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

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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!

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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.]

[ In the flattest voice in the galaxy: ]

How dare you. I’m smart as hell.

You think that Kevin Bacon guy is, and I quote, "a true hero of your generation," just because he convinced some jerkasses that dancing is cool.

[He is just saying.]

Yeah. He is.

[ In that tone of voice that says, “That should be obvious.” It’s almost like Rocket just declared that water is wet and fire is hot.

An expectant pause as he waits for the other foot to drop, then, ]

Were you going somewhere with this?

[He wrinkles his muzzle and cringes.] Don't make me say it.

[But he's going to have to. He's going to have to stop being deflective and calling Quill stupid to ease the overwrought suffering he feels at having to admit a single truth.]

You're right, okay? You got a point. [He flails a hand out, and the near-tipsy ranting might be mean-spirited on some other day, but it's clearly just Rocket being more frustrated with himself, and deciding the best way to own that is by being a brat about it.] There. You happy? I'm gonna take your amazing advice, 'cause you're just so smart and I'm the big moron.

[ Peter falls quiet for a second.

Then, ]

You’re not a moron, dude.

[ A pause, ]

I mean, you’re a total dumbass, but you’re not a moron.

[ ... apparently there’s a distinction there, in Peter’s mind. It probably has to do something with some crossroad between intelligence and wisdom or something. The difference between cleverness and being a complete goober. ]

Anyway. It’s not about being smart or not. It’s just— you know. We’re friends, and— [ Peter takes a breath to add, “and I’m pretty sure you haven’t had many of those,” but that might be too real. And hypocritical, considering Peter can’t say he’s had much more than a few affable acquaintances.

Honestly? Most of Peter’s experience with real friendship is what he’s seen on TV or in movies, but it’s a decent enough basis.

He corrects, ]

—and I think we’re both trying to figure out how the hell that works.

[Rocket looks up, canting his head slightly to the left like a dog that's just heard a new sound.

Peter has been unreasonably wise through this whole thing, and the only part of Rocket that is even remotely surprised is the surface part that refuses to look at anything too deeply. And that part has now been thoroughly drowned out in the face of logic and alcohol.]

Yeah... [It's still an awkward, grim acceptance of the facts, but it's acceptance without arguing or petty jabs. He lifts his drink up in a mock-toast.] Here's to figuring out how friendship works.

[ listen. Peter’s seen a lot of afterschool specials. He’s uniquely qualified for this conversation.

But he similarly lifts his mug, offering a quick, tight-lipped smile. ]

And to screwing up every chance we can possibly get.

[ Cheers. ]

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