Peter grabbed two tufts of stiff orange-brown feathers on the crown of his head and pulled sharply.
This was stupid.
"Peter, you are likely to be the only Retribe people are going to meet in their lifetime. If not for you, than at least for the sake of not being a complete disgrace to your heritage, you should try some cultural activities." Drax's words were heavy, and sharp.
"Has nobody ever heard of cultural appropriation?" Peter bit back.
"What?" Rocket yelled from above. He'd rigged himself up with cables (correction, Groot's vines) upside down from the ceiling, screwdriver in his jaws while he tooled around inside the light fixture overhead.
"Cultural. Appropriation. The idea of taking aspects of someone else's culture without context and just using it. It's a bit disrespectful. I may have the genetics, but I don't speak their language, didn't grow up with their food or culture, nada. I'm not going to start for someone else's benefit. Doesn't mean I won't read about it or learn, but I'm not going to suddenly start wearing the collar thing around my neck or hanging red lanterns over my nest to scare off the nightbeasts."
Drax looked on, surprised. "I did not realize you actually did some research."
"I do need to know about my anatomy. I'd like to not die because I ate the wrong thing or something."
"I mean to say, I did not realize that you continued to look for information beyond that point. You seemed quite unwilling to even look up a proper diet for yourself at first."
"Well, for the first time in my life, I know a little about my dad. Of course I'm going to do research."
"Which actually brings us back to our current predicament. Peter, we are running very low on edible foodstuffs for you. We need to go acquire more and we are not exactly near any sentient planets at the moment. I'm loathe to give you ration blocks because they contain castor oil."
"Rocket can eat them."
"Peter, I can drink booze. You can barely get three sips down before you're on the floor," Rocket said, as he swung himself off the ceiling. That was pretty much the only thing Peter discovered he missed. He and Gamora both were now on the sober train, and it was a horrible kiddie ride.
Retribe parties were probably boring as hell.
"So what's this cultural activity you were suggesting?"
"Fishing," Drax said simply. "I know of a nearby uninhabited planet with an excellent assortment of aquatic life."
"Dude, that's not a cultural activity. That runs right back to my previous qualification of needing to know my own anatomy."
"You will not preform the rites before the hunt?" Drax was genuinely surprised.
"I'd sooner follow your lead and do whatever you do, than follow a tradition that has no meaning to me, if that's what you are asking," Peter replied honestly. "And if we're low on food, sooner the better. I'll start thinking up ways to serve Rocket if we don't stock the cold storage."
"Drax, set a course for wherever you're thinkin'. Now," Rocket barked, and Drax lifted him off the floor and onto his shoulder, ignoring Rocket's half-annoyed whines.
"Very well," Drax replied, a bit disheartened.
Peter ripped through a piece of lagomorph jerky, staring blankly into space. Drax had told them all it would take another two hours before reaching their destination, and, as he rarely took the wheel, Peter just sat on one of the window benches and marveled at the empty cosmos before him. He felt someone sit down next to him and turned. Gamora, sipping from a cup of hot tea.
"You know, I think he's trying to have you carry the Retribe culture with you. I'm not even sure how many of Drax's people are left. He feels obligated."
"Yeah, but, there are plenty of Retribe. They're just xenophobic assholes," Peter replied, as he ripped another piece of jerky in two and swallowed it down. His feathers fluffed a little, and Gamora smiled. "And I have a culture. Earth, and Ravager."
"Ravagers don't have a culture," Gamora stated, flatly.
"So, celebrating someone's day of joining with five drinks and a round of arm wrestling isn't a tradition? Or getting one gold coin after every catch, that everyone melts down at the end of the year, and uses as their own private allowance? We had traditions, too, Gams. You probably had something with your sisters too, something that was yours and yours alone. Those are my traditions, and my people."
Gamora smiled, and ruffled Peter's feathers lightly. "I wonder what the Ravagers will think, seeing you like this."
"They'll probably try to pluck me- and Yondu will stick some on his dashboard. Otherwise, they don't really care what you look like, if you can work. I mean, did you see Rega?"
"The woman working the cafeteria?"
"Woman is not the word I'd use to describe her," Peter said, shuddering, feathers puffing out further until he looked like a giant ball. "Steamroller, more like."
"I'll talk with Drax, if you wish," Gamora said, as she drained the last of her tea and stood up.
"I'd… appreciate it. Getting through to him is still pretty hit or miss for me."
They touched down at the edge of a bayou. Peter took one look outside and at the temperature readout on the dash and stowed his boots, rolling his pants up as high as they could go. From the knees down, he was featherless, an artifact of the taloned, scaly feet a full Retribe possessed, skin as smooth as a baby's without all the hair he once had.
He couldn't really fly; he'd need somebody to teach him and he was really afraid of falling (the whole one-wrong-move-and-whoops-shattered-bones thing made him a lot more cautious about certain activities), but he was getting pretty good at 'parachuting', standing at the top of the gangway of his ship and spreading out his wings to their full extension before jumping down the platform. He had the gangway beneath him if he didn't catch a proper draft, but it was better than no practice at all. He landed with a soft squish in the gunk-mud and heard claws scraping on the deck behind.
"Nice landin'," Rocket said, looking out on the vista, then down at Peter's legs, caked in mud halfway to the knee. "Looks like I need to screw my suit," he mumbled before scurrying back inside. Drax came out next, carrying bins and ice, while Gamora slid down the handrail on the heel of her boots.
Groot carried more buckets, and trudged out to a grassy outcropping a bit further in.
"Guys?" Rocket squeaked out, head peeking out the hatch.
"Sup?" Peter asked, turning around, careful to not get his wings tangled in a low bush at his side.
"I'mma ruin my clothes stepping into that goo, and, uh, I planned to swim for fish…" he started. "But uh, promise ya won't laugh?"
"Rocket, I'm a giant orange chicken shin-deep in swamp muck. If I'm laughing, it's because we all look like idiots right now," Peter replied, lifting one foot out of the mud with a shwump noise to show to Rocket.
Rocket snorted, and trudged down the gangway on all fours, sans clothing. His metal implants gleamed off the sunlight filtering in the trees, and he spread his claws out over the mud.
"Pounds per square inch," Rocket muttered, gingerly hopping across the mud without sinking too deeply, before reaching the actual water and jumping in. Peter followed; glad to get the moss and other goo out from between his toes as he hit the cool water.
And quickly tried to stand up. Feathers and water were a very, very bad idea. The water seeped in and he was getting too heavy, couldn't lift himself out, choking under the water, when he vaguely felt hands pulling him up and out.
"This is why you no longer take a shower, Peter," he heard Drax say, almost through a hazy bubble.
Three sets of hands were heaving him up onto the grass, stretching his wings out to their full length in the sun.
"No swimming," Gamora said sternly. "You get too wet, you get too heavy."
"I am Groot," came from Groot, low rumbly and concerned, as he carefully stretched out Peter's now watersoaked wings. Peter tried to lift them to flap out some of the water, but with the swamp they absorbed, they were too heavy to move.
He thought he could be a real superhero, someday soon, when he learned to fly. The fact that even a few pounds of water drenching his feathers and pants was enough to knock him to the floor was a sobering reminder of just how much he could really lift. He couldn't carry Rocket, now, he knew that much, but some water?
He closed his eyes, and let the warm sun dry him off, drifing into an uneasy half-sleep. Occasionlly, he heard a rough "I am Groot," followed by a splash, or Gamora snap "Rocket! You're getting bite marks all over that carp," with a muffled "Foooccch you Omoora,"spit, and "Easier than usin' one of those damn fishin' poles."
Eventually, he tested his wings again, flapped a few times, and shook out the last drops of water before standing up.
"Did you rest well, Peter?" Drax asked, concerned.
"Eh," Peter commented with a shrug and a ruffle.
"Maybe this time you will heed my warning about culture. The Retribe rely heavily on fish to survive, live on a planet as swampy as this, and yet, can die submerged in only a few centimeters of water from getting too wet with fluid. You should learn how to fish as they do."
"You know how?" Peter asked.
"From what I've read, yes. Let me show you."
The sun began to sink in the sky, and Rocket, now shaking himself off and sunning himself in the last rays in Peter's former spot, watched with curiosity as Drax showed Peter how to stalk in the water, bobbing his head and arms down in quick motions and pulling roughly on Peter's wings as a counterbalance until Peter felt comfortable at not falling over, flapping them himself or spreading them in unusual contortions to keep his balance as he moved his way through the shallows.
They'd caught more than enough fish hours ago, while Peter was still out. Gamora had already returned to the Milano to prepare sashimi for dinner, and Groot was off somewhere finding edible fruits and leaves for side dishes.
But Peter needed this lesson, one Rocket had learned so long ago.
Peter needed to know, not just how weak he was, but how strong. And as Rocket heard the plopping noise of each of Peter's successful quarries, first via scooping with his arms, and eventually giving into his non-human side like Rocket had done, bobbing with his head and grabbing large catfish with only his teeth, Rocket smiled.
Know your limits, know your strengths.
Plop. Another fish in the bucket.
Splash. Peter's feathered head only, under the water, with his wings extended fully behind to keep him from tipping.
Plop. Another fish in the bucket as Peter flicked his whole body back but his wings forward.
Plop.
Plop.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Six fish in a minute.
Peter lost his strength; Rocket knew even leaning on his shoulder at the console could fracture a bone.
But he'd more than made it up in speed.