Sale exited the ship on a sour note, though her diligence was far from shaken. Her goal was unquestioned, and the safety and freedom of Rocket was still her foremost priority. Regardless of any temporary perturbances to their relationship, she was certain they could be mended with time. Life was never perfectly static, she knew full well people could change, and similarly that such change could be positive just as it could be negative.
Regardless of the child's somewhat disobedient behavior, he showed great potential. It was a disheartening thought, knowing how thoroughly adept he was as it pertained to learning. With training, he could outclass her in nearly every subject matter, and despite her age, she may even live to see it.
She knew she should feel pride towards this, at least somewhat. She was securing his freedom. Plans relayed through Counter Earth's transmission systems indicated him to undergo dissection in no more than a few hours. But it was through her actions that his death was postponed, and through her actions that he could exist freely. It renewed a deep vigor within her that was absent since she'd lost her crew.
There was a modicum of distaste at the thought of being so thoroughly usurped. Her body and mind struggled on their own from age, knowledge she'd come to terms with, but the concept of becoming so useless as to not only be incapable of providing to others, but to need caring herself, was utterly loathsome.
Within the facility, she lacked the ability to see her ship. Leaving that resourceful raccoon on board did run the risk of theft, and while the thought was somewhat frightening, wasting away on this planet until another supply delivery found and soon returned her to the rightful ownership of her creator, she didn't believe Rocket was so thoroughly disillusioned with her presence as to abandon her completely.
Yet, even if he did, there'd be an almost bittersweet contentment with such a reality. So long as she disabled the tracker, he'd be free, and despite the thorough disappointment at how little she could teach him, she knew his ingenuity would serve him well in the outside world. She'd figured out all manner of survival techniques on her own, and, with the scientific logs from Counter Earth, she knew him to be her vast intellectual superior.
Regardless, she'd relish what few instances of responsibility she could still retain in her life. He was far too inexperienced for a potentially life threatening situation. Adrenaline was a useful tool, it secured his escape, she presumed, but it was no substitute for experience. Perhaps there was a purpose he could've served if the circumstances were different, but this was a situation that maintained almost no leeway. Their window was already quite tight, and though she knew the process of expunging the tracker's data from the Orgo-Corp system by heart, it took time.
Worrying very rarely provided any manner of advantage. Instead, reentered an objective state of mind, processing the information before her in an emotionless, passionless manner. From the disabling of her crews' trackers, she knew these facilities to be rather well staffed with an assortment of scientists and guards intent on spending decades without leaving the planet. They were kept afloat by scheduled supply deliveries while they continued their perpetual research.
These staff, even the guards, very rarely saw any manner of combat. Their inexperience provided sufficient weakness for someone like Sale to remove them without intense injury. Similarly, their abundance of weaponry and supply provided quite the bounty. Nonetheless, she knew she had to attack these facilities sparingly. The High Evolutionary was still her greatest enemy, and though these facilities were numerous, frequent attacks on what should be hidden laboratories would quickly draw suspicion of something more than simple outlaws, especially now that Rocket was free.
Strangely, she felt a bit dejected over the years of reading the logs about Rocket. Their creator was utterly obsessive over him, and while personal opinions weren't included in the logs, it was clear he saw him as his most prized creation. No expenses would be spared to see his expedient return, whereas her exit from years ago was met with no more than a swift deterioration in the living conditions of future experiments.
A very brief hunting party was provided towards the effort of her location, but once the sector was given a tertiary search and came up empty handed, any attempts at her retrieval were expunged. She knew full well he'd reclaim the ship and swiftly execute her if she ever returned to the planet, yet that could be attributed to his usual possessiveness.
At times, the High Evolutionary would provide his own notes as an addition to the recorded surgery and assessment logs. She wished deeply to read her own identification number once again, even in a passing mention in these notes. Yet she was afforded no such attention, even while sharing a species with the project's greatest achievement.
She enjoyed imagining Rocket's immense success was somehow attributed to her, that whatever learnings the scientists were granted during her time as an experiment went on to create the male raccoon's extraordinary intelligence, yet such a prospect had absolutely no bearings in the logs. Furthermore, after her escape, she reviewed her own logs, and found herself described conclusively as "unremarkable", and that any learnings from her assessments and work were "extraneous".
To some extent, she wished she could ask the High Evolutionary himself if he remembered her. Perhaps just to flaunt the achievement of her escape, a type of retribution and reminder of his imperfection, but she knew deeply that it was purely for the recognition. Again and again, year after year, she saw more experiments killed and left as nothing more than identification numbers and statistics.
There was perhaps no worse fate than to be resigned eternally as nothing more than inhumane data points. What names did the other experiments have? What desires stirred within their minds during the uncountable hours they spent in captivity? What would they have done with the same freedom she so carelessly stole?
There were days her regret grew so potent it drove her to tears, these days typically coming upon reading about the executions of unsuccessful experiments. Over time it was numbed, of course. No amount of weeping aided in her own survival, of which was paramount. No manner of atonement for past mistakes could be derived if she was dead. She carried the collective lives of every experiment whose lives and freedom she'd stolen.
Rocket was included in that set. It was her foremost priority to keep him safe and to facilitate his existence and freedom. She'd perform this same duty for every experiment to escape from that planet, a responsibility she vowed by quite soon after she escaped, but had yet to employ until today. Regardless, she was only further galvanized toward this form of redemption as time passed.
The male raccoon was young and perhaps overly eager for revenge. There was no easy way to teach the abhorrence of combat and death. Through words alone, an insufficient form of persuasion, she must teach him of things beyond simple revenge. She'd substituted a desire for revenge with a deep and abiding self hatred long ago, but she'd do anything to alleviate such an exchange from Rocket. The deaths of his batch were her responsibility alone, but such a message was near impossible to imbue into a grieving child.
This was predicated on the issue of age. She estimated no more than a few months before her death, but even now her strength was far removed from her youth. Her muscles and joints ached with every manner of physical activity. In addition to her slower body, her senses began to wane. Her eyes grew more ineffective with every passing day, and her ears afforded her just enough reliability to hold a conversation with some difficulty. Regardless, the familiar architecture of a facility such as this instinctually set her body and mind on edge, necessitating whatever peak performance her senses were capable of.
The facility still glowed a deep red as Sale stepped from room to room, the bottoms of her boots coated thick with blood, with random spatterings across the rest of her body, most of which was derived from her targets, while some was from her own injuries and the proceeding medical attention she provided for herself.
She was light enough to make virtually no sound so long as she was careful. Regardless, the long hallways between rooms prevented most forms of stealth, they lacked any form of cover, leaving those traveling along them vulnerable to sight and gunshot. She wasn't certain where the facility's primary control room was, but regardless, clearing out at least most of the facility was necessary before she worked to expunge the tracker. The risk of someone else sneaking up on her was far too high.
Despite these issues, she continued her trek through the facility, keeping her one eye wide and perceptive of any danger. She'd killed multiple scientists already, the few that remained likely weren't eager to confront her directly, but instead were waiting in rooms for her arrival, hoping for an element of surprise. It was far more difficult to expunge well entrenched individuals than sporadic, disorganized ones.
She encountered one of these individuals as she entered a storage room. As she passed the threshold, she was welcomed by the firm impact of a rather large boot punting her across the room where her back impacted the wall, any manner of outcry stunted by the sudden loss of air from her lungs. She hadn't a moment to even glance at whoever provided such an introduction, knowing it was likely a guard from the metallic firmness of whatever footwear delivered the kick. Rather, she quickly extended her own legs, pushing against the nearby wall as she scrambled to a crawl, hoping to hide behind one of the nearby storage containers for cover.
Regardless, the guard aimed his weapon swiftly at the downed raccoon, taking not a moment to assess his target before a deafening blast rang out through the room as he pulled the trigger. Sale recognized from sound alone that this weapon used proper ammunition rather than energy, and she felt from the impact of multiple small pellets into her left shoulder and forearm that it was a shotgun of some sort. Most weapons had proper names and designations, but mass produced guns typically fell into a few categories based on their purpose, this one being close quarters combat.
From the initial pain, her left arm could barely raise, leaving only her dominant hand to wield her weapon. She took a deep breath as she focused on mentally numbing the pain, knowing she had brief seconds to move before the guard came to finish her off. With gritted teeth, she forced herself to her feet, putting much of her weight on her right leg as she peeked just barely over the crate she was positioned behind, taking just a moment to position her gun atop the crate to make up for the stability her left hand wasn't providing, then fired off two shots.
Despite her age, her aim was still honed to perfect, her shots impacting his right pectoral and shoulder. The instability from the impact along with the guard's rusty reactions afforded Sale enough time to drop her body beneath the crate as another shot was fired in her direction. She heard the man cry out in pain, and she soon raised her body once again to continue her aggression.
What she did not expect, though, was the man, who she soon realized was quite large, quickly approaching and placing a booted foot on the crate she hid behind, kicking it forwards against her body. She sheer impact was enough to make her drop her gun. She wrestled her body to the side of the moving crate before it impacted the wall, such pressure would undoubtedly result in a painful death.
Between the two of them was her weapon, and seeing as the man's right arm was incapable of holding his shotgun, he tossed the large weapon to the side, drawing a knife as he began quickly moving towards the discarded gun on the floor. Without a gun, she had no way to fight, and her claws were a far cry from the sharpened weapons of her youth.
She sprinted on all fours toward her weapon, pushing her body to its limit, and yet not being as quick as she remembered. The large man reached it moments before her, thrusting his knife toward her body. She yielded the position, dodging to the left at the last moment to find the knife dug not into her back in the fatal wound the man intended, but into the back of her right leg.
Adrenaline helped to numb the pain somewhat, allowing her to stay focused as she lunged instead for the man's shotgun. She transitioned to a bipedal stance as her hands found the weapon, pivoting off her left foot, which now held much of her weight, and quickly closing the distance between herself and the guard before he finished picking up and aiming her weapon.
Such a massive gun was far too large for her to fire, the recoil alone would destroy every one of her ribs and the organs beneath, but she intended to use the immense power to her advantage. Just as she approached the man, she held the gun vertically in her right hand, loosening her grip so it fell between her fingers until she held the barrel. In one motion far too swift for the man's reactions, she jammed the butt of the gun against the man's leg, then slid her right hand down along the weapon, using the momentum to pull the heavily weighted trigger.
The pellets expunged from the barrel fired at nothing in particular, but the recoil from the gun was more than enough to shatter the man's tibia. With another outcry, his leg bent unnaturally backwards and he collapsed to the floor. Sale wasted no time adjusting her grip on the shotgun to grab the barrel once more, then swung her good arm over her head and smashing the firm base of the gun against the man's bare face.
After every impact she quickly pulled back the gun and repeated the motion, bashing the man's head again and again with his own weapon. The impacts became noticeably squishier after the second strike, his nose broken, and after the 5th, his skull was broken into enough pieces for the action to feel like smashing mud with each impact. His outcries grew more pained after each subsequent strike during the first 7 impacts, and were quickly silenced during the following 2. With an angered outcry, she delivered a final firm blow against the man's head, leaving the butt of the shotgun lodged into whatever brain matter and shattered skull was revealed through the torn skin.
She was quite certain the man was dead, but as with every other victim, she limped over to her gun and delivered a single shot into what used to be his forehead. At that, she took a few deep breaths and focused once again, stepping back and propping herself against the wall. Feeling her chest, she confirmed at least one of her ribs was broken from the kick. With adrenaline slowly fading, she felt the weight of her injuries adding up. Regardless, she had enough medical experience to deal with at least some of them.
Firstly were the wounds to her shoulder and forearm. She pulled away the torn sections of her shirt to reveal the wounds beneath, seeing a pair of smaller holes on her shoulder, and a single on her forearm. Each of the pellets traveled straight through her body, removing the need to dig them out, and leaving only the issue of treatment. She pulled off the backpack she wore, digging out some bandages. She had no time to properly dress the wounds, instead simply wrapping them tight with bandages that she tore with her teeth, then tied off.
Her leg was a far greater concern, a knife still sticking from the back. She couldn't simply leave it in until she got back to the ship, and she knew a wound like this would need stitches. Regardless, a temporary solution was required. She pulled a battery from her backpack and placed it in her mouth, finding comfort in something to bite down on. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the knife and yanked it out with a sudden, pained exclamation.
Now that blood flowed from the wound openly, she had little time to waste. She fired off a few shots into the air, allowing the barrel of her handgun to grow excessively hot before she rolled up her pant leg, and with only brief hesitation, jammed her gun against her wound. The extraordinary heat of the weapon served to cauterize the wound as she held it there, accompanied by loud, pained outcries only slightly muffled by the battery her teeth dug into.
Tears formed in her eye, but soon her outcry faded, replaced only by a series of quick, heavy breaths. The wound was mostly cauterized, but coagulated tissue alone was far from proper treatment, so she soon wrapped her leg in bandages as well. Her adrenaline and quick breaths soon faded and she was left with just her wits once again.
She took a moment to contemplate the situation. In her youth, foes like these were easy pickings. Her younger self could've taken down that man without so much as a scratch. The thought was somewhat disheartening, knowing she will never return to that level of capability. Her mind and body only grew more tired and weak every day, and no amount of training or experience will ever undo that process. Her halcyon days were permanently and irreversibly behind her, never to return.
But she gazed over to the corpse and let out a small chuckle. She may not be as capable as she was back then, but she was not useless. The trail of bodies she left behind could attest to that. She was only getting weaker day by day, but she hadn't yet gotten so incapable that she couldn't take down a few guards. It felt good knowing she could still act as a protector for someone.
Enough time was spent on reminiscing, and she soon dug out one of the metallic syringes from her bag. Of the three syringes she brought onto this journey, one was used upon entering the facility, but its effects were rapidly fading, and she felt her body grow more tiresome and weak than it already was.
She placed it against her neck, and with a single button press, whatever concoction of drugs was present in the shelled vial was injected into her body. Almost immediately she was filled once again with adrenaline and focus. It was a shocking reversion, feeling akin to being struck by a vehicle, and while it enhanced all her senses, including pain, she'd long since learned to ignore such impediments. She got to her feet and continued her search through the facility.