Solomon was not happy.

To be fair, it was rare that Solomon was ever particularly happy. Life had been unfair, he felt, with regards to delivery on his expectations. When he had begun a life of crime, nudged along by the right combination of drugs, alcohol and the inherently unfair distribution of wealth (namely the fact that none of it belonged to him), he had had ideas of making a name as an outlaw, engaging in dashing escapades a-plenty, accumulating a fortune and wooing ladies of species uncounted. Instead, he was a guard for some criminal's pile of junk. A guard on night shift, even! Oh sure, the pay wasn't bad, especially considering his job consisted of simply monitoring the automated defences and checking cameras, but the sheer ignominy of it stuck in his craw. He was better than this, damn it!

That, however, only explained the default level of his unhappiness. This current peak of annoyance came down to the fact that some idiot had arranged for a delivery at night. Night deliveries were generally frowned upon, as the automated intake systems were rested overnight, which meant the hiring of manual labour was required. The boss was not a fan of manual labour; something about it being a security risk. Still, in times of urgency exceptions were made. That would have been annoying enough, but Solomon's ire had been raised further still as some buffoon on day shift had screwed up. No record had been made on the system of this scheduled delivery, no workers brought in to handle the cargo. He had half a mind to simply refuse to accept the delivery, but the courier had shown all the proper paperwork and identification, as well as making sure to emphasise how urgently this was required by the client.

So, begrudgingly, Solomon had taken in the cargo, which thankfully consisted of only of one crate, about the size of a Kree. He run the scans, confirming no explosives, tech, or living beings. The whole contents read as a big mass of organic matter, which made sense since the paperwork stated it was fertiliser. Why fertiliser would be urgent was completely beyond Solomon, but however angry he was, he was not about to question the boss' business decisions. So he had fumed quietly and escorted the courier as he'd wheeled the crate to the designated holding area, the wretched man wittering on the entire time, then escorted him back to his ship, some crappy little cargo shuttle that looked older than either of them. Still, at least Solomon had been able to take the edge off his distemper by telling the courier as he departed that his moustache looked stupid. The man had looked deeply wounded by that, but Solomon considered it fair retribution for being the deliverer of irritation, both with the cargo and by having one of those faces that just seemed irritatingly familiar.

As Solomon sank back into the chair in the security office, grumbling sourly to himself, he tried to place that face for a moment, before dismissing the idea. He'd remember if he'd met someone with a moustache that stupid looking before...

The cargo holding area was not silent. True silence, after all, is rare. There was the distant whir and growl of security, the faint dripping of a leaky vapour condenser that no-one seemed to care enough about to fix. These would have been familiar sounds to anyone used to the place at night. Now there was a new one: the slow, painful creak of metal as the freshly delivered crate's lid began to lift away. It did so evenly, and only those looking closely would realise why. Small wooden tendrils had emerged on all sides and pushed upwards with a glacial strength. Once content it was fully unsealed, the tendrils slid the lid away, easing it to the floor with only the quietest of ~clangs~, before retreating into the brown muck that filled the crate. Nothing moved further for a few moments, before a small head poked up, looking all around. Cautiously, the rest of its body emerged as it climbed out from the crate, peering this way and that. Apparently content, it added a new noise to the surroundings:

"I am Groot."

Another shape scurried out from the crate, discarding breathing apparatus with a clatter before doubling over and retching.

"I am Groot?"

Rocket finished gagging and shook himself in a vain attempt to remove the worst of the clinging muck "Oh yeah, I'm just great. Hell, ain't nothing like spending quality time submerged in a box of crap!"

"I... am Groot?"

Rocket waved a hand at the tree dismissively. "No, I didn't have an episode. I told you, I'm fine, or at least I will be after I have a shower, burn these clothes and kick Quill in the balls a few dozen times for coming up with this plan..."

Rocket looked about, taking a moment to orientate himself, overlaying the floor plans Quill had shown them with what he was standing in. Relative to position, the security hub would be...

There was a sudden high pitched electric whine and two noises that could almost be called barks, were it not for the metallic reverberation to them. These were rapidly followed by the sound of metal on metal, small and frequent, closing in.

"Shit, these counter measures are fast! You ready, Groot?" Rocket couldn't help but grin, adrenaline starting to kick in. Breaking out was his speciality. Breaking in? Well, that was a fun new challenge...

"I am Groot!" The tree began to sprout fresh shoots, giving his own dopey smile as his companion darted to a nearby stack of cargo and began to climb.

Solomon was in the middle of composing his thoughts for his complaints tomorrow regarding this whole screw up regarding a night delivery (though to the untrained eye, said composing might look strangely like having a nap) when a bleep from the internal security console drew his attention. Looking up, he caught the last flash from the light above the CS patrol monitors before it went dark again. He grunted, shifting in his seat. Nothing too shocking there. CS patrol was primarily tasked with dealing with any vermin that might emerge in the dark. This had amazed Solomon at first, as he'd figured a hollowed out asteroid would have no such problem. Yet apparently the odd animal hitch-hiker would stay behind after the cargo moved on and find abandoned corners in which to breed. Emphasis on the odd.

Curiosity piqued enough to overcome compiling recriminations (or drowsiness), Solomon leaned forward to inspect the monitors showing the patrol's POV feeds. He was disappointed to see no visible carnage. Usually the CS units made quite a spectacular mess, made all the more enjoyable by the fact clearing it up wasn't his responsibility. There was something else off though, and it took Solomon a few moments to understand what it was. CS patrols stuck to rigid, unchanging routes. After all, they dealt with creatures too dim to handle pattern recognition. The views on the monitor were not part of the patrol route. Come to think of it, they were coming closer and closer to...

It was the sound of the metallic feet hammering up the stairs that finally spurred Solomon into realising what was happening. He leapt frantically from his seat and dived for the door control, attempting to seal himself inside the control room. For one beautiful moment, as his hand slapped the button and the door began to whoosh down, he thought he had succeeded. But as he crashed to the floor, two blurs of motion slide under the closing door, and as it clanged shut, he found himself with a worm's eye view of one of the strangest and most terrifying sights he'd ever beheld.

The CS units themselves were bad enough. All sleek metal and wickedly sharp teeth, they were fearful approximations of canines, fast enough on their four feet to bear down any prey. And then there were their... riders? One was an amalgamation of man and tree, seemingly now rooted into the unit it clung to the underside of, beaming at him with a smile of innocent joy. The other rider also smiled, but there was nothing innocent about it. Bundles of wires clutched in each of his tiny hands, beady little eyes fixing Solomon with a piercing glare, made all the worse by the awful smell that emanated from him.

Frozen in sheer panic, Solomon could do nothing as the smelly one spoke:

"Hi. My friend and I need to ask you a few questions, starting with where's the fricking shower!?"

"Do you have to keep wearing that ridiculous moustache?" asked Gamora, eyeing Quill dubiously from co-pilot's chair.

"You're just jealous you don't have one." Quill smirked, leaning back in pilot's seat, radiating in the glow of the brilliance of his disguise. After making the drop, he'd brought the decrepit cargo shuttle they'd 'liberated' from a junker's yard back to the Milano, mag-locking it to the hull. Now they simply had to wait, hidden from sensor view behind a suitably large part of asteroid field debris, waiting for communication to tell them stage one was complete.

"I was not aware Terrans could force their hair to grow at such a rate." rumbled Drax from the chair behind Quill "Or is this another ability your father has passed on to you, my friend?"

Gamora groaned "He didn't grow it, he assembled it from..." she trailed off, fingers rubbing her temple. "I'm going to regret asking this, but where did you get the... materials for that abomination?"

Quill shrugged "Raided the shower drain, dried the clogs off, added a little glue, boom! One perfect disguise."

"You do realise most of that is probably made of Rocket's fur, right?" Gamora queried, not really trying to hide the disgust in her voice.

"So?" Quill shrugged again "It's not like he has fleas. Besides, I don't see you complaining when he cooks."

"That is because the alternative is letting you perform what you insist is cooking. I do not wish to overtake my poison purification implant." Gamora replied tartly.

"I like Quill's cooking!" complained Drax.

"Thank you Drax!" Quill gave Gamora a smug look and nodded.

"You are welcome. It provides a excellent challenge for my digestive system to overcome." the warrior expounded.

Quill was spared any reprisal for his unfounded self-satisfaction when the communication channel bleeped into life, broadcasting Rocket's voice into the cockpit "Rocket to Milano, respond."

A relieved Quill opened the channel "Milano to Rocket, reading you loud and clear. How's everything over there?"

"Oh hi Mr Jackass Who Had Me Stuck In A Box Of Manure! Everything's fine; total system control. I've managed to get the vomiting from my odour down to about once every ten minutes instead of every five, so that's progress..." The channel's quality was high enough to not lose any part of Rocket's sarcasm.

Quill rolled his eyes, having been expecting the tirade. "Rocket, we went over this. You and Groot were the only species types their scanners wouldn't have on file and we need to get you inside with something organic that would shield your implants and stop the guard looking too closely. Besides, we already had that fertiliser just lying around from the forestry agency..."

"Yeah yeah, fine. I'm still kicking you in the balls next time I see you though. You're cleared to dock." Rocket snarled then closed the channel.

In spite of the imminent threat to his testicles, Quill smiled as he fired up the engines and began to pilot them towards the asteroid warehouse. The waiting was almost over. It was almost within his grasp...