Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All

by Corinne Duyvis

  “Understood.” Drax landed against the Guardians’ ship in a crouch. “I will break the stabilizer.”

  Drax sped toward the tail end, alternately kicking off and pulling. The ship shook as it absorbed another hit.

  “Did you not hear—” Rocket yelled.

  He was already pounding on the stabilizer wing to weaken it. “We do not need”—thump—“to be close.” Thump. “We have chains.”

  “I—ahhh. I gotcha.”

  “Precisely.”

  Drax broke off the stabilizer with a satisfying crack.

  4

  WHAT exactly happened out there?” Gamora asked. “The view from inside the engine room is limited.”

  Peter was slumped on the couch in the leisure area, the seven-sided room at the center of the crew quarters. He felt relieved to have solid ground underfoot and breathable air around him again, but he wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Groot sat with his back against the door to his quarters, examining his torn-up hand.

  They had left the Kree ship far behind: With its damaged equibrilator, it was useless in a chase. Now that they were out of reach, Rocket had suited up and gone outside. He had to repair the stabilizer before they attempted any landings.

  “They broke my boot,” Peter said miserably.

  Gamora nodded. “I got that part. I vividly pictured that part, in fact.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Don’t blame yourself.” Peter sat upright and half-turned to look at Groot.

  “I am Groot.” He held up both hands to show them. The fingers on his splintered hand had grown back, but they were only twigs, notably fresher than his other hand. The legs damaged in the earlier mine explosion had recovered fully, but it had taken at least three times longer than usual.

  Peter rubbed his forehead. “I shouldn’t have taken you outside. I knew you weren’t okay yet.”

  “Of course you should’ve,” Gamora said. She leaned against the couch armrest. “Don’t play martyr. No one is better suited to working in a vacuum or taking direct hits than Groot. He took out the winch, didn’t he?”

  Gamora was right, of course. And Peter hadn’t made the decision lightly: He’d known the risks. Mostly, anyway—he hadn’t expected to spend 10 minutes drifting. He’d spent a lot of those 10 minutes asking himself the same thing Gamora probably was now.

  What was going on with Groot?

  “I am Groot—I am Groot. I am Groot.” He started off lively, but grew quiet. He curled up against the door and looked away, as if scared or ashamed.

  “You really don’t have a clue why your hand splintered so easily?” Peter pressed.

  He shook his head.

  “It’s not just that you haven’t grown back properly yet since you had to regrow last month?”

  Another shake of his head.

  “Of course not,” Gamora said. “He’s been in the field when he was smaller than this.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “You’re right. It’s not just the splintering,” Peter said. Groot had grown forgetful, sluggish, ever since he’d been blown to bits and planted again. He hadn’t been in the field often enough for it to be a problem, but it seemed to be getting worse. Had they grown him back wrong, somehow?

  “Poison?” Gamora suggested.

  “I am Groot.”

  “How could we check?” Peter asked.

  “I don’t suppose we know a doctor who specializes in Flora colossi.”

  “I sure don’t.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “I’ll put out a call,” Gamora said.

  “Yeah. We’ll drop off those political activists at the Teer-XI station and go straight to the Kyln, before Drax starts cracking prisoner skulls and the Kree realize we’re not actually at Kree-Pama like we told them. You know, there’s a downside to sending people on a wild goose chase: You don’t get to see their faces when they figure it out.” Peter stretched. “I need to go and fix my boot. And see if Rocket needs help.”

  “I have him on comms. He’s been yelling about wanting an assistant.”

  They glanced at Groot at the same time. Normally, he was the one to help Rocket with repairs.

  He wasn’t even paying attention. As if he hadn’t heard Gamora at all.

  “I’ll play lovely assistant for the day,” Peter said, moving past Gamora to the exit. “And Groot…”

  He looked up. “I am Groot?”

  Peter already regretted saying something. “I don’t know, man. We’ll figure this out.”

  FINALLY, we’re done,” Rocket growled, hours later, as the massive doors of the Kyln closed behind them. “I saw how those guards were watching me. They can’t wait to lock me up again. What’s the problem? I ain’t even wanted! Currently.”

  Mostly for lack of proof, but still. Didn’t those guards have anything better to do?

  “I am Groot,” Groot said quietly as they walked along the open port bridge to where they’d docked their ship. Instead of paying attention to the group or the ships ahead—a crude, blockish Spartaxan one was just arriving—Groot was staring up. Rocket followed his gaze. The multileveled docking area of the Kyln exterior had an artificial atmosphere that allowed an unobstructed view of the galaxy stretching out around them. The lilac surface of a nearby moon obscured part of the Tneric arm, which spiraled on their left, a galaxy cluster so bright it had to be more star than not. A stretch of sky pulsed—the almost imperceptible sign of a ship going past at warp speed.

  “Buncha stars, big deal,” Rocket scoffed. “We got a lot of them, you know.”

  Groot sighed. “I am Groot.”

  “Can we hurry up?” Quill kept looking nervously back at the Kyln looming overhead. “I don’t trust the guards not to tip off the Kree. Or the prisoners to keep quiet about the activists missing from the group.”

  “We’ll need to deal with the Kree soon, anyway,” Gamora frowned.

  “I’d like to fix up the ship first,” Quill said. “Maybe save the galaxy a couple more times so they’ll remember they owe us? Just a thought.”

  “I like this thought.” Drax punched one palm with his fist. “I am ready.”

  Groot was still looking up; he bumped into Gamora. She spun, one hand up, the other already on the sword at her belt. Then, relaxing, she said, “Groot. Eyes up front.”

  “I am Groot.” He winced.

  “Whats’a matter with you today? Eesh.” Unease twisted in Rocket’s stomach.

  “Friends,” Drax said. “Look.”

  The blockish ship had docked one level up and was unloading its cargo in a straight line onto the walkway: at least two dozen prisoners, shackled at feet and hands—and occasionally claws, tentacles, pincers, and extra pairs of hands. They shuffled toward the Kyln. One or two prisoners glanced over the edge of the walkway, as if considering leaping off until the art-grav no longer held them, but the guards only had to wave their prodders to make them snap back in line.

  And at the back of that line—

  “Is that…?” Quill started.

  Holy crap, Rocket thought, it’s another Groot. Right there. The other Flora colossus—almost Groot’s size, but a little thinner and shorter—trudged along with the rest of the prisoners. “Hey, an ex-girlfriend of yours, Groot?”

  Drax frowned. “I thought Groot was the only Flora colossus in this part of the galaxy.”

  “Looks like he’s got competition,” Rocket snickered. “Wonder what this one’s in for.”

  “I am Groot,” Groot said, staring. “I am Groot?”

  “Are you sure?” Quill said.

  Rocket sent Groot a sidelong frown. “Yeah, who says you’re the only one? Some other Flora colossus might’ve gotten adventurous and wanted to check out the galaxy. They can’t all be stick-in-the-mud tree supremacists.”

  “Your people do not care very much for you anymore, Groot, do they?” Drax asked.

  “We’re checking it out.” Quill fired up his boots, hovering a few feet above the walkway—
the gouts of flame weak but even—and shot off toward the next walkway, a ship-length away.

  Drax took a couple of steps back, then made the jump.

  “I do like shortcuts.” Gamora ran ahead, then swerved sideways, leaping onto the nearest parked ship and clambering up as easy as running.

  “Oh, sure, sure,” Rocket said as he scuttled up Groot’s back, claws hooking into the bark. “No need to wait for us. Why bother?”

  “I am Groot,” Groot said, distracted.

  Once properly installed on Groot’s shoulder, Rocket patted the side of his head. “Let’s move.”

  “I am Groot?”

  “Nah, I don’t trust you one bit after your shoddy performance today, but who else am I gonna hitch a ride with?” Rocket bared his teeth at the prisoners above. “Let’s go visit the fam.”

  5

  HEYYY,” Quill drawled. Gamora could see him just ahead, slowing down to hover near the prisoner walkway. Already, four guards of varying species had their guns drawn and pointed. One yelled orders over comms—calling for backup, probably.

  Gamora skidded to a stop on a transport ship. Drax slid in beside her. She wanted to move closer, but these guards would be shooting to kill.

  (They would miss, of course.)

  The one who had been talking over comms gestured at her, rough but authoritative. Within half a second, two guns were pointed at her and Drax. That was the highest-ranking officer on site, then. She would take him out first if it came to it.

  “State your business, Star-Lord,” the commander said. He kept his face largely neutral, but the way his feet parted marginally indicated he was alert, ready to jump into action if needed—the man was smart enough not to underestimate them. “Any closer and we will shoot.”

  Behind the commander, the dozen or so prisoners looked up at the Guardians with interest. That included the Flora colossus at the back, whose eyes widened at the sight of them. They widened farther when Groot and Rocket arrived on the ship behind Gamora—she felt the vibrations, heard the ticktack of wood on metal. She didn’t need to turn.

  She cocked her head a fraction to the side as she observed the Flora colossus. His expression didn’t show interest or wariness, like those of the other prisoners.

  It was shock.

  Quill was still hovering, hands open and spread wide in order to look less threatening. He did, Gamora admitted, excel at looking nonthreatening. It was a skill.

  “Mind if we have a quick chat with one of your prisoners?” he asked.

  “We really do, in fact.”

  “I am Groot— I am Groot—” the prisoner-Groot was saying, but between the buzz around them and the distance, Gamora couldn’t translate.

  “See, your tall, leafy friend there,” Quill went on unperturbed, “isn’t a common sight around these parts. We’d really like to have a talk. Supervised, if you want. Five minutes.”

  “You are aware it’s a tree that can only speak three words?” the commander said slowly. “Regardless. The answer is no. Step away, Guardians. We will engage if necessary. If you want to talk to one of the prisoners, you’ll need to go through official channels and request—”

  “That’ll take weeks—”

  “Months,” Gamora muttered.

  “Look out!” one guard shouted.

  It happened in the space of a second:

  One prisoner, a bulky Stenth woman, dashed forward. Her elbow smashed into the guard’s face (good technique, given her cuffs) as her other hand went for his gun. It blasted harmlessly against the reinforced walkway. Then she had it in her hands.

  The next blast was aimed at the guard’s torso. It wasn’t harmless this time. An orange flash, a splatter of red, and he went down.

  The situation had changed.

  Two more prisoners turned on the nearest guards. More orange flashes. Other prisoners scattered, yelling. Some tried to get away from the gunfire. Others tried to get away, period.

  “D’ast it, Quill!” the commander screamed. “It’s never easy with you around, is it?”

  “Permission to assist?” Quill yelled back. Every one of his muscles was tense, his hand already on his element gun, but he waited for the go-ahead.

  A split second of hesitation. “Granted.” Then the commander turned, yelled something into his microphone, and entered the fray.

  Gamora took a second to assess the situation. The guards had their hands full with the prisoners who had chosen to fight. That meant the Guardians should—

  “Focus on the escapees,” she called. “Before the guards take them out the hard way!”

  Quill was already swerving after a Shi’ar couple scuttling away across the transport ship’s hull. “Groot, Rocket, get anyone who isn’t fighting out of harm’s way. Injured guards, scared prisoners.”

  They fanned out. Drax took the Stenth who’d started the mess—she’d grabbed the dead guard’s body as a cushion and dropped herself over the edge of the walkway, probably aiming to land on one of the ships or walkways on the lower levels. She left a trail of blood in the air from a shot to the shoulder. Quill took the Shi’ar. Groot and Rocket were crawling along the bottom side of the walkway, Groot’s arms and vines winding around to pluck people up out of the fray.

  Gamora went after another pair of escapees: the prisoner-Groot and a tall, frail Kree. They ran side by side, past the transport ship, as fast as their cuffed feet would carry them. The Kree fell, but the Groot hooked a finger into the back of his jacket and yanked him upright without slowing down.

  Shouldn’t call him Groot, Gamora thought as she landed in front of them in a crouch. But up close like this, she couldn’t think of him as anything else. This Groot and their own looked so much alike. She could even swear that he recognized her, the way he looked at her now.

  “Listen—” she said.

  An orange flash.

  The Groot exploded into splinters. They scraped past Gamora’s face and clattered down on the walkway behind her. Two legs, still stuck in their cuffs, thunked down.

  For a second, she stood immobile.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a Groot die—if you could call it that.

  It had just rarely happened two feet away from her.

  She snapped out of it. With one hand, she grabbed a chunk of wood. With the other, she took the Kree’s wrist. She darted to the side, pulling him along. Just in time. A second orange flash went past them, right where the Kree had stood.

  She sped up, sliding behind the nearest ship, where she pulled the Kree down in a crouch. “Stay,” she snarled into his ear. She listened for footsteps. Nothing.

  “They—they just shot—he wasn’t even—” the Kree babbled, staring at the scattered splinters.

  “He’ll be fine.” She held up the splinter she’d taken, a shard of wood the size of her hand. “Plant this. Learn botany. You’ll have plenty of time on the inside. This Groot will be…” She stared at the shard. Turned it over. Her eyes narrowed. “How did you meet him?”

  “What? They just…”

  “Answer me.”

  For the first time, the Kree looked at her. He swallowed a gasp. His eyes bulged out. “You’re Gamora! Oh, flark, you’re Gamora.”

  “Yes.”

  “The—the deadliest woman in the galaxy?”

  “More than one galaxy, but yes.”

  It was nice to have a reputation.

  If inconvenient, sometimes.

  He scrambled away on his hands and knees. “Oh, flark, oh—”

  She grabbed the cuff connector between his feet and dragged him effortlessly back. “Do you really want to go back to the spot where they were shooting at you?”

  “Yes!” he yelped.

  “Poor decision-making. Where did you meet Groot?”

  “Will you let me live if I answer?”

  She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. That would be too Quill of her. Sometimes, though, it was the perfect way to express her thoughts. “You are aware I am saving your life?” />
  He looked at her with such fear she couldn’t tell whether he was aware of much of anything.

  She rubbed her forehead. “Answer.”

  “I—I bought him, all right? I bought him at the Knowhere market, that’s all, he was just a sapling, still in a pot and everything, they had a bigger model there to show—”

  “Model? Who is ‘they’?”

  “Uh, some woman. Green.”

  “Be more specific.” Could mean Skrull, DiMavi, Froma, Insectivorid, Inhuman, Earth mutant—

  “I don’t know, all right? Green, like you. I mean, not—obviously not like you, not Zen-Whoberian—”

  “Tell me about her before you embarrass yourself further.”

  He swallowed audibly. “She had a hood on. I could barely see her. Didn’t have a stall, neither. I knew it was shady, but that tree creature she showed off looked real practical. I bought it and got out. I just needed someone to help me with, uh…”

  “Crime.”

  “Small crime,” he said. “Little crime. Groot didn’t mind doing it, neither. We were friends. You know, I really shouldn’t even be here. I’m practically innocent.”

  “Where on the market?”

  “Near the Skrull performers. But when I went back—twice; I had questions—she wasn’t there anymore.”

  “Gamora?” Quill’s voice came in through comms. “Situation is under control. Where are you?”

  “Coming now. Prisoner in tow. Tell those trigger-happy bastards to hold their fire, all right?”

  “Hey, where’d that other Groot…” Rocket’s voice—coming through comms—fell silent as Gamora stepped out of hiding and back within view of the group. Farther down the walkway, nearer to the guards and remaining prisoners, Rocket was wiping his gun down on his shirt. He glanced up at her approach—first looking at her, then lowering his gaze to the splintered mess scattered on the walkway around her feet. For a moment, Rocket stood unmoving. Even from this distance, she saw his hands around the gun going still, forming frozen claws. Then he shot into motion, sprinting for the guards. “You krutacking—”

  Quill was closer than Gamora. He jumped forward, grabbing the collar of Rocket’s jacket just in time. “Rocket. Don’t.”