Author's Note: This one took longer to write than expected... I'd like to thank you for all of your reviews, for each and every message of encouragement, and thank you all for waiting so patiently!

"The bald truth of the matter is, you certainly seem to have immense trouble holding on to your vulgar little pet, good sir," Brandt remarked dryly, using far too many words, as was his habit.

Peter Jason Quill, also known as Star-Lord, who had hoped that he would never have to see the billionaire again in his life, was sorely tempted to punch a hole in the man's snooty, pale pink face. Repeatedly. Unfortunately, he'd merely end up punching several holes in the screen of his ship's comms unit.

"You better not have anything to do with this, Brandt!" he threatened, levelling an accusing finger at the screen.

Brandt's eyebrows climbed theatrically.

"Oh dear, there seems to have been a profound misunderstanding, good sir," he sneered, the ugly expression on his face at odds with the crisp, polite tone of his voice, "I have absolutely no interest at all in having that rude little creature anywhere near my luxurious home again. You will, of course, recall that his last catastrophic visit resulted in devastating destruction and, not to mention, turmoil for all parties involved, even the unfortunate terrorists."

"Like he had any say in it..." Peter muttered under his breath.

"What makes you think that I had anything to do with the ill-advised abduction of your uncouth little rodent in the first place, good sir?" Brandt asked loftily.

"For starters, you could be holding a grudge," was Peter's baleful reply.

Brandt simply widened his eyes innocently at this statement, but Peter hadn't really expected that theory to hold water.

"And then there's this!" he shouted triumphantly, shoving the broken invisibility bracelet at the screen. "Ha! Solid evidence that your corporation was involved, baby! Look there, it even says 'Brandt Industries' on the engraving!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Star-Lord, but all we're getting is a blurry image of your hand," a young boy's voice piped up. "Why don't you send over the schematics and I'll be able to tell you who we sold that specific prototype to?"

"Timmy? That you, kid?" Peter blinked, withdrawing his hand to peer at the screen. He scratched at the back of his neck irritably, then shrugged and sent the information. "I swear you were smaller the last time I saw you."

The boy in the wheelchair, Timmy, beamed at him from the other side of the screen and sat up a little straighter.

"I'm almost as tall as Father now— ah, here come the schematics for..." he frowned as he read, "'invisi-drape' technology...? I've never heard of that..."

"Now that is one particular design I never sold to anyone," Brandt asserted from off-camera. "Extremely expensive to produce, not lucrative in the least, and the product would have been too deviously dangerous in the hands of spiteful enemies."

Peter opened his mouth to share some choice words with Brandt about spitefulness.

"Where did you say you found the technology, Mr Star-Lord?" prompted the boy, Timmy.

"On bounty hunters," Peter spat resentfully. "Bounty hunters hell-bent on capturing Rocket."

Timmy looked perplexed as he scanned his dad's company records. Peter wouldn't have thought that Brandt would let a twelve year old rifle through sensitive business documents, but apparently the man had begun grooming his son to take over the company someday. Well, Peter supposed a near-death experience could change any man's perspective, even a stuck-up billionaire.

"There are no transactions mentioning these specifications at all... on the books, I mean," Timmy concluded, "which means, the tech must have been—"

"Stolen!" Brandt finished for his son. "What a devious crime! Good sir, I desperately implore you; when you find that dirty little ferret of yours, please track down the immoral cowards who stole my top secret inventions from me, too!"

There was an awkward pause from the boy, Timmy, and Peter had the distinct feeling that he wanted to say more.

"Uh... Sure, but—"

"Then I'm afraid we're completely done here, good sir. Good day!" Brandt interrupted and, with a curt hand gesture, ended the call.

"Oh, you unbelievable bastard," Peter seethed, then grimaced at noting his own excessive adjective, "I'm not done with you—"

But just as he was reaching for the button to call the slime ball back, a private text message popped up on screen:

Father is hiding something. Will get to the bottom of this. - T.

Peter sighed and let his hand drop. At least one of the Brandts had Rocket's well-being in mind. Normally, Peter wouldn't leave something as important as his tiny best friend's safety in the hands of a boy, but Rocket himself regarded the kid's skills with some respect. That was saying a lot – the raccoon was not easily impressed. In fact, Rocket usually stared down his nose at any kind of genius, no matter how qualified. And when he wasn't tall enough to do so, which was all the time, the little guy went out of his way to get up onto a box so he could stare down his nose at said genius, Peter thought with some amusement.

He realized his thoughts were wandering.

He bit his lip. He didn't dare wonder how his friend was doing. If they locked Rocket in a cage, he might well go berserk. The panic attacks took away his ability to reason, with nothing but the wild instincts of his origin to guide him.

Peter tried very hard not to think about how badly the little guy could hurt himself once he turned feral, but already his mind was conjuring up the vivid memory of a blood-covered bundle of fur, hissing and shivering by turns; Peter had once caught a terrified Rocket trying to claw out his own cybernetics during one of his earlier episodes. It hadn't been pretty...

Staring out the front window at the great black void of space, speckled with stars and planets for as far as the eye could see, Peter couldn't even begin to guess where one went looking for one little lost raccoon.

A grief-riddled cry pierced his contemplative silence, making him jump. He met Mantis halfway down the ladder from the Milano's cockpit. For all her vehemence that she would not join his team of Guardians, the serene, green-skinned woman had insisted she come along to help them find Rocket. In all honesty, Peter was happy to have her aboard – they needed all the help they could get.

"Gamora?" he asked earnestly.

"She's just awakened," Mantis nodded, the antennae peeking through her dark hair bobbing slightly. "Drax is with her. I filled her in on the situation. She is upset..."

"All of us are," Peter remarked, casually rolling his shoulders. Casually, but carefully. They'd had to reset his dislocated shoulder and the movement still caused a dull ache to spring up in the joint. Being swatted aside by Groot's mighty fist in mid-air was very much like getting hit by a flying bus. "Did you tell her about the plan?"

Again, Mantis nodded her head, antennae bouncing.

"She wants to go as soon as we're ready," she stated, her expression carefully neutral.

"Wai-wai-wait," Peter protested, "I thought you were gonna send me. Mantis, c'mon, she's hurt and—"

"—has a disciplined mind. Her chances of success are far greater," Mantis interjected. She didn't raise her voice – she rarely ever did – but the dark-eyed telepath had a sense of gravity about her that made you want to listen when she spoke. "I agreed to send you if she did not regain consciousness soon, but she has a very strong connection to him. You know this, Peter Quill."

Peter couldn't help feeling a stab of jealousy at her words.

He wasn't being petty – this had nothing to do with his feelings for Gamora. Back when Rocket was taken from the hospital by the Skrull, when the raccoon had been on the verge of that panic attack, he'd come to Peter. When that scared little voice called out to him from the shadowy passage outside the nurse's office, he'd been the one to calm his small friend's fears... Peter understood that their secretive assassin shared a deep friendship with the smart-mouthed raccoon and he knew it was silly to want to be the one Mantis sent to telepathically contact Rocket, but he felt responsible, damn it! For each and every member of this crew!

And still that wasn't the real reason behind his sudden bout of envy either.

Peter screwed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead. The truth is...

"I miss the crazy little furball..." he admitted with a reluctant sigh.

"I understand," Mantis replied, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder, and he knew that she really did. Somehow, without even officially joining the Guardians of the Galaxy, she'd placed herself in charge of the team's mental welfare. "We'll get him back, Peter."

"We have to..." Peter murmured softly as he turned away to go check on Gamora.

Rocket steadied himself against the bars of his cage, his whole world swaying as he was carried down a long passage lined with windows, all closed off by heavy curtains. He couldn't tell why he had the feeling that he knew this place. He'd never been here before in his life, of that he was sure.

"You shouldn't believe anything crazy old Nan tells you, you know," the girl holding the cage remarked conversationally, then brightened suddenly. "Ooh, she'll probably be back from shopping soon. I told her to get you something nice to eat. You must be hungry."

Rocket's ear flicked before he could stop it. At first, he'd figured that, even though she seemed to know his name, he should pretend to be nothing but a dumb animal. Hopefully, she would underestimate him. The minute she let her guard down, he'd make a run for it. But when she blurted out this bizarre statement, he very nearly called her out on her madness.

Crazy old Nan wasn't coming back from shopping.

Ever.

Crazy old Nan was dead.

Upon further consideration, Rocket realized that it probably wouldn't even help to pretend. For all he knew, this girl expected him to be able to talk! She seemed to be, as Quill would put it, 'as crazy as a bag of cats'...

As they entered her bedroom, the raccoon felt his hackles begin to rise; the scenery was uncannily familiar. Though the room was illuminated with candles and the curtains drawn closed, he instantly recognized this as the gloomy room inside the ancient-looking castle, the room from that nightmare he'd had over and over and over before finally waking up in hospital. All his hair tried to stand on end as he risked a glance in the direction he'd seen the collage of photographs. Sure enough, hundreds of copies of his picture covered the wall on that side of the room.

The most prominent change was the addition of an elaborate, golden cage, hanging from a chain in the ceiling. Unable to tear his eyes away from the hideous monstrosity, Rocket felt a nasty chill travel up his spine… That thing was meant for him.

What the hell have I gotten into this time? he wondered grimly.

The girl placed Rocket's tiny cage on her enormous four-poster bed, then promptly lay down on her stomach, her elbows resting on the bed, propping up her chin. Unblinkingly, she stared at him.

Now that he got a closer look, the raccoon could see that one of her eyes was reddish brown in colour. The other had a bright red lens instead of an iris. Rocket could not shake a strange, nagging feeling at seeing the girl's bionic left eye. Somehow it made him feel like he was missing something, a clue just beyond his reach. He vaguely recalled a menacing shadow lurking in the mirror of a sterile, dimly lit bathroom.

And then it was as if his prodding jarred something loose.

His vision blurred and garbled images of a horrific car crash flashed before his eyes. His mind reeled from memories that weren't his; sensations of white hot pain, violent nausea, of mutilated arms and a left eye on fire.

He blinked.

The cage door stood open. When had she opened the d'ast thing? He hadn't even seen her move! Shakily, he picked himself up off the bottom of the cage. He didn't remember falling down. He was feeling terribly light-headed. Had he fainted?

"Come on out, little one," she coaxed.

For an absurd moment, Rocket felt safer inside the cage.

"Come on, cutie, out you go!" she cooed and suddenly the world tipped sideways as she upended the cage over the bed.

The startled raccoon bounced as he hit the quilt-covered mattress. He had a full second to recover before she made a grab for him. Giving her his best vicious snarl, he swiped at her approaching hand with his claws, but she had cat-like reflexes and withdrew her hand without him landing a single scratch.

"Keep yer hands to yerself!" he warned, a growl rising in the back of his throat.

"Oh, don't be like that," she pouted. "I just want to hold you a bit."

Eyes darting, Rocket assessed the situation. The great bedroom door was shut, its doorknob too high for him to reach. With the curtains closed, it was impossible to know if any of the windows stood open – the thick drapes never stirred. If that nightmare he'd had was any indication, though, he wasn't even on the ground floor and leaping out a window without any sort of plan to get down would be suicide.

One option remained.

"Nah, I'm good," he declined, dashing off the bed and zipping under the cover of its heavy wooden frame. "I ain't much of a hugger, anyway!"

Hiding under a bed like some dumb animal... he scoffed silently, grimacing in disgust. It was a tight squeeze, but that only meant that she would have more trouble getting him out from under there. His head spun from the minor exertion. A sick, hollow feeling was slowly spreading from his middle to all his limbs and he felt off-balance, almost like he was floating.

"Come here, little Rocket!" she called as she peered under the bed. It was too low for her whole face, but he could make out both eyes. The one with the red lens flashed in the darkness, a sinister, flickering light. "I just want us to be friends!"

"Friends, huh?" the wily raccoon remarked acidly, edging away from that end of the bed. "Ya don't go around takin' people prisoner against their will so they can be yer friend, toots!"

"Prisoner?" she repeated incredulously, pulling back her head so she could shove her hand under the bed, groping after him blindly. "Daddy paid for you, so it's more like a vacation!"

"Like hell it—"

As Rocket moved to back further away from the grasping fingers, he jolted when his claws suddenly closed on a handful of fur, long and plush. Despite the gloom beneath the bed, his sharp eyesight allowed him to easily make out the prone shape of a cat. Its eyes were large, with dilated pupils, and its lips were peeled back in the rictus of a permanent snarl. Staring at the motionless creature beside him, Rocket felt the rest of his sentence turn to dust on his tongue.

The animal was dead.

His heart shot up into his throat as the four-poster bed was wrenched into the air by no force his eyes could see. Looking up, he saw that the bed was floating weightlessly above his head. Ears drawn down, Rocket spun to face the girl towering over him. For a moment, her eyes lit on the carcass of the white, long-haired cat lying next to the cornered raccoon. In the regular light it was immediately apparent that the filmy white veil of death covered its eyes.

"Ah, you found Mr Cuddles," the girl noted, a slight frown creasing her brow. "The sneaky kitty always liked taking long naps, but when he disappeared I never thought to look under the bed..." For a moment, she looked sad. Then her eyes took on an empty expression. "All right, I forgive you, Mr Cuddles. I won't mind if you don't love me anymore." She promptly dismissed the cat, her hungry gaze locked on Rocket. "I have a new pet now..."

Rocket, who had been tensing to dodge as soon as she took a step closer, was taken by surprise when her hands snapped forward like twin serpents, shooting toward him the same way a chameleon's tongue caught its prey, her arms elongating unnaturally. In a heartbeat, her hands were all over him.

"Put me down, I ain't yer frickin' pet!" he growled angrily, kicking and clawing as she reeled him in on her slowly retracting arms. Her smile broadened as she kept staring at him, licking her lips and dragging him ever closer. "Lemme go! Lemme go—ohhh!"

A jagged jolt of pain shot up from his torso as her fingers accidentally dug into the wrong rib.

"Hold still, little one," she chided, clicking her tongue in annoyance. "If you don't stop squirming, you'll hurt yourself!"

"I-If ya think I'm gonna come q-quietly, ya got another thing comin', princess!" he ground out, jamming his sharp claws deep into the flesh of her hands, puncturing the pale skin.

"Oh!" she cried, dropping him.

A second later, the bed crashed down onto the floor, back to its original position. It narrowly missed flattening the fleeing raccoon.

Screw this! he thought, heart pounding as he raced for one of the windows, not really caring which floor he was on at this point.

He was jerked to a halt when she grasped him by the leg, her slender fingers curling in a deadening grip around his ankle. He anchored his nails in the carpet and held on for dear life. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up, however. Already, the aching muscles in his chest were screaming in protest. His claws left deep furrows in the mat as she pulled relentlessly. Finally, she reached down and tore him free of the carpet, causing another spasm of pain to ripple throughout his ribcage.

Rocket tried to wriggle through her fingers, to slip away, but, quick as thought, her freakishly long arms wrapped around him, pinning his arms against his sides in a monstrous bear hug. All the breath left his lungs as he was crushed against her chest. She settled a hand on his head and stroked his fur vigorously.

"There, there," she sing-songed happily, "just a little hug..."

"L-Let go—" he managed to gasp. The rest of his sentence disintegrated as she tightened her grip on him. Pain flared in his torso and Rocket could feel his already damaged ribs creaking under the strain. She was squeezing him too hard with those augmented arms of hers! Eyes watering, the trapped raccoon fought to take a whole breath. "C-Can't—"

A horrible crunch!-sound grated from inside his chest, accompanied by a stab of raw pain. Was that another rib?

That's it, he thought in grim surprise, I'm gonna die... right here, like this, squeezed to death by a psychotic cyborg child.

His only regret was that he would never get to see his family again. As his vision grew dark, he wondered how long it would take for them all to be together again, with him and Groot dead... Part of Rocket wanted to laugh at this ridiculous reasoning, but breathing was barely possible; laughing was out of the question.

Seriously, though, anywhere was fine, as long as he didn't end up back in hell. A terrible thought occurred to him: What if he had to start over? After he died, what if they sent him back there? Put him back together again? He realized with a start that he very much did not want to die.

He managed a desperate little squeak that the girl with the arms finally noticed.

"Oh, no, was I holding you too tight?" she blinked, loosening her suffocating grip. "I'm sorry...!"

He took a grateful breath, or began to – the agony in his ribs nearly stopped him short. He tried breathing cautiously; it didn't hurt as much if he only took small half-sips of air.

"Just look at you!" she cooed, taking him by the scruff and holding him up for inspection. "So skinny! I'll bet your coat would be really soft and glossy if you ate properly. We'll definitely have to give you something that will fatten you up nicely..."

She ran the fingers of her free hand all along the curve of his belly. Don't! He struggled to pull away, but that didn't seem to bother her. Don't you frickin' touch me...! He still didn't have the strength to talk. He wanted to claw at her, but he could scarcely lift his arms. Woozily, he noted that her hands had already stopped bleeding. A glint of metal shone through where the skin parted around a particularly deep scratch.

He had no time to consider this, for she planted a harsh kiss on his nose and ruffled his hair. Rocket shuddered in revulsion. If only he had been ready for her – he could have tried biting her face off!

"I'll be right back," she was promising, carrying him in the direction of the golden trap in the middle of her room. "I have something that will get you nice and plump in no time at all."

And then the door to the glittering cage was swinging outward. It stood open like the gaping, golden jaws of a hungry, skeletal beast. Eyes wide, Rocket stared at the thing with growing apprehension.

"I'm not going in there…!" he tried to say, but he was still too out of breath to speak. He might even have pleaded, had she but given him the chance. Right then, all he could manage was a growl that sounded more pitiful than threatening.

"Quit struggling!" she reprimanded him sternly. "I have to go fetch you something to eat, so get in your cage!"

"F-Forget it!" he hissed when he finally had his voice back, latching on to the outside of the cage.

Somewhere, most likely from his adrenaline reserves, he found the strength to hold on despite her pulling. When she reached up to uncurl his fingers from around the bars, he snapped at her hand. His razor sharp teeth gave her pause; he bared them at her in a vicious grin.

But his victory was short-lived. A lance of pain shot through him as she jammed a finger into the wrong rib again. This time, she'd done it on purpose. Senses awash with pain, Rocket was aware of his fingers slipping. The world did an unexpected almost-cartwheel and he hit the bottom of the cage with a grunt. Ears ringing, he barely heard the door slam shut and the lock rattle.

He must have zoned out for a bit, because she was talking, but he was too busy cradling his abused ribs to register much of anything that was happening beyond the veil of pain. The cage was still swinging back and forth on its chain in the aftermath of their struggle. The slight rocking motion made him feel ill. Gritting his teeth in a brave snarl, he glared defiance at her as she kept right on talking. He lay there watching her with unblinking hostility until she finally left the room, locking the door loudly behind her.

When she was gone, the raccoon practically deflated; the angry expression he'd been so proud of melted into a pained grimace, his rigid posture slouched to the cage floor and his ears drooped limply.

"Ohhhhh..." he whined softly as the breath he'd been holding left him in a rush. Breathing back in again was an overwhelming chore, the air hissing painfully past his teeth on its way in. It felt like those super robot arms of hers were still wrapped around his torso, crushing him. "F-Frickin', frickin' ribs..."

Rocket stayed that way for a long moment, simply forcing himself to breathe full, proper lungfuls. Each wheezing breath was accompanied by a sharp twinge in his chest.

And then his eyes lit on the giant padlock securing the cage door. Ignoring his body's protests, he lurched to his feet and grabbed the thing in both hands. It was so huge, he could easily slip his nimble little fingers into the keyhole. Right then, he didn't have the energy to grin, but he could do this...

Pulling a lock pick from that secret little side pocket in his jumpsuit, Rocket Raccoon went to work.