“No,” she said after a moment’s pause.
“The rest of you, watch for the adult Grootling. If he’s not out once we’re back, we go in.”
“I am Groot?” Groot stood, a plea in his eyes.
“Groot…” Quill shook his head. “We need speed right now. Stay with the others.”
“Sorry, buddy,” Rocket said.
Quill, Kiya, and Rocket ran across the roof, leapt over an alley, and clambered onto the next rooftop, keeping a close watch on the Grootling below.
“You recognize them?” Quill asked Kiya once they’d caught up with the kid holding the Grootling’s pot.
She looked down at the street, squinting. “The father, maybe…”
The kid and their father were part of a bigger group, maybe seven or eight adults laughing and shoving each other. Rocket dismissed them, focusing on the Grootling. Those movements—what was he doing? Shadowboxing?
Rocket’s ears twitched, shifting until they were positioned just right to hone in on the group’s voices even from all the way down and across the street.
“Yeah! Da, look!” The kid, a girl, carried the pot in one arm, leaving her other arm free to do the same thing as the Grootling: punch wildly in midair. “He’s gonna beat ’em all when he gets big! Just like the one we saw!”
“—Groot! I am Groot!” The Grootling dodged an imagined blow, then threw a punch of his own, his arm stretching out an inch before snapping back to its regular size.
“Maybe if it gets faster,” the dad said.
The kid looked at the pot, puzzled, then took it in both hands and shook it. Dirt spilled over the sides. “Can you be faster?”
“I am—Groo-oo-oot—” The Grootling crouched and held onto the edge of the pot to steady himself.
“Welp,” Rocket said, his voice tight with rage, “that ain’t happening.”
He climbed over the side of the roof, scampering down the wall from window ledge to window ledge to the tattered tarp coating of a market stall, and dropped from there to the ground.
“Rocket!” Quill yelled from above. “Don’t! Flarking! Shoot! Anyone!”
Across the street, the dad flicked the side of the Grootling’s head. “Show us you’re worth what I spent on you.”
“Fight!” the girl crowed. A couple adults around her laughed. She gave the pot another shake. “Fight!”
Rocket darted across the road on all fours, swerving around another cluster of folks who must’ve come from the pits. He came to a stop promptly upright in front of the kid. “I’ll take that,” he snapped, and reached for the pot.
“Ah! Ah!” She hugged the pot close, stumbling to get away from Rocket. His claws raked empty air. “Da! What is it?”
“I am Groot!” The Grootling furiously punched in Rocket’s direction, as though trying to reach. “I am Groot!”
The others in the group had dashed aside in surprise. Only the dad stepped in. “What the…” He raised his leg to kick Rocket.
Without thinking, Rocket leapt and threw his claws into the father’s leg. He felt the man moving under his grip, trying to wrench free. He clutched tighter with front and hind legs both. Sank his teeth in. He heard the guy’s pants tear, felt the skin break, and tasted slick salty blood.
The man screamed. “Off! Get it off!”
A low growl rumbled in Rocket’s throat. He bit deeper—one last satisfying chomp. He could’ve stayed there all day, hearing the guy scream like he was getting murdered, but there was still the Grootling to worry about. And the other people in the street, too. He heard voices, loud and angry. He was kinda surprised they hadn’t jumped in yet. This was Ton-Four: a third of the people would be drunk, a third would be armed, and a third would be dangerous.
And those groups overlapped an awful lot.
Rocket let go, spat out a mouthful of nauseating purple-red blood, and bounded away. Back on the ground, he spun toward the girl.
“Now,” he snarled, “give me that—oh, hey guys.”
Quill stood with the Grootling’s pot under one arm and his element gun in his free hand. Kiya stood behind him, whirling slowly to keep an eye on the bystanders. Most had backed away. A few lingered, looking tough, but none were brave enough to step forward just yet.
The little girl stood by her dad in the center of the clearing, shaking, her face wet.
“Rocket? Bit excessive, don’t you think?” Quill asked. His arm snapped out. He pointed his element gun at the dad without looking, keeping his gaze fixed on the girl. “Don’t move a damn muscle.” He shifted the gun left, toward two civilians who’d stepped out of the crowd. “Or you, back there—don’t you move either. Don’t think I don’t see you.”
“What’s the problem? You only said I couldn’t shoot ’em.” Rocket spat another glob onto the ground, then wiped his mouth, leaving gross smears on his fur. “You taste disgusting,” he told the man.
“I want my Groot!” the girl sobbed. She reached up with grasping seven-fingered hands. “Give me my Groot!”
“So you can shake him some more? He ain’t a toy,” Rocket growled.
Quill sank into a crouch before the girl. “This little Groot is a friend of ours, okay? We’re taking him home. Making him fight doesn’t make him happy.”
“I! Am! Groot!” The Grootling punctuated each word with a punch. One landed on Quill’s upper arm. The impact didn’t even crease the leather of his jacket.
It would have been cute, if not for what he’d said. Rocket frowned at the little Grootling. What’d he mean, Yes it does? That wasn’t Groot. Groot wanted to drink from fountains and travel the universe and talk to shrubs and tickle kids with vines and save lives and guard galaxies and stuff. Those were the kind of loser hobbies that made Groot happy.
He was just confused, Rocket decided.
“I want my Groot,” the girl repeated.
“Leave my kid alone,” the dad finally said. He stumbled forward, holding his bleeding leg.
“Now you’re worried about her?” Quill looked the dad up and down, keeping his element gun pointed steadily. “But you’ll take her to midnight fighting pits on Ton-Four and let her torture Groot? You’re a terrible father. Did you know that? I mean, holy crap, dude, I am the galaxy’s leading authority on terrible fathers, and you rank pretty high! That’s not a compliment!”
“Star-Lord.” Drax’s voice buzzed through their earpieces. “Another Grootling is being led out.”
“Terrible! Father!” A shake of Quill’s gun emphasized the words.
“On our way,” Rocket told Drax. He clambered up the side of Quill’s leg and crouched down on his shoulder. It wasn’t as comfortable as Groot’s—for one thing, Groot was bigger, and for another, Groot was Groot—but it would do for now.
Still holding the Grootling’s pot, Quill rose into the air, his boots spraying white-hot energy onto the pavement. Rocket held on tight.
“Kiya?” Quill said. “Run back to the others. Rocket and I will be just overhead.” The hidden meaning of his words went unspoken: If you try to run, we’ll be on you in a second.
Rocket had a mental addition of his own: And Rocket’s got a big damn gun he’s itching to use, so don’t test him.
Kiya nodded brusquely and took off.
Quill saluted the girl’s dad, then shot off toward the other Guardians.
“Give my Groot back!” the dad hollered after them.
“Look after your d’ast kid!” Quill yelled back.
Looking down from Quill’s shoulders, Rocket kept an eye on Kiya. She snaked through the still-confused crowd, ducking under an outstretched arm and weaving around three men trying to block her path. She was fast, Rocket grudgingly admitted. Not as elegant as Gamora, and not as much of a bulwark as Drax, but somewhere in between—compact, practical, no frills.
Then she stumbled. Twice. She caught herself both times, but there’d been nothing on the ground—the way she’d stumbled looked more like her knees had given out on her.
At least sh
e was doing as told. Rocket tore his attention away. Groot came first. He saw theirs up ahead, balancing on the edge of the roof. The new Grootling was below, across the street, just exiting the fabric shop. He bowed deep to fit through the door. In front of him walked two men; another two followed behind.
They had the Grootling in chains. Red strands of energy held his arms against his torso and gave his feet barely enough room to shuffle. The men around him each held a strand of the cords. Other men followed behind, but Rocket was too focused on the Grootling to do a headcount.
One arm ended in splinters at the elbow.
His entire right leg and part of his torso were scorched black.
Deep gouges marred his bark all over.
He shuffled along, hunched, silent, and tense.
“Ship here yet?” called one of the men transporting him.
“They said they would be… Aw, they late again?”
“I am Groot.” On the roof, Groot stared down, unmoving, at his duplicate. “I am Groot?”
“Hey, Quill.” Rocket hunched close to Quill’s ear. “Now can I shoot people?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Aw, yeah.”
18
IF PETER hadn’t known Rocket so long, having the raccoon pull out a massive blaster right next to his head might’ve made him a bit nervous.
As it was, he just made sure to keep his flight steady, allowing Rocket to aim properly.
Blam—
One of the men holding the battered Grootling went down. The energy cord he’d been holding whipped through the air, then dropped uselessly to the ground.
“You gotta get mufflers on those guns, dude,” Peter told Rocket. “I think my ear is bleeding.”
Peter dropped to the ground just as Kiya arrived. He passed the pot to her, waited for Rocket to leap from his shoulders, and shot back into the air to survey the situation.
Clusters of drunk civilians in the street were scrambling to disperse after Rocket’s blast. Near the fabric shop, the three remaining handlers were holding the Grootling captive. They reached for their weapons. Rocket shot at one of them and missed.
More people streamed out from the fabric shop. Bulky. Threatening. All kinds of genders and species. Based on their matching clothing and the identical communicators by their ears, Peter ID’d them as hired security from the pits. They were already starting to circle the group, weapons drawn.
And on the Guardians’ side:
A pissed-off Rocket. Drax and Gamora were just leaping down from the casino rooftop. As for the others—
“Kiya, keep that Grootling in the pot safe. That’s your one job,” he called into his communicator. “Groot—stay put on the roof.”
If these people were forcing the Grootling to fight in the pits, they needed some way to control him. Whatever weapon they had, Peter didn’t want the real Groot falling prey to it.
“Drax, Gamora—take on the security guards. Rocket, I’ll distract the handlers. Try to get our friend free.”
“On it,” Rocket said—
—AND SKITTERED across the road, staying low.
Between Rocket’s size and the midnight dark, he was easy to miss—even more so with Gamora and Drax leaving behind a trail of bleeding security guards. Quill flew overhead, simultaneously distracting the Grootlings’ handlers from noticing Rocket and drawing their fire skyward, reducing the risk to bystanders.
Rocket reached his goal. He scrambled up the Grootling’s side, a dark shadow, and grabbed a blade from his belt. He started to saw through the cords binding the Grootling—who was making low, confused noises but not fighting back. Even the whirlwind all around them—bullets, energy blasts, and hot-and-cold bursts from Quill’s blaster—didn’t seem to aggravate or frighten him.
“I gotcha, buddy,” Rocket muttered.
One cord dropped and fizzled into nothing. On to the next.
He kept one eye on the handlers, only a few feet away. Two of them had noticed him, but they weren’t a threat—Quill had already disarmed them. One gun lay in a half-molten heap on the ground, while another was stuck to the outside wall of the fabric shop, encased in ice.
The third handler was still armed, though. He turned toward Rocket, who bolted upright.
“Get offa my…”
The handler decided to fire rather than finish his sentence.
Rocket yelped. He leapt out of the way, his hind legs kicking off against the Grootling to shove him away from the blast, as well.
Too late: The blast slammed into the Grootling. It tore off more of his missing arm and clipped his side, but he only staggered. “I am Groot?” he said, his voice low and angry. He didn’t even attempt to move on his attacker.
What had they done to this Groot? He seemed to be sleepwalking.
Rocket was veering out of the way of further gunfire, when—
“I—am Groooo-ooot!”
That wasn’t the Grootling.
That was their own Groot—
—LEAPING down from the roof.
Drax slammed a security guard out of the way, spinning toward his friend just in time to watch him land in the street.
The sound of splintering wood cracked through the air.
Groot had landed on the pavement in the center of the road. He crumpled, not moving for several long moments. The remaining bystanders backed away in terror.
Drax watched, worried. A fall from a two-story building should not have injured Groot so severely.
Kiya stood a few feet away, between Drax and Groot. She clutched the pot with the small Grootling to her chest. “Is he…”
Groot stirred. He pushed himself up and looked himself over. “I am…Groot?” His legs were barely recognizable. They had splintered and cracked on impact with the ground. One foot pointed the wrong way; half of his ankle was torn open.
“He is alive,” Drax informed Kiya.
“Another Groot?” one of the handlers yelled. “We gotta grab him! We’ll be rich!”
Groot’s head snapped up. He stood shakily and tottered forward on broken feet. “I am Groo-oot!” He stumbled his way toward the third handler—who was still firing at Rocket—and smacked him aside.
“Yes!” Drax crowed. Nothing so simple as a fall could break his friends—
—BUT A gun might. Too late, Peter saw the weapon.
One of the Grootling’s handlers—one he’d already disarmed—pulled out a damn spare, pointed it at Groot, and pulled the trigger. Peter aimed his own gun and shot a ball of fire—too late.
Farther down the street, Groot hurtled forward. His movements were so uncoordinated, he seemed drunk.
The zap from the handler’s gun struck Groot in the chest.
He shook off the hit and lurched forward. Another zap, fired within a second of the first, sent splinters flying. He dropped to one knee, swaying.
Before the shooter could take aim a third time, the fire from Peter’s element gun reached him. He ducked aside, screaming.
Rocket was just facing off against the third handler. There was only one other left standing—disarmed, and without a spare weapon, or he’d have pulled it by now.
“Drax, free the Grootling,” Peter said. “Gamora? Status?”
“Sending the final guards scattering,” she reported. “Some of them got interesting ideas about teaming up on me.”
Peter almost felt sorry for them.
He had a team to look after, though. Groot sat in the middle of the street, trying to stand up. Kiya was helping him, but every time, his damaged legs gave out. His torso cracked with each haphazard movement.
A pair of bystanders was sneaking up on Groot and Kiya. The idea of grabbing two vulnerable Flora colossi—one injured, the other young—had to be too good to pass up. Peter sent down a warning shot of hail.
“Anyone else?” he called down—
—BUT THE Grootling did not respond.
He had still not even attempted to fight. He watched Rocket’s battle with the handler, tense a
nd confused but unmoving.
Drax decided to worry about that after they were back at the ship. He stepped in close and tore the bonds around the Grootling’s torso clean off. Then he crouched to rip the cord from his legs. “Come with us. We will hold off anyone who—”
“Groot!”
Drax looked over his shoulder at the source of the call. It was one of the handlers—sprawled on the street a couple feet away, his clothes charred, a burn on his face.
“We are taking our friend,” Drax said. “This is not negotiable.”
The guy laughed, the sound wild and shrill. He was not even looking at Drax. He stared at the Grootling. “Listen: I. Am. Grooter.”
At the three words, the Grootling stiffened. His back straightened. Rage slid over his features like a curtain being drawn. A guttural yell rose from his throat—and then he lashed out, swiping at Drax with an overgrown hand.
Drax leapt sideways and landed in a crouch, avoiding the claw by a hair’s breadth.
“Groot?” he said. “Have I provoked you somehow?”
“Great,” Gamora said, rushing up to Drax’s side. She snapped into a fighting stance, peering up at the Grootling. “Brainwashing. That’s just what we needed.”
“We did not need brainwashing at all, Gamora,” Drax corrected her.
Quill had been hovering protectively near Kiya and Groot. Now he flew toward the Grootling, firing his element gun. “Sorry about this, buddy. You’ll thank us when you’re all un-brainwashed and stuff.” The Grootling’s legs froze to a clump.
“I am Groot!” The ice cracked, then shattered. Enraged, the Grootling dashed at the nearest foe: Drax.
Drax raised his arm to shield himself. The tips of the Grootling’s fingers cracked off on impact, but he kept moving. He roared again.
“Why can’t anything ever be simple?” Quill mused. “Drax, keep the dupe busy, wear him out. He’ll be short on energy like the others. Rocket, help Drax. Create a distraction, talk the Grootling through the brainwashing—anything. Gamora, Kiya, get our Groot and the little Grootling out of here. Too many people seem to want one of their very own after seeing the Grootling perform in the pits.” Quill paused and opened another comms channel. “Hey, Grootlings on the ship—can you fly it to our location? In one piece, preferably?”
Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All Page 11
