nysalogs | come on, let's see what you've got

Entry tags:

come on, let's see what you've got

Who: Peter Quill (

nostalgiabomb) and maybe you?!
What: memshares and quests!
When: April??
Where: mostly Wyver and the Edrathe Ruins
Warning(s): possible violence; mentions of child murder

i. private: oh telephone line, give me some time; backdated to April 9th-ish

[ Do the Guardians have a group chat? They probably do. That sounds like it should be a thing, right? If not, apparently Peter is creating it by sending the following message: ]

Does anyone want to explain to me why I keep getting stuffed in a freezer up in space?

I'm starting to feel like last night's leftovers.

[ He's probably not expecting a real answer. Or any answer at all, honestly. Mostly he just wants to give a heads-up that he's back. Somehow. For better or worse. ]

ii. wyver: of red and black;

[ Peter's still reasonably sure that both Olympia and Wyver are batshit insane, so he feels no obligation to exhibit any sort of loyalty to either side. Especially not after those crazy cultists dropped him off in a maze with little more than a quick pat on the back and a, "Good luck not dying."

Assholes.

Apparently the craziness is more or less over, but Peter is still wary about stepping back into Wyver, even with the so-called "tour group." He knows his way around the city, but there's something to be said about playing dumb. He keeps his wits about him, keeps one hand hovering close to the grip of his blaster, and keeps an eye out for suspicious activity with all the attention he usually reserves for when he thinks someone with sticky fingers is about to pick his pocket.

When they reach the Forge, he pauses at the displays. The items aren't for sale, but a smith humors him and pulls out a sword to let Peter examine it.

He doesn't know what the fuck he's looking for – swords aren't really his thing – but, listen, Peter's a simple guy, and swords are really cool. ]

iii. forgetting is so long, vol. 1;

[ Wherever you were, whatever you were doing, it doesn't matter.

Welcome to the jungle.

—No, just kidding. But you are standing in the clearing of some sort of dense forest, with bright sunlight filtering down through the thick canopy. All things considered, it's not too different from some of the wooded areas on El Nysa.

What might come as a surprise is the boy clad in maroon standing with a blaster raised. The uniform he wears looks brand new and pristine, as does the gun he's weilding. Beside him, a blue-skinned man, his own uniform clearly older and well-used, leans over his shoulder.

"Get the target in your sights, Quill," the blue-skinned man says. "Line it up. Take your time."

The boy, Quill, apparently, tries to smother his smile and fails at it entirely. He aims at a target carved into the bark of a wide, petrified tree. He breathes, and on his third exhale, he squeezes the trigger. The blast of plasma surges from the gun, slamming into the tree a foot below the target. His smile fades a little, but the blue-skinned man beside him barks out a proud laugh, tousling the boy's hair.

"Now, that ain't bad, boy. That ain't bad at all. Try it again." ]

iv. forgetting is so long, vol. 2;

[ In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Welcome to a giant, ornately decorated palace, with what looks like floating pearlescent eggs lining a single pathway. In it, a grey-haired man stands with Peter Quill. And the bastard is monologuing while Peter stands literally hypnotized, his eyes glazed over with thousands of stars. Explaining his evil plan to dominate the cosmos. Complaining about the failures after he banged his way through the galaxy to make a magic kid.

Charming. ]

v. edrathe ruins: actual pillars;

[ Peter has a bad habit of throwing himself into work when he wants to avoid thinking about certain things. Easier to keep himself occupied than to dwell, right? Plus, the siren call of a pocketful of silver definitely helps.

A couple of jobs take him to the same place, so why not kill two birds with one stone?

The Edrathe Ruins are every bit as creepy as Peter imagined. Dead and deserted. The sort of place that would definitely spew out animated skeletons or zombies or a million different shambling monsters, if given half a chance. ]

You don't think these pillars are cursed, do you? Or, like, secretly guarding some all-powerful weapon? I have a bad track record with ancient relics.

vi. edrathe ruins: secret cache and/or crystal drops;

[ Archaeology and recovering history lost to time is all good and well, and maybe searching out the pillars scratched an old itch in Peter to live out a life Indiana Jones might be proud of, but better still is the promise of profit.

And even better is the promise of "riches beyond your wildest dreams" – and Peter's dreams can get pretty buckwild, honestly.

It's why he finds himself here, in the ice cave of doom. He's had some shitty experiences with chilly caves in the recent past, but apparently that hasn't deterred him. He holds aloft a burning torch – how sadly low-tech is that? – with gloved hands. ]

Okay. No sudden movements, keep your eyes peeled, keep moving, and we should probably get through this without losing any fingers or toes.

vii. wildcard;

want to throw him into your memory? go for it! want a different memory? pm this journal or pp me at lampshading!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Rocket responded to that Guardians "group chat" with a lot of swearing and secret gratitude that he didn't lose his memories again, and then he let Gamora handle the rest, because it's Gamora and she's terrifying and all Rocket will do is throw things at him.

So he bides his time. Lets things marinate, and then when they arrive back on planet, he comes up behind him admiring swords and speaks up loudly in an attempt to startle him.]

Lookin' for an "I'm sorry for vanishing even though it totally wasn't my fault" present for Gamora?

[Hi. :)]

[ Listen, Peter can be a jumpy bastard, sometimes, and that only gets exacerbated by the fact that his teammates, knowingly or not, like to sneak up on him like cats screeching out into the night as cheap jump scares in horror movies.

So predictably, Peter flinches. And thankfully, he doesn’t slice off anyone’s appendages with the sword in his hand, his own especially, and he doesn’t instinctively swing the sword around in a sword-like fashion.

Once he’s reasonably sure his heart isn’t about to explode: ]

What the hell, Rocket?

[ And quickly on the heels of that, ]

It wasn’t my fault.

[ That’s his story, and he’s sticking to it. ]

Oh trust me, I know, but givin' you shit about it is hilarious.

[Rocket saunters up closer, though he has to stand on his tiptoes to even see the selection. He's not much of a blade guy, but he might be able to make something out of the cheaper stuff. He's been bored and restless since That Happened.]

Almost as hilarious as you thinkin' you're gonna use that thing.

In what way is me getting stuffed into a freezer hilarious?

[ life is pain.

And life is all about adding insult to injury, apparently, because Peter's expression pinches, affronted. ]

There's nothing hilarious about that, either. I'd do just fine, thanks. If I wanted to, which I don't.

[ Peter isn't aware that swinging around broomsticks and making lightsaber noises doesn't count as actual training, it seems. ]

[A shrug and a wave of his furry arm, the weirdly cheeky grin still plastered on his face.] In the way that everything that happens to you, most of the time, is kinda intrinsically hilarious.

[With friends like these?? Not that Rocket can talk. First of all, the average longsword could be used to build a shelter with for him. And he is in no way subtle enough for a dagger to be in any way effective.

But when has that stopped him from being a shithead?] You were out for awhile, dude. I gotta take material where I can get it.

[ Peter glowers at Rocket in a way that suggests that he’s lucky that Peter doesn’t use this sword on him, then and there.

Why are Peter’s friends like this? Why can’t they empathize and commiserate with him? Why can’t they be, like, “hey, that’s rough, buddy”?

These questions and more.

He sets the sword carefully atop the display case. It’s— you know. Cool for a sword, Peter guesses. (A lot of swords are cool, if he’s honest.) But that’s a thought for another time, and he cuts Rocket a quick glance. ]

About that.

[ Peter’s been more or less asleep for, like, three weeks. Gamora mentioned the kidnapping thing, and how Mantis is, like, a hero or whatever, but Peter’s missing out on a lot of the details. ]

You wanna fill me in on what I missed?

[All the humor drains from his fuzzy face and were he human, all the color would have faded too. There was always a chance that the question would be asked- being that he and Mantis were highly Involved in those matters on opposite sides and no one could tell it like he could- but he was still hoping to put it off. Banter a little, knock Quill off-balance so he forgets there's even something to talk about, etc. and so forth. He's learned there's a noble art to throwing people off the scent of whatever he doesn't want to discuss, but the problem is he's stopped using teeth- he doesn't want them to outright leave after all. Not anymore.

Unfortunately, being snappy and vicious meant you never had to talk about things you didn't want to talk about.... Until sour old men cornered you and demanded you confront it. Quill's no Yondu, but Rocket has a sneaking suspicion he's cottoned onto a lot of his tricks.

That doesn't make any of it easier, and the pointlessness of it doesn't negate him wanting to try.

He crosses his arms over his chest and faces away, putting on a grand show of being nonplussed, yet agitated.] You oughta know by now what you missed. It's all everybody's been talkin' about.

[ Yeah. That’s telling.

Peter frowns at Rocket, turning to face him. ]

Sure, but I haven’t heard it from you.

[ Which is the crux of the matter. Peter can listen in on rumors and propaganda all day, if he wants to, but that’s nowhere near the same as hearing it in Rocket’s words. And the guy has been downright dodgy about it, which is a sure sign that it was not okay. Or at least, that it wasn’t as much of a nonissue as Rocket tries to let on.

Peter thinks he has a pretty good idea of some of Rocket’s tells, and he thinks that if Rocket were bitching about it more, if he were berating the kidnappers’ methods or complaining about, like, the sheer inconvenience of it all, then Peter would have nothing to worry about.

It’s a trait that the two of them share, he thinks. Make a big fuss over the small stuff so no one even thinks to glance over at the big stuff lurking in the wings.

And if anyone is well-versed in the art of distraction, it’s definitely Peter. ]

[Rocket's tail swishes back and forth that calls to mind a cat on a windowsill, glowering at birds it's unable to hunt- all caged frustration and annoyance at the unfairness of the world. It might even be comical on any other day.]

Look, it wasn't as bad as it could've been, all right? I got treated the same as everybody else did. It was a good reprieve. I commend those psychopaths for their restraint at not actin' like I'm some kind of animal.

[The but is implied. There's a second where it looks like he might not even go on, but he grits his teeth and does so, just to save time and further prodding.] But no, that did not make it better or easier or less awful. And, honestly? I'm startin' to think this planet has it in for me.

[If he had even an iota of self-awareness he might realize that's because of his own actions. He causes trouble a lot of the time]

[ Peter's not a patient guy, usually, but he does understand the value of good timing, of waiting for your moments.

He has a speech all chambered and ready to go, some bullshit about knowing that Rocket's used to living the lone wolf lifestyle and that he gets why Rocket would be cagey about ever saying he felt vulnerable. It would probably go on to emphasize the fact that the team is here for Rocket, whether he wants them to be or not, and that's part of the perks of having a family now – that you can fall back on them, no matter what.

But.

He blinks in surprise when Rocket moves on unprompted, straightening a little and very slightly rocking back. ]

Oh.

[ Just a small, startled sound almost punched out of him.

... okay. He'll keep the speech saved for later. For now, Peter frowns, fingertips tapping against the display case as he thinks. Then, ]

You wanna get a drink and tell me what happened?

[ because booze seems to be the best spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down. ]

[Rocket crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs his shoulders up so far they brush against the fur on his face. It's those little acts, totally alien to a normal raccoon, of body language that at least remind him he has enough work put into him that he shouldn't have to always assume he'll be treated with disrespect. It doesn't happen all the time. It doesn't even happen half the time.

But the times it does cut so deeply that it's easier to prepare for, rather than be blindsided.]

Screw you. [It's that half-hearted mumbling of a child who has been told he needs to go to bed, only with the sharp tongue of someone much older and jaded. A beat, not even long enough to get in a proper "hey man what the hell" out of Peter, and then...

Rocket relaxes his shoulders.] All right, fine. You're payin' though.

[Cooperation without screaming for ten minutes about is weird and unnerving, and he's never going to be used to it, so he combats it with whatever brattiness he can make do with.]

[ The complaint is met with a flat, unimpressed look – the kind that says, “I expected that, but I’m still so disappointed.” He doesn’t get the opportunity to appropriately follow up, though, and Rocket’s eventual agreement earns a dramatic eye roll.

Typical. ]

We’re stickin’ to the bottom shelf crap, then.

[ Because Peter is stingy. A holdover from his Ravager days, where he saved every scrap he could.

He waves the blacksmith down, and the sword is returned to its place in the case.

(Peter may or may not be making a mental note to bring Gamora back here to see if anything catches her eye. Not because he’s sorry, since him taking a freezer-nap was still not his fault, but because she’s been, you know, pretty cool with him lately. Plus, he owes her for saving his ass back in the labyrinth. (It almost occurs to him that this is the sort of thing a guy might do with his girlfriend, bringing her to a jewelry shop and scooping up whatever she expresses an interest in when her back is turned. But it doesn’t, because they are emphatically not a couple.))

Wyver being what it is means it’s not all that difficult to find a bar, and even less difficult to find the sort of dive he and Rocket probably haunted back in their own world. Shabby, but not completely shabby, where the pours are heavy and the clientele minds its own goddamn business. With drinks order and a booth secured, Peter studies Rocket over the lip of his mug. ]

So? What happened?

Is that any way to treat a guy who's been through some shit?

[It's dry and lacking any real argument. He doesn't particularly care either way- getting Peter's goat is as good as alcohol when it comes to making him feel less like lukewarm shit. He does plan on getting raucously drunk, however.

Alcohol makes you feel warm, after all, and it seems like he's always frickin' cold. The fact that he greedily goes for the mug and downs half of it before Peter can even ask a question speaks to both that fact and the fact that Rocket feels like this is not a sober conversation. The buzz tingles at the back of his head and the alcohol burns going down and he feels more at ease already.

Well, mostly. Rocket's "at ease" is a normal person's cautiously paranoid. Wyver dives might be his kind of place, but right now he's constantly on the look out for suspicious parties or shamans.] I dunno if there's even a lot to tell, man. One minute I'm mindin' my own frickin' business, and then the next I'm in an ice cave gettin' water dumped on me every hour while a bunch of religious whackjobs ask me questions I can't answer.

[ Welp.

Peter watches Rocket down half the mug, then he glances down at the mug in his own hand. Then, he takes a very, very sedate sip of his drink.

Evidently, Peter’s playing designated driver today, which isn’t particularly surprising. Peter’s the one who suggested drinks; if he minded having to keep an eye on Rocket, he would’ve suggested literally anything else. Chaperoning a trigger-happy, drunken raccoon isn’t exactly the perfect recipe for a relaxing afternoon, but it’s the least he owes the guy. (Peter should’ve been there, after all. He should’ve helped.

Except he was stuck in a fridge for who the fuck knows why, and that guilt quietly twists in his gut.) ]

Fuck those guys.

[ Not exactly his most eloquent comment, but at least he can say it with confidence and a metric fuckton of vitriol. ]

What were they even trying to find out?

Yeah. Fuck 'em. [Rocket takes another hearty swig but seems to be pacing himself now, so there's that, at least. He's still planning on getting drunk enough to be sick, but at least he's trying to maintain coherency for some of that time.

The question is one he's had to ask himself for awhile. He knows the basic idea of what they wanted, but not why.]

I dunno. [He waves a hand.] I think they suspect there's something weird about us "refugees" and they wanna know what it is. It was damn tempting to give Darma up to see if she or her goons stepped in, but I didn't wanna let those assholes win.

Doubt they would've believed you, anyway. Even if you told them the truth.

[ "That's no moon" is the sort of line that only works in a particular context, anyway.

Peter ducks his head a little, trying to get a better look at Rocket's face. ]

You holding up okay?

[Rocket shifts his gaze upwards for a brief second and then immediately looks back down.] I'm alive, so I could be worse. I'm still shaking off the cold, but none of my extremities froze to the point of non-use, so that's fantastic.

What else d'you want me to say? 'Cause if you're wantin' me to cry into my beer about how life is agony and I'm so distraught over this experience, you're gonna be left wantin'.

[ Peter lets out a sharp breath. He expected the kind of snippy answer, really, so he’s not really surprised.

But he has recently be shoved into a freezer, and before that he had been kidnapped and left in a death maze, so his patience is wearing pretty thin. Maybe on a different day, Peter would just sigh and leave it alone.

Today, he doesn’t. ]

Listen, man, I’m not askin’ you to give me your life story, here, and I’m not looking for a deep dive on your feelings, and I’m not waiting on waterworks and ugly sobbing. You’re a tough guy. I know that. I get that you’ve been through worse shit than this.

I’m just asking if you’re okay. And I’m asking, because I wanna actually know, and I wanna know how I can help, if you even want that. We’re friends. You get that, right? And I’m allowed to wonder how you’re holding up.

[ He watches Rocket for a breath longer before shrugging. ]

But we can forget it.

[Well. That was more than he expected to get. Rocket has yet to have experienced a very particular defining moment regarding his relationship with Quill, and while he has mellowed and hasn't tried anything unbelievably idiotic in the name of proving what a giant prick he can be and test the limits of any relationship he engages in... He still hasn't quite grasped that some things don't have stipulations.

And he sure as hell isn't used to people caring on that deep of a level. Groot- the previous incarnation- was a giant sap, and Rocket took it for granted that his affection was unconditional, because he assumed Groot was too stupid to know when to leave. He didn't realize until that last moment that sort of affection was deeper than he ever knew.

And yet, that was the exception and not the rule.

So Rocket's stunned. His glass sits with the last chug of liquor untouched between his disconcertingly human-like hands. He opens his mouth to say something a few times, stops himself, and then tries to collect his thoughts. Instinctively, the first few things out of his mouth were sour and insulting, but he doesn't want to meet genuine concern for his well-being with more caustic words. He can choose his words- his insulting demeanor is never about saying what comes to mind, after all, but rather saying what will provide the best defense.]

I'm okay. [This time he says it with a bit more honesty.] It sucked, and I kinda wanna kill anyone who might be left just so it don't happen again, but that's gonna take time.

[There's a suggestion in there, awkwardly sandwiched between a fact and a hypothetical. He doesn't know what else to do to help himself, much less offer a suggestion to someone else, but showing a willingness to cooperate is probably a good first step, even if it is awkwardly phrased as to not be asking directly.]

[ Admittedly, that’s.

A very worrying silence.

And, listen, Peter can usually tell when he’s overstepped a boundary, or when he’s spoken out of turn, or when he’s just being a prick – but all things considered, this doesn’t feel like one of those moments. In the short time the Guardians have been together – before they arrived here, anyway – it was pretty much understood that Peter had a bad habit of caring. A lot. About little, stupid things that didn’t warrant the attention he gave them. About big, huge things that surprised no one. And all the things in between.

Of course that’s going to extend tenfold to the folks he gives a shit about.

He wonders if Rocket is about to shut down on him, though, the same way they had before they ended up here. Peter never could figure out what the hell was up with the guy, why his words and insults kept getting sharper and sharper, his actions becoming more and more reckless. And they’ve never really hashed it out, have they?

But Rocket surprises Peter – maybe both of them, honestly – by actually answering, instead of blowing him off. Which is why Peter does him the courtesy of taking him seriously. ]

I get that.

[ And he says it slowly, thoughtfully. ]

This place seriously blows.

[ Peter’s pretty sure he hasn’t said that yet today. He’s just trying to meet quota.

At length, he chews on his lip, looking down at his mug. He’s not exactly the advice-giver in the group, but he’s the closest thing they’ve probably got. But it’s not like he has an easy solution for not feeling like crap after literal torture. (He still hasn’t gotten over his own bout with Ego and those fucking light tentacles, and Rocket’s had it about a million times worse over the course of his short life.) ]

I know you don’t need me to tell you that killing those guys isn’t gonna help. [ And he states it like a fact. Obviously if Rocket seriously felt that way, those dudes would be 100% dead. Vapor dust, even. ] But— how ‘bout every time you start feeling like that, you come find me?

[While Peter is mulling that over, Rocket downs the last of the alcohol like admitting something like that was agony. His ears flick and he gives his head a good shake, followed by a frustrated pawing at his muzzle, suggesting two things have happened- his head feels fuzzy and the burn of the liquor has hit his sinus cavities and it's triggered some involuntary animal response he didn't ask for or need right now.

He slaps his hands back down on the table and, as he's wont to do when instinct overwhelms reason, just ignores it. Like his grooming rituals, these things are best left unmentioned.]

Yeah? And what are we, as a pair, gonna do about it? [The caustic tone has returned just slightly, but it seems less like a kneejerk reaction than it is mere frustration. The defeated expression on his face says he's open to suggestions and not shutting them out on principle.]

I dunno. Get seriously shitfaced?

[ The Ravager way. ]

Maybe beat the crap out of some punching bags?

[ The Drax way. ]

Listen to music? Bitch about how shitty this entire thing has been?

[ The Star-Lord way. ]

Folks got different ways of coping. You just gotta figure out yours.

[Rocket leans forward and rests his furry cheek in his palm, scowling up at Peter for providing what was probably the most obvious answer, while also pointing out that the Rocket way is both dangerous and probably more extra than necessary.

And he's right. The casual barroom brawl and bullet-filled temper tantrum barely works as a coping mechanism when there a thousand bars on a thousand planets to get banned for life from. Trying to do it on one planet with few bars is ridiculous.]

As opposed to carnage and orchestrated chaos. Right, right- I get it. 'Cause I don't cope, I retaliate with extreme prejudice.

[The first step is admitting it, he supposes.]

[ Peter can't help but breathe out a laugh. ]

Listen. You said it, not me.

[ He leans back in his seat, lifting a hand in a sort of placating gesture. ]

I'm just sayin'. You're already wanted by an entire empire. I'm not so sure if it's a good idea to be wanted in two.

[There's a steely look in Rocket's rusty brown eyes, though going steadily glassier the more alcohol he consumes.]

Y'know, Quill, you're not supposed to be the smart one. It's kinda irritating.

[It's a very Rocket sort of compliment, but it's a compliment, nonetheless.]

come on, let's see what you've got

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