Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A/N: I like to think of the metallic starling and the common grackle for K'wirra's feathers. Shape-wise, she's more of a raptor. Think Eagle shaped. Below are all the previous book covers I've made and used on other hosting sites. ^^ 

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. "And I can already tell she's too much trouble."

"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.

Groot leans forward, making her flap her wings to stay perched. "I am Groot?"

Rocket finally looks at them, growling, "No, not really! Where would I put a daycare?" His body language screams reluctant tolerance, like someone who just agreed to babysit a hurricane.

But he's accepting her anyway.

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

"Rocket," he says without looking back. He sighs, noticing her stare at the human. "That's Quill. Me and Groot's bounty, so claws off."

"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 swishesover 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.

Chapter Text

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 he likes. 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.

The weight. The angles. The trigger.

He grins down at the gun. Though massive in his hands, it feels like a paperweight with the potential for murder.

"Oh, yeah."

He fires. Wildly.

As he ventilates the enemies, 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 metallic gripped in one talon. She points a wing at him like a finger gun, one eye shut as she pretends to 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. As she takes flight, a few of her downy feathers flutter into 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. Maybe he'd hop. Maybe he'd fall.

"No, I thought it'd be funny. Was it funny?" He chuckles, turning around briefly to smile in Quill's direction. "Oh, wait, what did he look like hopping around?"

Quill stands there, his mouth open and his face deadpan. "I had to transfer him 30,000 units!"

Rocket nearly folds over the console. It doesn't help hide his snickering, air rushing through teeth like wind through cell bars.

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 halfheartedly. The corner of his mouth betrays him anyway, tugging upward again.

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 gonna leave?" Drax asks, his voice firm and demanding.

Before Rocket can answer, a sharp whine splits the air and a drone’s gunfire blasts against the window, scattering sparks like bits of meteors burning . 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. 

Frickin' humies. They always have low budget tech like this. At least shell out for a Kravlerkian operating system, for Christ's sake.

"Cease your yammering and relieve us from this irksome confinement," Drax mutters, tilting back his head to take in all of the surroundings. To Rocket, it's just some windows and a door.

"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 genuinely. "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, but his eyes dart away at what he finds—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, baring his teeth, 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.

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 sure snip of her beak. She pulled the strings over her shoulders, criss-crossing them over 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 isn't a matter of her being cutthroat or incompetent.

Rocket doesn't say a word, but his black-padded fingers finally let go of the zipper.

What kind of whackjob could be both?

Chapter Text

They almost left Quill behind.

Rocket would have, if it were up to him. Gamora, of course, insisted they wait for him when she realized the Orb wasn’t in the bag.

She said she had a buyer willing to pay four billion units for the shiny metal ball, and she refused to leave without it—or him.

So they waited. Now Rocket pilots the Milano, steering them all toward a collectively richer future.

K'wirra stares out the windshield, transfixed. She's the only one left of the bridge with Rocket. As the current pilot, he's forced to share her company.

Her eyes are wide and stupidly starry, round as twin moons. The kind of look that makes his fur itch just seeing it.

Swirling in front of her, the nebula dances in a symphony of colors — soft blues, indulgent purples, and minty greens blending and stretching across the void. The jade in her irises catches the light, reflecting the vastness she’s lost in.

"Do the stars make noise if you get close enough?" Her voice slices the silence like a blade, bright and melodic.

Rocket huffs out a breath of almost-laughter that he wishes he could suck back into his chest. He grips the controls tighter, staring ahead stubbornly.

“They ain’t wind chimes, feather face,” he says, flattening his ears. “They’re just big ol' balls of fire and gas waitin’ to fry ya.”

She hums low in her throat, like she’s only half-listening, still mesmerized by the slow ballet outside the window. Her wingtips twitch unconsciously, like maybe some part of her wanted to leap into the void and ride the solar winds.

Rocket adjusts the course, sharp and sure, setting them up to fly around a far-off asteroid. The Milano handles better than half the junkers he's boosted before, but they aren't far enough from the Kyln to let his guard down. Not yet.

He keeps one eye on the blinking indicators and the other on the bird who looked like she might accidentally fall in love with the damn universe if he didn't pull her back.

"You'll get used to it," he mutters under his breath.

K'wirra tilts her head, feathers catching the reflection of passing starlight. "Is that a good thing?" she asks, voice soft. Not mocking. Not snide.

Just curious. Pure. 

He'd seen it before, when he was the same. Innocent. Happy.

Rocket doesn't answer right away. The Milano hums under his paws.

"Maybe. The ones that stop and stare at beautiful things usually don't last long." He shrugs, but his shoulders are tight with something he can’t name.

K'wirra shifts again, stretching her wings out with an elegance that makes it feel like they could span the whole ship. They’re big — sleek, powerful, the down soft underneath. They almost look too big for her slender form.

It’s too much for Rocket. He forces his attention back to the controls, tapping commands into the console, hiding behind the familiarity of the ship's interface. 

He shouldn't care. He doesn’t care.

"I used to think, if I found the right place to land," K'wirra continues, her voice quiet but firm, as if the thought has been building inside her. "I could get a real good look at the stars. But my planet, Ch'theer, it's covered in thick clouds that makes it impossible to see the sky clearly."

She pauses, as though expecting him to stop her. When he doesn't, she chirps, "I hope I never get tired of it."

Rocket, starting to get a clearer picture of how green she really is, raises a brow. "This your first time outta the nest?"

K'wirra lets out a small laugh, shaking her head. "Kind of? I took a Ch'theerlaiiik ship to get off-world. And, uh, I immediately crashed it." Her tone is light, but there's a glimmer of something more in her eyes. "Not a lot of time to look around, but I learned a lot. It was thrilling."

"Well, that's a hell of a first flight," Rocket says with his teeth bared. Whether he's going for a smile or a snarl, he's not completely sure.

"You know," she says, her voice like syrup, "I think I'd like to see it all. The whole damn universe, all the way to the end. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Rocket scoffs. Sharp, dismissive. "Yeah, good luck with that."

"It's just so beautiful and endless. As if it stretches beyond forever. Does it?" Her wide hawk eyes finally look at his. She catches him staring.

His gaze flicks away too quickly. He brushes off the heat spreading under his fur.

The flicker in his chest isn’t warmth. It’s fire. It’s loss, bitter and old, burning deep inside him. It’s the sting of remembering how they had tried to reach the sky—only to fall.

But then, Lylla’s words rise unbidden in his mind, like the tolling of a bell.

“There will be sky, and it will be forever.”

He shoves it down. Crushes it under his heel. 

Rocket doesn't owe the bird anything.

The Milano vibrates underfoot. Outside, the stars whirr like slow, ancient dancers. They cartwheel into dazzling streaks of color.

Gut-punch lapis. Rotten jaundice emerald. Flame-hardened amber. Blood vessel rubellite.

And he sees her wings even when he's looking into the cosmos.

Rocket flips the autopilot on with a vicious jab, hops out of his seat, and stalks toward the door without another word.

“Rocket?” K'wirra calls after him, confused.

He doesn't look back. Just throws a two-fingered salute over his shoulder and keeps walking, tail lashing behind him.

Maybe she’d learn. Or maybe she'd end up just another casualty of the universe.

Not his problem. Not his problem.

Without Rocket, the bridge is too quiet.

No—too loud. 

The silence fills with her own noise, her own misgivings—Ugly feathers, a discordant laugh, and a chaotic melody. That's what the Ch'theerlaiiik told her since her birth. And maybe before she left, she was a little foolish. Maybe the outside world is more complex than she thought.

But half of her life had been silence. She couldn't stand the it then, can't stand it now. 

Silence in the city due to law, silence in exile due to hiding, silence in space due to this.

Finally, she gets off-world, and it's like nothing's different when she's alone. This silence isn't comfortable or calm. It's oppressive, forced, unwanted.

It reminds her of exile.

They're practically the same thing, she'd argue.

K'wirra’s own thoughts echo back at her from the metal walls, bouncing around like trapped birds, frantic and aimless. It feels like the inside of her own skull has stretched out into the whole damn room.

She stays frozen for a minute, staring after him, half-expecting Rocket to storm back in with one of his sharp comments.

She waits, almost hoping for his reappearance. Nothing changes. The air is stagnant, stifling.

Reluctantly, she looks back to the cosmos. 

The nebula still unfurls its colors like an ancient tapestry—swirling butterfly blues, sleep-dusted pinks, jade-shot greens, honey bee yellows—but it’s all muted now, washed out by the heavy churn of her own mind.

What did I say? she wondered, wingtips drooping just a little. She drops from the console to the floor, her talons scratching against metal as she takes a few experimental steps.

Maybe she’d insulted him somehow. Maybe there were rules out here she didn’t know yet—some invisible line she'd stumbled across. Maybe she was just too loud, too emotional, too much.

She thought they'd be able to get along better than the others. They're both small, a little different, and like Groot. It should be simple.

But everything feels so complicated since she got off her home world. Everything feels outside her understanding. She grasps at straws, hoping she'll pull the right one, but her talons flounder for nothing but air.

She's in an ocean of people and emotions. An entire universe of entities that she doesn't understand. She can only hope she's enough.

She'd learn to swim or she'd drown.

What did I do wrong?

He seemed fine—well, Rocket fine—one moment, and then gone the next. No explanation. No goodbye.

Just silence.

One she fills with tapping claws and shifting wings until she's tired of thinking in circles about the rodent that hates her guts.

She hears him coming down the hallway, his thudding steps accompanying his light humming. 

Peter Quill steps to the tempo of a melody only he hears, bright orange headphones over his ears as his feet spin him in a tight circle.

"Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier," he sings softly under his breath, his voice full of that half-hearted confidence he reserves for solo performances. "Ooh, child—Whoa! Hey, K'wirra." 

He stumbles when his eyes find the black bird tucked between the wall and the engine core. He presses his hand to his beating heart, taking her in. Her nest lays atop a selection of strong pipes, sticks and moss hanging over the edges.

"Yes?" she asks around a thin, long stick as she weaves it into the nest.

Peter yanks the headphones down around his neck. He points at the nest with a serious look that doesn't match the ridiculousness of the situation. "Uh... yeah. You can’t keep that there."

K’wirra straightens, dropping the stick and looking genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”

He points again, exaggerating the motion like he’s explaining something to a child. "Because it's a huge fire hazard, is why. Like... 'we all die screaming' levels of fire hazard."

"But Groot helped me," she chirps brightly, wings fluffing up in pride. "Isn't it wonderful? It would be a terrible waste to undo all that effort. So I think I’ll just be keeping it."

Her smile is mega-watt.

It blinds Quill like a stage light, shining brighter than a star.

Peter’s mouth works soundlessly for a second. He holds up a hand like he's about to launch into a speech, but visibly reins himself in. "Look. Technically, sure, it’s nice craftsmanship. Great teamwork. A-plus effort. But if one loose spark hits all that dried moss, we’re gonna turn into roasted marshmallows drifting through space."

"Whatever, Star-guy. It's fine." K’wirra flaps a wing dismissively, shimmering like crystal under the white light.

Peter blinks. “It’s Star-Lord. Not—ugh. Whatever." He rubs his temples and sighs theatrically. "Look, just... move it somewhere a little less... death-trap adjacent, okay?"

She gives him a slow, exaggerated blink—the universal bird equivalent of no promises.

Peter mutters something about "getting the raccoon"—Whatever that is, K'wirra thinks—and stomps off toward the door. Over his shoulder, he tosses, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

K'wirra beams, her tail flicking smugly as the door shuts behind him.

She nestles deeper into her creation, preening a few feathers with sharp, satisfied snaps of her beak. It wasn’t a real battle — but it felt like a win all the same. There are worse things than Peter Quill's theatrics.

After all, she survived five years alone in the jungle, exiled from the only civilization on the planet. She infiltrated the Hanging City. She stole the Ch'theerlaiiik's best tech—the kind they couldn't replicate. She survived a crash landing, imprisonment, and a jailbreak.

She didn’t endure all that just to be told where to build her nest.

She's experienced enough to pick the best spot—warm with a good view of all exits and not too much of a draft, just enough to stay upwind of predators and keep her dry even in the morning dew. If she were on Ch'theer, that would actually matter, but her point stands.

It's the most comfortable spot, and she doesn't have many other comforts nowadays. Besides Groot and Rocket, the others seemed a bit more stoic.

Not that they were rude, simply... less emotional.

Quill may smile and laugh, but it's usually hollow. Drax is so monotonous sometimes that she has to leave the vicinity. And Gamora, she has a stick up her ass the size of a polearm.

She likes a little clarity, even when it's harsh, in your face and overwhelming.

The first time she flew, she was fleeing. It was terrifying, like a nightmare you can't wake up from, but she preferred it over a pleasant dream. 

Life's rough but at least it's real.

With renewed determination, she tucks another twig into place, tail flicking contentedly.

The moment is short-lived. She hears another set of footsteps—lighter, quicker, accompanied by the faint click of claws.

Rocket stops in the doorway, arms crossed, a look of deep suspicion on his face as he surveys the nest. His ears twitch once, white rims dipping like donuts in his coffee-brown fur. His nose wrinkles like he just caught a whiff of something rotten.

"You serious right now?" Rocket asks, voice a flat mix of disbelief and exasperation.

K’wirra lifts her head proudly. "Pretty much."

Rocket’s eyes narrow. "Quill already gave you the 'fireball of doom' talk, didn’t he?"

It's barely a question.

"He did," K’wirra chirps, unconcerned. She fluffs her feathers, still arranging twigs with her talons. "But he’s... you know. Dramatic."

Rocket snorts. "Yeah, well, Quill's an idiot. But I'm serious. That thing's a frickin' bomb waiting to happen."

K'wirra's wings flicker in agitation, the tip of a feather brushing against one of the nearby pipes. "It's just a nest," she protests, her voice wavering slightly despite her bravado. "I like it here."

She had worked so hard on it. It isn’t just sticks and moss—it's something she could make her own, as well as a safe place for her to rest and recuperate.

Rocket crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "You like the idea of turning into a crispy chicken nugget, taking the rest of us with you?" He taps the floor with his clawed foot. "Because that’s what we’re discussing, here."

K'wirra shivers, the mental image doing what Peter’s theatrics couldn't. She casts a reluctant look at her nest, then closes her eyelids, nodding defeatedly.

"If you get it, then move it, bird brain."

K’wirra opened her beak to say something, then closed it. She had never loved asking for help. She's more of a doer. She sees something that needs doing, and she does it. But Rocket is.... well, she trusts him to understand.

He's like her, but he's also the smartest creature she's ever met. That's saying something, when you come  from a land of lower level geniuses.

"Would you give me a hand?" she blurts out before he can turn to leave. She stands, her four toes lifting her off the bent branches with a self-deprecating laugh as her wings seem to droop.  "And I mean that literally. Took me all day to set this up. It'd move it faster if I could carry it, but..."

She trails off. Rocket's smart enough to fill in the blanks. The guy is a verifiable genius, which K'wirra finds hilariously ironic. 

The Halcri thought they were smartest beings in the universe, and yet here she is with a land-bound ruffian who could engineer circles around them. 

He's anything but balance and subdued. Rocket is a brilliant, blooming krr'striil flower sprouting from the jungle floors of Ch'theer. They share a serrated mouth and a carnivorous appetite. Both are predatory and eye-catching.

Hungry. For chaos, for challenge, for life.

He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he's already regretting what he's about to say.

"Only because it'll keep you off Groot’s back," Rocket mutters, stomping toward the nest with gritted teeth. "Pretty sure he snuck you half this junk anyway."

K’wirra brightens immediately. Her feathers fluff, her skin shivering. What a guy.

"You're the best, Rocket!" she tweets, almost lifting off after a few happy, too-forceful flaps.

"Yeah, yeah, don’t get all sappy on me," Rocket grumbles, tail lashing in irritation like it has a mind of its own, but his ears twitch, low and bashful, like maybe—maybe—he doesn't totally hate the praise.

K'wirra only chirps brightly and hops down from the pipes, already plotting where her new nest might go. Somewhere safer. Somewhere where she could still curl up in peace — maybe close enough to wherever Rocket's holed up that she'd feel just a little less alone.

Chapter Text

Rocket’s had to accept a few uncomfortable truths lately.

Number one: K’wirra doesn’t have an off switch.

Number two: she’s loud. Like a flerken with a headache—screeching, chirping, sighing, and now, snoring.

Even asleep, she just can't shut up.

Rocket's hammock — a thin sheet tied between two ceiling rods — sways as he turns over not six feet away from the snoozing avian. The ship’s lights are off. Gamora and Quill had retreated to the only two bunks in the back of the ship. Drax found the least uncomfortable chair to sleep crinkled up in—after trying every single one. Groot settled into a spot between two boxes.

Rocket folds his ears flat. His paws tug them further down against his fur, but nothing works.

When she asked to put her nest near him after they moved it to the common room, he should have growled, should have told her to piss off, birdbrain.

Maybe if he had, her soft-as-down breaths wouldn't be driving him insane. Her feathers, brushing one another as her chest rises and falls, wouldn't sound like they were caressing the fur of his ears.

"'s not my ship," he'd said instead, leaving her to construct her nest anew and hiding behind a quiet sneer.

He flips himself face down. He has no pillow to throw over his ears, so he uses his paws.

And of course she starts to snore—a muted, chirrupy thing with an undercurrent like a cloud of nebulaic gas. Each strum of her syrinx sends out a sung sigh.

He clenches his jaw. One more of those gentle coos and he's gonna lose it. He wants sleep.

That bird is a menace, and he's about had it.

He rolls the hammock over, face-up. He grabs the rafters and hauls himself up.

Rocket creeps up to the twiggy monstrosity. It's built around the metal supports, like some kind of organism absorbing parts of the ship. It smells faintly like dry moss and Groot's sap.

But when he peeks over the edge of the nest, his anger flits away like an insect from his twitchy nose.

She's curled up on her stomach, her beak tucked under one wing. Even at this angle, she's striking. Like the kind of overpriced bird statue those rich Xandarian idiots put on display—iridescent, unapologetically star-like, and right in your face with her mesmerizing sheen.

She looks like a statuette.

A clay figure, maybe, with so many layers of glaze—mauve, amber, cyan, violet, all under blackened glass—that she's like a barely-contained rainbow.

It's the second time he's seen her like this. Calm, composed, shimmering peacefully, but this time it's not out of wariness. She's not stiff, she's vulnerable. Unguarded.

The thought stirs up a protective instinct before he can crush it.

But he tries. 

He tears himself away, crawls back into his hammock with the intent to forget.

Before he finally dozes off, he tells himself he's sick of that snore one more time—even as his ears twitch toward it.

Even as it plays the soundtrack of his dreams.

The next morning, he pretends not to see her.

He acts like he doesn't smell her jungle-dew scent when he steps past her in the hallway. Keeps his ears down, his tail tucked, his expression unreadable.

He looks at the shapeless lump of 'porridge' Quill hands him like it’s a war crime—just so he won’t have to look at her.

It’s midday before the tension starts to bleed from his shoulders. Somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten what exactly he was upset over.

The Milano is quiet except for the music playing over the system. Gamora lies across the bunk beneath it, her foot dipping to the beat, one arm slung over her eyes. Don't ask him where the others are—he's not their keeper.

He fits a power coil into its housing, the barrel of a small blaster coming together crudely in his hands.

He doesn’t even remember picking it up—just that at some point, it appeared in his hands. Clinking, half-built.

He chalks it up to a distraction. He must've been bored or annoyed, because now it's taking his full focus to tighten the coupling with a ratcheting screwdriver.

He fastens the trigger into the frame, tests the weight, frowns.

The device in his hands is squat, weirdly balanced—ugly, even. He frowns at the grip. It’s too big. There's enough space for a hand nothing like his own. He stares, puzzled.

It clicks. The oversized grip, the trigger guard, the stubby barrel—this isn’t for him. It never was.

His eyes flick to the nest tucked into the rafters. She's definitely up there. He can see the woven branches shudder as she moves—nudging twigs, readjusting foliage.

She calls it ‘nest maintenance.’ Looks like nervous fidgeting to him.

Blackened paws clench around the nearly finished miniature. It's not like he's concerned—she's a team mate. If she's going to watch his back, she needs something better than a mini shiv.

He's doing it to save his own skin. That's why he's meticulously soldering resistors onto the board before he slots it in and closes the thing up.

It's metal, unfinished and ugly, but it's rough enough not to slip from her four-toed grip. The handle is thick, fitting into her curled talons, and the barrel is short, a low-level weapon that still gives her an edge over an intruder not expecting a bird with a gun.

Quickly, he snuffs out the warm thoughts, replacing them with spite.

He’s not doing it for her. Hell no. This is survival, plain and simple. Give the bird a weapon, keep her alive, keep him alive. That’s all it is.

This is self-preservation. That’s what he tells himself as he sets the weapon aside carefully.

By the time they dock, Rocket's got the blaster tucked under his belt.

Knowhere.

Where rule of law goes to die.

A severed celestial head drifting in space, its hollowed-out skull now home to an overcrowded mining colony. It glows from within—warm light bleeding from every pockmarked crevice, like marrow leaking out of bone.

While Gamora explains the intricacies of the colony's economy and chief exports, Rocket's beady eyes land on a bulbous, neon building. It's all lit up in K'wirra's colors—pink, yellow, green, and blue. It's rundown, the facade above the entryway beginning to crumble. A bouncer looms beneath it—big, blue, and Kree, with a face like a busted engine and teeth to match.

“Your buyer’s in there?” Rocket mutters, slowing his roll as he side-eyes the Zehoberei.

Gamora, statuesque and unbothered, doesn’t break stride. “We’re to wait for the representative.”

"This is no respectable establishment," Drax announces as if it's news. "What do you expect us to do while we wait?"

Gamora rolls her eyes, not deigning to answer the taunting question, stalking through the entrance without a word.

The outside humidity fades, replaced by a different kind of heat—the pulsing, electric sweat of the club.

Bodies grinding, tentacles slithering over curves, all of them swaying like a kelp forest on the ocean floor. It even looks the part, azure lights drenching the club in shady blues.

K'wirra stays above the crowd. It's smarter than walking. She's even smaller than Rocket, sure to get squashed underfoot. It does make him a little envious, though. He'd like that kind of freedom.

He trails after Drax, Quill, and Gamora, his claws scratching the stone floor with each step. Groot looks all over, his head turning like he's never seen a half-dressed alien before.

They sneak through the dance floor while he glances to his paws.

Five-fingered. Opposable thumbs. Something sours on his tongue, like distaste for his own musings. Guilt.

His hands. Her wings. Both came at a price.

He shakes it off and hops onto a bar stool, motioning to the bartender—a squat, scowling thing with too many arms and not enough patience.

Rocket doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Something strong.”

The bartender grunts. One arm pours while the others work. A cobalt-blue drink sloshes into a thick glass. Rocket downs half of it in a single swig.

He’s just about to hop down—then her voice cuts through the noise. High, chirpy.

Syrupy-sweet and chirping like mad, it carries over talking heads and clinking glasses, cutting through the chatter. 

"Hi there—!"

"Offa' the bar!" shouts the previously silent barkeep, cutting her chirp short. Rocket turns just in time to watch him shoo her back onto a stool. "I don't get paid 'nough to scrub yer grubby stains outta' the wood."

"Sorry!" she warbles back, her charming smile dimming by a couple lumens. She leans over the counter, peering tentatively at the bartender. "Hi. Can I get a Cosmospolitan, please?"

It's the first drink written on the board behind the bar. The bartender snuffles. One set of arms wipe a glass down before placing it with the others. Another arm stocks the bar with napkins and toothpicks while the other taps it's nails on the countertop.

"For what? Spilling on the floor?" he asks, eyeing her with menace. The stools between Rocket and K'wirra clear out as a party leaves the bar. "I ain't got no bowls for ya', parakeet."

Whatever Rocket's thinking as he closes the distance, he doesn't know. What's running through his mind when he slips a few units over the counter, he couldn't say.

He tells himself it’s probably just to keep her from throwing a fit. But maybe the truth is that smile isn't as irksome as he always insists.

"Get the lady a drink," Rocket says, a hint of a snarl under his tongue. "Or you'll be the one spillin'."

And to wash it down, Rocket chugs the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass and gesturing for a refill.

The four-armed bartender rolls his slitted pupils. He fills the glass and turns away to mix her cocktail.

K'wirra, smiling bright like before, nudges him. It's a little push of her wing against his chest, feather-light and tentative.

"So I'm a lady, now?" she lilts, one of the ridges on her brow rising.

His head shakes, a chuckle rushing between his teeth. "My bad. I'll go back to calling you bird brain."

"No, I like it," she chirps and Rocket would bet money she's flushing green under her feathers. A cocktail glass slides in front of her, it's shape sensual, like the twitch of her tail and the swell of her breast.

For a moment, they sit. Her with her comically large glass. Him swirling his next hit, eyes half-lidded. When he looks back up, she's struggling. Her beaks clinks the glass, even as she tries a different angle. Rocket has half a mind to call back the barman.

Instead he lifts a straw from behind the counter, dropping in lazily in her glass. It could be from some twisted form of empathy, or it could be because her pretty feathers are shining at him.

Her eyes look like algae-covered seawater. Her feathers, strips of waterfall covered in blueberry glaze. She sucks the straw happily, looking at him with sparkling teal orbs. He pretends not to notice his stomach flipping.

Their drinks go down too easy. By the time K'wirra orders her second, Rocket is nursing his fourth.

They don’t talk about the mission. They don’t talk about the buyer or the weapon or the fact that this crew probably won’t stick together past tonight.

“You ever eat a moon beetle?” she asks suddenly, gaze pinned to the shifting light behind the bottles.

He snorts. “What kinda backwoods jungle delicacy is that?”

“They’re good,” she insists, swirling the dregs of her drink. Her claw cinches around the stem, but never lifts it off the surface. “Crunchy. They pop in your mouth, and their guts melt on your tongue."

“Sounds disgusting."

“You’d eat six in one sitting if I gave you a plate,” she teases. “I bet you’re the kind who chews with your mouth open.”

His eyes roll, like a teacher with no more fucks to give. He bites back, but there's no teeth.

“And I bet you molt when you’re nervous.”

She squawks, laughing, and jostles his arm again—this time hard enough that some of his drink sloshes. He grumbles and lifts it out of reach, but the corner of his mouth is curled in something close to a grin.

Sparks in his belly make him jolt. 

Like embers skittering across his stomach, heat spreads up into his throat, tingling and hazy. It's a buzz unlike any he's ever experience. The kind that makes him forget he's supposed to be prickly.

Then, like he's not the kind of monster she needs to watch out for in dark alleys, she takes a deep breath and admits it.

"I do! I do molt when I'm nervous!" she giggles conspiratorially. And her feathers come alive with her laugh. Sparkling blues that make her look like something dangerous, like a knife peeking through a parted curtain. He's caught in the moment, like a fly in a web.

Until some gelatinous, eight-eyed pile of rudeness brushes past, jostling K’wirra hard enough to knock her forward. Rocket’s halfway to jumping off the stool when soft feathers press against his forearm.

Her smile is still there. Untouched. Unblemished.

Shiny.

And even though he was willing to get rattled on her behalf, he's secretly impressed by her composure.

Over her shoulder, movement catches his eye. Brown bark waving like one of those inflatable tube men outside a ship lot.

“C’mon,” he grunts, sliding off the stool and grabbing both cups. He mutters a lame excuse. “Place is gettin’ stuffy.”

K’wirra cocks her head, but flies after him anyway. She hangs behind him like a kite on a string. “Where are we going?”

“Groot’s over there,” Rocket says quickly, as if that’s explanation enough. He doesn’t add the part where she can perch on Groot’s shoulder and stay out of reach of elbowy drunks and overzealous dancers. 

He just starts walking, tail low, drinks sloshing with every step.

Groot stands above the crowd, swaying gently with the bass like a sapling in a breeze.

He and Drax loiter by a betting table, one with pits on either side and multiple tracks that the orloni are tethered to. They're naked little rodents with big teeth that mostly jump off their back feet.

They pop out of one pit, then run for the other side as if their lives depend on it, because they do. A bigger, hungrier predator with darker markings and menacing teeth will gobble them up if they aren't fast enough.

K’wirra, perched on Groot’s shoulder like an ornament no one could afford, leaned forward with her head tilted, eyes gleaming.

“Are those edible?” she asks, her emerald tongue coming out to lick the rim of her beak. "They look like prey."

Rocket smirks from where he leans against the table. "Sure, they're edible, but I wouldn't recommend—"

K'wirra is no longer listening. She dives off Groot’s shoulder, wings slicing the air as she hurtles toward the nearest orloni like a hawk in full hunt mode. She gets about halfway.

A long branch-arm snags her midair like a mom catching a misbehaving toddler. “I am Groot,” he scolds gently. 

"But—"

"I am Groot."

He places her beside Rocket, so they both perch on the same bar stool. It's a tight fit, her feathers brushing his side—soft, floral, maddening in this sweat-and-smoke-filled den. Like ozone and jungle rain.

She grumbles softly, crest ruffling with irritation, but doesn’t resist.

Rocket’s already laughing, drink sloshing. “Well, I woulda' let her eat it. It's not like they’re gonna live.”

“I am Groot,” comes the daft, weary reply. Brown eyes like the dirt under his claws look at him in unspoken horror.

Bleeding heart.

As the F'saki eats its opponents, fire shoots up from pipes on the table. K’wirra oohs appreciatively, her eyes reflecting the flames. As each measly space rat gets ingested, the crowd applauds, cheering and screaming. Eventually, there are no more, and Drax is twenty units richer.

"My F'saki has won, as I win in all things!" Drax boasts, raising his glass. "Now, let's put more of this liquid into our bodies!"

Rocket hoists his drink high, liquid sloshing onto his paw. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that wasn’t bat-shit crazy!”

There's laughter. Clinking glasses. Music surging in the background.

But the mood shifts fast.

All it takes is a misplaced word. Or in Drax's case, a few.

“Say that again,” Rocket growls, claws tightening around his drink.

“You heard me,” Drax says. He lowers his drink, eyes wide with sincerity. “An ugly, angry rodent. It is simply what you are.”

When the tension bursts, the bustle in the room dies, snuffed like a match.

Rocket lunges for Drax. Glass shatters on the ground. He catches Rocket, tossing him into the crowd with a laugh.

K'wirra leaps off the stool and takes to the air. She looks for him from above while Groot steps forward.

"I am Groot." He lifts his hands toward the Kylosian in an appeal to peace.

It doesn't work.

“You interfere with honorable combat!” Drax shouts, hurling Groot aside. The tree stumbles, but he's back in time to catch the punch aimed at Rocket.

Drax lifts Groot by the vines at his collar, slamming his back into the betting table. Groot's bark cracks in places. He's slow to stand as Drax turns back to Rocket.

Gasps shudder through the audience. Bets go forgotten on the dented table.

“Stop it! Now!” Gamora's voice cuts through the fray, sharp as a blade. She appears in front of Drax, like smoke from the shadows, grabbing his shoulder.

Quill rushes through the bodies, halting at the edge of the war zone.

Rocket’s claws are already at his back. He draws his rifle, its components slotting and folding out like a tripod but scarier.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” Quill barks, stepping between them with hands raised.

“This vermin speaks of affairs he knows nothing about!” Drax booms.

"Keep calling me vermin, tough guy! You just wanna laugh at me like everyone else!"

Quill tries to deescalate, his hands up toward Rocket, palms out. "Rocket, you're drunk. All right? No one’s laughing at you.”

But Rocket isn’t hearing it. His teeth are bared. His grip tightens.

“He thinks I’m some stupid thing!” His gun jerks slightly toward Drax. “Well, I didn’t ask to get made! I didn’t ask to be torn apart and stitched back together and turned into some—some little monster!”

K’wirra flutters down beside him. He rounds on her and her feathers stiffen, but she doesn't move away—not even when the blaster twitches in his grip. She just looks at him, soft as birdsong, steady as moonlight.

“Rocket… You are not a monster.” Her voice is ocean spray on his whiskers, mist floating over his shoulders.

Her feathers puff, not in alarm but in empathy. Sadness, maybe. Or worse—pity.

And he hates it.

Hates how damn pretty she looks lying to his face. All glassy eyes and ruffled feathers. She’d bolt if she ever saw what’s under the jumpsuit, under the fur.

“She called me rodent,” he says, gesturing violently to Gamora. “He called me vermin!” He waves the gun at Drax. “Let’s see if you can laugh after five or six good shots to the face!”

And as Rocket's lip quivers, he covers it with a snarl. He stretches his lips so tight that they can't quiver, can't give him away. He points his rifle at Drax, and the barrel covers the wetness on his lashes.

"No, no, no, no! Four billion units!" Quill jumps in front of the rising blaster, his hands in the air, placating. "Rocket! Come on, man. Suck it up for one more lousy night and you're rich!"

The blaster, pointed at Quill, wavers only the barest hint. Then, with each panted breath, the barrel falls lower. 

He tells himself it’s the payday, but the tremor in his claws says otherwise.

Whether he's doing it for the units or for those teary green eyes, he gives in.

"Fine."

Because maybe the truth’s too ugly. 

And her lie’s too pretty.

Chapter Text

"Okay. This isn't creepy at all."

Rocket's uneasy voice echoes K'wirra's thoughts so exactly, he might as well have read her mind.

Drax had run off not long after the fight, and he still hadn't returned by the time a pretty Kylorian invited them through a back door around the side of the bar.

The rest of them follow her up a metal-framed staircase. Mist pools in the corners like forgotten breath—stagnant and cloying.

"We house the galaxy's largest collection of fauna, relics, and species of all manner."

She speaks like she isn't walking through a glorified prison. Laid out like a child's toys, glass enclosures with organisms of all kinds litter the room. The ceiling seems endless, stretching so far the mist gobbles it up.

K'wirra wonders if there is a ceiling. How many hundreds of creatures are in this place against their will?

They pass a four-legged canine of middling size wearing a space suit. It growls, teeth bared, at K'wirra and Rocket. Naturally, he growls back, but there's no danger. The glass is thick.

On the other side, a box filled with assorted ferns in purple and green spills onto the floor. Its long-toppled form grows into the concrete.

Fluttering low and holding up her legs so her talons don't catch, she brushes Rocket's fur—fur so smooth and cool to the touch that she wishes she could bury her talons in it, feel it against her skin. 

His eyes meet hers and she jerks her beak toward the roof, trying to communicate her intent. Glittering like garnet, the red droplets follow her gaze up. His brows rise, first in understanding, then in appreciation.

K'wirra forces the air below her wings, soaring up with purpose. She'll at least get a good look at what's kept on the high shelves, if not dirt on this buyer of Gamora's. As she flies, she hears the Kylorian one last time.

"I present to you, Tanileer Tivan. The Collector." 

Her voice fades like gossamer on water. It dissipates entirely as the meters drift behind K'wirra.

K'wirra feels like she's flapping for minutes, and she still doesn't reach the top. Winding a few circles around a stacked tower of glass boxes, she counts the hopeless faces.

White-skinned, pointy-eared aliens with eyes as black as pitch. An alien of charcoal carapace covering a vaguely humanoid silhouette. A fleshy beast with fat rolls the size of its head forced into a too-small case. 

Countless and melancholy. She shudders.

She flicks the tips of her wings, tucking her elbows to dive. Her tail feathers fold back like a hand fan. She spirals down—quick, tight, controlled.

She hears her friends through the mist before she sees them.

"I am Groot."

"Why, so he can turn you into a frickin' chair?"

Rocket's grinding out some caustic turn of phrase as usual, but Groot sounds indecisive. Their forms appear in the mist as she drops through it, closer every second, coming into focus through the heavy atmosphere.

And if she were not still looking over her shoulder at the many pairs of sorrowful eyes, she might've seen her group's plus one.

She glides in a semicircle around Groot's trunk, fanning her wings and tail. She makes an impromptu perch of the table near Rocket's head. 

"Guys, this place is a—" Looking up, she bites her tongue. Her friends were no longer alone.

A man with lightly tanned skin, his hair a bleach blonde pouf that looks like a bird's raised crest. His kohl-lined eyes sank deep into dark bags, like bruises grown permanent.

In this menagerie of the unknown and unnamed, he sticks out as strangely dull. Though not for lack of trying—he dresses to catch the eye, red leather and animal furs draping him in opulence.

This is Tanileer Tivan.

K'wirra's spine is a string pulled taut, a snapping towel at a misbehaving child. She stands as still as she can, not permitting herself to tremble under his observation.

"You are striking, my dear." He doesn't peer down his nose like most mammalians do. He lowers his face, his chin tucking into his chest to observe her with eyes like the void, bushy brows softening curiously like bleach blonde butter. "Truly. And you're a Halcri, aren't you?"

Everything in her says run, but she's here for a reason, and she won't let this man intimidate her.

"You know of my kind?" she asks, her eyes narrowing through the mist. This man was not good or pure, but there may be something she could yet learn from him. "Wait, "Halcri"? Is that what you call the Ch'theerlaiiik?"

"Quite."

Of course they'd come up with some bastardized version of what they couldn't pronounce. "Ch'theerlaiiik" is not said—it is sung.

It begins with sand rushing though a tunnel, burying all who dare to enter uninvited. Chhhh.

Then a predatory scrawl of intent, a hunter following you from so far above that it's a speck in your eye.  A glint of a sharp sword, ever more dangerous when brandished by one of sound mind, of balanced intent. Theer!

A horn of war, bone-dry and salvaged from a savage beast, now serving as a signal that there is no place to run. Like a modified groan, it scrapes joy from the air, fading into the distance. It's a chant of a thousand monks with painted feathers, fighting for something above their own ego. Laiiiiik...

The off-worlder's hollow replica—"Halcri"—is nothing but a word. As much distaste as she has for her society's values, their language is nothing less than perfection. There is no question that it is something a monkey would come up with.

"I've seen pictures, drawings. And I've read about your kind extensively." As he stares, the creeping hand of dread crawls up K'wirra's neck. It grabs her, choking her with anticipation of his next move. Will he strike? Or retreat? "You are... not often seen about the universe."

His tone swells, bitter and foamy, like sour ale in a pint. What is he saying? That other Halcri have left the planet before K'wirra? That the government was lying to everyone when they said it had never been done?

Did someone else make it off world? Was everything she’d been taught about Ch’rell’nael’tri’iill a lie?

What else had they hidden from her, and from her entire society?

"That doesn't make any sense," she tells him, shaking her head but never breaking his gaze. "There were only two crafts on our planet that could leave the atmosphere, and one of them burned up during re-entry."

Everything she'd ever learned told her that Ch'rell'nael'tri'iill's first space craft had died with him. It was its virgin flight, and when he came back, he didn't exactly land.

His body and his belongings had been destroyed. Nothing from the ship was salvageable. Later, they used the blueprints to make the craft K'wirra escaped on.

Now she questions all of it. Teachers, reporters, text books.

She's not sure what's the truth anymore.

"You must be one of a kind." Tivan's hand lands on the table, too close. "I've never read of a black-feathered Halcri."

Of course he hasn't. No one has because they don't exist.

Black and shiny and wrong. A squeaky violin in an orchestra playing the same tune.

K'wirra shuffles back, then turns to jump down from the table. She feels his touch, like he's fingering her tail feathers, and bile rises in her throat.

When she drops from the table's edge, a sharp pain flares in her tail, and she squawks sharply.

A cold sting flashes at the base of it—gone in an instant, but enough to snap her attention behind her. There, between the surface and his pale, ringed fingers... her feather gleams hazy blue back at her stunned eyes. He hadn't plucked it—she yanked it out when she jumped.

Sick bastard.

He looks down with the eyes of an addict and the shard of obsidian seems to suck out his breath. His smoky eyes blow wide as he drags it closer and it gleams, a black sea mirroring a cerulean moon.

"Hey! That hurt!" She says as she lands behind Rocket, her wings flashing open angrily.

"Oops," Tivan says, his lips curling. Smugness and pride war for ownership of his smile as he tucks the iridescent slip into his coat.

K'wirra's glassy eyes twitch, visage unreadable as she tries to process the sudden theft.

Her tail feather.

A short one, four inches long and black like the rest of her. Her tail is rounded, the feathers at the edge shorter than the rest to help her make tight turns and take hits from the branches and leaves of the jungle airspace.

If he had taken one from the middle, if he had affected the lift she could get during takeoff, her ability to fly... She wouldn't be leaving without a pound of flesh.

She preens her feathers in private. They're used in her nest or in her home. When she lived in the jungle, they served as writing implements, as shades for windows, or in other tools. She never could let anything go to waste.

Culturally, they are often shared. Given to loved ones or romantic interests during courtship.

But to let them be taken—it feels dirty.

She should snap. Should snip his finger with her beak like the end of a cigar.

It wouldn't be the first time.

She wants to. But a wall of brown fur and barely-leashed fury rises in front of her.

Rocket.

Snarling like he’s the one who’s been touched. The one who’s been plucked.

Her throat tightens. Her wings flare out, feathers bristling, but she doesn't make a move.

She wonders, briefly, if this is normal for humans. But then she sees the others' faces—and realizes it’s not. They’re doing the same thing she is. Swallowing the anger. Pretending this is diplomacy.

They're just as alarmed, as disturbed as she is, hackles rising. Groot's fingers lengthen, his roots growing as if ready for a fight. Quill's fingers twitch near his holster. Gamora's shoulders set back, straight as a ruler.

But if she doesn't put up with Tivan, they all miss out on their payday.

And a feather is nothing in comparison to what she's found.

A place to belong. Friends that don't despise her. A Flock of her own. And she wants to keep it.

Maybe she's being idealistic thinking of them that way. But who else would treat her like a sentient being? An individual?

It was all she ever wanted at home. To feel, and to have someone accept those feelings. To not conform to silence of the heart. The loneliness of love without realization.

Maybe she could trade that feather—that piece of herself—for security. For shiny things. For proof this wasn’t a waste. The way the others talk, four billion can change a whole lot. And having a few treasures might lessen the weight of the stolen feather.

And while she smooths her feathers, her wings loosen up. 

Rocket reaches for the blaster on his back.

"Fuckin' creep. You think that's funny?"

Hands in his pockets, the Collector hums a chuckle, smug and self-serving. "Just an honest mistake."

"You bet it was a mistake," Rocket growls, his paw gripping the handle of his firearm in earnest while it was only a thought before, a warning. His muscles twitch, his fur flicking like he's about to yank it free of its holster. “Touch her again, I’ll shove that feather so far up your—”

Gamora steps in front of Tivan, her composure as ice over a lake. Thin, prone to snapping, like Rocket's restraint. His fur stands on end, lips curled back like the sharp-edged top of a can.

"Tivan," Gamora cuts in, temper balanced on a knife's edge. "We have been halfway around the galaxy retrieving this orb. We did not come all this way for games."

A beat, like a fire being sparked but not given any oxygen, sucking the life from the air. He doesn’t look at Tivan. He looks at K'wirra. And then slowly, reluctantly, releases the weapon.

Then, Rocket lets go of the handle. He turns the intensity of his growl down, folding his arms with a wayward glare at the flamboyant man.

"Very well, then," he says, smouldering at Gamora's light-dusted visage like a man smitten. "Let us see what you brought."

Tivan, for all his flaws, has the kind of knowledge people would kill for.

The Orb they brought him? It's just a vessel. A cage for something far more powerful and stunning than one could expect—an infinity stone, one of the six. Pieces of the universe that could be used for great evil if held by the wrong hands. To touch one and to wield it, one would need to be incredibly powerful. Probably immortal.

Once, it was held by mortals—a group of them, holding hands to spread the energy amongst themselves. They didn't last long, but made a valiant effort.

"Beautiful," he coos, shaking his hands like an ecstatic child. "Beyond compare."

He's certainly right about that. 

The gem inside the Orb is incredible—frosty, neon lilac. Like a star-drop plucked from the sky. Set into the Orb by the gods.

It's not exactly shiny, but luminous. It glows bright, stealing K'wirra's attention.

"Wow..." she breathes, eyes locked on the vivid stone. The violet light soaks her like cold dye, chilling her to the bone. It's beautiful and powerful all wrapped into one.

However, she made sure not to get too close—Tivan stood on the other side of it.

Rocket, on the other hand, was as close to the Collector as possible, standing on a chair with his elbows on the table. Every so often, his cherry candied orbs meet hers.

"Blah, blah, blah," Rocket says, rolling his eyes and copying the man's movements mockingly, his fur trembling. "We're all very fascinated, whitey, but we'd like to get paid."

Like K'wirra, Rocket clearly wants to get out of this place as quick as possible. The theft of her feather weighed heavily in the back of her throat like a swallowed stone.

"How would you like to get paid?"

Tivan asks the group as a whole, but Rocket answers quickest.

"What do you think, fancy man? Units!"

As the Collector retreats from the table to retrieve their credits, K'wirra's drawn in by the gorgeous stone. It's unparalleled in its bright, definitive gleam. It's like the Sun was condensed into a pebble.

Across from her, Rocket drops down from the edge, likely to get to the credits quicker. Tivan's Krylorian assistant stands in awe, appreciating the gem's allure. Her eyes flicker back lilac shimmers like crystal balls.

But then her eyebrows lower and she frowns. Opportunity splashes on her features.

She was never admiring it.

"Carina," Tivan warns, circling around a desk. He watches her every move. "Stand back."

The Kylorian trembles like a wind-struck vine, but her voice cracks the room in half.

“I will no longer be your slave!”

K’wirra’s wings flare too late—by the time she squawks and ducks, Carina’s hand had already closed around the stone.

And in that moment, everything nearby flies off at intense speeds, slamming against walls and floors and objects. Purple sparks crackle from the terminals. Glass enclosures burst outward in lilac explosions. Like firecrackers, purple bursts of flames twirl through the air.

K'wirra uses her wings, flat on the ground, to drag herself forward, crawling with what little traction she can find. Crashes and bangs fill the air like smoke.

Carina's screech is like a needle in K'wirra's ear drums. She drags herself forward—feathers brushing coarse fur, unmistakably Rocket’s. Thank the Wind Bringer that she found a friendly face in all this chaos.

It's hard to make him out through the hail of shattering light bulbs, through the rainfall of sparking machines, but it's him—she knows by the muscles under the fur and the scent of grease and musk flaring from him.

His paw reaches under her wing. It cinches around her waist and he pulls her along, claws digging into her skin. She reaches back, her wing settling over his shoulders as they brace for an explosion of outlandish proportions.

Groot barrels through the thick veil of lavender-cloaked dust and debris. He scoops them both up—Rocket’s arms clenching her waist, her wings curled instinctively around him—and bolts for the exit as the room erupts behind them. Thumps of wooden feet complement the popping light bulbs in a quick rhythm.

As they get further from her, Carina's cries seem to build. The room rises to a fever pitch before it ignites.

BOOM!

Carina's howls cease.

Either she was drowned by the crashing and explosions or... she was the catalyst.

Groot crashes through a glass door and the three of them are running out onto the street. A cloud of lilac flame chases after them, licking at Groot's heels. He dashes, lunging for the dirt to avoid the bulk of the blast. He is, after all, quite flammable. 

They land in a heap, Groot's root-like limbs curled around them both.

He slides on the dirt, his frame flopping over so he wouldn't crush the two critters. They pant like tired horses ridden too hard, counting their limbs in the settling dust.

Somehow, they're all in one piece. Alive, breathing.

She turns over, her wings flopping flat against the ground.

K'wirra coughs up some dust lodged deep in her throat. Small paws rest on the lower part of her lung, feeling her chest expand and contract. Dirt finds its way beneath her feathers.

"Hey. Hey, bird brain." He glances down at her, the edge of his anger fading just a little as he shakes her. "K'wirra?"

At first, she can't answer.

Mouth too dry, lungs stuttering. Her eyes are blinking fast, dislodging sand and attempting to clear the black blotches in her eyes. She swallows and only produces a modicum of drool for her efforts.

She needs to breathe, so she gasps down lungfuls of oxygen. Then she sees Rocket as her vision clears of dark spots, no worse for wear, Groot standing above them like a guardian golem.

Her mouth widens, curling into a smile.

"That was a blast," she finally squeaks out, stars still spinning around her. 

He scoffs, shaking his head. Smoke rises from the ruined bar while Groot thumps closer to it.  

Rocket wipes his paws off on his pants before he offers one to her, then thinks better of it and grabs her off the ground, pulling her up by the middle. He lets go once she's on her feet, but for a blissful moment, he's holding her pressed to his body.

She almost doesn't register his response.

"Sure was, feather face. A big one."

Chapter Text

His mood changes as quick as her takeoff.

He'd barely finished telling her where the others were when she leapt from solid ground.

"What the—!" Rocket starts, fangs on display. Frickin' bird.

Laces of fresh, green branches swell from Groot's arm. He reaches for the bird mid-flight, twining a net of branches in a sphere around her.

She stops, trapped within the sphere just big enough for her wings.

Her feathers gleam like she’s still lit up from the blast. The lilac’s gone, but the mess it made isn't. Clumps of grass and debris burn like lanterns at the edge of a trail.

"I am Groot," scolds the tree. He keeps her in the wooden cage, disapproval in his gaze. He says again, firmer, "I am Groot."

Groot’s not a fan of her running into burning buildings—and Rocket’s with him on that one. Those shiny feathers would light up like tinder.

Flapping, fussing, nothing she does sets her free. She throws herself against the cage enough to rattle it, but her weight is no match for his branches.

"Urgh! I don't know what you're saying!" she groans, folding her wings away to land on her feet.

Her emerald eyes like dinner plates dart from wall to wall — flustered, maybe. She should be. He sure is.

"Just let me out. Come on, we gotta do something!" K'wirra crows back, wings spread halfway, which is as much as she can manage. She turns to Rocket, beak clacking.

He could laugh, but it'd be weak. So he needles her instead. "And what are you gonna do, flap the fires to death? Spit on 'em?"

K'wirra opens her beak, but chomps off her words before she can say them. She tries again, but she loses conviction in the middle. She finishes by muttering under her breath. "Maybe I can fly through a side window? Oh, but there weren't any windows... Hm."

But it's obvious how half-baked her plan is—her poker face leaves much to be desired. 

She’s got guts. Suicidal, misfiring, feather-fried guts—but guts.

Her pupils flit uncertainly from side to side. Her tail flicks repeatedly as she shifts her weight from foot to foot.

"Idiot!" Rocket steps closer, his tail slapping his thigh. “You absolute feather-brained maniac! You think you're fireproof now?!”

On the ground, sad neon tubes lie cracked like eggshells. The mixture is acrid and gummy, no runny yolk or bouncy white to be had in their spilled chemical cocktail.

On her face, her small feathers shimmy like scales struck by a hammer, a wave of sound disrupting them in a ripple of color. Then the ridges of her brows meet.

"So what? I'd figure it out sooner or later."

Whatever else she has chambered dies in her throat as Quill and Gamora exit the bar. Two pairs of boots crush through grinding glass, the world a mortar to their impromptu pestles.

Her wings flutter, tips rising like she's two seconds from take off. She chirps, relieved but antsy.

Gamora is grumbling to Quill, storming through the half-collapsed entrance. Groot's cage unwinds, K'wirra shaking out her feathers happily when she sees Peter and Gamora.

Rocket's ears flatten. Gamora’s holding the damn Orb like a purse.

Originally they came to this planet to get paid for the thing. Then the goalposts moved, and it became getting away from the explosion and the stone. Getting rid of it should be at the top of the to do list.

Rocket meets them halfway, paws to his cheeks, dumbfounded. K'wirra, freed from her Groot-built prison, drifts to the ground near the other three. Her feet lift one at a time, uncoordinated but carrying her closer to the group.

"What do you still have it for?" he asks, his pitch and volume high.

"What were we gonna do, leave it in there?" Quill says rhetorically, wiping dust from his facial hair.

"We have to bring this to the Nova Corps," Gamora insists, glowering at the Orb she held between them.

Her gaze draws K'wirra's down as well.

She fixes her eyes on the Orb as if seeing it properly for the first time now that she knows what's inside.

"That's one plan." K'wirra nods her shining head, her feathers speckled with hues from the eccentric lighting outside the club. "Or—or maybe we keep it? I mean, we’re not like the others." She floats the idea, buzzing like a kitchen timer.

Her eyes, usually a glimmering deep green, are fractured clusters of obsidian glass, reflecting the burnished flames. The two dark pools train on the Orb, like arrows about ready to loose.

Hopeful. Wanting.

Groot stares at her from above, tilting his head thoughtfully.

Rocket's whiskers twitch as his upper lip draws back. K'wirra needs a leash or something. Maybe he'd build one.

"Are you frickin' serious?" Intense, animated, he lifts his hands in a wide gesture, his voice abrasive. It's like he's the last sharp crayon in a shed full of dull tools. "We're wanted by the Nova Corps! And you wanna keep somethin' that could atomize you!? Just give it to Ronan!"

The bird wouldn't last five seconds alone in this universe. Shiny-seeking behavior gets people killed, and sometimes even worse. When it's too obvious, anyway.

The key to thievery is not getting caught. Sadly, that doesn't sound like part of K'wirra's MO.

Quill narrows his gaze, leaning in, shortening the gap between them. "Why? So he can destroy the galaxy?"

"What are you, some saint all of a sudden?" Rocket sounds genuinely surprised and disgusted by Quill's question. He pulls back, winding up for each word like it owes him units. "What has the galaxy ever done for you? Why do you wanna save it?"

It sure hasn't done anything for Rocket. It hadn't done anything for the people he cared about.

It let their lives get cut short. It let them be ripped from Rocket's ugly little paws, metal-mangled and hormone-addled and trying to hang just a little while longer.

But did the galaxy ever change?

No. It repeated the age-old cycle long after it grew stale.

"Because I'm one of the idiots who lives in it!" Quill shouts back. That one lands like a punch to the throat. No snark for that.

Because it's not something he can argue. It's the same reason Rocket wants to run—all their lives are forfeit if Ronan gets that stone.

K'wirra nods along, blinking her big eyes. Her yellow sheen ripples under the light, licks of flames drawing her in amber strokes. Her tail snaps, black feathers coated in golden glow. It looks like it’ll flick right off—like moisture clinging to his whiskers.

"That's... a really good point, actually." K'wirra lifts a thoughtful claw to her chin.

"Peter, listen to me." Gamora's fingers creak in Quill's leather jacket as she grabs him by it, her face only a foot from his own. Each word is carefully said, weighing heavy with great responsibility and strength. "We cannot allow the Stone to fall into Ronan's hands. We have to go back to your ship, and deliver it to Nova."

Rolling his eyes, Rocket steps to the side. He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking about how he's going to get everyone out of here in one piece, especially when they keep sabotaging themselves like this.

He often questions the universe that made Rocket one of the most reasonable members of this team.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Eyelids crinkling, she steps closer. Her talons skid through the dry dirt, leaving imprints of her sharp toes and feet.

The fires had died, leaving her powdered with flickering neon shimmers. Cyan gleams off her in bursts. She shuffles in, her chest fluffed up. It looks like it'd be soft if he let it brush against his own, let the feathers comb through his coarse fur.

He sucks his teeth instead.

"I drag your ass out of an explosion and you wanna play nurse on the frickin' doorstep?" He growls, but the facade doesn't reach his eyes. His snarl had come out more like a rumble, vibrating in his chest. "Save it for when everything's not on fire."

And she's rolling her eyes before he finishes, like she doesn't believe a word of it. Before she can speak, their gazes are drawn away by the nearby commotion.

"Faithless!" Gamora's yelling, then she's storming away from Quill. She stops dead in her tracks at the sight she finds. "Oh no."

Before her, an army arrives. Among the lights of neon signs and lit up windows in the distance, orange blurs solidify into the cigarette ember thrusters of a full fighting force. They infiltrate the cracks between high rises and basement levels, crowding into wherever they can fit.

And facing them is one gray-skinned alien. Drax.

The moron had never come back after getting his panties in a wad and pissing off, but none of them expected this kind pf entrance. Rocket is content to let him throw his life away, but he won't be a part of it.

"At last!" He laughs, his arms raised high, blades in hand. "I shall meet my foe and destroy him."

Under Knowhere’s flickering haze, engines stamped in fire veer low. One lands—a gunmetal egg with side fins, more sea creature than ship.

"You called Ronan?!" Peter asks, voice rising in disbelief and frustration as he steps closer.

And as they look on dumbly in horror, a voice carries over the clamor. It calls for one from their ranks, anger like the roar of an engine.

"Quill!" A raspy, grating call pierces the air. "Don't you move, boy!"

A Centurian, skin as blue as the Root Brandy on Contraxia. He's bald with a red stripe on his crown, scowling straight at them.

On the other side of Drax, down steps another blue-skinned alien. Ronan, the Kree warlord, dressed head-to-toe in all-black mail.

When Gamora makes a break toward a hangar to the left, the rest of them follow. K'wirra shoots to the air, flying after them into a room full of transport pods. Round, small ships meant to travel from platform to platform inside Knowhere. Ten to twenty of them line each wall.

The hangar’s roofless mouth exposes the city skyline, flickering like a dying bulb. Spherical ships come and go like insects buzzing from one spot to the next.

Gamora finds an open pod and rips a red-clad humie out of it, stuffing herself inside. Quill copies her. So does Rocket, tossing his quad rifle into the craft as Groot watches with pleading eyes.

"I told you, you can't fit. Now wait here, we'll be back," he orders the big lug, hopping onto the rim on the entrance. He dips inside, flipping the lid on a built-in chest under the seat and stowing his rifle. He calls behind him, "Get a move on, feather head."

When Rocket turns, he sees black. Black feathers blotting out the light.

"Look out!" K'wirra squawks, her wings and tail fanning to slow her momentum. She flaps her wings desperately, leaning back to change her center of gravity.

It helps a little.

She lands and bumps into him, his back bowing over the controls. As the skin of his back creases in origami folds, his front is pressed against her fast-beating pulse. His open paws against her chest keep her stable, her feathers twitching as she pulls in her wings.

"Little warning next time?" He huffs, giving her the softest shove he can muster. She takes it like a champ, stumbling but not falling. He'd never say that, of course. Never say he regrets it when her overgrown talon catches the seam of the flooring.

And as she hops back, a tinge of green on the skin under her eyes, she lifts her arms.  She's checking the size of the cockpit like she's dipping her toe in the water, checking the temperature.

"Yeah, no. This isn't gonna work," she mutters, clicking her beak when she can only spread them halfway. Her shoulders shiver, offput. "Uh-uh. Too small."

K'wirra leaps from the edge of the pod, lifting off into the air. She circles Groot before landing. Her claws wrap around his shoulder.

Looking at him with eyes full of sea glass and sparkles, she shuffles closer to Groot's head. Her feet clench tightly on his branches, leaving minute little divets in his bark.

She quirks one edge of her mouth, a smile that grows as fast as Groot's leaves.

Groot's answering smile is like a vow, a soft little promise hardened in honey.

These two are making him want to hurl. Rocket rolls his eyes as his head rolls across his shoulders.

“Yeaaah. I'm not great with small enclosed spaces. Because of, like, the wings? I'm best in open airspace. And Groot’s always had our backs.” She looks at Groot meaningfully, her feathers fluffing as her shoulders rise and fall. "It's my turn to have his."

Groot meets her gaze like an old friend. They share a smile, like a silent conversation between a bee and a flower, a secretive dance of pollen and wings.

Usually, it's Rocket looking at him like that. It's Rocket that understands the big idiot. And though K'wirra clearly can't speak his language, they seem to vibrate on a frequency that Rocket just doesn't.

A moment passes in which he can't say a word. He already knows what he doesn't want to accept. It's not the first time he hears in the back of his skull no one will ever pick you. It won't be the last, nowhere close.

He lets slip a growl louder than the accompanying whine. "Whatever, just don't die." Then, a curt grumble, "Or do. Not like I care."

Not like he needed comfort.

Not like he wanted sympathy.

Words form in her mouth and Rocket's moving before he can think better of it. He doesn't even look at her. He just shuts the door. Hard. Because hearing any more would just make it hurt worse.

The sharp slam probably wipes the soft smile off her face. It doesn't stop that creeping, scalding sting in Rocket's throat, but he tells himself it does. 

His ears don't burn. His stomach isn't flipping itself inside out. His mouth doesn't taste bitter, like unhappy endings and ugly ducklings.

He shouldn't care. He doesn't care.

But it still hurts.

“See you—” K’wirra’s beak is still open when the door slams shut. She blinks. “—later.”

Her smile falters, then crumples completely as the pod fires upward, vanishing into the darkened sky like a spark dying in the wind.

But this isn’t the end. It’s just the setup for a spectacular comeback. That’s what she tells herself. So what if the world isn't made for her? So what if her wings won’t fit in the cockpit? She always finds another way.

She has plenty to offer, and she’ll prove it. She’ll show them all that she belongs here—part of the… flight? Murder? Convocation? Squad? What do you call a ragtag mess of aliens from different planets?

Maybe she’ll be the one to coin the term.

"I am Groot."

When she looks at him, there's softness in his hardened bark, his visage like cottony seeds waiting to ride the wind.

She doesn't know what he's said, but it pulls something from within her. A truth beaten out with a smile. A drawing salve made of sweet summer honey.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” She throws up her wings dramatically, then slumps with a battered sigh. A fluttering heart beats in her chest, thudding against her ribs. “I mean, other than my looks. And my laugh. And maybe my brain."

She lowers her chin, straightening a crooked tuft of plumage. Her old Flock—the Flock—would’ve agreed. Her flaws weren’t quirks to them; they were proof. A reason to toss her away.

But K'wirra was never the type to fade off into obscurity.

Groot's hand falls from her talons, weathered bark tickling her scaly toes. She lets out a short little giggle, hiding it with a wing.

Groot inhales, his chest bulging before he says, "I am Groot." It's soft, like a gentle landing. It's something sad, something affectionate.

She droops like a daffodil in rain, then leans into him. He doesn't pull back. Her wing drapes around the back of his neck like a shawl.

“You always know what to say, Groot. Even if I have no idea what it means.” She pulls back just enough to glance up, her green eyes misted but steady. “Thanks.”

Rocket and Groot couldn’t be more different. But she likes them both. Groot is calm and grounding—sweet and sturdy, like a stonefruit nestled in hardwood. His leaves and branches—which he's always willing to share—are crunchy and fragrant. He talks to her like she matters, and he doesn't have anything to hide.

Rocket?

Rocket’s something else.

On the surface, he’s firecrackers and sharp edges. Prickly. Guarded. But never false.

Biting with no teeth. Laughing with no sound. Singing with no chord.

His body says what his mouth won’t. Mostly.

He can be sour, he can be bitter. Always hilarious, sometimes cutting. Other times charming.

But his body language doesn't lie. Even when he's using one emotion to mask another. It's a blessing that none of her new friends had the emotional control of a Ch'theerlaiiik. K'wirra wouldn't be able to stand it.

If she kept the memory of his touch tucked close to her breast, could anyone blame her?”

His arms had been stronger than she expected. His frame broader than hers, dense with muscle under all that fur. She remembers the way they fit together—too close, too fast—caught in the chaos of the blast.

It’s stupid to replay it, but her mind loops it anyway—like a glitch in her instincts. She knows what it was. Knows what it wasn’t. But memory isn’t rational.

So she lets it stay. Just a little longer.

But the world bleeds back in.

Groot steps back, his trunk shifting so he can look up at the sky. They watch the three crafts rise into the air and take off. K'wirra isn't used to being so worried about others, not after being alone for so many years, and though she can't say she dislikes the company, she hates the stabbing pain in her chest. Not knowing the fate of her new Flock is... stressful.

A beat passes. The sky, moments ago indifferent, now seems to mock her, the hues a sad mimic of her own against the canvas of black.

K'wirra tilts her head. Three crafts took off. 

That’s three pilots in the air. Groot here. Me here. 

That’s only five.

"Hey, Groot?" His mud-brown pools turn up to look at her, so she continues. "Did you see Drax take off? Maybe before the others?"

Groot’s cracked brows knit, and he slowly shakes his head.

“Okay. No big, that's fine. Nothing to get panicked over!" Her voice gets higher, so she throws on a smile, vaguely disarming but not enough to shade her distress. "Did he even come in here with us?”

Groot shrugs, and she wobbles instinctively—her wings flaring just enough to steady herself. But not enough to keep the creeping dread at bay. Why he hadn't come back yet, why he called Ronan, what's happening to him right now—all those and more thoughts ricochet around inside her skull like dice in a cup.

Her wings flare again, this time not to balance, but because something in her chest jolts like a bad engine turn.

“Okay!" she squeaks. "It might be time to panic."

"I so missed this!" K'wirra cries, the air folding around her in streaks. She can almost see the bending path it takes.

Her feathers feel slick, lubricated by her shimmer and braced by the Wind Bringer.

It may have only been a few days since she stretched her wings like this, but it feels like so much longer. It's like a vacation from being on the ground, or trapped in a cell or in a ship.

A happy trill bubbles from her throat like a laugh. She rolls midair, spiraling upward in a tight loop. The clouds, the stars, the freedom—this is flight.

An ornament on a branch, she sways through the air in time with a metronome.

She breathes deeply, the air tasting lighter from up above. Crisper in a way she almost forgot. Her wings strike the air once, then still in a graceful glide.

But she’s not up here to joyride.

"Okay, okay! Focus, girl. Gotta find Drax." Her head jerks as her mind catches up to her wings. She levels out, scanning the horizon.

Knowhere’s surface blurs below her—a mess of domed buildings and space-scrapers that reach for the next level above them. The mismatched lights cover her belly in shades—incandescent yellow, fluorescent blue, soft green-white, and the deep red of emergencies and exits. Like an augury, she reflects reality in flashes of light, colors enhanced. Brighter. Louder.

K'wirra dashes through air like a comet, tail following behind her like a rudder. Her round eyes flash, the verdant skin around them glistening in the light with every blink.

And there—movement.

She flaps, slowing down and honing her vision. Under the shadow of a radio tower and a wide old factory, windows caked in age and grime, her targets reside.

Two figures. One large, one larger.

The blue one—humanoid, tall, with black war paint dripping from his eyes and chin like ink—is unmistakably Kree. She’d heard enough from the others to guess who it is.

Ronan.

The one that stood in the shadow of too many pasts. Like Gamora's and Drax's. Like some thousands of survivors. Like the ones whose lives he took.

And he has her friend by the ankles, pulling him along without a care. Drax's gray-skinned head and shoulders leave gashes in the mud, like claw marks from a struggling victim.

Only he doesn't struggle.

Eyes closed, mouth slack, lips parted slightly, he could be mistaken for a corpse. Her throat feels tight and her eyesight blurs just slightly.

But that's her friend being dragged, her Flock that's being hurt. She knows she should probably get help, but that's just not her style.

She has to do something, so she does. No plan. Just fury.

She dives. The wind screams past her ears. Colors waver at the edge of her vision. His azure silhouette grows closer as she nears the ground.

"Hey!" she warbles, sharp spurs along her voice's edge. Ronan looks over his shoulder, his painted face neutral in its expression. "Let him go, you glorified plum!"

She's a missile, her wings tucked close and her tail feathers straight. She aims straight at the bastard's neck, her feet out with talons open like the curved prongs of a sharpened fork.

Ronan’s eyes track her without flinching. Just before impact, he sidesteps—slow and deliberate, like brushing away a fly. She tears straight past him, her opening falling through her feathers like sand.

"What—?!" Her tail feathers flare wide, but it's too late—she crashes through a window pane, feathers dancing in the air with shards of glass as she frantically flaps her way through it. Adrenaline pumps through her and she feels cold, like the heat was knocked out of her by the window.

She hits the floor with a squawk and a thud.

Luckily, the dining room she lands in is empty, not a soul in sight to watch her haul herself off the floor. Her talons leave marks on the wooden floorboards, but they blend in seamlessly with the myriad of others. She brushes shards out of her feathers and one or two come away with teal-tinged corners, still wet with her blood.

When she finally creeps up to the shattered window, there's nothing to see outside in the road.

Nothing except a single egg-shaped craft. It lifts off, a knife slicing the void.

Immediately, K'wirra takes to the sky.

She circles low, over the ugly clearing where, between warehouses, the old refinery vat sits—half-filled with yellow fluid and surrounded by debris.

There are rusted poles and busted walls nearby. But no figures. No blue warlord or big lovable idiot.

Even though they'd only shared smiles over the battlefield and quips between defeated enemies, they'd grown to trust each other. He'd tackled a few guards trying to shoot her down and even thrown her at a drone like a javelin. Her surroundings feel empty without him and their war-forged bond.

Too quiet. 

The air here is still and wrong. It smells like rotting eggs and burnt flesh.

Drax’s presence usually vibrates through the atmosphere, full of weight and intent. Without him, it feels hollow.

Bubbles pop out of existence on the surface of the yellow liquid, leaving their echoes in K'wirra's ears like ghosts. She drifts to the edge of the vat, peering down into the thick liquid.

There—under the ripples, under the slick yellow surface—a shape.

Broad. Still. “Drax!”

The scream bursts from her as she sees his gray silhouette. "Oh my frond. Oh my frond!"

Taking off once more, she threads empty alleys, shearing around corners and angling through the gaps of power lines like laser grids. 

She thinks about taking off after the stone, but there's no time. He might be dead before she gets back

"Gotta find help... Gotta find Groot!"

She knows she can’t lift Drax. Not even close. He’s a monument; she’s a whisper. Feathers and hollow bones do not a strong K'wirra make.

But if she’s fast enough—if she’s lucky—maybe she can reach that ship before it leaves orbit.

Sheer luck. A faster-than-thought prayer. That's what she's banking on.

And she's never been particularly lucky.

Chapter Text

Rocket was not happy when he grounded his pod.

The cockpit still hummed while the engine quieted down, the chill of space clinging to the metal outside.

Quill and Gamora were captured—by Yondu and his Ravagers. Quill had just given himself up, told them where he was and everything.

And the ones they left on Knowhere were in a whole other disaster when he landed—Drax laid out like roadkill while Groot held him like a battered house plant. K'wirra stood by like a worried mother hen. Lifting an arm to block the dust from Rocket's landing, the other stays tucked close, less animated than he remembers.

Looking at them, Rocket hadn't wanted to do anything but get the hell outta dodge. He and Groot would stick together. Maybe K'wirra would tag along, if she knows what's good for her. 

Then Groot said something sappy and K'wirra backed him up. Even Drax threw in his vote, which—okay, yeah—was a surprise. Three to one. This might not be a democracy, but Rocket knows when he’s outnumbered.

And when he's done wrong.

Hindsight's a bitch. Leaving the trio on Knowhere was dumb, he can admit that. Silently. To himself. In his thoughts.

A Halcri, a Flora Colossus, and a Kylosian. It reads like the setup to a dirty joke—the kind Rocket used to tell for a laugh around the pub before slinking back to a rented room nursing a bottle as big as his torso.

He’s smart. He knows he is. But smart people still do stupid things.

Like then, and now.

Definitely now. 

Now, as he's considering handing a powerful weapon to an already loose canon.

With Knowhere behind them and the Milano as dim as a tomb, the engine hums low. It's like a midday storm, draped in grays and varying degrees of blurred lights as they veer toward Yondu's position.

He stomps up the Milano’s ramp, K'wirra's soft wing-rustle trailing behind him. He doesn’t look back, but he knows she’s following.

Drax stays under the bridge with Groot, getting ready for their retaliation against the army of Ravagers waiting just outside the atmosphere. They'd looked to Rocket for a plan, like it was his job.

All Rocket’s managed so far is “make a big-ass gun.” Not his greatest work, but stupid plans are apparently the theme of the night.

Especially when K'wirra's involved.

With a grunt, he reaches for a different gun—a gift, his mind supplies, though he smothers the thought faster than a candle in a hurricane. He may have made it for her, but it isn't a sign of affection, just practical as hell. Her faces lights up as he pulls it out.

It's a compact blaster with a kick like a mule, the one he'd put together after they left the Kyln. It's been tucked under his belt, hiding just above the base of his tail for almost two rotations now. When he's feeling antsy, or really feeling anything, he'll pull it out and mess with it. Upgrading. Refitting. Tightening.

He hesitates.

Then he holds it in offer, staring off to the side. Because he knows what he'll see on her face—sugar-glazed eyes like candies, a too-sweet smile gleaming like gold, a hopeful little look like an imprinted duckling.

He doesn’t want to see it. His eyes flick over anyway.

He was right. And still, somehow, unprepared.

His lip curls.

“It ain’t a gesture or whatever," he spits. "You just looked... completely flarkin’ useless down there, and I don’t got time to babysit a feather duster with a death wish when bullets start flying.” His tone stays harsh, but it’s too quick, like he's swatting away the real reason before it escapes.

Though heavy in his paw, she lifts it like a feather. It's made of titanium alloy to keep it light.

She can't lift much. If it was too dense, she'd be grounded like the rest of them.

Her talons curl around it instinctively, perfectly spaced over the grip's hills and valleys. It fits like a glove, because Rocket doesn't half-ass his work. She gawks at it, teal-tinged tongue tickling the rim of her beak. Twisting her ankle, she raises the blaster to her face and peers down the sights.

"Rocket... is this a gun?" K'wirra asks him, wide-eyed with disbelief. The stubbed barrel sways in her grasp, talons trembling with sudden responsibility or excitement.

It’s sleek and compact, but unmistakably lethal. Reflective silver outside, gunmetal gray trim, polished to a subtle shine—not too flashy, not too dull. 100% too deadly for an untrained shooter.

The grip isn't standard. Instead of the usual straight handle, this one curves downward and back, shaped like the hooked bend of a perching branch. Notched grooves line either side, molded to cradle her long toes. The trigger guard is open-faced, more of a loop, so her talons can slide in from above instead of around.

Even the weight distribution is different—slightly forward-heavy, to counterbalance her airborne positioning. A stabilizing brace arcs behind the grip like a sickle, letting her rest it snugly against her lowest rib mid-flight.

“No, it’s a hairbrush," he bites, grabbing and angling the barrel to point away from him. Her breath catches. Rocket squeezes harder, enough that she flinches. He can hear Groot down below arguing with Drax as he gets tethered, reminding him to stop being an emotional wreck and get a frickin' move on. "Yes, it’s a gun.”

As if she expects him to take it back, to give a second thought to it, she tucks it under her wing.

“I’ve never shot one before," she chirps, a sliver of worry cloying from her beak before it dissipates. He wants to say yeah, no kidding, but she’s already flapping her gums. “Actually, I only heard about them after I left Ch'theer. I know nothing about them, just that they sounded so... fun!”

Her wings give a jittery flutter like she might launch herself into the ceiling with joy, so Rocket snaps his fingers in front of her face.

"Hey! Focus. This is frickin' important and we don't got all day." Twisting his lips, his brow twitches, his internal clock ticking as they get closer to the next battle. He hears the airlock clank open, followed by Drax's heavy footsteps on top of the craft.

They'd soon be at Yondu's door.

"Right!" She winces, bright eyes dropping to her claws. "My bad."

Hollow bones. Twitchy reflexes. The attention span of a sugar-blasted gremlin.

What the hell was Rocket thinking?

Her patience? Nonexistent. Confidence? Through the damn roof. Aim? TBD.

“This here’s the barrel,” he says, grabbing her ankle to draw it between them, pointing out different parts on the pistol. She stands on one leg, allowing him to manipulate the weapon in her grasp.

His dark paws could wrap around her thin legs twice if he tried. Could probably snap them with zero effort.  Honey-colored scales drape her feet in glossy yellows, smooth and slick against his leathery pads.

He forces himself to breathe, but he only gets a lungful of her dewy scent, like a fragrant perfume with an unimaginable price tag.

All he can do is push it further down. Play it off as annoyance.

His other hand gestures to the barrel as he explains, “Aim it at stuff you want dead. Never anything you like.”

She nods earnestly. He flips her foot over and taps the trigger.

“This lil’ guy? That’s your ‘make-it-stop-living’ button. The more you squeeze, the more ‘stop-living’ happens on the other end.” Serious, blood red eyes stare into hers, hoping to cement his words in her brain. Safety beats her blowing someone's dick off accidentally. "Don't put your, er, toe there unless you're ready to kill some unlucky fellow."

K’wirra gasps, reverent. “It’s so shiny.” Her wing stretches for the barrel, eyes trained on her new treasure.

He slaps her wing—gently, like he caught her raiding the ration stash.

“It's not a toy," he grunts, stern and rumbling. "And don’t wave it around inside the ship.”

She tucks it under her wing like it was made of gold and rainbows. Her eyes sparkle like Christmas came early on some glitter-blanketed planet Rocket would never visit. But maybe if she asked him nicely, with those doe eyes and long lashes batting up at him.

For a moment, he thinks she's onto him, knows that there's some affection tied up in the gift. He's about to take it back, only stopped by her words.

“This is gonna be so helpful,” she beams.

That's right. It's practical. Just makes sense. Nothing deeper.

“What it’s gonna be,” Rocket growls, already missing the warmth in her eyes as he turns away, “is a frickin' headache.”

He walks off, jaw tight. Rushes downstairs under the guise of getting the shields set. Feels his insides rising up to argue as he retreats from the bird

Feelings are fucking landmines. They get people killed. They got his people killed—Floor, Teefs, Lylla.

He ran then. He wanted to run now. From her, from everything.

This is supposed to be about strategy. About survival and logic. Not about feelings. Not about replacing what he once had. So why the hell can he still hear K'wirra's happy little warble? Why can he still feel the ghost of her plumage brushing his fur?

He is running now, but it's slow. Dream-like. Feigning control when really he's just stretching out his retreat.

He growls low in his throat and punches a bulkhead on his way down the hall.

Slams his fist into the metal. Just once. Not hard. Just enough to shake off the fantasy. Presses his forehead to the metal to remind himself of some unpleasant truths.

Monsters don't get happy endings.

The bulkhead, warped and strange, mirrors his expression.

He locks eyes with his reflection, fragmented in the scuffed steel, a snarl caught in a thousand cruel angles. Slices of him cut off, like pieces of a pie that would never be whole again.

He has to look away. Not because he doesn't see himself, but because he does.

The Milano bucks three times—sharp, jolting. Lasers shriek silently through space.

K’wirra startles awake in Groot’s lap, feathers flaring, cheek against bark that smells like ozone and moss.

"I’m up! I’m up!" she chirps, blinking hard.

From the pilot’s chair, Rocket throws her a look: one brow raised, brown and gray fur concealing a ruby gaze.

She blinks twice, twisting toward the front viewport. Cerise eyes stare past it at the ship in the void. K'wirra follows his line of sight.

Oh.

Right. That is a very big ship.

"Attention idiots," Rocket starts. Strong as liquor, rough as sandpaper.

K'wirra's still playing catch up, her groggy brain filling at a rapid pace. He must've hailed them before she woke up.

It doesn't look very aerodynamic.

Massive. Hulking. Covered in weapons like a thorny vine. Its shadow could swallow the Milano a million times over. Dark painted metal drapes its top like a cape of lapis. In the center, a wide lens like a viewfinder aims straight at the Milano.

Then Rocket continues, his voice high and smug like he’s announcing a prizefight.

"The lunatic on top of this craft," he says into the comm, "is holding a Hadron Enforcer. A weapon of my own design."

Pride looks good on Rocket. A lot of things do. 

The smug smile, the cocky, swiveling ears—it sends a jolt through her gut, like lightning struck her and leaves a current dancing on her skin.

She’s just like any other bird with a crush on the wrong guy at the worst time. K’wirra bites her tongue to keep from copying his grin. She thinks she does anyway.

Then she's hit with a sense of deja vu, one that tilts her gravity and gives her vertigo.

It’s all achingly familiar—like she'd lived it in a dream or a past life.

There should be more of them, right? They're only missing two members, so where's their fourth?

Wait. Rocket, Groot, me… where’s—oh. Oh. Drax is the lunatic on top of the ship.

"He’s on top of the ship?" As she puzzles it out, she grins wider. "Good old Drax. Hah!"

A whisper of a chuckle brushes over her head. "I am Groot," Groot says, scolding but amused.

Still no answer from Rocket, just more furious fiddling with the controls.

“We're not going the sneaky route anymore?” K'wirra asks, turning her head to the pilot. He jams a button on the dash—mute, she thinks—and turns to her, leaning over the arm rest to stare her dead in the eyes.

“You do realize I'm trying to threaten these people, don't you?" Rocket asks, his canines like daggers and his eyebrows like drapes, one down low. "You are not helping."

His tail twitches behind him, swaying in time with his words.

"Right." She’s staring. Watching the tip of his dark-ringed tail as it flicks back and forth. She should probably be paying attention to what he's saying, what she's saying back. "Totally."

"I am Groot," argues the plant from behind her, his voice like a splash of liquor and hot cider. Warming, but strong.

Rocket scoffs, then taps the button again. He leans in toward the comm with a voice that practically oozes malicious delight.

"If you don't hand over our companions now," Rocket starts, never losing the gleeful quality to his threats, "He's gonna tear your ship a new one. A very big new one."

Groot leans down over her, gently covering the top of her head with his wooden fingers in a way that catches her off guard. Protective. Sheltering.

“I am Groot,” he murmurs, the vibrations low and reassuring.

"I'm giving you to the count of five." Then he starts counting, and the roughness in his voice, like sandpaper on her cheeks, makes her shudder. Groot leans over her head, looking concerned.

"Five," he says, and his profile is that of a predator's. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"Four." His ears crank back like a wind-up.

His whiskers caress the air as he counts."Three—"

A burst of static blasts through the speaker, cutting off Rocket’s growl. The crackling voice ricochets around the room like a firework.

"—Rocket! It's me!" Quill shouts like his life depends on it. Assuming Rocket wasn’t bluffing—and she’s seen enough to know he wasn’t—it definitely does. "For God's sake, we figured it out! We're fine!"

It takes a moment for K'wirra to realize that it's coming over the airwaves, transmitted from Yondu's ship.

Her Flock.

"Pete!" she squawks, her wings snapping out on instinct. She flaps hard, shooting to the other side of the bridge and perching on Rocket’s chair. She leaves pock marks in the leather, hooked talons pressing into the headrest.

Rocket's hands on the yoke relax, tension bleeding out of him like ink on wet paper.

"Oh, hey, Quill," he says casually, by way of greeting. "What's going on?" 

The bird hops down onto the arm rest, letting he wings slow her fall.

"You sure you're both okay?" K'wirra chirps, a waver of concern in her trill. "I'll, I'll come get you. I can fly right over and—"

"No. Hey, I'm sure. Gamora's fine, I'm fine." Quill's voice rasps over the tinny speakers again, then pausing for a second. "Rocket, do not let K'wirra off the ship. We're coming."

With all the exhaustion of a new parent, Quill cuts the line.

Tap, tap, tap.

Her wing hits the door frame—hollow boned, soft. Not like Quill’s lazy knock, or Gamora’s decisive one. Hers is quieter. Lighter. Bird-boned and maybe a little hesitant.

Maybe she should’ve waited. Maybe this was a bad idea, like most of her others.

But Rocket hears it anyway. His ears are too sharp not to. One of them twitches, flicks backward in her direction, but he doesn’t turn around. He stays hunched over the makeshift workbench, claws tangled in a small chaos of exposed wires and metal casings. Whatever he’s doing—patching, tinkering, pretending—his fingers are steady, despite the rawness of the day ahead.

The Ravager's ship hums gently beneath them. A temporary home, too big and too cold, full of odd compartments and half-welcome guests. Some of the crew were bunking here for the night.

Like Rocket and the rest of the team, she's decked out in Ravager red. Modeled after her old harness, strips of leather curl around her breasts and shoulders, making a cross over her chest. A metal communicator is sewn to the neck, one Rocket modified to take voice commands while she's flying. There's ever a sheath for her dagger, one that lets her grab it quickly without cutting herself.

Tomorrow, they'll hurl themselves at Ronan like moths to a flame. It's only a matter of getting to Xandar where they already know Ronan will be.

"Hi," she says, stepping further into the room.

Its high-ceiling and red-painted walls remind her of the Kyln. Same heavy stillness. Same waiting-for-something-to-go-wrong energy. It smells better though, like people actually like living here.

Still no full glance. Just a grunt, claws twisting two frayed copper ends together. His fingers don’t shake. They never do, not when they’re busy.

She watches as a bead of blood wells up where a wire nipped him. He doesn’t flinch.

“Alright,” he mutters eventually. “You lookin’ to nap in the vents again? Blow up the flarkin’ hyper drive? What is it this time?”

She huffs. “None of the above. I can’t just come talk to you?”

He grumbles something under his breath and tightens a nut.

For a few seconds, the silence stretches. Not awkward exactly. Not comfortable either. He throws a glance at her, quick and tentative, played off instantly. He seems unsure if and how to continue, so she takes pity on him.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” she asks.

Rocket doesn’t look at her, but she sees him pause. It’s in the way his claw slows over the bolt he’s pretending to adjust.

“About how long you have to live,” she clarifies. She's staring straight into his eyes, but he pretends not to notice. He lifts his shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.

“Yeah,” he says, like it costs him something. “Probably. Ain’t like I got an owner’s manual. Who knows what the hell they did to me? Could drop dead tomorrow, or a hundred years from now. Either way, odds aren’t great.”

"Oh." Her wings press closer to her sides. "I hope it's the second one, then. Ch'theerlaiiik can live to be almost 50."

Her stomach twists thinking of spending that time without one of her friends by her side. She's not prepared for any of them to disappear on her, but especially Rocket. That, she leaves unsaid.

"Didn't know that. You're the first uh..." He opens his lips, teeth together as if to start with the ch sound. He backtracks, clears his throat, then opens his mouth again. "Halcri I've ever met. That Collector freak seemed to know about you, though.”

She'll forgive him for the word. After all, those with larynxes can’t pronounce a Ch'theer word right if their lives depended on it.

“Yeah, I don't know how he knew so much,” she says darkly, beak dipping. Her claw brushes the underside of her chin, parting the small feathers there. “Even if my people had left the planet, Ch'theerlaiik don’t speak to foreigners. They won't even talk to me, and I was born in the Hanging City."

Rocket finally looks at her. The red around him lends itself to the hue of his deep stare. 

“What'd you do to get that honor?” He asks, his eyes droplets of crimson-tinged syrup.

"Nothing. It was an old tradition. S'ehf’riii—the calling precedes the happening. A superstition, if you ask me. My name, it meant that I would be disruptive to the harmony of the flock. Told them who I’d be before I had a chance to be anything.”

“Huh,” Rocket says, clicking his tongue. “Sounds like crap.”

“The Flock's soothsayer named hatchlings after their first month, reading their wings for divine omens. She interprets them, too, and that's who you are. Your whole life, boiled down to a point.”

“Still sounds like crap.” He drops a screwdriver into the tray with a thunk. His expression, caught somewhere between anger and pity, relaxes as he  “I made my own name. So did you.”

She smiles. Heat crops up deep under her plumage by her four-chambered heart. “Yeah, with a little help. Thanks for that, by the way. And thanks for the gun.”

Claws rake through fur, tilling through the surface like a blanket of burnt soil and pale ash. “I told you not to make that into a thing.”

“I know. I just—” her voice dips like warm, fresh-baked bread into the soup of her soul. She flutters her lashes, unable to meet his eyes as she tells him, “I want to say it anyway. So, thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever..." Rocket trails off, his words simmering like coals beneath ash. "You’d be dead without us. So don't get shot down too far away."

He doesn't say he wants her safe. She feels it in the air, hears it in his gruff commands.

“I won’t get shot down.” She steps closer. Her claws click softly on the floor. “And I'll make sure to come back in one piece.”

"Good girl."

She laughs softly, wings settling like curtains at her side, trying to pretend something isn't stirring in her gut. She's just hoping he doesn't notice the way her breath catches. The way her down ruffles up, trying to trap the air underneath them as though saving the moment.

Then the door creaks open behind her.

Rocket's ears flip at the noise. Narrow brûléed eyes slide to the door just behind her.

"I am Groot."

Simple, easy. It coats her frayed nerves, a layer of honey over a sore throat.

Groot picks her up, a long branch twining under her claws and lifting her gently. It pulls her up and onto his shoulder, her wings slapping the air for balance. He speaks again, smooth and warm like sunshine on a summer day.

"I am Groot." He smiles at his two friends.

He's sturdy, standing straight and proud with K'wirra on his perch. He looks like he always does—goofy, confident, ready to take on the world—but something's different. Stronger, rougher.

She stares back, eyes like emeralds in a storm of leaves. Lovely, lively greens shelter them like a mesh canopy, or a sheer awning.

Then the atmosphere sours, like milk left out too long. K'wirra looks back to the pilot, taking in the difference in his shoulders and spine. The regained tension.

He's staring this time. Eyes like fire pits, his gaze digs into Groot and K'wirra like a physical force before he wrenches it away.

Rocket turns back to the workbench, twisting a screw too roughly. He opens up the shielding of some device, then yanks a wire so hard that it snaps.

He grumbles. He seethes. His teeth flash. K'wirra winces as crimson oozes from his black-padded palm.

She second guesses coming, but she reminds herself it could be the last time, even as Groot gives her a meaningful glance and drags her away.

And though she doesn't know what the next "I am Groot" means, she can feel the intent in his rumbling bark. So patient that she couldn't possibly misunderstand.

He's telling her to give it time.

Chapter Text

Groot rose above the others, dwarfing the lot of them.

The air in Yondu's cargo hold was stagnant, but not hot or muggy. Just still as could be and thick as gravy. Not like Yondu left the dehumidifier on for guests.

Rocket could hear Groot's wood creaking under K'wirra's pale yellow toes. Dangerously sharp claws prick through worn bark, baring white grain as she held on tight.

"I am Groot." His voice rumbled low, an earthquake in the sky. 

It invigorated the bird, feathers ruffling like she was trapping the ambiance under them, holding it close to her skin.

"Yes! Whatever he said!" K'wirra quipped, seeming to juggle herself from one foot to the other. She had so much energy, she'd outlast a quarnyx battery, Rocket thought. "I'm in if you are, big guy." She sparkled, nodding along with Groot's words. She clearly didn't understand them, but bounced with boundless zip.

Too much excitement, too small for a battlefield—but there she was, volunteering for death like it was a thrill ride. Smiling when she saw Rocket staring, beaming at him briefly, then turning back to Groot.

Why'd she make things so difficult? Why couldn't she have been the starry-eyed bird about to get her ticket punched? Why couldn't she be a thief or an assassin or some other scum of the universe? Or at least someone he could be mean to without scolding himself afterward.

Then all eyes turned on Rocket.

Five pairs, but only one pair bored into him. Only one pair speared him through with the knife of excited expectation.

Rounded green bulbs set like stones in onyx feathers glistening rusty red, mirroring the painted walls like a shining saber dripping crimson.

Then Rocket stood.

Not right away, not even after a few moments. Not without a few choice words, and definitely not because of her. Not because of the gushy center of his hardened exterior, the part of him that melted when she shined in his direction, like ice in hot water.

He ignored it as long as he could. The sting, the hurt.

He refused to admit why, publicly or privately. Refused to admit that he didn't want to lose these people. His friends. Would rather die with them than cold and alone.

And because Rocket is plenty stubborn, he never will.

He'll take it to his half-sized grave.

Each one of them retreated to gear up. Equipment, weaponry, armor — everything was gathered.

They planned. More than Rocket has ever planned anything in his life. Then again, it was the first time in his life he'd ever been responsible for saving the galaxy.

"All Ronan's gotta do is touch the stone to the planet's surface and zap! All plants, animals, Nova Corps..." Quill trailed off, letting Gamora finish the thought for him.

"Everything will die." Her words thud, her glare severe and pin-pupiled.

"So Ronan does not make the surface," Quill insisted. "Rocket and K'wirra will lead a team to blow a hole in the Dark Aster's starboard hull. Then, our craft and Yondu's will enter."

"Once they know we're on board, Ronan will isolate himself behind impenetrable security doors on deck, which I can disable by dismantling the power source."

Gamora paused, allowing the so-called captain to lead.

Quill laid out the plan like a picnic blanket—breezy, simple, like he wasn't asking them to kill the unkillable. Easy as bakin' flarkin' pie, right?

Someone passed out containment devices for the stone, Gamora reminding them all what the stakes are.

K'wirra picked one up, but didn't know where to put it. Instead, she handed it to Groot, who stowed it under his bark-plated pecs for her.

Later, as Rocket's strapping himself together like a torn-up doll, he sees them again. Giggling like clowns, Groot settled on a bench while she rested on him.

Settled together like a pair of damn nesting birds.

K'wirra's beak played at his bark, snapping tiny twigs from his neck and back like a barber. Rocket could imagine some man and his wife shaving his face in the same manner.

Rocket bared his teeth, but kept quiet. He didn't want to be caught watching the flirty duo.

He'd tried to convince himself that he was making something of nothing, but he couldn't let it go.

There was so much that made sense if he assumes they're flirting. Courting each other.

Groot had taken to K'wirra as quickly as she appeared, like he was waiting for her before he bloomed.

It always felt like he was missing something that they both knew. Groot and K'wirra talked like they knew each other for years, though he was positive she didn't speak Groot, still asks Rocket to translate sometimes. Still, somehow she's almost as attuned to his mood as Rocket is.

But they're right next to each other, like always. Intertwined like always. There's no space in between. No place for Rocket to fit on Groot's shoulder anymore.

Maybe he was just keeping Groot warm, all this time. To be fair, he'd been using Groot at first, too. That turned into a real friendship somewhere along the way.

Rocket couldn't give that up willingly. Couldn't make himself want that.

But like an old version of popular hardware, there's no choice but to go obsolete. To lose his place to the newer, prettier, nicer model. The one with less dents and a shinier coat of paint.

That  cacophony of sounds he heard before? Maybe that was Rocket.

Maybe he's the mess. The one out of tune. The freak in the barrel of monkeys.

And he has to admit, he can't blame Groot. She's a good-looking dame. Much better looking than Rocket.

Rocket watched them too long. Thought too much about the way they looked each other deeply in the eyes and how Groot trailed branch-like fingers over her black mosaic feathers.

Rocket's paw bled. Claws pierced his palm. Black skin yielded to red flesh.

But it was like it was someone else's.  Like someone disconnected his hand from his body, puppeteered it.

It didn't answer to him anymore. 

He couldn't even feel it.

None of the agency, none of the pain.

Xandar's sun shines through the windscreen like solder joints and copper wires.

Rocket and K’wirra snagged one of Yondu’s ships. Smaller than the Milano, bigger than the pods on Knowhere. With it, Rocket will rule the skies. K'wirra's playing the scout—leading enemies away from the battle and taking out stragglers.

Not that Rocket had exactly agreed with that plan.

They fly over Xandar, beside the fleet of Ravagers and the Milano, nearing the field of the soon-to-be battle.

He looks to the bird, catching a glimpse of her looking awe-filled and excited out the window. She holds tight onto the chair to his right. Clamped on the headrest, her talons keep her in place while Rocket steers the craft.

Her communicator is blinking, its green diode showing it's operating nominally. Her dagger is strapped to her breast again, but her gun is in a holster, tucked under her left wing, the grip angled low so she could retrieve it easily with her clawed foot.

Rocket feels for the handle of the gun on his back, just to be sure. Double-checks his pockets for his keepsake, only to touch the solid slab of it through the fabric of his jumpsuit.

He glances back over again, and this time their eyes meet.

Green and red meet like flint and steel, scraping against each other in a coarse grind. Sparks fly, the kind that could set off a wildfire. K'wirra's may be bright and excited, but Rocket's are worn and sharp.

He looks away first.

People will die today. Good and bad.

And with Rocket around, history's bound to repeat itself. That's just the truth, he thinks. He gets people killed. 

Good ones. Soft ones.

Like Teefs and Floor. Like Lylla. Lying on that disgusting floor, blood and dirt mixing together into a horrid paste.

Rocket did that.

Even if he didn't directly cause their deaths, he sure as hell didn't keep them alive. Sure as hell wasn't enough to save any of them.

He's not ready for that to happen again.

When they finally find the Dark Aster on the horizon, Yondu calls the order over the comms.

"Fire!"

Good. Rocket hates waiting. It makes him ruminate, and that's proven dangerous. It comes out in the form of custom weaponry and restless nights. He's ready to take out some krutacking fighter pilots and forget the itch under his skin when he looks at the copilot's seat.

On cue, two hovering crafts—blasters, almost, but they're three times the size of the Milano—explode with something like magma, two oversized balls of glowing orange goo shooting off toward the enemy ship before impacting against its shield.

It creates a curtain of orange sludge, hot as welding sparks and twice as bright.

"Cover down," Yondu announces, then proceeds with another stern order. "Submerge."

As one, the fleet dives. Air flaps flatten against the tops of their crafts, and they all drop in altitude swiftly.

Rocket's finally feeling activated, like a weapon turned on an enemy. One paw presses the throttle further, his other on the yoke steering down. So far, everything was going as planned.

He should've known. Good things never last.

Veering back up under Ronan's ship, the fleet flies for the underside of the black cylindrical craft. Two of the Ravagers break off with Rocket and speed ahead. Get close before Ronan figures out the trick, and bust open a new entrance. Over comms, Quill's voice rings out, urgent.

"Rocket, hurry!"

"What does it look like I'm doin'?" Rocket mumbles, but he doesn't turn on the comms. He isn't expecting the sympathetic chuckle from his right. 

He looks back a third time. Has to tear his gaze away because the look she's giving him—bright, confident, relaxed, so in her element that it's almost sensual—makes him want to scream. Tear out his fur. Curse into the sky.

Or maybe it makes him want to pull her in and feel her beak against his muzzle.

But that's just fantasy. Reality is right in front of him, Ronan's warship speeding closer. Rocket opens fire on a patch of weak-looking metal along the side of the Dark Aster. The other two ships follow suit, and their focused attack definitely raises the alarm.

Like flies, enemy fighter crafts swarm from the crevices in the undulating mother ship.

A few skim too close for comfort. One trails near enough to send a wave through the air and disrupts Rocket's aim. Just in time, he wrests back control of the ship.

"I got this," K'wirra's chirruping voice calls from over his shoulder. Rocket doesn't look, doesn't hear the hiss of the opening door, too busy battling the turbulence and keeping his finger on the trigger. Mere seconds pass.

"What exactly do you got? Lice?" He says, but when he turns, she's vanished. Only an iridescent, downy feather flutters into the seat. Lonely, like it's been left behind in the rush. Falling into the shadow of the chair where it turns dark.

Her colors flash outside the ship. Slivers of sunshine catch them—crazy pinks and reckless yellows. Shimmering, ditzy blues and greens.

He almost stands from his seat. Almost goes after her.

But he doesn't.

It's not his flarking job to keep her safe. Not his problem that she thinks she's invincible.

Yet his eyes follow her as she darts through enemy ships. Zips around the back of one. Raises her gun. Fires.

The blast goes wide right. She looks at the gun, confused. He clenches the throttle tighter, tries to prepare himself to see her drop.

But she rises like a phoenix.

Rocket's ship vibrates with gunfire aimed at the Aster, but it feels like a tickle to him. A brush scrubbing him softly.

She clips the distance in no time, pressing the barrel of her gun up to the craft, piercing it with her next bullet.

Ember red and smoke gray wafts only a hair's breadth from her tail. The engine chugs and strains and bursts into flames, putting air under her wings, and she's snatched back up by the sky like she's a piece of it, buffeted by debris and ion wash.

Mesmerized, Rocket almost forgets to call the cavalry. Almost doesn't notice the metal side of the Dark Aster curling in, giving way under the barrage of bullets.

"Quill! Yondu! Now!" he yells into the communicator on the dash. K'wirra loops away from the smoking tail of another enemy, picking another nearby while it falls from the sky.

"There're too many of them, Rocket!" Gamora makes excuses over the dash speakers. "We'll never make it up there."

But she's wrong. Rocket knows it when Kree ships start dropping like flies, shot down by starburst ships in dark blues and yellows. As they fight, the commander in charge of their forces hails the comm link.

"Peter Quill. This is Denarian Saal of the Nova Corps." A voice stirs over comms thick and deep with a polished sheen, like a stout with a dark brown color and a head of soft white foam. "For the record, I advised against trusting you here. Prove me wrong."

Saal may be some civilized gentleman that feels the need to introduce himself, even in the midst of a dogfight, but Rocket has more important things on his mind.

"If you see a bird, do not shoot," he spits into the comm at the Nova Corps. "She's one of ours."

Someone's going to die today. Too many someones. Maybe her.

Rocket shouldn't care.

But he does.

And it's already costing him.

The wind combing through her feathers is liberating.

Fresh air showers her in peacefulness, even as she plans to strike.

She almost feels guilty for leaving Rocket—but that flies out the window the moment she does, tossing herself away from the craft and flapping her large wings.

The cloudless sky welcomes her, lifting her on its currents. It's something she longed for, and she's at ease again now they're together.

K'wirra has her pick of the litter, multiple enemy crafts within reach. She cut the air like a soft cheese, practically invisible to the much larger vehicles. The pilots inside probably don't even notice her. Picking one at random, she curves toward it.

It zips along in the Aster's shadow, setting its reticle on a Ravager ship.

K'wirra knows what to do.

Or her body does, even when her brain doesn't. She doesn't hear Yondu's announcement of his craft falling from the sky, nor does she notice the influx of friendly Nova Corps ships until they're right in front of her wide eyes.

She takes advantage of the opportunity.

A single foot slides up her body, searching for the weapon Rocket foisted on her. Something about the way Rocket had pressed it into her grip—rough, but not unkind—lingers in her foot now as it grabs for the handle.

She flaps her wings, then steadies into a glide. She points the barrel at the enemy, hoping she's aiming near the cockpit.

The wind, carrying her at phenomenal speeds, is powerful. So much so that she can't seem to keep her foot still, wrestling with the iron sights until—BANG!

She misses. The shot goes wide right, almost scraping a Ravager's wing. At such high altitudes, the gusts could easily sway her aim.

As much as Rocket tried, the world he lives in wasn't made to accommodate her.

She cackles, unable to hold back a shock of laughter.

Of course. Of course K’wil’riira’askaiyn’tael—a curse, an omen—can’t even shoot at the enemy without nearly tagging her own ally.

She has to focus, to block out the world outside the firefight. That and she needs to get closer. No more risks—when it comes to others, anyway.

While she's thinking, her body moves on instinct, swooping closer. She grabs onto the craft with her claw, scouring the metal with the tips, and catches herself before she slips off.

They're the same flying monstrosities she saw on Knowhere. Egg-shaped and without windows, fin-like wings on either side, and a fire-branded tail that smells like exhaust. This time, she aims for the thruster, or engine, or whatever is under the metal shell making the craft fly through the air.

She fires, purposefully this time, smirking when the engine sputters to a stop. The nose of the jet dips. K'wirra loosens her grip and lets her wings open to full size. The hot smoke of the flaming craft drift under her, adding a boost to the current she caught. Drifting higher, she takes stock of her surroundings, ready to take on another one.

But a deeply troubled shout breaks her thoughts.

"What the flark were you thinking?!" Rocket screams over the comm link. "Are you trying to get your ticket punched?"

"I just want everyone to live," she answers breezily, her eyes rolling even though he can't see her. She arcs over what must be hundreds of crafts at a time, each one a flash of wings, metal, and vapor just beneath her claws. It took them no time at all to fill the airspace about the Xandarian capital.

"Ain't that nice. You really wanna get yourself killed to make that happen?"

"Dying's not on the agenda for today."

She expects a rebuttal, but all that comes is his wordless growl, then something that almost sounds... protective. Soft?

"Stop takin' stupid chances."

She doesn't know whether to smile or cry.

She tastes some modicum of affection there, some drizzle of sweetness tossed in with the annoyance. And if that sweetness lasts on her tongue like she dipped her beak in honey, then that's her secret to keep.

"I promise to try it out and see how I feel," K'wirra tells him, a smile pinching her cheeks. His sigh, heavy with burden and acceptance, filters over the comm, but he says no more.

She pitches herself into a barrel roll, turning until she's just behind another enemy ship. Her free claw now holding her dagger, she stabs it into the ship's scrap-metal underbelly. The dagger strike sends a bone-deep vibration through her, but she flies fast, gutting it like a fish, and comes away with a bundle of wires sure to disrupt things.

Something she learned early on is that there aren't often useless parts in a machine. Snagging a few cables here or a battery there could take down a fleet with the right timing.

While she and the Ravagers work their magic, the Nova Corps ships band together, forming a kind of barrier as they link up. A yellow sheen lights up the blanket of their forces as they block the Dark Aster from proceeding.

But then the bastard starts to attack innocents.

All at once, their opponents start to dive, rocketing like missiles toward the planet's crust. From her vantage point, she sees it all—destruction and calamity rain down on the city. Thank the Wind-Bringer that Rocket was there, leading the Ravagers to protect the evacuating civilians, because K'wirra wasn't fast enough.

She stays near the Aster, taking out pilots before they can even think of hurting anyone, forcing herself to ignore what goes on far below her claws. As she clings to a friendly jet, hitching a ride to the other side of the battle, she bites back tears at the screams and shouts of ant-like specs so distant she can't make out their cries.

Only the horror in them.

K'wirra shakes it off, determined to keep her head in the game.

The Nova pilots are the last barrier between Ronan and Xandar, and they're struggling. They're locked in an evenly-matched wrestling match with the Dark Aster, neither giving an inch of ground.

Only Ronan pushes his ship harder. The thrusters flare as they increase their output.

She despises the creaking metal screech echoing in the atmosphere, knowing the Dark Aster is nuzzling up to the pilots and testing their mettle. K'wirra lifts her wings and air slides under, pulling her up once she uncurls her claws.

That's when the explosions start. 

At first, they're localized in the center. Lilac-tinged popcorn-clouds of fire and soot blotting out the amber shield. Each destroyed ship leaves a hole in the grid until there's too big a rip to mend. 

It only spreads. 

K'wirra bites her tongue, using the pain to anchor herself. She can't stop moving, can't zone out in a battlefield, even when it's Denarian Saal, the commander, who's shouting for help.

"Rocket!"

His desperate voice on the comms makes her visualize it, makes her imagine the people inside their cockpits, their crafts crushing them to death or worse. Rocket's quick to answer, almost pleading in tone.

"Hold on, Saal, just...!"

He never finishes. The chilling scream that cuts into static is answer enough.

Like a pool of liquid or dye seeping into fabric, Nova crafts keep dropping, until there's not one of them left.

The Dark Aster continues, as though never disrupted in the first place. K'wirra swallows the sob threatening to break out, tries to push down the emotion welling in her throat.

After a moment of silence, her comm link's earpiece crackles to life again.

"Quill, you gotta hurry." Rocket's gruff voice wavers despite the tension, uncertainty riding the tinny waves of the comm. "The city's been evacuated, but we're getting our asses kicked down here!"

"Gamora hasn't opened the door!" the human shouts back. It doesn't sound like her—the Zehorebei was capable, strong, and determined. If anyone would get that door open, it's Gamora. Unless a wrench was thrown in the gears, K'wirra thinks as her hawk eyes search the sky.

There.

An outcropping of twisted metal bares swipes of green and red, then blue and purple. Gamora, attentive and aggressive, engaging in combat with a bald-headed woman.

"Say no more." K'wirra's green eyes target the women, her body following the wind. "I'll make it a rush order."

"Not this again. You can't just —"

But she cuts him off before he can say she's not going. "Can't hear you, already doing it, gotta go!"

Tucking her elbows only slightly, she angles toward the hole in the Aster.

"K'wirra!"

She doesn't listen, swooping through the opening like a dart. The lighting goes from 100 to 0 in an instant.

At first her eyes don't adjust to the light. She blinks hard and then she can see the ambient green lighting. While Gamora grapples a blue woman of similar stature, her face chromed out with a ring around her eye and a few lines on her crown, K'wirra devises a plan.

It's not very complex, or even a little complex, but her wing is forced when Gamora takes a kick to the jaw.

K'wirra flies at the woman, claws outstretched. Finding purchase on her collar, K'wirra flails her wings like weapons. Each flap obscures chrome-dome's vision and disorients her, giving Gamora the chance to recover.

As she stands, the blue woman raises a fist, slamming it down toward K'wirra. The bird simply unfurls her talons and takes off, fleeing just in time to let the stranger's hand hurtle into her own face.

"Hah!" K'wirra cracks a smile over her wing, flying into the air while the others wrestle.

Gamora's sword is knocked from her hands, leaving her defenseless, in a way. When her opponent jabs with her spear, Gamora catches it in bare hands. 

She's jolted by an electric shock and K'wirra can feel the energy in the air, can almost see the sparks flying off Gamora like hot oil.

However, in a show of immense strength, she rips it out of her opponent's hands and tosses it away, followed by a kick to the gut that sends the strange woman reeling. She flips out the opening, sliding down the rubble edge, and getting her wrist caught in a stray bit of rebar.

Hanging limply by her wrist, Nebula is quiet.

"Nebula! Sister, help us fight Ronan," Gamora pleads. In the end, Nebula would rather cut off her own hand than owe Gamora anything. Maybe it was planned, but somehow Nebula drops just in time to hijack a passing spaceship and take off for good.

With the way ahead cleared, Gamora and K'wirra share a look.

Gamora closes her eyes, taking just a beat to ground herself while K'wirra lets out a big sigh of relief. Gamora moves first, striding further inside at a punishing pace.

She pulls down a cylinder from the low ceiling, lit up with a soft minty backlight. She smashes the container around it with her bulbous rifle, making K'wirra close her eyes in a flinch.

Before she can open them, Gamora has yanked the plug and shot out the ceiling over their heads, crumbling into dust and debris.

Gamora jumps, her feet thudding on the floor above. Like a lost puppy, K'wirra flits through the sizeable puncture after her.

Above, the air is dusted with debris and light from Gamora's blaster. K'wirra flies close, ready to strike if needed. Opposite them, Drax backstabs a dark-armored guard. The others rush in from behind him, Quill already donning his face shield. He steadies himself, Hadron Enforcer strapped to his chest, then aims.

Ronan stands at the end of a catwalk, turning slow. Casual and unimpressed, he doesn't seem worried about the weapon trained on him.

The instant stretches on. Seconds seem to flow like sludge.

Quill fires.

Chapter Text

Smoke splits open. Destruction is clear.

Not of their enemy, not of Ronan.

The destruction of their hopes. He stands tall, nearly unmoved by the blast, unperturbed by the haze. Still and smug as though he isn't one of the most evil individuals in the galaxy.

K'wirra doesn't analyze or think, just leaps.

Her sharp talons wick against Gamora's leather jacket when she jumps. It's not a plan or a thought, it's a trigger already pulled. A compulsion that barely registers until she feels the wind in her nostrils.

She surges straight ahead, wings slicing the air, claws angled like daggers toward his throat. She dreams of crushing his windpipe and thrashing his skull on a thick branch.

But her flight halts mid-beat—an invisible force slams into her chest like a crashing wave.

The world flips. Sky becomes floor. Her body cartwheels through grit and smoke, her screech lost in the gale.

The wave forces her back, smashes her into Gamora's chest.

She groans briefly, her arms enclosing K'wirra in a smoky jasmine barrier against the chalky, particulate-filled surroundings as they hit the ground.

Drax recovers in a flash, springing off a set of steps and running at Ronan with a battle cry. As soon as he's close enough, Drax is snatched up by the throat, his feet kicking at air.

Her beak snaps shut. Her tongue’s too dry to scream.

She watches Ronan's mouth move. No sound reaches her.

She just rises from her heap, wings widening without hesitation.

But jasmine clouds smother her. Green hands sandwich her before she can leap forcing giant wings closed. It's a good thing, too, because Ronan's pitch-painted smile doesn't last long.

He stares out at the sky where a ship bolts toward him breakneck speeds.

There he is. Rocket.

Stupid, beautiful genius. Mouth open in a yell. Careening toward death like it lost a bet.

Glass sprays like a dying star at the point of impact. The ship surges through, hitting the catwalk where it kicks up sparks. It's twisted trail seethes with rubble and smoke. Wingtips crumble but turbines stay sturdy, tearing the walls of the Dark Aster to ribbons.

The ship blows straight through Ronan and Drax like a flimsy fence, burying them under its belly.

K'wirra can't blame him—she's certainly been a bit overzealous before and done things she probably shouldn't have. She just hopes Drax found a way out. Quill and Groot, too.

Gamora rolls onto one arm, cradling K’wirra with the other. Metal screeches against metal, then stops. It's no reprieve, just a rest before the next nightmare.

BOOM

K'wirra's eyes screw shut, sensitive ears ringing as the hull echoes.

"Urgh," comes the grunt as Gamora stands, limping toward Drax’s prone body. K'wirra's gaze snaps toward the ship that Rocket is probably still inside, its burning body huffing worn-down sighs of fire and exhaust.

Quill starts toward it. K'wirra's wings fan out and she's after him in a tick. Between licks of taunting flames, she threads, burnished fingers flickering at the edges of her vision.

They're in a free fall. The Aster is going down. They all know—feel the tilt, the shift of momentum in their guts.

K'wirra's magnetized to Quills shoulder, landing on it swiftly. She peers restlessly around him while he reaches inside and lifts the dark-furred pilot from his seat.

She strangles down all the things she wants to say. So much so that she feels the weight of them on her tongue, the edges of them struggling down her throat, and the bulk of them dropping into her stomach. Because if she opens her big beak, she'll burst into the tears she's trying so hard to hold back.

Rocket's unconscious, but his chest rises steadily. She hardly notices the ship shaking until Quill stumbles. Mouth tight, eyes frantic, even as he tries to portray a leader's calm.

"Careful," K'wirra blurts. Her claws prick through his leather jacket, drawing back when Quill hisses. In the center of the crumbling bridge, he kneels before Groot, half-laying Rocket on his leg. His gaze sweeps over Gamora and the closed-eyed Drax she drags onto the platform.

Groot's quieter than ever, but radiates warmth in the absence of words. Even as the craft falls apart around them. 

Just the same as all their carefully laid plans.

Drax's gray skin is extra sallow. Gamora now smells of gunfire and blood. Rocket's fur mats in places, caked with blood—on the bridge of his snout, outside his left eye.

She doesn’t look away until the light dims. Even then, only just.

Fresh like just-baked bread, branches rapidly encircle their odd assembly, holding the aliens that are holding it together, together. They've only made it this far because they're together. A team. A family. A Flock.

K'wirra's one to brag. But after all their time together, she thinks she's lucky they picked her up. She was probably a few days away from being some inmate's next meal.

Sweet-smelling wood tenderly strokes her crown, a familiar feeling from their time together, early morning before the rest of the crew wakes. Worried as she is, she forces herself to look up.

Amber bulbs float like spores from Groot's branches. Struck by the tranquility of it all, K'wirra soaks up the sunset-colored glow.

His wood feels like shelter, his branches like a nest.

It takes no time for Groot to wind around them a hundred times or more. It's wide enough for K'wirra to stretch her wings. She doesn't attempt it. All she can smell is his sap, sticky sweet with the hint of something floral.

Not the heaving smoke, or the tang of blood. It's like someone shoved a fistful of gears into her chest—jamming up her lungs, locking her throat. Keeping her breaths from tasting like iron.

It should be beautiful. Instead it makes her tongue heavy, makes her down stand on end. 

Not a word is spoken between the six of them.

Glassy-eyed, wings stiff, she waits. And when gold-washed vermilion slivers take shape in the mess of Rocket's soot-sullied fur, she swallows a joyful but broken gasp.

Rocket stares agape, crawling away as Quill lets the vines tighten around him.

Only Rocket and K’wirra remain untethered. Probably because they'd hold on for themselves best. Rocket does so as they speak, stepping before his friend and grabbing a root.

"No, Groot!" Rocket's voice breaks and something in K'wirra follows. She hears hope in his voice, but also a grim acceptance, as he creaks out a command. "You can't. You'll die."

Groot's calmer than ever, his gentle eyes warmed by his own light, their depths stretching like canyons. As the walls grow ever thicker, the darkness emphasizes the light that much more. It muffles the sounds of thudding rubble blocks, chunks of ceiling tumbling down from its place.

All it takes is a moment. A split second before K'wirra puts two and two together. This ball he's making himself into is to protect them from the crash landing, but he'll also take the brunt of the damage.

This isn't the end of a family reunion. It's a funeral.

This is goodbye.

Melancholy stabs the back of her eyes. She blinks away the tears but there's no stopping them — more and more replace the rest.

“There has to be another way,” she chokes. “There always is.” He just looks at her and the sob she was holding in wrests itself from her maw. What little composure she had left is shot.

Rocket's not faring much better. She's never seen him look so gutted, trying to keep from breaking.

He's mourning, but trying to stuff it away somehow. Holding tight to fraying ropes as if he could put them back together before he lost his grip. A gentle, tapered branch swipes a tear from Rocket's cheek.

"Why are you doing this? Why?" Rocket's voice cracks. He grips the root like it might answer.

The tree smiles soft.

"We are Groot."

Her skull throbs like a bruised, rotten fruit.

Warm liquid seeps from split skin. Rocks jab at her ribs and flank, each breath a scrape against her sore body.

For a moment, she doesn’t know where she is. Only that she hurts, and something is missing. Then she opens her eyes.

The land is barren, smoking and singed like it's under a gigantic magnifying glass.

The dust clears in fits. Blurred silhouettes—her Flock—move like ghosts in a graveyard.

She tries to rise. Her limbs protest. So she rolls instead, one breath at a time.

A melody plays. Soft. Familiar. One of Quill’s. It barely registers through her rattled brain.

She turns her head, aching all over. She catches glimpses of the civilians cluttering the edge.

There, at the center of the crater, Rocket kneels. Surrounded by dry splinters. Bits of wood. Nothing more, nothing less.

Except that it's not nothing. It’s Groot.

K’wirra feels something crack deep in her chest.

He's more than a bunch of twigs. He is—was her friend. Rocket's friend. The one that made her feel at home even when she was light years away. And now he's gone.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t look away.

Her nostrils burn. A lump rises thick in her throat. She clears her throat, trying to keep the emotion from welling up in it. She can't process it now. Buries it under layers of junk, then—

A ripple. Of malintent, of danger.

The smoke parts like a curtain—Ronan steps through. Black armor, blue skin, flame-wreathed but untouched. The ground itself recoils from him.

Ronan steps out of the wreckage. Still alive, still powerful. Each step he takes is easy, like strolling through a blooming meadow. K’wirra’s whole body curls, fury beating in her hollow bones.

Rocket's looking over his shoulder, rising to his feet and turning around.

Then he’s running—charging the Kree like a bolt of lightning. "You killed Groot!"

A flick of Ronan’s weapon sends him flying, wisps of amethyst fluttering behind him from the blast. He hits the ground hard, limp figure vanishing in the debris.

K’wirra’s heart clenches. Nearly stalls.

She almost launches herself at the offender—instinct, no plan, just a need to protect because she's not losing anyone else—but then she sees Rocket moving. Crawling. Toward something metal and crumpled.

It takes her a beat to realize what it is—the Hadron Enforcer.

In his hands, even wreckage is a weapon. His hands move fast, furious, searching the broken frame for life like it’s a patient on the table. Wires spark. Panels shift.

His red-rimmed eyes find hers, then break away, back to the Hadron Enforcer.

She follows his gaze—and suddenly all of them are looking.

Drax. Gamora. Quill. K’wirra. They exchange a glance. No words. Just silent understanding.

Millions of lives are riding on their ability to stall. To hold him off just long enough.

"Behold!" Ronan booms like stones pelting metal, clanging sharply. He waves an open palm at them, lain out across the gravel as they are. "Your guardians of the galaxy. What fruit have they wrought? Only that my father and his father shall finally know vengeance."

K’wirra trembles.

She’s not afraid—no, not that. Just too full. Of grief. Of fury. Of helplessness. She needs to move.

"People of Xandar, the time has come to rejoice and renounce your paltry gods." Ronan rambles, opening his arms and leaning back like he's talking to the sky. "Your salvation is at hand! Ishanka! Hyao!"

His weapon glows, ready to strike.

K'wirra still has nothing, no ideas. Just that melody playing from the Milano's corpse, like it didn’t get the memo that the world's about to end.

Her wings twitch, ready to flash—and then the voice doubles. It's Quill, singing along. Voice high and cracking, a little out of breath as he stumbles over the lyrics, pumping his heel to the beat.

"Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh, child things'll get brighter," he starts, then pauses, pointing a wagging finger in Ronan's direction. "Listen to these words."

The melody grips her brain like talons. Not painful. Just strange. Familiar. Like the battle hymns of her youth—meant to bind hearts and break nerves.

And it does. Her body sways. Her focus surges.

The Ch'theerlaiiik sang to keep their warriors in time—and terrify their foes. 

This song is different. Happier, like there's something to look forward to after the battle.

As Ronan loosens his grip, letting his stance falter, Quill's behavior suddenly makes sense.

Even her Flock watches in stunned silence. And Ronan? He stares, baffled—as if a Terran dance could be more alien than death itself. She gets it—she doesn't know the names of any the moves Quill's doing, but she holds her tongue.

It may look like their leader is busy making a fool of himself. Anyone who doesn't know him would think so, anyway.

But they know better. The Flock he's in can tell he's got a good reason. They trust him.

"Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh, child things'll get brighter. Now bring it down hard!" As he says it, he changes stances, running in place as his arms jerk back in time with his pace. K'wirra assumes it's some kind of dance, probably one popular amongst Terrans. "Someday, we'll get it together and we'll get it all done."

"What are you doing?" Ronan's words are so soft, it's almost a whisper. His brows furrow and his nose wrinkles, utterly perplexed by Quill's gyrating hips and serious demeanor.

"Dance-off, bro," Quill answers, not a drop of comedy in his voice. "Me and you." His lower lip catches between his teeth, concentrating as he kicks out his leg.

Quill's arms move like snakes, worming around in circles and figure eights. Then he points, like he's tossing something in Gamora's direction. "Gamora."

But she shakes her head mutely, looking less than thrilled. K'wirra would even say shy if she didn't know her better than that. 

Gamora won't act? K'wirra will. She won't let Quill stand all by his lonesome.

She doesn’t know if it’ll work. She just knows she can’t sit still anymore. Just knows that Groot would've danced his ass off if it could save the galaxy.

All that grief feels new, repurposed as fuel.

She flares her wings, feathers slapping earth and sending up a storm of grit as she launches.

"I got this!" she says, feathers aglow in the midday sun. She turns abruptly, swiping between Gamora and Quill, stealing the spotlight. Her feathers do most of the work, shimmering naturally as she uses her wings to pull a loop-de-loop above the duo.

This kind of plan is right up her alley. Her time to shine, to help her Flock the way she knows best—the way she was best at.

The bright sun turns her black and yellow. She circles his head like orbiting stars—dizzying, dazzling—as she flies lower.

“Subtle,” Quill mutters. He lifts his arms, letting her land on his forearm. As though choreographed, he lets the dance stream through his arms like a wave.

Ronan asks again, louder, grunting his impatience. "What are you doing?!"

K'wirra swoops down and perches on Quill's shoulder, light as a paper bird, snickering behind her primary flight feathers. "You'd think he'd have caught on by now."

Smile on his lips while he runs in place, Quill answers, voice bright. "We're distracting you, you big turd blossom."

He’s done stalling. So are they.

Drax holds the Enforcer level, brows furrowed in concentration and wrath. As Ronan finally looks behind himself, he meets Drax's eyes.

Rocket strikes two wires together like they're flint and steel. Instead of sparks, a large shell shoots from the weapon.

Time seems to slow.

A flash.

The hammer detonates like a miniature star, sending violet shrapnel through the smoke.

The Power Stone spins, caught in sharp sunlight.

Quill leaps. So does K'wirra.

Ronan reaches out a half second too late.

That's what she thinks, but you can never be too sure. She adjusts her flight path, aiming at Ronan once more.

She lets out a trill as her claws rake across Ronan’s eyes—one last insult before her companion steals the source of his power.

When Quill snatches the infinity stone from the air, the moment snaps back into place.

He roars. A painful scream wreathed in unimaginable power.

She and Ronan are tossed to the ground by the force of the stone's energy. The air around Peter circulates like he's the eye of a tornado.

K'wirra, scrabbling for purchase on the gravel, attempts to stay where she is. Until she hears the most beautiful thing Gamora's ever said. Something K'wirra had never even conceptualized until now.

"Peter! Take my hand!" she yells at him, purple lights hanging around them like gnats. She doesn't swat them away, just reaches out to him. "Take my hand!"

He hesitates. Reaches out slow like he's thinking about pulling away.

But he takes it.

They stand together, sharing the weight, the agony, and the pride.

But it's not enough. The two of them will die if no one does anything.

K'wirra claws closer. She drags herself, belly scraping the gravel while the wind current keeps her chin to the ground, until she can almost reach out and touch them. Finally, she does. Her wing, parallel to the ground, seeks out Gamora's calf, feathers bending from the pressure of her tight muscles.

On Peter's other side, Drax and Rocket line up, connected, proper examples of true Flockmates. Loyal and strong.

It’s like her heart picks up the beat. She doesn’t hum, doesn’t sing—but the rhythm gets into her bones. The dour chords become bright, swelling with hope and certainty. The power in the stone settles between the five of them.

The storm synchronizes. It pauses peacefully like stagnant water, reflecting purple light inwards.

"You're mortal!" Ronan argues, his head shaking. "How?!"

"You said it yourself, bitch. We're the Guardians of the Galaxy." With the Power Stone in hand, all Pete has to do is want it hard enough.

He opens his fist. Ronan bursts into purple flames, body contorting as he screams in pain.

Then, he erupts—no blood, no body. Just ash and a scream.

And he's gone. Forever.

Because Quill distracted them.

Because they'd worked together, like a team.

Like a Flock.

And if the universe wants to take her new Flock, it'd have to throw everything at her. Much more than one Kree warlord with a couple of toys.

Let them all come. She’s been exiled, broken, burned, and she still found her Flock among the stars.

She’s their wingmate, their arrow, their song. As they are hers.

There was some truth to that S'eh'friii after all.

Chapter Text

K'wirra doesn't want to cry anymore.

It's exhausting. She ends up thirstier than a dry sponge. Her nostrils get clogged with snot.

She's not hiding it. She wouldn't be much good at that, anyhow. She just doesn't know how to get rid of this feeling, what to do with the misery—besides bawl her eyes out.

It hurts to feel it. And she'd rather not, if it's all the same in the end.

Her old Flock, they tried teaching her to swallow it. To hold it in even when its racing up and down your brain stem like its a live wire. She could never make it work.

Something wrong with her, they'd said. Something broken inside her.

Somehow it feels like it hasn't sunk in, though. Like every corner she glides around, Groot might be standing there. All smiles and Sunlight-melted chocolate eyes... the first person she could call a friend.

But it's like her grief is stuck like a clogged drain. A wrench in the machine that usually keeps her optimistic.

She can't go forward or back, like a wound-up toy that never got to release. Can't deal with it, can't let it go.

That's why she's been weaving this nest for the last three rotations. It's been cry, eat, nest, sleep, cry, eat, nest, sleep ever since the power stone was busted out of Ronan's hammer and left in the hands of the Nova Corps.

Maybe it's closure, maybe creation. Maybe it's demonic possession. She doesn't know.

She really hopes it isn't the last one.

The room is still, save for the gentle tap of twigs shifting and the rustle of moss under her talons. She adjusts the outer ring for the fourth time, dissatisfied.

Then, Pete's tenor tumbles through the quiet of her quarters. “Yo, K’wirra.”

She almost forgot he was there. He's normally not this quiet.

Legs stretched, ankles crossed, Pete's the picture of relaxation. He's been lounging on her bed next to her piles of materials—branches, mosses, a clump of fabric from everyone, and a collection of her molted feathers—scrolling through whatever articles strike his fancy for an hour now.

The "new and improved" Milano comes with a bed, which is great and all, but she needs a proper nest. Not that that's the only reason.

"You heard what the Nova Gazette's been calling us? "The Guardians of the Galaxy."" He shifts forward, resting an elbow on his knee. "If I knew it was gonna stick, I'd have come up with something better, but I guess it's pretty rad."

K'wirra looks up from her absorbing task, twig in beak, smile curling at the sound of their name. The Flock's name.If her old one was of Ch'theer, then this new one was of everywhere. Of everything.

All the way to the ends of existence.

"I've heard it." Scoffing good-naturedly, she clamps a claw around one side of the nest while she twines in a stubborn stick. "Just be thankful they're calling us something nice."

But she agrees with him — it's a little tame. Even she had a few better ideas.

Pete and the Quills. Star-Savers. DRGGPK aka "Drag Pack".

Meeting the eyes of her captain, she watches him tuck his chin and swipe his datapad torpidly. Pete shifts, careful not to sit on any twigs. K'wirra goes back to her focus — the nest.

Too much energy to sit still. Too many wrongs to right.

She doesn't know how to thank Rocket. How to prove her worth. Not in words. So she nests. She threads and weaves and stuffs. Because it has to be perfect.

Well-balanced. Even. Soft, but also firm. Warm but breathable. And it has to be big enough for her, Groot Jr, and Rocket.

Scratch that. What's she thinking? Rocket would never.

...Still, she weaves the sides wide. Because hope is stupid, and also stubborn.

Because this nest is important, and she can only build it once. It's the last one that'll ever be made with Groot Sr's branches. The last one to feature his warmth, his surety. His comforting presence.

Because she can almost pretend Groot's still with her when she closes her eyes, and Rocket should get to feel that way. He deserves it. Groot Jr, too.

Because maybe it will fix everything. Between her and Rocket. Between her and Groot. Between the whole Flock, so things can go back to being how they were.

It's not just a nest. It's a comfort. It's a lifeline. A cocoon of warmth and safety for this little family of hers. It's not right to keep it to herself.

Even if Rocket doesn't want a nest with her in it. Maybe that isn't it, though. He's always next to her on odd jobs. Pulling her out of danger in more ways than one.

She's not sure what he wants.

He's... a puzzle. One of those Terran ring sets that look like they can't come apart, but do in the right hands, like magic.

Still, nothing could distract her from her work, and it pays off. She's almost done now, thanks to some help along the way.

Drax helped her relocate the shower curtain rod to her room("It does nothing to keep in moisture! Useless.").  Gamora stole it back("The bathroom is not a peepshow. Get your own."). Rocket built her a better one while she was out flying("Don't mention it. Seriously, don't mention it."). 

It's a ladder over her bed, crossing the narrow space vertically. On three of its central rungs, she's framed her finest nest ever. Rounded, thick-walled, and covered in the smell of her Flock.

The branches, though charred, still carry the sweet sap scent of Groot Sr in them. The pillow in the center holds Gamora's jasmine-smoked fragrance, just enough floral to cut through the sweetness. It joins with the woody warmth from Pete's dirty clothes stuffed around the side, plugging up holes like leaks in a boat. Drax's old socks carry his dark musk along with his protective presence, laid out over the foundation.

At the top, she'll place her feathers like a blanket.  Soft and gentle, to caress the tiny one she'd be bringing in soon—Groot Jr. He's growing fast, already three times the size he was just as many rotations ago. He'd soon outgrow his pot, and then where would he sleep? The floor?

Not on K'wirra's watch.

She's never laid a clutch before, but she bets this is what it feels like when you're getting ready for precious, delicate eggs to show any day.

The last piece is the hardest to come by. Rocket's fur. Coarse, but smooth, and perfect for the top layer of the nest, mixing with her own feathers, the thought of which makes her almost shudder. The scent of which makes her stomach flip.

Gathering in clumps, it mostly hung out in his bed, the pilot's seat, and the shower drain. Now it waits in her pouch, strung up under her wing on a loose rope. 

The nest would've been wedged between the rod and the wall. Now it would be stable and safe, even if Groot Jr. treated it like a playpen. 

She loves it. Loves that he tries to make the universe more welcoming for her, in spite of his words. No one's ever done anything like that for her. No one's ever even tried.

She clears the thoughts when the voice of her captain filters though her ears.

"...And as the leader of this incredibly badass group, I got a lot of targets on my back. Which is why I need you to start calling me Star-Lord when we're on missions," He prods, looking up at her with an expectant brow raised. Pete gently tosses the datapad to the mattress as he scoots to the edge.

She has to check again, head whipping back to the slouching male.

"Sorry, what? Were you talking to me?"

Pete leans forward, pupils darting in feigned concern.

"Of course you didn't hear any of that. About us? The team?" Pete lets out a dry snort, crossing his arms. "You calling me by my name all the time. Me being captain, and handsome and respected?"

"What? Psh!" She can't hold back her laughter, tittering at his claim. Then, like spitting out a seed, "Captain, sure. Maybe not so much those other things."

"Come on, now, don't be silly." He stands, shaking his head with a forced smirk. "You're a bird, but you're still a girl, right? You could at least recognize my roguish good looks. Ladies of all races love this face."

K'wirra tips her head back, letting out a bark of a laugh.

He pouts. She laughs harder.

Maybe it won't fix everything, or help her move on, but it's what she wants.

Raw meat hits sizzling oil. Super-heated droplets fly from the skillet.

Gamora clicks her tongue when one lands on her hand. Her eyes stay focused, her feet planted.

The same warrior K'wirra had seen ripping cybernetics from flesh, skipping floors with a hop, and tearing limbs off of androids, stares intently and sprinkles a fragrant powder over the meat like it's pixie dust.

The heated air swells with the nidor of herbs and meat, crystallizing into something tantalizingly tasty.

"Gamora?" K'wirra asks, wings fanning loosely, then curling in to fold her primaries together. Her talons tap lightly on the table as she watches Gamora work.

She doesn't look behind her, but K'wirra gets her attention. "Mm?"

"How come you're so good at..." Fumbling for a term, K'wirra comes up empty and gestures at the other's foodstuffs. "doing whatever that is?"

The woman leans on her stiffened arm, hair slipping over her shoulder to swish against her back.

"Cooking," Gamora says, her eyes rimming with some hazel-lit memory of dirty hands and scraped knees.

After a lengthy pause, she answers. Her words come like a cast of falcons whispered over rapid white water—swift, scattered, and nearly lost to the rush. "I'm good at cooking because my family did it... and my mother taught me. We had a mud-brick oven, which was considered a luxury in our village. Nothing like the food tech we have nowadays."

"Oh. So that was before, uh..." K'wirra doesn't know what to say after that, having stopped before she could. She shouldn't have said anything at all. Why is she digging her hole deeper?

Gamora finally looks back, her torso twisting.

"Before Thanos murdered half of my people and kidnapped me?" Expression schooled, Gamora breathes deeply through her flared nostrils. Still, her fine silver markings on her brow shift and angle. The skin of her face tightens. Covering, hiding. "Yes."

K’wirra’s primaries twitch as she shuffles backward, talons rasping against the tabletop.

Way to go, genius.

"Sorry," she huffs. It's Gamora's choice whether or not to share, but it's so hard not to ask.

"Don't be," the Zehorebei tells her, shrugging a shoulder and looking back to the pan. Her face is relaxed again, but a hint of disgust remains. "It's the truth."

Gamora flips the strips of pestur steak, searing the other sides like a branding iron on hide.

"But I'm sorry for making you think of it." K'wirra flutters over to her friend's shoulder where she perches cautiously. Her beak's smooth curve presses into Gamora's temple, a soft nudge of affection, a form of apology. Short, sweet, simple. "That's... heavy."

Rather than agreeing, Gamora shrugs. "Thanks." Then goes quiet, like she's stuck in a deep, tumultuous twister of thoughts.

K'wirra waits. Breath held for all of ten seconds before she realizes nothing's coming.

Eventually, Gamora sighs, turning off the heating element under the skillet. Rising wisps of smoke paint K'wirra with humid streaks. Another long moment passes before either makes a peep.

"Groot is growing quickly." Gamora offers a tight smile, like a sword that doesn't want to bend. She's trying, but K'wirra knows small talk doesn't come easily to her.

It's so much more than an awkward face and a muttered nicety, especially coming from Gamora.

"He really is." K'wirra smiles, glad to have the subject changed. Random chatter is the kind of thing she excels at. "I think it's because he's just a baby. He'll probably shoot up and be as big as Groot Sr was soon."

In a moment, the mention of him brings a sorrowful gratitude, a grief-tangled adoration to the air. The corners of Gamora's mouth lift like she's reliving something sweet, meaningful. K'wirra smiles, thinking of her own such encounters.

Morning meetings. Snack sessions under the stars. Chewing on branches together like a couple of beavers—or whatever Pete called those toothy flat-tailed things.

It's a comfortable silence, swathed in fond memories and blanketed in nostalgia.

But the nature of silence is to shatter.

"It's sabotage. You're trying to sabotage me! Us!"

Quill's voice, muffled but loud, breaks through the stillness like a stone dropped in stagnant water. He's so loud, Gamora and K'wirra can hear what he's saying, even over the spitting oil and whirring fan. Was this the start of their argument, or the end?

Rocket shouts back, "Bark up another tree, Fart-lord."

"You're impossible!"

"Likewise, jackass!"

They lapse into silence. K'wirra and Gamora duplicate it, letting the oil pop loudly in their place.

Gamora returns her gaze to the pan. Takes her hand off it, as though she just noticed her palm on the heated metal wall. K'wirra listens for anything more, turning herself around on Gamora's shoulder with a tense grip.

Her skin shrinks, like there's a chill in the air she can't escape. She needs something. A clue. A thread to pull. Anything to say they stitched it back together.

Maybe a mumbled apology, or a pat on the back. Anything that tells her they worked things out in the end.

It never comes. Only a slamming door.

A sniff and a grunt.

Footsteps, fading.

Six Rotations.

That’s how long Rocket had gone without speaking to Pete.

Like clutchmates in a feud. More similar than they care to admit, too bullheaded to realize it on their own. Unwilling to hear anything from anyone on the matter.

The Guardians of the Galaxy had been riding on a high from defeating Ronan for the first few rotations—giddy and drunk on victory when they left in their new ship, built in the style of the Milano and gifted by a very grateful Xandarian populace.

Then, it caught up to them like a stone on a bungee cord, weight snapping back against them.

The casualties—Nova and Ravager alike. The noise. The scars. The emptiness that crawls into her chest in the wee morning hours. The things that clung even after the smoke cleared.

The sound of gunfire quick as pattering raindrops. The screams of dying men with nothing to gain and everything to lose, friend or enemy. There's a certain sting they carry, a residue they leave in her mind after she thought she finally scrubbed the tragedy out.

And she knows the rest of her Flock feels it too. Some of them have seen war before, but it doesn't make them unaffected.

Maybe she comes off hyper, even distracted. But she sees things.

Like Gamora and Pete clinging to each other physically, even as they drift further apart. Like Drax's quiet moments, his grief written all over his face when he thinks no one is looking.

Rocket's constant fixing and inventing and toying with every last inch of the upgraded Milano. Avoiding the rest, always busy or preoccupied.

But it's worst with Pete. They seem to clash every time they try to work together.

They argued on the first job after Ronan. Then again on the second and third. The Flock feels strained, enough that it might very well collapse.

Nothing terrifies K'wirra more.

She had left her planet in search of something better, truer. More real. She found a Flock. She isn't ready to let it go and won't ever be.

She'll work to keep it. But she doesn't know how to fix a fracture. K'wirra recalls the moment the two pilots butted heads during their last mission.

"Out of the way, Star-nerd. I can't see where I'm going!"

"Just stop the ship! Jesus, it's like working with an animal. Oh right! You are one!"

And instead of proving his point, Pete only proved that he had no control over Rocket. That's how the Milano's wing got clipped by a stray satellite. The wing that Rocket is now fixing. Outside the ship.

And she pretends not to watch.

His handsome profile is maddening, taunting her through layers of tempered glass. Would he rather be in the emptiness of space, rather than bear her presence?

He floats methodically. Gray-brown tufts of fur peek from under his collar, coated in the holographic blue from the spacesuit. Over his shoulder, a planet eclipses a sun, blotting him out of the picture like ink on wet scrolls.

K'wirra could swear on her tail feathers that she saw something in the dark—two dots like roasted red grapes, baked til falling apart, almost as deep as the void around them.

But when the planet passes over fully, the light returned, nothing's changed. 

Rocket's still staring intently at the side of the ship he repairs, spraying a compound that knits the alloy back together.

She'd tried to tag along, wanted to put on a suit and go with. She loves that listless, floaty feeling she gets out in space—being adrift in a way that's the opposite of flying. Uncontrolled, weightless, untethered.

But when she went to suit up, Rocket's paw closed on her shoulder, holding her back.

"I'm not made of glass," she'd told him. He'd looked her up and down—not lewdly, but weighing, making sense. An octave below impressed. Her feathers hide the sudden warmth flushing her cheeks—a small mercy.

“You might as well be,” he'd muttered without looking at her.

She had faltered—Does everyone think that? Does she come off that way? Weak? Fragile?—just long enough for him to disappear through the airlock, too quick for her to sling a retort his way.

Now he's out there, and she's in here.

A barrier between them that sometimes feels like she could reach right through... until the light hits it just right and she can see the streaks in the glass.

She watches through the rear windshield, sitting like a statue and feeling about as useful, fluffed up on a bench with Groot Jr. tucked under her wing for warmth. She coos each time he nuzzles her down. Bloated with feeling as she is, he keeps her tethered before her thoughts can get away from her.

She nips at the back of his head, scraping off a bit of dying bark. She'd seen his progenitor do the same once or twice.

She didn't know Groot Sr. for long, but some bonds aren’t measured in time. His presence had been quiet, constant. Like morning wind. Like home, if home ever felt safe, ever felt right.

He was genuine and kind. That was enough.

His roots were entwined with hers, probably as soon as they met. So when a baby version of him grew from his planted branch and it started bouncing and babbling, it only felt right to take him under her wing.

Rocket did, too. He and Groot Sr were Flock before any of the rest of them. When he talked about Rocket, he got misty-eyed and proud. Like his branches were warmed by an eternal flame, a lantern in the dark.

Home.

He hadn't needed words to express it. K'wirra hadn't needed words to understand.

He loved Rocket. 

Now that he's gone, Rocket's trying to find a way not to fall apart, holding onto what he has. Holding on so tight that he tends to go overboard. K'wirra understands that it has nothing to do with her specifically, just her proximity. She's part of the Guardians. That's why he's holding on tight enough to crush her.

Not because she's K'wirra. Definitely not because she's K'wil'riira'askaiyn'tael.

But a part of her brain likes to drift off at night and imagine the two of them, spoiling a little Groot like a nesting pair that hatched their first egg. Imagines them curled up in a nest together like Spring's beginning had brought the gift of life without taking anything in exchange.

She keeps that fantasy tightly secured in her mind's deepest reaches. Unsaid, unrealized.

Because if she didn't, things would never go back to normal.

When they met, Rocket was clever and charming, if a little brash. He was honest, didn't hide his demeanor under flowery words. K'wirra quickly grew to enjoy his robust company. Their banter, she sometimes relived it late at night when she was trying to fall asleep.

Then Ronan happened. Xandar happened. The crash happened.

Things changed.

He's been simmering ever since. Anger infesting almost every moment, only letting a few genuine emotions seep through. Like stew, chunks of meat sometimes float to the top, bubbles lifting them to the surface. They always fall back down.

She's not used to this kind of subversion, not from him. What was once the bluster that fell away in private moments had become like an urchin shell around him at all times, pricking hard enough to bleed.

He's been pushing away from her so forcefully it's physical. Sometimes she thinks it might be best to just give him the space he keeps putting between them.

But she can't let go. Of him, of any of their Flock.

She's still holding tightly onto what she knows is crumbling in her grasp.

She's trying not to think about it. Pretending her Flock is bonded strong, not fraying at the edges.

But there is a lot of tension on the Milano, these days. And lately, it feels like all she does is hover—over Groot, over all of them. Anything to avoid the whirlwind inside her mind.

When she's alone, she can't distract herself from the guilt underneath her smile. Her bubble and zip can't keep her from noticing the void deep inside her chest.

She should've done more.

More to save Groot Sr., more to take out Ronan. Should be doing more now.

She knows she has a handicap compared to them. In combat and in life.

Hell, she nearly shot that Ravager with the pistol Rocket gave her because of her grip. She still fights with doors and faucets. Writing’s better, sure—she fixed that emergency spacesuit label and everyone could read it. But it doesn’t make her feel useful.

Rocket tried harder than anyone to give her equal footing, despite his cool words. The gun was the first, but definitely not the last in his string of gifts.

He installed a custom seat for her in the cockpit. He gave her smoke bombs and flash bangs, plus a few real explosives(accompanied by a stern warning). Even modified her pistol to have a wider blast.

Now he's out there, practically running from her.

And she's in here, wondering whether she should keep chasing him, tapping one of her claws on her collarbone.

She's not sure what to do with this feeling.

She wishes he’d stop making her guess. That he’d either come close or fly far—anything but hover just out of reach. She tries not to stare at his stupidly attractive face when he floats past a particularly bright star.

"Mixed signals" isn't a strong enough sentiment for it—one day angry, the next protective. Sometimes gentle, other times like a tornado tearing through her.

Sometimes she wonders if she should just give up on being close with him. 

Because as much as she doesn't let it show, it doesn't just fall off of her.

Insults stick.

Then the airlock hisses open. All the warmth is sucked from the room when the ice cold ambience of space seeps in.

Rocket walks in, lugging a too-big tank and sprayer behind him like they're made of paper.

One glance at the room and he knows what to avoid. His gaze strays to the stairs. They lead away—exactly where Rocket always seems to be headed.

She takes a breath, moments away from making an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"Later," he snuffs, jerking his snout toward the stairs to the cockpit. "Gotta make a pit stop someplace nearby."

His tail thwips against his thigh, the tip straying just above the ground he walks on. He grunts, steering clear of her, and shuffles by without another word.

Her feathers rise, standing on end as her eyes track him closely.

At the very least, he's definitely being a jerk. 

It's what he's using it to hide that she can't figure out. Grief? Depression? Guilt?

Groot hops down from her side, crawling from the tangerine leather bunk to follow Rocket wherever he's headed.

K'wirra hates waiting. She moves her wings, trapping more warm air under the feathers.

She’d already tried to talk to Rocket the last few times he brushed her off. But every word she spoke ricocheted off him. Now, she isn’t sure if trying again would heal the wound… or twist the knife.

It had been an uncomfortable six rotations.

Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it does create space. Distance. Perspective.

That time made a world of difference for Groot at his ripe young age. He's already coming into himself, changing and growing.

His personality shows, mostly in the little things he does. He's already so different from the Groot she knew that she can hardly imagine that they're related. If anything, he's turning out far more like her than like Groot Sr.

He's energetic, bouncing off the walls and dancing for hours. He's curious, tugging anything from wires to fur, and often found in places he shouldn't be. Some might say his head's in the clouds.

In other ways, he's picked up on Rocket's behavior. He's quick to anger. He picks fights with anything smaller than himself, like he's got something to prove.

A chip on his shoulder—even if he’s too young to know what for.

But the point stands—Rocket's as much of a caretaker for the little sprout as she is. And whatever his feelings for her are, she's going to have to deal with them.

Groot needs Rocket in his life, even if he can't stand to be around K'wirra.

She tucks her beak into her feathers and listens to the sound of her own breathing. 

Like her, the quiet soaks the room. Splashes of sable consume them both.

A twig snapped behind her.

K'wirra jolted, droplets spraying from her shaken feathers. She twisted, wide emeralds softening at who she saw behind her.

Groot had found her in the narrow bathroom. A little square closet of towels and pipes. Enough room for one to stand and one to stumble in after on tiles like age-ripened ivory tusks.

Instinctively, her wings fanned out, folding over her chest.

"I am Groot." 

Her wings stayed put. Even Groot, the kindest out of them all, could be taken aback. K'wirra doesn't like the thought of him staring at her with disgust. She turned her head, beak tucked like she was cold.

She wasn't—only anxious. Her beak clacks. She pretends not to look at him, but does.

"You startled me, you big lug," she grumbles, pausing to clear her throat just once. "Try knocking next time."

Ch'theerlaiiik rise with the Sun. Even when the Sun isn't visible, isn't even close. 

And the best time for privacy on a ship full of humanoids is when they're all asleep. K'wirra sat there in the water, her mind rushing like a gust in a tunnel.

"I am Groot?" He leaned, green and brown folding over her like a canopy.

She couldn't translate it, didn't know the specifics, but the cadence made it clear—it was a question. About the part of her that never showed. The part she could almost forget—almost had forgotten.

Her skin.

Translucent, gossamer skin like a lens into her body. Like her feathers, it was just another branding that said "stay away" to all other Ch'theerlaiiik.

Beneath it, her heart beat, pace frantic. Her throat clenched, gulping. Sheer green skin like a crystalline window stretched over trembling bone and lungs that sucked down air.

Her feathers were dense, her down thick—enough to feel safe most days. But wet, they clung. Thin patches gave way to sea-glass skin.

She was expecting the worst—disgust, horror. A little bit of panic, maybe. The same as she had gotten from every citizen of Ch'theer and inmate and Nova Corps officer before finding her Flock, but there was nothing but curiosity. Interest. Admiration.

He was unfazed by her. Broad smile fixed on his wooden face, his long limbs grew rapidly. They fractured into tiny vines, ends dipping into the basin where K'wirra bathed, soaking up water through thirsty roots.

"My skin's always been like this. Kinda' like my feathers. Just... a little strange."

"I am Groot."

The sun-drenched, breezy smile he wore invigorated her. It felt like a warm blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She felt like everything would find a way to fix itself when he smiled like that.

When she'd finished up and gotten dry, they plodded back to the middle of the ship—the meeting table. It also served as the de facto kav station. The first time Quill introduced her to the drink, the aroma made her hesitate. She was pleasantly surprised by the rich, bitter taste, which she enjoyed tremendously.

However, some members of the Flock thought she shouldn't have been drinking kav.

"That's too much caffeine," Gamora had said, whatever that meant. Regardless of K'wirra's feelings on the matter, the kav was shelved.

Literally. Kept on a high shelf that K'wirra can't get into without waking the whole ship. She'd rather not deal with that. She was just going to do what she wants in the end, so why bother with the lecture?

But there is a solution to every problem.

"Would you be a dear and help me make some kav?" she coos to her companion, tall and handy, from her spot standing on the center table. Her key to the java cabinet was not shiny, but wooden.

He stooped low. Those mud-colored, wonder-filled eyes watched her crawl onto his proffered arm.

She pointed him toward the cabinet. It went awry, as things tend to.

But sometimes that's a good thing.

She laughed from deep in her gut when Groot ate a handful of grounds like it was soil. When kav began dripping from the basket, they noticed a growing puddle where the pot should’ve been. When they tried pouring the dark brown liquid into a cup, they made even more trouble when it splashed on the floor.

Groot didn’t help to be useful. He helped because he cared.

K’wirra, on the other hand, still looked for excuses. Little ways to show she belonged. That she was still worth the space she took up.

"Feather face?" a gravelly voice grumbles. But Groot didn't say a thing————

———The memory screeches to a halt.

Rocket stands in the doorway, looking bigger than K'wirra remembers. Better than K'wirra remembers. Healthier. A little less explosive.

He feels so big to her, but she can never tell if it's him or the fur. The sleep-mussed fur all rumpled and cute, the thick arms sliding into arm holes. She blinks, shaking off the image.

“Hey, bird brain. Wakey wakey.” His voice is sleep-rough, sharper than Gamora's blade. It carries, bouncing off the walls at her in echoes of their past ease.

His jumpsuit hangs half-zipped, armor forgotten. Like he threw pants on and stumbled into the hall.

Burnished brown eyes squint at the light while he asks, "What are you doin' up so krutackin' early?"

It's the most he's said to her since Xandar. She can't help that her mouth hangs slightly open. The kitchen feels cavernous to K'wirra, but Rocket finds a way to fill it with something intangible.

The way he walks in, gait loose like he didn't know things were stormy between them not half a rotation ago. Defenses down. A five-fingered paw haphazardly zips up his suit while the other shakes out the fur of his cheek. Threading straps through holes in the fabric, closures snapping like falling trees.

It would be so easy to pretend nothing happened between them. That nothing was taken from them. That nothing changed.

It feels like lying.

She's halfway through what had become her daily routine—bathe before anyone can see her, then kav before anyone can stop her. They're flying a different, though similar, ship. The counter's bigger now. Quill's not drooling like a newborn in the bunk next to it. There's even a sink.

But it's missing something important. A sweet snap like sugar peas that used to season the air. A friendly branch to perch on. A refreshing presence with sturdy roots. Groot.

She's still a bit damp, but her feathers are preened and back in place. Impeccably smooth, as always. She shouldn't be worried about Rocket getting a peek. Shouldn't be worried, not at all.

She tightens the towel over her wings. If keeping him talking means treading on eggshells, so be it. In this moment, he sounds like his old self—and she doesn't want to break the spell, no matter the cause.

She misses Groot. She hates that she misses Rocket, too, especially when he's right there.

She pauses, then answers—probably too quickly. "I'm always up this early."

Shit. Was that too defensive?

Placing her body to block his view, she dumps the spoonful of ground kav into the basket, praying it all goes in. From where she is on the counter, he still can't tell how much of a mess she'd made.

It looks like a storm had passed—kav grounds dust the countertop like ash, spoons scattered like fallen branches, and water pools in the corners, threatening to drip over the edge.

"No, I don't know." Rocket's gaze narrows, brown lashes gleaming under the toasty light. "Enlighten me."

Blowing air out her beak, she rolls her eyes. "Making kav, that's all. Groot used to help but—" K'wirra shakes her head, forcing it away. She still doesn't know how to deal with that emptiness, so she doesn't, just smiles through the pain. "Well, I promise to clean up after."

Rocket looks at her with a raised brow, enough exhaustion in his gaze that he doesn't have to say a thing. K'wirra feels the judgement in his gaze.

She also hears the breath he takes through his snout, the long sigh that follows. "Kav, huh?" 

"It gives me energy," she whines, her feathers fluffing up. Now she knows she's being defensive.

He chuckles, a hushed thing escaping through parted teeth. "Don't you got enough of that already?"

Sleep-roughened and husky, his voice tickles K'wirra's ears even at a distance. The skin of her nape tingles with raised follicles like bug bites, cold instead of itchy.

His words can't hide his burgeoning acceptance, especially once he starts dragging a bar stool over to climb up on. To stand on the seat and usher her out of the way.

He brushes by her, taking over the counter space and shooing her away. Not like that rude bartender, but in a begrudging acquiescence, sweeping the dry grounds into the half-sized sink while she flutters out of his way, back to the table in the middle of the room. He mumbles to himself, stringing together something , but it doesn't have the venom of the last cycle they spent together.

Maybe he finally got tired of being angry with her?

"D'ast bird..." he grumbles, dry rag turning wet in his paw while he wipes. Rocket looks to her where she hovers over his shoulder. "Gimme that," he demands.

"My scooper?" she asks, eyes darting between his hand and her own, like she's just realized she's still holding it. He rolls his eyes and takes the forgotten spoon from her loosening claw. Not harsh, but gentle like he's extricating pieces of a puzzle.

He turns his back. Keeps focus in front of him. But he doesn't run.

So K'wirra hums a soft, rose-colored song while she waits for the brew, perching on the table behind him and hoping he won't put the walls back up. He nods his head on-rhythm, too tired, too unguarded, too weary to pretend he's not listening. For a time, it feels the way it used to between them.

"Here," he grunts, word half-formed, floating like a cold rock in space while he puts down the mug in front of her.

But she smiles, tension beginning to unravel.

The kav radiates warmth.

Chapter Text

Rocket's hands are busy.

Usually, that means he's fixing something. A ship. A gun. A key. A translator chip. 

Like the one he'd just tweaked. K'wirra had just gotten it installed before the Milano took off from Xandar, after a rotation of Quill's desperate urging.

It wasn't horrible seeing her again, getting close to her again. Unfortunately.

It was easy and tempting like Sun-warmed waves at the shore caressing his toes.

Citrus notes fluffed the swells of her natural scent. Her rainbow sheen glimmered lowly at him like colorful, scattered glass swept into one pile and left in the shadow of the trash bin. She drew him in, and when he realized it, he snapped at her.

Again.

Because no matter how he tried, he couldn't stop her from leaving her mark. She always flitted in like a storm gust, leaving a wake in her path.

And when he scrambled back to his bunk after, it wasn't sleep on his mind.

His jumpsuit? Shoved to his ankles. His kav? Going cold in the corner. His paw? Wrapped around himself, tugging one out like a hose with a blockage.

His grip tightens, the veins of his hardened prick thick against his hand, rigid in his palm. Almost lets out a growl at the apex of his next stroke.

He doesn't know her equipment, just her shape. But he doesn't need to—whatever she has between her thighs, he wants to be buried in it.

She's too damn shiny for him. But damn it all if he didn't crave it. Didn't seek it out. That beautiful smile and slender frame shimmering in shadows. Those soft feathers tickling his whiskers. That heady, moist scent she carries everywhere.

Rocket twists his vice-like grip on his cock, breath stuttering in his own ears like a sputtering motor. As it quickens, his hand follows the pace. 

Fantasies flicker through his mind; K'wirra grabbing him with her beak, pulling him closer, inviting him into her nest with the sweetest little chirp-sighing voice. Her slim waist in his mitts. Her full plumage tickling his sternum when he backs her into a wall.

It's not a new feeling—Attraction. Desire. But it makes something distinctly warm flare in his gut. Not the red-hot lash of lust he wants it to be.

It's too nice, too pure. Half-dreamed, half-imagined, taking place in another dimension, another life.

K'wirra's face, peppered with Rocket's kisses. Emerald green bedroom eyes directed at him.

K'wirra singing his name 'til she goes hoarse. Going at it like animals all night long.

Bottoming out. Coming inside. Waking up together the morning after.

He stills, fur standing on end. Thighs tense, tail twitching while a grunt slips through. Teeth buried in his lip, pleasure weighs down on him like a boulder, cracking his defenses and planting roots in him.

Til the dam breaks. Orgasm slips through his fingers. Stroke after stroke, he chases it to the last drop, each surge like a jolt of lightning through his nervous system.

Then it's gone. Fleeting, like a downy feather laying back on the current, changing colors faster than the wind changes directions.

His chest rises, taking long breaths that grow deeper as he comes down.

His steamy breaths rise, panted like bellows blowing air. They slowly turn into a sigh of disappointment, grueling and low like a sickle slicing grass.

The evidence of his shameful interest starts to dry, cum crusting on his fur like glaze.

Who does Rocket think he is, anyway? Her savior? Her rebound? Her guardian?

His stomach clenches. Holds back a gag. He's none of those things. Never was from the start.

He's an imperfect clump. The kind that needs rearranging, needs fixing. The kind that never seems to know his flarkin' place. The kind that fantasizes about fuckin' his dead friend's lady.

That makes Rocket about as low as can be in his book. Not worth pissing on if he was dying of thirst. 

Rocket growls, then jerks, dropping his limp member like it's burning his palms. It singes him when he stuffs it into his jumpsuit, threading his arms through the holes. He bites the inside of his cheek. It hurts just enough.

"Shit. Shit. Flarkin' disgusting," he mumbles, a trembling hand raking through his fur, over his crown. The gut-piercing reality of his place in the universe hits him like bricks.

Groot's girl. Why did it have to be her? He exhales, like coughing up a lung without the cough. If he believed in a God, he'd curse him for dealing him this hand.

Or maybe he'd pray to be better. More honorable or something.

Half-cracked, a chuckle floats like a ghost from his lips.

Too bad he's not that Rocket.

Lip crooked, face scrunched, he smiles. Small, painful. Draws in a deep breath and sits straight. Remembers how thoroughly he'd fooled himself, once upon a dirty cell.

What a joke.

Feet dangling over the side, he lets his head fall into his hands. Shamefully curls in on himself like he's taking a beating. 

His wounds are deep enough already. And what doesn't kill him still hurts.

But the flicker of her face still creeps behind his eyelids. His tail winds tighter, clinging to his thigh.

She's nicer than he is. Sexier. More graceful. Too squeaky clean (and just plain squeaky) to shack up with an ass like him.    

He wants what he can't have. What he shouldn't have.

Rocket stands, shaking himself like it can wick off the guilt.

He needs to wash his hands. Or shower. Or shave the fur off his body.

Anything to feel clean again.

If anyone had told him a cycle ago that he'd be making weapons for a gang of random assholes, he'd have laughed in their face. Nicked a few units from their back pocket while callin' 'em a screwball.

Because Rocket's not a tool. Not used to taking requests or following orders. But the Guardians aren't exactly random assholes either.

Now? He's the one everyone turns to when something goes wrong with a machine. And that's nothing compared to outfitting the other animal on the ship. Far too often, he finds himself working on another mechanism for the avian Guardian. Sometimes one of the other ones.

He's got parts scattered all across his desk, lifting a few to piece them together, think it over, and eventually put them down, rejection after rejection marked on his mental map.

If he'd thought it through the first time, he wouldn't need to replace that stupid blaster he gave her. After the battle, she'd told him how it felt, the turbulence moving her leg around. And he'd had her shoot a few targets—her aim is not the problem. She's got eyes like a... a Halcri, he supposes.

His thinking was too inside the box before. He needs to forget what he knows about hands and shapes and pre-existing weapons. Needs to work without filters, without human constraints. She's unlike anyone else, needs a weapon as unique as her.

If she's covering his six, anyway.

Wristlet-to-blaster? Same problems. Recoil, weak legs, turbulence. Head-mounted scope? Nope. Gets in her eyes, she’s dead. Magnetic leash? Don’t be an idiot. Makes her a target.

A scrape against the door knocks him out of his thoughts. Shakes him out of focus like a quake when it opens.

"Hi, hi, Rocket."

His ears swivel to the sound before his head moves, before his tail twitches. K'wirra's there, feathered legs bringing her slowly through the doorway

His gut flips. How long’s she been standing there? Suddenly, he's not sure if he was thinking in his head or out loud.

Nah. She's smiling bright as always.

He covers surprise with the first thing he can find. He huffs like a sleeping bull. Scrunches his nose. Plays the reluctant participant.

"Hey," he greets, slipping in a coarse, "Groot's not with you?" when he sees the twig's not on her tail.

"He's with Gamora. Needed to tell you something," she says, shuffling into the dark room from the brightness of the hall. He can't tell if he's imagining the stutter that follows, chalks it up to his constant exhaustion. "I—We miss you. You’re always holed up in here.”

Brown and gray fur bristles. Rocket tries willing it back to smooth.

"Yeah, and?" Lifting a brow like he's looking down on her, he wonders why she won't leave him to his process. "Tryin' to get some peace and quiet to work on... things. You wouldn't understand."

Her beak tilts up, the thinnest air of snootiness about her. "I understand lots of things."

At her insistence, he snorts, turning back to the "Not quantum physics, you don't."

"Excuse me for not being a genius, then." Her grin's like butter and gold—smooth and glittery.

She flits her wings, leaving the ground just enough to take a perch at the edge of his desk. She watches him, leaning in, almost brushing their shoulders.

Her scent hits him—green, muggy, jungle rain. He leans back in his chair, but it just clings harder, like dew drops to the tip of his nose.

"You got ten seconds to come up with a reason to be here, or to get lost quick," he spits, his growl a formality. Licking his upper lip, he wonders how well he hides it, the tension that vanishes from his back and the intensity that disappears from his frown. It's still there, just more palatable. "You're distracting."

She looks to him. The door. Back at him. "Uh, I ate the last of Drax's zarg nuts and now he's after me!"

He can't help it—he huffs out a derisive laugh. "Yeah right. You don't even like zarg nuts."

And he wishes he could take it back when she blinks, surprised at the notion before her mouth curls. That little grin that feels like something from long past, grabbing his fur and pulling him so deep he could drown in it.

K'wirra's smile, still so damn shiny, makes it hard to be irritated with her. Even harder to take her seriously.

"You just said to come up with a reason!" She fluffs up, huffing to herself. Some feathers come loose when she shakes them out, leaving rainbow streaks like petals scattered on his desk.

He wants to fight it. Wants to brush off the sprinkles of joy that land on his heart. His tight lips have a different plan.

“Alright, feathers-for-brains—stay. But only ‘til the next stop.” He blows air across the desk, sending a tornado of feathers tumbling to the corner of his desk. "And stay off the desk, you're makin' a krutackin' mess of things."

Fanning his arm, he shoos her like a pest. She's troublesome, alright, but in all the ways he can't find it in himself to accept. All the ways he doesn't deserve. Her smile doesn't go anywhere, but she escapes into the air above his head, gliding down to settle into his mattress. He stares, but only a moment.

Rocket turns once more to his hands, stuck like glue to a bent component. The metal warps in his grip, glimmering as he clenches his teeth and gulps down the taste of iron. Behind his back, he prays she doesn't see him tucking her scattered down into a pile.

She hums, like a close-mouthed chuckle she didn't let escape. "And where's that?" 

Her head tilts in the corner of his eye. Too soft. 

Rocket's eyes roll. Sometimes he forgets how new she is to the galaxy. With the handful of fights they've been in together, he can

"Contraxia. It's a dump but it ain't too bad, depending on your business. For the right price, you can get almost anything there."

"Sounds charming." K'wirra rolls her eyes. "You spend a lot of time there?"

The planet of his youth, his recklessness, his early career. A time before he knew just how dark space could be without the stars.

Rocket nods, staring at his hands. "Enough to know you need to stay close."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't wander off while we're there. People get real desperate in a place like that."

"There's finally going to be room to fly." K'wirra looks about ready to cross her arms and stomp her foot if she had the parts. "I don't want to stay close!"

Already, Rocket feels a headache coming on. He wonders how close they are while cursing his mouth.

Why does it always get him into trouble?

Standing at the edge of obnoxious light fixtures and pleasure-houses by the mile, he almost hesitates. Almost stops trekking into the frozen-over scum pit.

Because he'd rather not be recognized with tagalongs. He's sure that's the reason. The Guardians move together, strolling into the frigid air. Some clutch their jackets tighter. 

The powder-white landscape makes the horizon look like a canvas, painted with a neon skyline. Pinks and blues burn before they flicker over to vomit green and yellow.

Contraxia. 

Just like he left it. Walking the line between classy and trashy. He could almost forget why he didn't go back.

But as he scratches the inside of his ear and passes familiar streets, he can point out every alleyway he got ambushed in, every beggar that tried to take his hard-earned credits. Contraxia hadn't been kind to him when he arrived.

Rocket just returned the favor. Unfortunately not everyone sees it that way.

Gamora and Quill go back and forth in front of him. K'wirra perches on Drax's shoulder, tail feathers folded together like a fan against his back. Drax doesn't even twitch as she readjusts her perch on him, even with the sharpness of her claws. Rocket had had a few run-ins with them up close and boy did he learn.

The town's like a pimple on the pale planet, oozing colors reminiscent of K'wirra's. They fall flat where she shines. His gaze meanders over to her, drawn like magnets. He refocuses on the crunching snow under his claws through willpower alone.

Powder-dipped and vast, the storefronts stand out from the blankets of white with neon lights and extravagant signage.

Fragrances scatter the street like any main road, but it's not the smell of food. Rather than clubs or diners, it's the flirtatious allure of the femmebots that line the street, beckoning anything that moves into the doorways they stand by. They whisper promises of warmth and sweetness, but it's all smoke and mirrors. Been there, done that, stopped falling for it.

He can't remember the last time he drank himself half to death in one of these places, toting a fine bot on his arm. Mostly because he was shit-faced.

It wasn't all that long ago, really. Maybe a handful of revs, but it feels longer. Then and now feel somehow more distant than the ends of the universe.

But there's more to his life now. A ship to maintain, a group to travel with. Some members more punchable than others. 

Quill's been a pain in his tail since they broke out of the Kyln. There are pros and cons to being on a team.

He runs through his shopping list mentally before he's distracted. Refueling is one of the few things Quill can accomplish without any hand-holding, though he's sure Gamora will do just that.

K'wirra giggles at something Drax says, her wings angling up like a long stretch.

Rocket's not leaving without as many motors and resistors he can fit in his pockets. The stash he pulled off the first Milano? All gone. Blown to bits with Ronan's ship. Figures. All he'd been able to save was what he had on him. That and his keepsake.

He can feel the corners and edges of the worthless, yet priceless, memento. Thin and rectangular, edges slightly worn from his thumb. He'd probably never need it, but he can't bring himself to throw it away.

He's got nothing else to remember his first friends by. Just scars.

And as boots crunch snow underfoot, so too goes the warmth sticking to them from inside. The planet's now-dead Sun provides nothing in terms of heat and light.

Gamora turns her head, looking back at the slower guardians. "Hurry up and stay close. I don't like the idea of drawing this out."

Brushing off her concern, Quill huffs a chuckle. "I've been here hundreds of times. Nothing's gonna happen."

The crowd shuffles, thick coats clenched close as they part around the group of guardians.

"You should listen to her," Rocket quips from the corner of his mouth. "Get yourself lost and we'll have to walk back to the Milano to track you down."

A humorless smile grows on Quill's lips, bone dry. "I think I know my way around."

"Right," Rocket drawls. "'Cause you're a frequent flyer to pleasure-bot paradise." Rocket shrugs, feigning indifference.

Quill doesn't take it well. Gamora crosses her arms, tired eyes rolling in her skull as she walks faster.

"Pfft. Yeah, for jobs," the captain insists too loudly, leaning over Rocket's head. "Unlike some people, I don't have to shell out for a little company."

Rocket's firing back before he knows it, ignoring the pull on his pant leg. His lips curl, his teeth part, and he starts growling it out.

Another tug on his pant, stronger this time, stops him. 

"I am Groot?" 

Rocket looks down. Groot stares up, clinging to Rocket's ankle. Tiny bark-covered fingers curl in the fabric, bright eyes boring into Rocket's own.

"Whaddaya talkin' about? K'wirra's right there—" But when his gaze flicks instinctively to Drax's shoulder, she's not there. Rocket's tail goes stiff. He'd only looked away for a moment.

Not with Drax, Quill, or Gamora who walk ahead of him through snowy roads. Not flapping to their sides. Not lagging behind.

"I am Groot? I am Groot!"

The low grumble comes out unbidden in reply: "I am not always watching her." Fiery reds search the landscape, clocking every perch, every edge. Was she already long gone?

Rocket puts his paw to his brow while he searches the sky. It's too empty, all plain gray and white. Soundless, too. No laughing or nails-on-a-chalkboard squawking.

He can't find her obsidian figure in the clouds either.

She's just gone. Again — like every other time they've left the ship. 

It figures she'd fly off like this. Most naive thing this side of the galaxy, he bets.

And she's gonna be the death of him.