Rocket lies awake long after he, Drax, and Quill return, staring at the ceiling like it pissed on his shoes. He can't believe he has to deal with this mess.
Himself and Groot, he can handle. Two or three humanoids he can handle—probably. But then came the bird.
Flapping her shining feathers and cooing her song into Groot's ears. She crowed and sang like a stripper with a debt and no self-respect. And it grated.
He'd clocked her the second she approached them—bright, chirpy, and zero awareness of the very stabby environment around her. Her smile had been too wide, too shiny. Rocket doesn't trust shiny. Shiny means unblemished, and the only way you stay unblemished is by being really strong or really green.
She can't be both, but either possibility is dangerous.
Rocket turns onto his side, his tail flopping over his hip for warmth. All the males sleep on the floor in a giant huddle, Rocket and Pete in the middle. Groot leans against the far wall. All of them snooze deeply, their worries stuck behind them in the waking world.
But Rocket hasn't followed them yet. His mind runs a mile a minute, almost as fast as bird-girl's mouth, when he's distracted by something. Specifically, the sound of flapping wings.
It gets closer and louder, until it's right outside the open cell.
Rocket lifts an eyelid.
K'wirra, with all her shiny black feathers and her lack of self-preservation, glides inside. She's quiet in a way he thought she couldn't be. Her talons tickle the floor as she lands.
The guard doesn't even blink. Of course not. She's got wings and hips and stands under 3 feet—no threat there, right?
They ain't gonna check what's under those feathers, either. Probably scared they'd catch something.
She may look like all sparkling eyes and sugar-coated charm, but Rocket knows better than to trust her. Whether she's incompetent or cutthroat, she's dangerous. Smiles and warmth don't get you far in the cosmos. If she hadn't learned yet, she will soon.
He can't think of another reason that she'd act so damn giddy.
He hasn't felt as good as she acted probably ever, and yet here she comes, an inmate, locked up with a bunch of reprobates, and she's smiling. Singing. Yapping up a storm.
Just a cacophony of sounds.
Or she's stupid, and that's why she's wandered into the men's area late at night, sticking her beak places it shouldn't be.
The light out in the hall drapes her blackened back in yellow light.
Her feathers seem to sing with purpose. That yellow on her wings makes her glow like a marigold dipped in honey. He drags his eyes away and it's more difficult than he'd like.
She squints at Groot in the dark. Rocket sees just fine—and watches her feathers twitch, waiting for her to pull something.
She doesn't reach—doesn't have anything to reach with and suddenly he's not sure what he thought she'd pull. A knife? A blaster? Maybe he was being a little ridiculous—but he can see her leaning. Drawn in like a sunflower toward the sun, she tilts toward Rocket's sleeping companion.
"Don't even think about it," Rocket growls, his hackles rising when her claws shift.
K'wirra startles, wings twitching in a sharp flutter. She jerks her gaze to him and stumbles a step back, talons skittering against the floor. They're too long, making him want to wince at the inward twist of her toes. Somehow, he doesn't.
"Oh! You're awake." Her voice drops into a whisper, like that'll somehow make her intrusion better. "I wasn't—uh—I didn't mean—"
Rocket rolls his eyes, not that she'd see it, propping himself up on his elbows.
"You didn't mean to sneak into the cell and stare at my best friend while he's sleepin'? Could have fooled me."
"I was trying to see if he was asleep or not. It's just..." She trails off, looking behind her for a moment. Her wings flutter like nervous fans, rustling against her sides. "I tried sleeping in the women's block, but it's shoulder-to-shoulder. One of them, she must have been three times my size. She rolled over on my wing. Almost crushed it."
Rocket blinks.
He tries to imagine her like that, pinned down and flapping like crazy. He thought it'd be funny but there's something stale about the image.
"Lucky she didn't use you as a pillow," he says, sniffing. He lifts his lip, halfway sneering. "So, what? You figure Groot's the next best spruce to perch on?"
"Not exactly," she huffs, almost a laugh. Rocket's the one that's supposed to be laughing. Her crooked smile falls when she sees he isn't. "He was nice to me earlier. I thought, if he was awake, maybe he'd let me rest for a little while? I don't know. I just wanted to be somewhere that no one will crush me."
Rocket opens his mouth, then closes it again.
He's got a sharp reply ready—something snide, something to knock that soft smile clean off her face—but it gets tangled in his throat.
Because now she's just standing there, awkward and jittery like she's hopped up on too much caffeine. Her wings are drooping. Her eyes keep flicking toward Groot like maybe he'll wake up and vouch for her, but he doesn't. Just sits there sleeping while his roots grow into the cement.
It's just Rocket.
Rocket, who doesn't know what the hell to do with this soft, droopy-eyed, too-bright thing in front of him. Because each second that ticks by makes him second guess himself.
And she isn't wrong. Groot would let her sleep there. He'd let her braid flowers into his branches if she asked. Groot was always that kind of guy.
Rocket exhales, tail flicking with agitation as he drops back onto the floor.
He shouldn't care. He doesn't care.
But his brain—traitor that it is—won't stop dragging up images he doesn't want. Lylla, with her intuitive kindness. Teefs's easy grin. Floor, curled up and chittering in her sleep. All of them looked at him like that once—gentle, trusting, like maybe he could fix things.
The same way she's been looking at Rocket and Groot since she fluttered her way up to ask for a perch.
K'wirra doesn't have hands. No fists, no grip. Just wings and fluff and a voice that never stops. She's built for flying, not for fighting.
She's too soft.
And maybe that's why he hates her so much.
Because she reminds him of them. Of all the things he couldn't save.
Rocket huffs a breath, jerking his muzzle toward Groot. "Go on, then."
She doesn't move, just stands there. Staring, jaw slack.
"Are you deaf?" he says, louder than necessary. "Roost away or whatever it is you do."
Her beak snaps closed, clicking loudly.
There's a beat, like she's waiting for him to take it back.
Then her feathers puff, and she practically tiptoes over to Groot. She's careful—so damn careful—tucking herself just under the bend of his arm. Safe. Sheltered.
He watches her settle, watches the way her feathers dim under the shadows.
Rocket turns his back on her. His eyes close, his arm cushioning his head against the floor.
He doesn't say anything more, just huffs a frustrated breath. He starts thinking.
About plans. About escapes. About what it might look like if they break out—and who they might be bringing with them.
He tells himself he doesn't care. That Groot would be upset if she wasn't there when they broke out.
But somewhere in the back of his brain, the part still carrying ghosts, he already knows.
The cafeteria smells like hot metal and feet.
Rocket's nose wrinkles the second he steps inside. This kind of treatment ought to be illegal. The noise is nonstop: trays clanking, prisoners shouting, boots stomping like they're trying to make the place collapse on purpose.
Rocket waits in line anything but patiently.
He leads the group with his usual stride—short legs, big energy. Quill trails behind, trying to look like he belongs here. Gamora's scanning the room, sharp as ever, and Groot… Groot's just Groot. Calm. Steady. Rooted.
And then there's her.
K'wirra.
Nestled between Groot and Gamora in the food line, flapping those glossy wings like a puffed-up showbird. She's doing her best not to knock anyone in the face, but she's about as subtle as an air horn.
The lunch lady tosses her a look that could curdle milk.
Rocket sees the whole thing—how the bird winces, apologizes, and flutters up to perch on Groot's head like some kind of decorative parrot.
It's pathetic. And yet… strategic.
Smart of her, in a way. The Kyln chews up soft ones fast. If she weren't clinging to Groot like moss on a log, someone would've already tried to make a meal out of her.
He'd give her points for that if she weren't doing it with so much damned flair.
K'wirra scoots down the back of Groot's head. She even fans her wings for balance, dainty-like, to slide over and perch on one of his thick neck roots. Graceful in that annoyingly delicate way she does everything.
They shuffle down the line. Rocket tallies everything in the mess hall without breaking stride: guard rotations, camera sweeps, the flicker in the outer lights. Every beat gets logged, filed, slotted into the plan forming in his head.
Because tonight? They're blowing this joint.
Rocket leads the group through the mess. He jerks his chin toward the ugly metal spire in the middle of the Kyln—the thing's red, crusty, and teeming with power like a festering wound. That's their way out.
"If we're gonna get outta here, we need to get into that watchtower," Rocket says. He keeps his voice even, casual—like he's describing lunch options, not planning an escape from a max-security hellhole. "And to do that, I'm gonna need a few things."
His eyes land on a guard with a silver band embedded in his wrist. "The guards wear security bands to control their ins and outs. I need one."
Gamora nods without hesitation. "Leave it to me."
Rocket trusts her about as far as he can throw her, but when it comes to stabbing people silently, she's aces.
He angles his head toward a man nearby. One pant leg's hiked up to show a slim, silver prosthetic. "That dude. I need his leg."
Quill blinks and looks to Rocket with a brow raised. "His leg?"
"Yeah. God knows I don't need the rest of him." Rocket gestures broadly.
Peter nods, trying not to look too long at the prisoner in question. "All right."
"And finally, on the wall back there is a black panel. Blinky yellow light. Do you see it?"
Behind him, K'wirra hums—literally. A little sing-song tune, like she's out on a stroll instead of neck-deep in felons. Then he sees it—
Blink. Blink. Blink.
She's chirping in time with the light, showing just how much attention she's paying to the escape plan.
Rocket turns just in time to catch her smiling like a dope, perched pretty on Groot's branch.
He sets down the trays with a soft 'clink', and Rocket climbs onto the bench, stretching his legs like a king reclaiming his throne. His nose wrinkles at his own food. Standard-issue sludge.
The bird hops down and lands smack on the table, making Quill flinch. Her beak dips to the nearest cup, and Rocket braces for gagging. Instead, she sniffs at it, head tilted.
K'wirra glances up mid-sniff, catches Rocket's eye, and flashes him a little chirpy smile. Not shiny and clueless like before. Just… tired.
It bugs him how that sticks in his chest, but he tamps it down and tries to forget it.
"Yeah," Peter says, leaning on his elbow.
"There's a quarnyx battery behind it. Purplish box, green wires. To get into that watchtower, I definitely need it."
"How are we supposed to do that?" Gamora questions, her arms hanging limp at her sides.
"It's twenty feet up in the air," Peter starts, gesturing his hand. K'wirra has to duck under it to avoid a sideswipe, squawking. "And it's in the middle of the most heavily-guarded part of the prison. It's impossible to get up there without being seen."
"I can fly that high," she offers, fluffing slightly. "Not unseen, but maybe fast enough no one'll care?"
He gives her a look. Not skeptical, not encouraging—just sizing her up like a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit. She's small, fast, sure of herself, but she's also loud and sparkly.
He grits his teeth. He'd made every excuse for the bird in his head and she still makes him seethe.
"I got one plan," he says, voice rising just enough to shut everyone up. "And that plan requires a frickin' quarnyx battery, so figure it out!"
K'wirra blinks at him, wide-eyed but not retreating.
She grins at him. Not smug. Not mocking. Just warm, like she believes he's capable of pulling this off, no matter what.
And that's worse somehow.
Even more infuriating is the twist in his chest when she does it.
She's still soft.
But maybe—just maybe—Rocket doesn't hate that as much as he wants to. And that makes him angry.
"Now, this is important. Once the battery is removed, everything is gonna slam into emergency mode. Once we have it, you gotta move quickly, so you definitely gotta get that last."
As the word leaves his lips, the power cuts. The emergency lights go on so fast there's no time for the room to go black. Shocked, they look around until Rocket lays eyes on the culprit.
Groot.
Looking proud, the Flora Colossus holds out the battery like a peace offering.
Rocket just wants to rip his fur out. "Or we could just get it first and improvise," he says, feeling close to the end of his rope.
Gamora stands abruptly, stalking off as she says, "I'll get the armband."
"Leg," Pete says simply, pushing away from the table.
Rocket groans, smoothing his hands over his eyes while Gamora and Peter get on their acquisitions.
K'wirra's wings flare like an upset infant's arms. "But I wanted to get the battery!"
"Too bad!" he shouts over the commotion. "Go be a lookout, or a distraction."
She races alongside him, feathers flaring. "I can do more than that."
"Fine," he grunts. Now, how to make her less distracting for Rocket. "You wanna help? Keep up. No noise, no shine, no singing. And stay outta the way."
K'wirra grins, wild and flushed, as the sirens begin to howl.
"Got it," she chirps. She turns away, then tosses over her shoulder, "But no promises on the noise, the shine, or the singing."
He sighs as she takes off, reminding himself that it's not his fault if she gets herself killed.
Then, from the tunnel-like corridors that lead all over the Kyln, there come a number of drones. They fly high, surrounding Groot in a flying circle.
Each one is red-painted, just like everything else in this shit hole. They sport dual laser blasters rigged up under their blocky bodies.
Overhead speakers blare loudly as a guard orders over the PA, "Prisoner. Drop the device immediately and retreat to your cell, or we will open fire."
While the other inmates turn tail, Rocket ducks under the table to save his hide a few singes.
Without his weapons, he's a sitting duck. Groot should've known that, but then again there were a lot of things he should've known.
Hearing Rocket's entire plan before enacting said plan would be one.
"I am Groot!" Groot screams, stretching the 'o', sap flying from his wide-open maw. In moments, the drones fire on him. His wooden limbs rise up to block their shots, sending splinters in every direction.
Into the sky, she stretches like bubblegum from the Rajakian bazaar. Her black wings look almost pink, the shades of haunting red shimmering off her feathers just right.
"Stop that!" K'wirra orders the drones, a look of ire on her face. Rocket didn't think he'd see the day.
Then, when it doesn't listen, she flies straight at it.
Her talons make purchase around it's lower arms, the ones that pilot its gun barrels. Instead of scratching or tackling it like he thought she would, she pries it's back maintenance panel open, takes a beakful of wires, and yanks. Rocket recognizes that she's unplugged it's power source, but he can't help wondering how she knew that would work. Maybe it was a true Hail Mary.
The drone goes down. She flaps her wings and rejoins the battle, rebounding easily into the air.
Rocket has to shut his wide-open mouth. He blinks, stunned. Then curses under his breath. Okay, not useless. Clever, even. But that doesn't mean he has to like her.
Rocket shoots from under the table. He dodges bright yellow lasers like it's going out of fashion. The stench of burning fur makes his nose itch and his stomach clench.
"All prisoners, return to your sleeping areas," carries the voice over the PA.
As he scampers out of the way, he's so focused he doesn't see K'wirra coming. Her talons, though sharp, curl delicately around his upper arms. She's infuriatingly soft, even when she's helping. Her gleeful voice tumbles over his shoulder.
"I've never been part of a prison riot before! It's kind of exciting!"
She swoops around, then drops him on Groot's back. Drawing into a larger circle, she swirls around to survey the scene.
"You idiot!" Rocket tears into Groot, clawing his way up to the tree's shoulder. "How am I supposed to fight them without my stuff?!"
Groot grows a twig shield on his arm and uses it to block the gunfire that would've hit Rocket. He uses his other hand to take out the drone, swiping it in a wide arc.
"Creepy little beast!" Drax's voice rings out.
He wouldn't normally answer to it, but he knows it's supposed to be him. His head swings around just in time. He catches the rifle—Drax's throw. The gray-skinned man smiles up at him like nothing's amiss, then vanishes back into the chaos.
Racking a round in the chamber, Rocket pauses to savor the feeling of the weapon in his hands.
"Oh, yeah."
With aplomb, he fires wildly. He screams at the top of his lungs, a mix of anger and relief. He litters the room with laser holes, shooting near indiscriminately with one paw on Groot's bark to keep him stable.
Does the yelling accomplish anything? No. Does it make him feel lighter? Hell yes.
All too soon, the clip is empty. He tosses the hunk of metal away, his head turning to watch the fight. In swoops his ally—and he's more certain of that term by the minute— with something shiny gripped in one talon. She points her wing like a finger gun, one eye shut to pretend aim.
"Pew, pew, pew!" she chirps as she lands one-legged on top of Groot's head. She giggles behind her wing, stopping suddenly to say, "Oh, Gamora gave me this. It's for you!"
She holds up her foot, dropping the security band into his waiting palm. He nods, taking the device and watching as she takes flight, a few of her downy feathers fluttering in the space she voids.
"I am Groot."
"Can you leave it be?! Just get to the watchtower!" Rocket snarls. The nerve of the big lug to say he was staring at her. "I was observing her. I don't trust her yet, and you shouldn't either."
There are plenty of reasons to look at your allies that have nothing to do with their cute—their smiles, he tells himself internally. It's an attempt to convince himself, but he's ruined the delivery.
The lumbering log makes his way there as instructed. Everyone else finds their own way, but Rocket's beady eyes flit to the colorful flier. His hands move rapidly around the quarnyx battery, attaching the security band to it with ease. He barely looks at the thing in his hands, has to double check that he didn't make a stupid mistake.
He cuts himself off before he admits something he doesn't want to, even to himself. Groot's legs grow long, his upper body rising to the watch tower's bridge so Rocket can ease himself through the railing.
Pete and Drax are still climbing up Groot's legs. Gamora runs up the bridge. K'wirra beelines her way to them, swooping close and landing next to Rocket.
When all six of them are up, Rocket steps forward. In the alcove of the watch tower door, the bombardment is a little quieter. He has enough time to think about the next part of the plan while the security band beeps at him, his fingers pressing buttons like mad.
The clear glass doors slide open. The single guard stationed there raises his hands in surrender, swiveling his chair to face them. Rocket swaggers inside, battery and band tucked under his arm, and the rest follow. Groot's branches wind inside, tearing the guard out of his seat and tossing him off the bridge succinctly.
They crowd behind Rocket while he concerns himself with hooking up the battery and armband to the main systems. It'll give him access to everything he needs.
"Spare me your foul gaze, woman." Drax growls, his voice low and resonant.
"Why is this one here?" Gamora snaps back, eyes hard.
They square off, same as last night in the showers, all rigid shoulders and simmering tempers. Two immovable objects in one cramped space.
Both of them look to Quill for judgment.
Peter holds up a hand like he's trying to halt an oncoming train. "We promised him he could stay by your side until he kills your boss," he says. "I always keep my promises... when they're to muscle-bound whack-jobs who will kill me if I don't. Here you go."
He slaps a metallic leg down on the nearest console with a loud clang.
Rocket doesn't even look up from the controls he's working—fingers dancing and twisting wires and circuits like he's conducting a manic symphony. "Oh, I was just kidding about the leg. I just need these two things," Rocket mutters.
"What?"
A smile starts to form on Rocket's face as he pictures the scene: An old guy running around without his peg leg.
"No, I thought it'd be funny. Was it funny?" He snickers, turning around briefly to smile in Quill's direction. "Oh, wait, what did he look like hopping around?"
Peter stands there, his mouth open and his face deadpan.
"I had to transfer him 30,000 units!" He exclaims.
Rocket nearly folds over the console, a wicked chuckle tearing out of him.
K'wirra barks out a laugh bigger than she is—startling, unrestrained—and it fills the small room.
Perched lightly on the console like a brightly-feathered gargoyle, she watches Rocket with wide, shining eyes. Every twitch of his hands pulls her attention like a magnet.
Rocket tries to rein it in, scowling half-heartedly. The corner of his mouth betrays him anyway, tugging upward.
K'wirra's laughter dies down, but the brightness doesn't leave her. Her body leans forward, openly watching him work.
He snaps his head back to the screen. His ears burn hot, and his fur feels like it's trying to stand up straight under her gaze.
Focus, idiot.
"How are we going to leave?" Drax asks stiffly.
Before Rocket can answer, a sharp whine splits the air and a drone's gunfire blasts against the window, scattering sparks. Peter ducks down, throwing his arms over his head.
"Well, he's got a plan. Right?" he says, fishing for confirmation. "Or is that another thing you made up?"
"I have a plan! I have a plan!" Rocket assures, sliding to the left side of the controls. The battery's hooked up; now he just has to tweak the settings. What a bother.
"Cease your yammering and relieve us from this irksome confinement."
"Well, I'm gonna have to agree with the walking thesaurus on that one," Peter admits, a hand scratching behind his ear.
Drax turns on him with a wild-eyed glare. "Do not ever call me a thesaurus."
"It's just a metaphor, dude."
Rocket, leaning over the touch controls to turn a few knobs above the screen, warns Quill. "His people are completely literal. Metaphors are gonna go over his head."
"Nothing goes over my head," Drax refutes quickly. "My reflexes are too fast. I would catch it."
K'wirra lets out a sharp, delighted bark of laughter. It ricochets off the steel walls and makes Rocket's ears flick without his permission. "That will literally never get old!"
He needs his head in the game.
Gamora stares straight ahead. "I'm gonna die surrounded by the biggest idiots in the galaxy."
Outside the sealed room, more heavily armed guards pour into the panopticon, their armor clinking rhythmically as they form lines.
Inside, Rocket keeps working, the seconds ticking down too fast. His black-skinned fingers tap, rewire, reroute. Almost there.
Tap. Tap. Scritch.
A soft tapping at his right side pulls his ear. He flicks a glance over: K'wirra, perched on the console edge, tapping a single talon lightly against the metal.
"You always this grumpy when you work?" she asks, tone lilting, curious.
"Only when I'm saving the lives of people I barely tolerate," Rocket snaps, but there's no heat behind it.
Instead of wilting, her smile grows. Dangerous.
Rocket growls low, more embarrassed than angry. Had he just admitted to tolerating her?
Outside, the guards start counting down. Each count, they send a shot at the tower, the floor rumbling.
"Rodent, we are ready for your plan," Gamora impresses, her face as still as stone.
"Hold on!" Rocket snarls, shifting to the other side of the control bench. He takes less joy in shooing K'wirra away from the controls than he thought he would.
K'wirra flutters out of the way with a grin that says she's enjoying the chaos way too much.
"I recognize this animal," Drax says conversationally, looming nearby with his eyes on the rodent. "We would roast them over flame pits as children. Their flesh was quite delicious."
Rocket looks over his shoulder, screaming as he yanks a few wires up to the surface, "Not helping!"
"All fire! On my command!" says the guard commander from below, his voice scratchy and far-off. The windows around the tower are already beginning to crumble under the assault. One more hit and they're done for. "Three! Two! One!"
Lucky that he's faster than the countdown.
At the last second, he sticks a pair of mismatched plugs together with a crackle of energy. The whole tower shudders—and suddenly, everything outside the walls floats.
The guards below lift into the air like weightless dolls. Inside, they stay grounded. K'wirra crows in glee, and even Gamora lets out a low, amused sound.
"You turned off the artificial gravity. Everywhere but here." She leans on the console, eyeing prisoners hitting the ceilings of their cells.
He jams another control forward, and with a deep groan, the room lurches sideways, drifting from the tower like a boat breaking free of its mooring.
The room lists sideways for half a second. Peter yelps and grabs a railing. K'wirra bats her wings lightly.
Rocket doesn't falter. He pilots a swarm of drones up from below with a few vicious flicks of the controls. Kneeling on the surface to reach the back of the controls, he guides them toward the loose watchtower room.
Multiple metal arms clamp around their little floating island, locking it tight.
Easing the thrust in, the drones drive them down, evening out at floor level to dart forward. A metal sliding door opens just in time for them to cruise through.
The corridor barely fits the craft, its corners scraping the walls. An unfortunate guard flees but ultimately is crushed between the room and the walls when it slides into the impound department. The room shudders to a halt, slamming into the wall at the end of the corridor.
Rocket flattens his palm against a big button, closing the security door behind them. That should buy them some time.
"That was a pretty good plan," Peter admits, chin angled.
"Eh?" comes the sound from Rocket, holding out his arms as though saying 'see?'
"'Pretty good'? That doesn't even begin to cover it!" K'wirra hollers, her wings snapping the air in exhilaration and lifting her off the surface slightly.. "I was shaking in my feathers. I kind of liked it, though!"
Peter doesn't waste a second—he charges forward and kicks out the nearest window panel with a loud crash. Shards rain down over the docking bay. K'wirra is the next to exit, her large wings carrying her through as the rest of them follow.
They land in a crouch on the dock floor below, thankfully in an unguarded area of the prison. The impound section was empty save for the six of them and the wreckage. Drax, Groot, and Gamora pull their chests out of storage.
"There it is!" Peter shouts, pointing through a window across the room. Outside, stashed in a far corner of the docking bay was a sharp-looking star cruiser. "The orange and blue one in the corner! That's my ship—the Milano!"
One by one, they all gather themselves: Drax with his twin daggers, Gamora checking the weight of her blades with professional detachment.
Rocket finds his own clothes crumpled into a ball, stuffed under some broken power cells. He doesn't waste a second, not caring to look for a changing room. Tearing off the inmate uniform with a scowl, he shimmies back into the familiar orange and black jumpsuit, feeling a little more like himself with every tug of the zipper.
At the edge of the wrecked impound room, K'wirra is slower, more deliberate.
At the edge of the wreckage, K'wirra worked more slowly.
Rocket caught her from the corner of his eye: crouched on the floor, carefully spreading a tangled series of thin strings across the ground.
She lay back atop them, wings tucked close, and began the work—no hands, no fingers, just curved talons and the quick, sure snip of her beak. She pulled the strings over her shoulders, criss-crossing them across her breast. Her talons twisted and cinched knots, tight and practiced, while her beak drew fine ties flush against her sides.
At one point, she paused only long enough to slide a slim, flat shiv under the binds around her ribs, followed by a dense metal nail tucked neatly along her hip. The bone handle of the shiv was thick, oddly shaped—but it fit her talon like it was made for it.
For just a second—just a breath—Rocket's claws tightened on the zipper at his neck.
She wasn't the clumsy croaking mess he'd pegged her as.
This—this was something else. Slow, methodical, almost mesmerizing. She moved like someone who had been trained to survive—not with brute force, but with careful, desperate ingenuity. Tying knots with clawed feet. Shaping a weapon to fit a bird's grip.
Like someone who isn't just a flashy distraction.
And Rocket doesn't know whether to feel impressed or annoyed he hadn't caught onto that sooner.
As K'wirra finishes tying the last knot, she stands and gives herself one final check over. She rearranges her feathers with her curved beak, concealing her tools completely.
"Ready when you are," she says. Her jade eyes are still wide, shimmering with glee, but there's something far sharper in her gaze now. And he realizes it's not a matter of being cutthroat or incompetent.
Rocket doesn't say a word, but his black-padded fingers finally letting go of the zipper. He can't help but wonder—how in the world can she be both?
