A/N: Listen here's the deal, I know y'all get me when I say there's so many different shapes of furries. I'm just gonna say it here for clarity: She is a bird. She has a beak, talons, wings instead of hands and arms, backwards knees and all that. She does have a little curve in her waist. I like to imagine her shaped like a 3-foot-tall eagle with a kind of elongated neck and plumage that simulates a chest and hips. Not sure if I'm gonna go the cloaca route yet, but we'll get to that(and tag that) when we get to it.

Summary: K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael (K'wirra) is a member of the Halcri, a small avian species native to a densely jungled moon, moist and full of foliage. She's exiled and lives in the wilderness until she can get off world. That's when the fun starts.


The rotation of the planet around the Sun is close to over. In several hours, daylight will rise over the trees.

But for now, pristine moonlight shines down through the leafy canopy. The moon's beams cast spotlights on the forest floor, lighting up the azure blades of soft grass, moistened by the layer of mist close to the planet's crust.

The trees seem to stretch impossibly high, their tops so far out of reach that they may as well be sky scrapers. Vines tangle up their trunks, dew collecting in their cup-like leaves.

Droplets collect on the underside of the leaves, dripping slowly into the next one down, seeming to mimic the strike of a xylophone. Insects chirrup and beat their wings, playing a song for only the trees to hear.

However, there's a member of the audience that isn't meant to be.

A bird, black as night and shimmering like starlight, glides through the forest, five feet of feathered wings stretching wide. Her frailty is hidden under voluminous plumage, along with her delicate skin, sensitive and somewhat transparent.

She perches on a thin, craggly branch, lowering her head to lick up the water. Her large, green eyes stay up, searching for danger while she quenches her thirst.

A strip of cloth fastens a shard of rock, sharp enough to slice skin and cut flesh, to her chest. It's there for defense, but also to attack.

Because she has a plan. She knows there's a spacecraft in the Hanging City, and it's her one shot at getting out of there.

One thing she learned over the years of exile was that experience was much more important than knowledge. Acting is sometimes the best thing she can do. She doesn't have the wit to build a way off the planet, or to plan anything complex, but she has the pluck to make it happen.

K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael is a very particular member of the Ch'theerlaiiik, better known as Halcri to the rest of the galaxy.

Long and chirped with a twill at the end and impossible to pronounce without a syrinx, her name translates beautifully into Galactic Standard—"That which breaks harmony will wander into the stars." But it's true meaning, like most Halcri names, is wrapped up in proverbial and poetic trickery. It meant that she would bring discord to the Flock by breaking harmony. Her destiny was always to be exiled—to walk among the stars.

Harmony is their strength, the Halcri say. To conform, to balance, to be silent, all these things increase harmony. She does the opposite, and always has from the moment she was born.

Her color is distinct. Males of the species are completely white with a streak of color on their tails and wings. It comes in pink, yellow, blue, or green. The females come in soft, gentle shades of gray.

She had the darkest complexion ever seen in her Flock. She came out black as night, her natal down cloaking her in shadow and earning her her name. Now her feathers glint the four colors the way a rooster's tail feathers reflect green, reflecting at least one of her species' signature shades depending on the angle of the light. She's iridescent, which alarms the Halcri who find it boastful and distasteful to be so visually disruptive.

They shunned her, and eventually cast her out. Her first flight was not a rite of passage as she hoped it would be, but a fearful act of flying for her life.

No more running. Tonight, she's taking her laughter back.

She stills as the insects go quiet. Ducking her head below the leaf, she waits and watches the silent forest.

They—the Halcri—are approaching.

The only noise is their feathers being caressed by the wind, but K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael learned to hear them coming, the same way the creatures of the forest do. The Halcri hunters flutter through the underbrush and leaves, only the barest hint of sound following behind them. Each of them is as perfectly pure white as the last, their streaked feathers giving their party a sense of cohesion. Her expression hardens as she waits.

She becomes a statue, still as stone, listening to the numerous Halcri whisper through the trees. They do not speak, do not grunt, do not wobble. In their society, stoicism is the highest virtue. The other two, the pursuit of balance and knowledge, are only slightly lesser. So highly commended are these three that anyone who does not conform is disgraceful.

Love is only to be shown in one's nest. Humor and fun are unnecessary things, not needed for the Flock to succeed. K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael couldn't live that way. Even as a hatchling, her trilling laughter had always been loud and unrestrained. She had always worn her heart on her sleeve, but that wasn't acceptable in their society.

In fact, if anyone of the Flock sees her in the Hanging City, they would try to kill her. She's exiled, after all, and that would be her punishment for coming back.

The party of hunters finally finishes, their white tail feathers flashing in the distance. Another beat, then she takes off toward the city. It had been years since she was thrown out, but she had been back many times.

She stole manuscripts, books, anything she could find. A few times, she had gotten sidetracked by a glimmering pearl or a shining rock, but she always got away. She had her fast flying to thank for that. They called her a runt, but that size counts for something when you're running away.

Everything she did in the last four years, it was preparing her for tonight.

Her escape. Now she'll be the first to leave the planet. Well, the first to leave the planet for the right reasons.

Fun. Love. Exploration.

Life.


No guards. No gates. No one to stop her.

The Flock had always prided themselves on needing none. Conformity was their prison, obedience their patrol. Members of the Flock had no choice but to behave.

K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael was the first to push the envelope.

Now there's a lock on the city center. It was carved out of the mountainside, a safe place for hatchlings to learn and for elders to teach them. The entrance is tall and wooden, hiding her prize behind thick tree fiber.

She prays to the Wind-bringer that they haven't scrapped it or thrown it away.

No, she thinks, shaking her head as she sidles down a long wooden branch, hopping onto a wooden path. They wouldn't—that ship was a symbol of their intelligence. Their greatest feat of engineering to this day.

As a species without hands or opposable thumbs, every piece of technology was hard-won and deep-thought. Doors were on loose hinges with deep notches for beaks, easy to push open without hands. Wooden prosthetics allow surgeons and other life-saving professions to exist. Scribes use something similar to manipulate their stamp machines, leaving runes on the thick, talon-proof pages of Halcri tomes. Their tech was crude, but claw and beak-friendly.

Even the locks were made to be breakable, in case of a lost key. It's just a matter of knowing how they work and feeling for a weak spot.

The path leads her up to the highest point in the Hanging City—the Mountain. There is only one on the planet.

Tip-taloning up to the massive doors, she examines the lock swiftly. It's the same model they developed three years ago—the same one she cracked three years ago.

She threads her long, sharpened yellow talon through the hole of the crude lock.

While the females and the young rest in their high-up nests, and the males hunt for orloni to bring back, the black Halcri gently twists her ankle, testing the lock. She smiles, noting the pock marks in the wood plank inside the lock. She counts— one, two, three, then pushes down on the weakest notch.

It holds, the wood squeaking quietly.

She flaps her wings softly, lifting herself and putting all her weight on the lock until she hears it snap. Crrrrieack!

Tossing the broken closure aside, she darts through the double doors, her nails clacking loudly on the wood. She's let them grow too long, their sharpness a boon to her in the wild, but they may draw attention to her here.

She pushes the door closed with her head, her feet sliding on the powdery granite floor, fine dust clinging to her talons like moonlight ash, and then turns around to search for the space craft. It has to be here somewhere.

The open room has a high ceiling, perfect for young flyers to practice under. The walls are covered in runes and depictions of the center's creation, the hundred years it took their ancestors to carve it from the mountain.

She starts to panic when she senses movement outside, her feathers puffing up and her eye twitching. Through the gaps between the wooden planks, she can see light, orange like candles, filtering into the dark community center. Claws scrape over rock and they aren't her own. Her head darts around and finally she spots it.

Branches and twigs mesh with painted metal. The vehicle is a mish-mash of their best technologies and clearest, most durable silica. The glass dome on the front is fastened onto a metal body, but the back is like a barrel holding in a liquid or gas-filled sack on the back. It could be for buoyancy or for oxygen—she doesn't know. She could no more name a part of it than she could fix it, but that wouldn't stop her.

As the stories go, the most intelligent of their species, Ch'rell'nael'tri'iill, had devised the craft, and it was only finished after his death. It went on its virgin flight, then came down and never flew again.

The Halcri always said it was proof they could leave, but no one ever did. She thinks her people are afraid. She can't blame them, the universe is a big and scary place, with many strong adversaries.

But it's where she belongs. She tells herself that because she definitely doesn't belong here. She belongs in a place where she can laugh and dance and cry and who knows what else. Make friends and loved ones because she wants to.

So she takes off, her wings launching her toward the craft, climbing through the air as the door behind her burst open.

A voice caws, cutting through the wide-open center: "K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael!" screams the guard, though emotion is absent in his voice. The shout is for volume, not because of anger. "Your head will roll for this."

He holds the broken lock in his right talon, a lantern hanging from a pole secured to his back. His chest is painted with his coat of wings, small and out of the way, signifying his authority and which Elite Nest gave it to him. Yellow paint means he hails from the F'ziiith family, three lines horizontal and one vertical.

O'kesh'saelin'vaer had looked at her with disdain her entire life. His perfectly white feathers and yellow streaks were a point of pride, one he never let her forget.

"Just like you always wanted, huh?" She giggles, landing under the round ship, its three branch-like legs suspending it above her head. She smirks, whacking the button on the rounded base that opens the pod.

The door folds away and she shoots through it, closing the door from the other side. She rushes to the pilot's seat, ducking under the multitude of perches on the walls and ignoring the fruity smell of the cedar that makes up the wooden frame and floor. Metal melds perfectly with it, used sparingly to strengthen joints and make an airtight seal.

O'kesh'saelin'vaer flies at her, his talons scrabbling at the windshield of the space ship. He is an elite guard, one trained over many years of intense monk hood. All must in order to ensure harmony. Even as he screams, his face is impassive, his emotion tucked deep behind fortress-like walls. It's nothing that isn't expected of him.

But this is the strongest glass on the planet. He isn't getting in—not through that.

She can't hear him, but she watches his beak open and close as more guards stream into the civic center. Their wings all rise, a harmonious uproar of silent disdain for her actions. Let them look down from their high nests—she's the one with the upper claw now.

She flips switches and pulls levers, setting the ship's thrusters to heat. They're done in a moment and she turns on the turbo drive, making sure the navigational crystal is stable, as it's likely been sitting here for hundreds of years, untouched.

Her right talon reaches for the throttle as the large sphere rumbles, and she yanks it down. The ship wobbles. Fumes appear around the outside and O'kesh'saelin'vaer slips from the curve of the glass. He stares at her as she takes off into the air, his expression schooled but his intensity on display in his rigid stance.

She takes one last look at her people, and she blows them a kiss through the glass.

The craft lifts off, but bounces off the thin crust of the roof. The worn bark shingles only take one more sturdy hit, and then she's spearing through it, debris falling like confetti.

She isn't just leaving the nest; She's flying the coop.


She should have learned to land before she barrelled into the depths of space.

She's woefully under equipped for the task she takes on, as always. The G-force holds her back against the seat, but her talons hold the controls in a death grip. Her craft tears past planets and stars with no regard for speed. The metal around her groans in pain, like a living being. Components creak and rattle against the ship. A few bolts drop from above, clanking on the metal floor as they drop.

Plink. Plink, plink.

She uses a wing to hold onto the chair, but the ship bucks like a wild beast. Her beak clenches, her seat shaking her small form as red lights blink all over the console. An alarm blares over the speaker, starting a stable cadence of loud, irritating beeps that make her want to yank the whole system out.

She pulls back on the throttle, seeing that her path leads her straight at a middling blue-and-tan planet. No wonder the Navigation System was making that noise.

"Hold it together, you flying bird cage!" she seethes. Her last option is to gun it for that planet—Xandar. A crash landing is better than freezing in a dead spacecraft.

She struggles to keep her claws around the cockpit controls. Stopping herself from being thrown out of her chair is the first challenge. The second is piloting the damn thing, as it was made for a bigger, stronger Halcri than she.

She does her best to steer toward the planet instead of into it, but she's not sure she knows the difference. She's a flier, not a pilot. She doesn't know what button made the thing stop

"Please, please, please!"

The windshield blooms orange at the edges, fire licking the horizon of her vision. She's at such high speed that she might just burn up before she touches ground.

She needs to slow it down, but she has no time.

A siren blares from the other side of the ship. Something behind her snaps and steam hisses out in a sharp blast. The thrusters whine in protest as she tries to pull up, the nose of her craft falling through the atmosphere rapidly.

It doesn't help, not like she thought it would, as the nose still faces the planet and she's no closer to making it out of here safe.

Skimming the tops of the trees, she can feel the metal underbelly tear open. She winces as the too-loose seatbelt digs into her chest. The ship skips like a rock over water a few times, shaking the bird inside. She feels like a yolk inside an egg as it sails over the trees.

The craft spins—spiraling downward—and the Xandarians below gape at her entrance.

"Oh, Wind-bringer," she breathes, taking in the peaceful landscape of Sun-bathed Xandar. Citizens mill about the town with domed buildings and winding paths like highways over courtyards and fountains.

The ship crashes into the solid white cement of the Xandarian city, the impact rattling her, throwing her like a doll.

The craft slides, scraping along the white cement path and leaving a trail of debris. The landing gears attempt to fold out belatedly, but one of them is bent the wrong way, stuck in place.

There are long, branching cracks in the glass. Pieces of the ship litter the bridge. The engine sputters and smokes.

K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael groans, one talon coming up to hold her forehead. She feels drunk for a moment, like everything is moving slow and haggardly. A few second pass and it snaps back.

Breaking in. Stealing the ship. Crashing.

The ship's nose is buried in the pavement, the windshield flat against the ground. She hangs upside-down in her seat, beak-first.

She lowers her claw, ignoring the fresh, green blood sticking to it. The emerald stains her feathers, but the sting in her ankle and shoulder are not enough to halt her progress. She uses the tip of her beak to press the button on her chest, releasing the seat belt. Beak-first, she drops to the ground with a smack.

She gets a talon under her and pushes up, her wing feathers on the glass helping her stand. Her wings are sore, but there are no breaks or holes. She gives an experimental flap. It works, and she flaps them a few more times, lifting herself to the exit. She opens the door and flutters out, letting herself float down to the ground and wrest her weary limbs.

The wreck is a sight for sore eyes. The cement is torn up, giant slabs cracked in half and soil thrown all over. Bits of metal and wood splinters covering the walkways. Her trail was one of destruction. She almost feels bad, but it's not like she did it on purpose.

Her eyes droop, the exhilaration draining her of energy. The warm concrete against her back makes her want to take a nap.

Her eyes, blinking slowly, close a few more times. She sees the blink of a curly-haired human, a blue uniform covering his body. He stands over her, the sky behind him much too bright for her tired eyes. "Dey" reads the tag across his breast.

She doesn't know why he's pointing that thing at her. She's under 3 feet and barely 20 pounds, not much of a threat to a being his size. She thinks it's a weapon, but it's not like anything she's seen before. Angled and stiff, the thing in his hands says "dangerous" in capital letters.

"...by the Authority of the Nova Corps..."

She's barely listening to the fleshy beast, her eyesight blurry. It fades in and out, or maybe that's just her blinking. She isn't sure if this is real or not anymore. Did she already fall asleep?

"...under arrest for endangerment of..."

Her head hits the ground. There is only darkness.


When she wakes, she's cold and her feathers ruffled. Processing was a blur—bright lights, barking voices, strange hands. Now she's somewhere else. Somewhere worse.

She hates everything about it: the cell, the cafeteria, even this grimy common area.

The Kyln reeks of oil and fear. The Kyln floats like a tumor in the dark, nestled among the shattered bones of an asteroid belt.

It's all metal and man flesh—smelly, sweaty, grimy, and dingy with not a lot to praise it for. When she left her home, she hadn't considered that this is what she was trading it in for.

Every landing risks a talon snag—these grates weren't made for claws. People keep petting her or picking on her. She doesn't miss the Halcri or the Hanging City. However, she feels a little homesick over the jungle. She misses the high canopies and the sound of wildlife.

Not enough to go back, though.

She has half a mind to walk back up to the featherless brute that led her here and demand her court date, but they'd probably laugh in her face... again. She's sure that a jury would side with her if she's able to explain herself. She didn't have time to learn the ins and outs of piloting, only the ins. They have to understand.

She sits perched on a rail, her feet clenched around it as she stares ahead. She tries to ignore the bustling prison around her.

Above her head, a watchtower sits. The central location allows the guards to watch everyone at once. The cells line the walls, the floors rising almost as high as the trees on her home planet. Red paint covers every wall and grate, clothing the world in a hazy, rusty glaze.

She hates waiting. She bounces lightly, just to give herself something to do. She feels like she's already run out. She's tried talking to people, but then one tried to swallow her whole. Another almost swatted her down. Then guards told her not to fly too high or they'd shoot.

So she taps a talon on the metal rail, keeping beat to a song inside her head.

If only there was something to do in this horrid place.

She's about to tap out a beat on the rail again when a flash of green catches her eye.

Her eyes lock onto the monstrous silhouette of something natural.

It's nowhere near the size of the trees on her planet, but it was tall and green, it's bark looking good for chewing and its branches perfect for nesting in. It's beautiful.

She uses her sharpened claw to poke herself. The sting of pain and the emerald stain on the tip of her nail mean one thing—she's not dreaming.

"Eeeeeek!" she squeals, her syrinx pulling double duty to emit two tones at once. Immediately, she lifts off, her wings spreading wide. The tips of her pinion feathers reach out as she winds above the heads of the other inmates, circling the bark-covered alien with a delighted trill.

He's like a walking paradise. A taste of the forest in portable form. Until she gets closer, she thinks he's just an inanimate tree, meeting his big eyes with shock.

He blinks, slowly, wood creaking as he stands. He's definitely alive. She stops before she roosts in his branches, fearing another swatting spree.

"Oh my frond! I haven't seen a tree in... I don't know, at least fifteen hours!" She gushes, darting around the hunk of wood, his large body towering over all the others. "Boy am I glad to see you! You look great. You know, I used to live on a planet full of trees and they were so tall they almost made it to the clouds!"

She swirls around his shoulders, made of branches and vines wrapped in a structure similar to mammalian muscle structures. Flitting around him, she notices that even his smell reminds her of home. Tree sap and chlorophyll, crisp wood and soft soil.

The scent of nature itself.

The tree's face, made of bark and leaves, is more expressive than she expected up close. His big brown eyes seem gentle and warm like mud under the sun.

"I am Groot," he says with a smile. He shifts his weight, his mass sloping in movement like a peony in the wind.

"Good to meet you, Groot. I am K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael." She smiles back, her long wings forcing air under her. She floats closer to his face, eyes gleaming. "I have so many questions. Can I perch on you? Can I nest in you? Do you have any twigs to spare?"

He lifts his arm, his shoulder shifting in offer. "I am Groot," he says as a long, winding branch sprouts from the side of his neck, providing a nice, thick perch. She lands on it, her shoulders thanking her for the moment of respite.

She laughs at his repetition, her eyes narrowing in glee as he continues walking. A bedroll is clutched in his free hand. "You said that already! But thank you for the branch. We should be friends. I mean, you're a tree, I'm a bird. So it's settled, right?"

He nods his head, close enough for her to smell the algae on his forehead. "I am Groot."

"I think means yes! Eeek! So glad to have you, new friend!" Abruptly, she stops, a surprised look on her visage. She gasps. "Wait. I think you're my first friend. We should celebrate! What do you trees do to party out here—drop leaves? Pollinate wildly?"

His optical ridge softens and he looks down toward his feet. "I am Groot."

But he's not talking to her, this time.

"What?!" screams a darkening voice just next to them. "You want to keep it? For what, getting the bugs out of your leaves?"

To find the source, she looks all around them. Only once she follows Groot's line of sight, she sees the speaker: a dark, striped rodent with a mask and a fluffy tail. It bristles, lashing side to side.

She doesn't know what he is, but he's angry, or at least grumpy. She gets it—she doesn't like it here either.

She appreciates his honest emotion, even though it's not a pleasant one. At least he isn't impassive like the Halcri, or violently handsy like the other prisoners.

Groot speaks with a gentle demeanor, staring down at the wily raccoon. "I am Groot."

"She is not cute," the rodent grumbles. She can swear his shoulders seem to raise, his black-padded hands curling into fists for a moment. "She's trouble. I can smell it."

"I am Groot." Groot's voice lowers, his trunk bowing forward slightly.

Rocket muttered, "I swear, if she starts nesting in my stuff—" but the edge had already softened from his voice.

Groot tries again, more insistent this time. "I am Groot."

"Fine," Rocket sighs, his folded arms shooting into the air. Stomping his feet and leading them on, he mutters under his breath, "Why not? Adopt the damn bird. We'll open a daycare while we're at it."

Following the back-and-forth between them, she can tell how close the two are. Like members of the same clutch. They know each other well.

Rocket's body language screams reluctant tolerance, like someone who just agreed to babysit a hurricane.

Her smile loses none of its brightness, her yellow beak opening with glee. "I'm K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael and—"

"Rocket," he says, cutting her off before she can run her mouth, not bothering to look back. Her stare lingers on the human and the Zehorebei that walk in front of them. It's clear to her that they seem to be sticking together for one reason or another. Rocket sighs, introducing him reluctantly. "That's Quill."

"Peter. Call me Star-Lord." The brunette nods at her, sending a tight smile—like he's got bigger things to worry about—and a wave in her direction.

The Zehorebei turns up her nose, her long red and black hair swishes over her shoulder, looking away as if it's all beneath her. Peter rolls his eyes.

"Listen, K'wik—uh, Kwirl—" Rocket sighs, grabbing a pawful of fur at his temple. "There's gotta be a better way than this."

"I am Groot," the tree suggests with a helpful shrug of his free shoulder. Rocket nods thoughtfully.

"Yeah, okay. A nick name. Uh..." He scratches his temple, stalling for a second too long. He won't look at her anymore, but she's at the edge of her perch, staring. "K'wirra. Short and tolerable. That's what I'm calling you."

She turns it over in her mind once or twice. It was short and easy for non-avians to say. Testing it on her tongue, she gives it the same curling whirr as always.

"K'wirra... K'wirra. I like it!" She spins around, her talons tucking into the sinews of Groot's shoulder as the branch weaves itself in. "That's such a good idea! I never would've come up with that."

Rocket's tail puffs up, stilling from its natural sway. His legs continue to step but his body doesn't seem connected anymore. His snout opens, but she's back to chirping like a songbird before he can answer.

Excitedly, she hops from one claw to the other, forgetting entirely about their audience. The inmates are generally occupied, screaming at the Zehorebei woman that walks before Rocket, anyway. The bird looks back to Groot, her attention span evidently as short as her legs.

"You know, in my language, a word can mean a hundred different things based on what kind of trill or whirr you use. You must be like that too," she spouts. Her beak is moving so fast it clacks together every time it closes, like a Castanet leading a song's beat.

Rocket stares at her, muzzle agape like he can't believe she's still talking.

"We're so alike! We're like twins or something!" Shimmering black wings flutter happily as her eyes squint with the force of her smile. "This is—Well, maybe not the best day ever, since I flew for my life, crashed the ship I stole, and got arrested all in one day... But this is the best thing that's happened in the last five hours, at least!" She squawks, seeming to vibrate with energy.

"Hold that thought, motor beak," Rocket says, peering around a few sets of legs. A large, blue-skinned alien blocks the way, standing in front of Peter.

"I am Groot," Groot mutters. Rocket sends him a look, waving him forward. Nodding, the tree walks ahead, rounding Peter to stand between him and the blue alien.

K'wirra waves a wing in greeting as the pass him by. Feeling her center of gravity shifting, she widens her stance. Her talons clench around the root-like structure of his shoulders. She thinks she may have scratched his bark, but he doesn't seem to mind.

Groot moves with surprising speed. His long fingers shoot out, roots curling upward like vines on a hunt. They grip the alien's nostrils and lift—swift, brutal, undeniable. The blue-skinned brute flails, feet leaving the ground.

The mood in the crowd shifts, like the breeze starts blowing the other way.

Pained sounds jump from the alien's lips. He grunts and writhes, kicking his feet, then screws his eyes shut when it jostles him, a whine leaking from his clenched teeth. The tree leans back, making the bird readjust her grip, balancing with a half-opened wing on the back of his neck.

The inmates that crowded them before seem to recede back into the walls like insects. The ranting and screaming goes silent as the space empties. Even the guards stop chatting over their cups of kav to watch and listen.

Rocket, pacing into the open space, lets his casual stride carry him to the spotlight. He stalks in front of everyone like he's born to, their quiet gazes all the encouragement he needs.

"Let's make something clear." His voice fills the now-silent common area. Everyone on this level and up in the rafters hang off his every word. He points behind him at the taken-aback Peter. "This one here is our booty. You wanna get to him, you go through us!"

The raccoon circles the room, speaking to every inmate in a way that feels almost individual. Peter, when not staring at Rocket, locks eyes with K'wirra, Groot, and the assailant. K'wirra smiles, but he doesn't smile back for some reason.

"Or, more accurately, we go through you!" As Rocket turns around, baring his teeth at everyone, Groot pulls out his branches. The alien falls, slamming against the flooring with a groan and a heavy clunking sound. Curling up on his side, he whimpers.

A shudder runs down her back. There was something utterly commanding about Rocket's intensity and swagger. Though smaller than the long-legged aliens that populate the Kyln, his presence feels bigger than anybody's.

Clearly, it makes him dangerous. But it also makes him everything the Halcri aren't.

Rocket, picking up and dragging his bedroll behind him, slinks onward to the cell blocks. Groot steps over the crumpled alien, his trunk-like feet thudding against the metal.

They follow the raccoon and K'wirra starts to think maybe today could still end up being the best day of her life. She may not have found a replacement for her planet, but she isn't alone anymore. That has to count for something. It could be a chance for something real—if she doesn't mess it up.

"I'm with them," Peter warbles. Hurriedly, he stretches himself over the fallen alien, chasing after the woodland trio because the further they get, the darker the looks on the other prisoners' faces.