proportion. Other creatures have no discernible form at all, yet still manage to pulse with life, as if the chambers have forced it upon them. The sight makes him want to retch.

"What happened to them?" He points to the misshapen forms, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Genetic modification is still a relatively young science," the White Coat says defensively. His glasses reflect the blue light from the screen, obscuring his eyes. "The engineering process is, by definition, a risk—there's no guarantee that the resulting specimen will be a healthy one. Given the uncertainty, it's only natural to observe a substantial percentage of, ah... deformed specimens."

The subject clenches his teeth. There is nothing natural about the miserable creatures before him. And all the scientist's pretty words—with their promise of a grander purpose and a chance to shape the future—can't change the fact that the so-called birthplace they are standing in is really a graveyard.

That's what he wants to say. But by now, he knows better than to confront a White Coat. So instead he asks quietly, "Were they in pain?"

"No," the man is quick to answer. Then, after a moment, perhaps more honestly—"I don't know. I hope not." He presses a button on the console, and the footage fast-forwards. The white text at the corner of the screen now reads: '7003, Mendrix-Ondar-28'. The subject's birthday.

On screen, a few White Coats come and go, to monitor the chambers and take perfunctory notes: the scene is perfectly ordinary, other than the monstrosities within the chambers. But then the door slams open, and into the room rush three figures—dressed not in white coats, but in black form-fitting clothing and masks. Clearly, they are unfamiliar with the wing: upon entering the room, they hesitate, heading to the central console only after taking confused stock of their surroundings. One of them places a small circular device beside the computer and activates it. A couple of quick keystrokes later, and the computer responds.

"A decryption unit," the scientist explains. "Simple stuff, really. This was before the bio-checks—our facility was considerably less secure back then. We weren't prepared to deal with sabotage."

As if on cue, a sharp sound blasts from the footage. On screen, one of the chambers is smoking and spitting sparks, and fluid leaks onto the floor through a newly blown crack in the glass.

"As with every great scientific movement," says the White Coat, speaking over the footage, "there were nay-sayers. Backward-thinking, fear mongering dissidents," he spits. The sudden vehemence, though not directed at the subject, still makes him cringe. "We caught them almost immediately," the White Coat continues, "but not before the damage was done. The leading theory is that they were trying to generate a massive power surge, to disable all the chambers at once, but they only succeeded in shorting one."

"Mine," the subject says, tearing his eyes away from the images to look at the scientist.

"Yours," he confirms. He presses a button on the console to let the rest of the footage play at normal speed.

They watch in silence for a few moments as the dark figures flit across the screen. The intruders appear increasingly agitated, as their efforts to destroy the remaining chambers ultimately fail. After no more than a few minutes, the authorities arrive on-site. Securing the room quickly and efficiently, they place the perpetrators under arrest. A small team of White Coats is then allowed to enter, and they swarm what's left of the broken chamber, working frantically to save the fetus inside. Working to save him.

"Do we have confirmation of a heartbeat?" one of the White Coats on the screen asks, her words slightly distorted by the recording.

"Power's out," someone replies tersely. "We don't have confirmation of anything right now. No readings, no nothing—we're flying blind."

"No use trying to get the chamber back online—it's damaged beyond repair."

"Well, what about the back-up chambers? Dammit, I know we have contingency plans in place for this kind of shit."

"No go. All the back-up chambers are currently in use."

"Okay, so then what's the protocol?"

A beat of silence, then—"I... I think we have to extract him."

The team breaks into a chorus of "Well, shit," and "This is insane," and "It's too early to induce delivery."

"Keep it together," barks the leader—and despite the grainy footage, the subject now recognizes the voice and glasses of the oldest White Coat. "We'll have to break what's left of the glass and pull the fetus out. There's no time to drain the amniotic fluid slowly."

The team appears to rally behind the simple instruction.

"I'm on it."

"I'll prep a sterile chamber."

"Get a defibrillator, too."

"On it."

"Ironically enough," says the White Coat, speaking over the footage, "you were the only specimen that made it to Phase Two. Some of my colleagues have posited that it was precisely because of the sabotage that your cognitive modifications were such a success. Personally, I have my reservations about their theory, but I'll admit it does have a certain poetry."

They continue to watch the footage. The White Coats crowd frenetically around the almost impossibly tiny frame on the crash cart. A few minutes pass, in which the scientists' focused silence is interrupted only by occasional commands and curses. They carefully work an intubation tube down the throat of the still, pale creature, and they attempt to restart his heart twice before finally succeeding. But in time, their work is rewarded. The young creature starts to wriggle, pawing weakly at the intubation tube, and the rhythmic blip of the surrounding machinery indicates a steady heartbeat. The scientists crumple in visible relief as they continue their work. They place him in the sterile chamber, stabilizing him. Their touch is surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. As the subject watches the footage, he wonders what he ever did to stop deserving that tenderness.

The security footage cuts out abruptly, signifying the end of the day, and the screen disappears. For a moment, the pair sits in silence, letting their eyes adjust once more to the change in light.

"I shouldn't have made it," the subject realizes out loud. "I was too young—I should have died right there on that table."

"Yes," the White Coat says quietly. "The odds were against you. But you made it, young one," he smiles kindly. "And I'm so glad you did."

The subject wishes that he could say the same.

It's a quiet walk as they retrace their steps from his birthplace back to the main laboratory. It's the night shift, and most of the other White Coats have already gone home. The subject is subdued, no longer scampering ahead of the old man, but keeping an even pace with him. There's something bothering him—a question burning in the back of his mind, put there by the realization of how fragile his life is—but the shared silence has gone on for too long, and he's not really sure how to address the old White Coat, to get his attention.

He eventually settles on 'sir'—a traditional Terran word indicating respect—and asks for his name.

"You can call me Zeph," the old man replies with a smile.

"Okay, Zeph," he says, trying it out. "I have a question, but it might be an awkward one. The feed is good for a lot of things—but it's a little fuzzy on things like social cues."

The old man chuckles. "Never hesitate to ask a question, young one. Especially at your stage of development. Ask away, and beg for forgiveness later, if necessary."

The subject cracks a smile. "Okay, well then— How old are you?"

"Ah. I think that is a very appropriate question, under the circumstances. I am seventy-eight years old, by the Prime-standard."

"That's a very long time, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, and I plan to live longer still! Statistically speaking, I will probably die within the next ten to twenty years, allowing for moderate medical advancements," he explains casually. "But by then, I hope to have accomplished all that I envision for myself. Or at the very least, I'll damn well die trying, and leave a modest scientific legacy for younger, brighter minds to build upon," he chuckles. He goes on to talk about how current medical advancements could, theoretically, extend his life for an additional three or four decades, but that the trials conducted for his species had been shoddy at best, and therefore, the data was insufficient to justify the procedures—

The subject nods, tuning him out slightly, because the question is still burning in his mind. So, before he can think better of it, he blurts it out:

"Zeph, what can you tell me about my lifespan?" There it is. Out in the open.

At first the White Coat is quiet, face impassive. Then he starts to ramble. "Ah, your lifespan. Ah, I suppose I would ask, how do you mean?" he says. "If you're asking about the different stages of life among Terran mammals, well first of all there is, ah, gestation, which of course you've already been through, followed by—"

"Come on, Zeph," the subject interrupts again, but not unkindly. "I'd be a pretty shitty excuse for your magnum opus if I didn't know the difference between a life cycle and a lifespan by now. I'm not asking about gestation or larval stages or frickin' caterpillars and butterflies," he attempts a smile, but doesn't quite manage it. "You know exactly what I'm asking."

The White Coat still doesn't answer, so the young creature prompts him again. He needs to know.

"Zeph," he says quietly. "How long do I have to live?"

"Ah, well, based on our research and what we know of Terran biology..."

Tellingly, the scientist resorts once more to rambling. Heart sinking, the subject knows to steel himself for the worst.

"... And of course there are such things as statistical anomalies, and so, ah, we have to take that into account when talking about characteristically unpredictable things like lifespans—"

"Please." Just tell me. "How long."

The scientist slowly comes to a halt in the middle of the hallway. The subject mirrors him, waiting.

"I never thought we would be having this conversation so soon. You're still so young," Zeph says wearily, appearing to have aged a decade within the span of a minute. He sinks to his haunches, seating himself against the wall with a heavy sigh.

The subject does the same, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his manacled hands around them.

"Based on what we know of your biology, and our studies on similar Terran mammals..." Zeph stares directly ahead, avoiding the young creature's eyes. "We estimate that you will live two to three years."

"Two to three more years?" the subject asks, somehow keeping his voice steady.

Zeph shakes his head. "Two to three total."

"Oh."

He feels as if he is in one of the embryonic chambers—moving sluggishly through the fluid, senses dampened. He vaguely registers the fact that Zeph is talking to him, clumsily trying to lend comfort. Trying to point out that the research may have been incorrect. Trying to make a rational point about statistical anomalies.

But right now, he can't absorb the comfort, and he doesn't want to think about the statistics.

"And with medical advancements over the next few years, who knows!" the old man is saying. "We live in the age of miracles, after all!" But his smile is forced, and his eyes are desperate.

"You're a scientist, Zeph," the subject says. "You don't believe in miracles. And neither do I." He brings himself to his feet. Slowly makes his way down the hall, forces one foot in front of the other, until the underwater sensation has gone. All he wants now is to be left alone.

The old man, sensing this, follows him at a distance back to the main laboratory. He removes the restraints, opens his cage door for him, and quietly turns to leave. But before switching off the lights, he turns to the subject one more time.

"I'm sorry," he says.

The words are so stupidly inadequate that the subject almost laughs.

Instead, he turns away to face the corner of his cage. He curls into himself, eyes shut tightly, listening to the click of the lights and the snap of the locks engaging. He listens as the slow footsteps of the White Coat fade away. Then he realizes: the man has forgotten to turn the feed back on. The one night he would have welcomed the noise—the distraction—and instead, there's nothing. Nothing but the dark, and his thoughts. That, of all things, finally puts him over the edge.

The sobs tear their way out of his chest, racking his body. Alone in the dark, with thoughts of mortality looming over him, he cries himself to sleep. The sobs eventually turn to shudders, the shudders turn to a dull ache in his chest, and the dull ache in his chest stays with him as he navigates troubled dreamscapes filled with ghosts of the misshapen unborn, trapped under glass.

Author's Note:

So, I have some mixed feelings about this chapter. On the one hand, I think the story needed an entry like this, to further illustrate the dynamic between Rocket and the White Coats, and to reveal more about Rocket's origins. On the other hand, this second installment probably isn't as gripping as the first one (since the first chapter was all "Whump! Wham! Carnage! Weird formatting!" and this chapter is more your standard fare of "Narrative. Narrative. Guess-what-oh-yup-more-narrative").

And there's still no sign of the other Guardians, dammit! I know you were promised a Groot appearance, and this chapter is very conspicuously Groot-less. But I promise that by Chapter 5 at the latest, everyone's favorite sentient houseplant will definitely make an appearance. (Almost definitely. Probably. Maybe. Unless, of course, I end up reworking my current plot line—so, on second thought I can promise nothing.) Bless you all for bearing with me, and as always, thanks for reading and reviewing!