Chapter Text
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hailbound. mysteriously compelled to wave to passing strangers on a country road, a mountain path, or a remote stretch of water. From hail, to greet + bound, being obliged. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
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Pearl picks her way through the streets of Cyxlore’s capitol city, trying not to get distracted by the mosaic of blue and green and golden glass glinting beneath her lilac-blue boots. She cradles the smooth bottle of morningtea between her hands, warming her palms and fingers on the sweet, rich liquid inside, and pauses at one of the painted cupboards set into the walls.
She’d been too overwhelmed to really look when they’d been trundling through the city two rotations earlier, but most of the shops and kiosks seem to be carved right into the sparkling granite mountainsides, with rough-hewn stairs spiraling up into the upper levels of apartments and slanted, meadowed patios. Tall trees, sleek-barked and thin as spindles, rise up from careful patches of soil to stretch leaves out above the rim of the high mountain walls. Their shallow roots occasionally break through the glimmering tile of the street. Vines and mosses sprawl and drape lazily over the stonework, and barely any of the merchants are out at this hour — just a few, opening up their morning-food stalls here and there.
She’s on her own today. After Wona Beax had remade her hair — as pale lavender-blue as the hydrangeas pearl had imagined planting around the linguist’s white headstone — she and Rocket had returned to the runabout, where he’d muttered under his breath to himself as he’d emptied out part of the clothing locker of random odds-and-ends. Her eyes had widened at the displaced treasure-trove of scrap-metal and half-constructed tech.
“S’yours, now,” he’d grimaced, gesturing at the narrow space while shoving the brilliant, deadly devices into whatever open spots he could find under the bunks. Then he’d watched — shifting his weight from foot to foot, ears and tail flicking erratically — while she’d carefully folded away her sweaters and pants. The intensity of his gaze had confused her, but she’d swallowed down the bubble of anxiety rising in her throat, suddenly certain that he wouldn’t want her bringing attention to his heated stare.
Then he’d shown her how to work the laundry locker to wash her flimsy pile of new underthings. While she’d been sorting through them, he’d quietly crept away, only to call her from outside when she was done. He’d set up some sort of firearm-practice rig — a roving holotarget he’d projected onto one of the nearby cliff walls, paired to the training-blaster he’d made her.
“Like this,” he’d ordered, mimicking the stance he’d wanted her to take. When the recoil had sent her stumbling, she’d expected him to cackle — but his brow had furrowed and he’d only muttered something that had sounded like, tch, moron; kitten ain’t got a tail, and had circled her studiously before kicking one of her heels wider apart, and tugging at her hip to pull her more into a crouch.
“Center of gravity here,” he’d muttered, and then his hand had reached out to pluck at one of her new lilac-blue curls, tugging. The frisson on her scalp had made her wide-eyed, stifling a gasp. “Lean forward,” he’d drawled, like he hadn’t noticed the tremor fluttering on her skin and lashes — but his ears had flickered forward and his own gaze had turned hooded.
“Good girl,” he’d purred, giving the curl one more tug for good measure, and she’d had to shuffle back a mew.
Still, she’d gotten closer to the target each time, and had learned how to anticipate the kickback. After the first round, he’d grudgingly told her she’d done pretty good for a frickin’ amateur. She’d redoubled her efforts, running the randomized target through session after session until he’d eventually snarled at her to get into the runabout and shower while he rehydrated some of the new synth provisions.
“You’re gonna be sore again tomorrow,” he’d told her broodingly, like he’d regretted letting her practice so long.
“I don’t mind,” she’d responded breathlessly, and it had been true. She might still be trying to temper her bone-deep ache for approval, but she doubts she’ll ever stop wanting to improve, to do better, to chase the ephemeral moving goalposts of achievement like a mirage in the desert — as if there’s some finite point she can reach that will make her feel like she’s earned her place in the universe and is worthy of the stardust it has taken to make her.
In her head, she knows it’s faulty logic. If it were Rocket, saying such things about himself, she’d tell him that he doesn’t ever need to justify his existence like that. But her heart and her gut are fickle, hypocritical little gremlins, gnawing at her heels and driving her into an ourboros, devouring herself in her pursuit of perfection.
The best she can hope for, she supposes — for now, anyway — is to remake the idea of perfect on her own terms.
Not Herbert’s. And not, she supposes, Rocket’s.
At any rate, the new synth provisions had been delicious, in her opinion, and then Rocket had lingered over her wounds: dressing them, fingers coasting over the slopes of the backs of her thighs, leaving goosebumps and shivers behind. And not the kind of shivers she’s used to — rising up from the ice in her belly like a last-ditch effort to keep her from freezing to death. These had been all warm, golden shudders, rippling out from the base of her spine.
“Two more nights,” he’d told her, tracing the steri-stripped sliver he’d sliced into her skin. His touch had been so tender that she’d felt tears well up on her lashes.
Crybaby, she’d thought, and she’d tried to warble out some words of gratitude for him, for their shared day, for her new clothes and her hair and her boots and the food and the morningtea and the comb and the freedom. But he’d cut her off with another quiet, half-scornful tch and told her to put some damn underwear on.
He’d stayed in his jumpsuit — not willing to sleep in just one of his t-shirts, apparently — and so she’d kept on her skirt as well, though she’d have been happy to have stayed in just his shirt and her new underthings. He hadn’t given her another massage, though he’d seemed reluctant to let his fingers part with her skin. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t sleep with her, but he’d stayed in bed — though she’d been able to see his hesitation. Still, when she’d reached for his hand carefully, he’d let her lace their fingers again. He’d swallowed when she’d pressed their palms together, and something had flickered behind those burnt-ruby eyes before he’d swallowed a second time.
“Am I hurting you?” she’d asked, brow creased, moving to pull her hand back. But his fingers had suddenly latched tight, claws pricking into the backs of her hands.
“No,” he’d scoffed. “For f*ck’s sake. Shut up and go to sleep.”
They’d started the next day with more firearms-practice. He’d lingered in the shadow of the runabout, trying to correct her posture and stance and aim at a distance until he’d gotten fed-up enough to stride up to her and kick her feet further apart again, pressing a leather-warm palm to her abdomen and snapping at her to tighten her core.
Still, he’d seemed impressed by the progress she’d made, and he’d set the target to roam slowly over mountainside while he’d dragged out a toolbox and peeled open part of the runabout, tackling the engine from the outside of the ship this time. They’d spent the day companionably, focused on their own tasks side-by-side. The camaraderie had kept a quiet buzz under her sternum, like bumblebees bumping around inside her ribs.
Sunlight and daisies, she’d thought. Wildflowers.
There had been a field behind her mother’s home that stretched against the neighbors’ yards — and beyond that, the poultry-slaughtering factory. But in the right months — with the light slanting through the grasses and fey specks of pollen glittering in the sunbeams — the meadows had been full of spiderwort and Queen Anne’s Lace, purple and yellow coneflowers, harebell and Black-Eyed Susans. Blue asters and forget-me-nots and purple vetch, and bright orange butterfly-milkweed. Back when she was just Liz, she’d laid in the tall grasses and let them close around her like a tight tiny closet with a view of the sky, hiding her small body while she’d watched caterpillars spin their cocoons, and honeybees sway drunkenly from blossom to blossom.
Lightyears away and circumrotations later, her fingers had squeezed the trigger of the modified quad-blaster and somewhere behind her, Rocket had cursed into the belly of the runabout’s engine. Deep inside her lungs, pearl had thought she could feel all that sweetness filling her up like the gold-dust pollen, clinging to her ribs and her knuckles and her eyelashes.
That night, Rocket had handed her a second square glass datacard — linked to his account, he’d told her.
She’d stared at him, horror crawling up her belly with ice-cold fingers. She’d literally just learned about units — and he expected her to spend them responsibly?
He’d brushed off the expression she’s sure she’d been wearing. “Don’t worry,” he’d grumbled. “There’s a limit.” His dark-fire eyes had been narrowed on her, and she hadn’t been able to figure out whether it had been a glance of distrust or something else. Still, his words had eased her nerves, softening the sharp and crackling edges of them. His eyes had been as scrutinizing as ever, but something in his tone had melted into velvet against her skin. “F’you wanna understand money, you gotta get practice using it,” he’d told her. “Go — get yourself some breakfast tomorrow morning. Get — get something comfortable to wear to bed. Find something else you wanna buy. I dunno.”
“You won’t be with me?” she’d asked, brow furrowing, and he’d shrugged, ears half-flattening and tail tucking against his inner calf.
“I got sh*t to do,” he’d muttered testily, eyes sliding away. “Things I don’t want you to — well, I just don’t want you gettin’ in the frickin’ way.”
She’d winced, and he’d spun away, muttering under his breath — but she hadn’t pushed any further. Gave you an inch, and sure enough, you’re trying to take a lightyear.
Maybe, she’d told herself — maybe if she gets better at shooting, convinces him she can do more, be more helpful, maybe he’ll let her come with him next time.
Later that night, she’d been fairly certain she hadn’t needed the salve anymore — but he’d ordered her onto her belly again, and she hadn’t wanted to dissuade him. She hadn’t wanted to give up the heated pressure of him any sooner than she’d had to. She’d asked him questions while he’d lingered over the panes of her lower back, fingers dipping into the dimples at the base of her spine, tracing lines over her hips that she thinks might have been her stretch-marks. She doesn’t believe that Herbert had ever known the pale stripes were there — Vim had provided full physicals every twelve cycles, and pearl’s not sure the Recorder had ever considered the blemishes as anything other than normal human coloration, much less relayed them to the High Evolutionary. Surely, if Herbert had found out, he would’ve tried to rid her of them.
Before Rocket, pearl had taken a perverse pleasure in her stretchmarks, knowing that Herbert would have hated them if he’d seen them. But with the survivor’s fingers trailing over her skin, she’d found herself suddenly self-conscious: aware of every flaw the High Evolutionary had ever tried to erase in her, as well as the ones he hadn’t known about — many of which have already been on display for her companion.
She’d felt herself growing cold and distant, miserable and alone — even with Rocket’s fingers branding her, kneading and melting all her muscles. She’d tried to tear herself out of it, to focus only on her survivor, to anchor herself to his warmth — but the fear had filtered into her next question without her permission.
“Do you think we’re more than the people who made us?”
Her heart had thudded, echoing in her chest, pulsing in her ears.
His hands had stilled, thumbs prying deeply into the softness of her thighs, right under the curve of her ass. When he’d spoken, his voice had been slow and rasping.
“Do you?”
She’d known he’d meant the question as a challenge — it seems like he’s always ready to be hurt by her, and she supposes she can understand that because she at least has an idea of the ghosts he carries with him. But his question had grounded her — anchored her better than any hoarse whisper-scream into the darkness, or the bruise of her teeth in her knee, or even the cool splash of water in her dry mouth after the terrorscape of her nightmares. She’d twisted her neck to watch him from the corner of one big eye, and her voice had been earnest.
“I know, in my heart of hearts, that you are nothing like him. You’re better than anyone or anything he would ever have been capable of dreaming up.”
She’d felt the hitch in his chest as if it had been her own — and when he’d breathed out a lungful of air, he’d looked startled by it, as if he’d held his breath without realizing it. Distractedly, with his ember-red gaze locked on her singular eye, he’d lifted one hand from her thigh and scrubbed his knuckles — hard — against his metal sternum.
“I dunno,” he’d husked — voice irritated, eyes glaring anywhere but near her. “Seems like him an’ me got similar destructive tendencies.”
Oh, some part of her had realized suddenly — a sunrise through fog, muted and strangely sorrowful. He’s afraid of it, too.
“You’re nothing like him,” she’d repeated, watching him as carefully as she could from her strained vantage point. He’d cleared his throat suddenly, and shifted backward onto her calves, unrolling her new skirt from where it had been pooled at her hips. She feels like he’s carefully tucking her away, and she hazards another statement — truth, and hope. “And that makes me think maybe I don’t have to be like him either.”
He’d made a grunting sound. “Kitten, you couldn’t be less like him.”
“Well, if that’s true of me, surely it can be true of you?”
He’d scoffed, and pressed a fist into the mattress next to her hip and leaned forward — warm weight pressing suddenly against the curve of her ass through the petal-pink dress, and she’d squeaked in surprise and sudden want — but he’d only moved to flip a handful of her new stardust-blue hair over her face, burying her in her own curls. She’d sputtered and squirmed as he’d leapt away, startled when she’d heard him laugh — mocking still, but surprisingly light.
They’d gone to sleep and he’d let her hold his hand again, scoffing the whole time — but then she’d woken up with his back shuffled tight against her chest, both of her arms wrapped snug around his waist and her lips pressed into the soft shell of his ear, her whole body curved around his. The coarse, armored weave of his jumpsuit had left an imprint on her belly and upper arms and she’d been too dozy and content to think about stammering an apology or loosening her hold — but he hadn’t seemed perturbed at all. The tip of his tail had been flicking her knees through the thin pink material of her skirt, and he’d only let her babble on stupidly and sleepily in his ear till she’d talked herself into a corner and had no choice but to convince herself to shut up.
When they’d parted ways, he’d tucked a comm in the pocket of her leggings — warm fingers tugging at her pants in a way that had made her skin sing — and had told her to use it if she ran into any trouble, and not to talk to strangers.
She’d glowered at that — glowered, an expression she’s sure hasn’t made in years — and it had startled her to feel it. But Rocket had only grinned tauntingly, then followed the smirk with a solemn stare. “I’m frickin’ serious, doll,” he’d warned, then loped away in the other direction.
And now here she is, with two soft stretchy pairs of shorts rolled up and gripped in one fist and a bottle of morningtea palmed in the other, pausing at every painted cupboard door inlaid in the quartz-streaked rockface walling the city streets. She’d noticed the cupboards the other day, and she had been curious, but all that curiosity had been forgotten in the blissful chaos of the clothes and the food and the hair.
Now that she has a chance to study them, she marvels.
The few cupboards that are open this early in the morning reveal small stadiums of fifty or sixty clear-glass and tin-smithed cups, each cradling a votive as blue as a pale spring sky on Terra. Anywhere between five and ten candles are lit in any given cupboard, and little tin plaques are anchored into the rock walls beneath the cupboards, etched with the tactile written language of Cyxlore as well as Kree, Shi’ar, and Skrull translations.
SHRINE OF THE SYBILA NIX ORA
Pearl tilts her head, shuffling through the glossary in her head, trying to find the name — but she comes up empty. Herbert hadn’t cared much for planets like this one: no significant political or cultural merit, he’d usually sniff dismissively. She tries to interpret the little shrine, and a shadow moves across the space, making the delicate flames seem brighter.
“I am Groot.”
She blinks, but doesn’t take her eyes from the glowing votives.
“They’re all memorial candles?” she asks.
She feels the lifeform, tall and imposing behind her, jolt at her words. The twitch is accompanied by a low crack: a twig unexpectedly snapping somewhere in a quiet forest.
“I am Groot. I am Groot. I am Groot?”
“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s lovely. And — yes. I do speak Taluhnisan. Or — I suppose I should say I understand it.”
Another startled creak. “I am Groot.”
She turns her eyes down the streets. As shopkeepers and pedestrians filter past, more and more of the cupboards are opened reverently — heads bowed, words murmured under breaths, a candle or two lit — and then the people go about their day. Pearl turns her eyes toward the voice speaking over her shoulder — then up, up, up.
He’s beautiful: skin dark and crackling, form tall and stately — and the softest eyes she’s ever seen in her life. She feels her own heart go just as soft in response.
“I didn’t realize it was quite that unknown.” She tucks her extra shorts into the crook of her left arm and extends her right hand. She’s woefully ignorant of common greetings out here, but the Taluhnisan doesn’t seem to mind — instead of shaking her hand, he cradles it with infinite delicacy, turning her palm upward and placing a frail blue blossom in the bowl of it. She stares at it, and lifts it to her lips — it smells something like vanilla, and something like peppermint. Her eyes turn up to him.
“My name is — well. My friends call me doll.”
Not that she really has any friends — other than Rocket, if he’d even let himself be counted in that meager number — but she has friendly acquaintances now, for the first time in her life, and it’s true that all two of them had known her as doll.
“I am Groot,” the figure says simply.
She falters. She knows a little of Taluhnisan naming customs, and Groot can’t possibly be all of it. But then, she hasn’t been completely forthcoming about her name either, so how can she possibly demand more from him? She supposes, like herself, there must be some reason he’s hiding it.
So she only nods, and then threads the little flower into the lavender-blue curls over her ear. “What brings you to Cyxlore, Groot?”
He smiles at her — lopsided, and sweet — and gestures to a bench carved into the wall. She drops her empty bottle into a recycling compactor and takes a seat, and he creaks along next to her.
His storytelling is simple and straightforward, and it leaves her heart in splinters and bruises. He’s all alone in the universe, and the thought has her as brittle and breakable as the thinnest shell on the shore.
She thinks of Rocket.
The small Terran girl she’d been — one with bruises on her arms and in her heart — had still chosen. Too young to have been forced to make that decision, perhaps, and too manipulated by someone far older — but she had left her home-planet with some pretense of autonomy, some shadow of foreknowledge that she was going to be more-or-less on her own.
But Rocket had been made singularly. And Groot had been made singular.
“I am Groot,” he finishes at last, splaying his thick, branchlike fingers and holding them up to the pale mint sky. He squints at the silhouette of them. “I am Groot.”
She hesitates, unsure if she’s overstepping the boundaries of strangers. Surely Herbert, at least, would have been appalled. “I can do that, though,” she tells Groot softly. “We can do that together, if you want. I’d — I think I’d like to light a few, too.”
He gazes at her, his already-soft eyes only softening further. Then he smiles again, and nods, and she rises and tugs him to his feet — as if she could possibly move him if he didn’t want to be moved. Her hand laces in against his forearm as easily as if he had grown a place just to welcome it, and she guides him back over to the shrine.
“How do we do this?” she asks softly.
“I am Groot,” he explains. “I am Groot.”
She reaches into the tall, narrow tin box set into the casem*nt and pulls out a long match — flexible and thin, so delicate that she suddenly understands why Groot had been having difficulty with his broad, barked fingers.
She strikes the match. The slender copper core burns blue-green.
“I am Groot,” he whispers, and the sound is the susuration of leaves against leaves in high summer winds, and a prayer of green lace against the sky.
She lowers the blue-green ember to a wick. It pops softly, and then ignites.
“I am Groot,” he murmurs again, and she lowers the match to another votive.
She lights each candle with every stitch of reverence in her bones, and she only slows when Groot has to pause and grope for his thoughts. His eyes, dark as wells, grow luminous and wet, and tears river their silver way between the patches of bark lining his face. She only shifts a half-inch closer to him in these moments — a quiet brush of presence, of comfort in his spiritual solitude.
They continue this pattern until thirty-three of the fifty candles in the shrine are lit — one for every Lost House of Taluhnia.
Pearl goes on.
“Fairy,” she whispers. “For you, I hope the Sybila Nix Ora sees high and leafy branches. Clear skies, and warm nests. Idunn apple slices.”
She lights a thirty-fourth candle.
“The Maid.” She swallows. The awareness of how little she knows leaves her bereft. “Soft kindnesses, gentle laughter, and ribbon-bracelets. Warm and loving arms.”
Thirty-five.
“The Linguist.” A shaky breath. “Delicate porcelain cups of spiced Indigarran tea, and a low fire in the hearth. A window to see your wife and children: happy, whole, and safe.” Thirty-six.
“And… Lylla.”
She falters. She knows so little of what to wish for, what to pray the oracle might see for the lifeform with the white headstone and the lilac bush — Rocket’s beloved.
“Peace,” she whispers at last. “Comfort, and ease in your body. Companionship.” She bites her lip. “The — the knowledge that I’ll do my best to keep him safe.”
Thirty-seven.
She hesitates. The long match is only half-burnt.
“I am Groot?” her new companion asks gently.
“It’s so many,” she tells him. “It’s — a number I’ll never know.” They both fall silent for one long breath — then another. The match sparks softly.
“I am Groot,” he says at last, and she pulls in a shuddering breath.
“All the ones he can never hurt again,” she utters, hushed and hollowed. “Healing for every injury and insult — every injustice. Freedom.” Her throat squeezes. “The homes they wanted. Their families returned to them — if not already, then in the future. Acceptance, abundance, and joy. The soul-deep understanding that they’re — safe from him, now.”
The match trembles. The blue-green ember at the end shivers like a dying firefly, then flares with a soft whisper as it touches the candle wick.
Thirty-eight.
She sighs, and blows out the match before sliding it back into the tin, to be re-used and burnt down.
“I am Groot,” Groot rumbles softly.
She takes a shuddering breath, and her hand tucks back in the crook of his arm.
“I know Taluhnisans mostly eat light,” she says with a soft, watery smile, “but would you like to try a Cyxlorade breakfast with me?”
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Maybe the panties were a mistake.
No, Rocket thinks. It’s good that she has them — the softest little scraps of cloth in Sanna Orix’s whole shop, to cup her pretty puss* gently and maybe rub tenderly against her little cl*t whenever she moves. Protection from the seams of her leggings and the roughness of his coarse blankets, and the scratched-up and split vinyl of the runabout’s seats.
That’s the problem, though. Now that pearl’s got the panties, Rocket can’t stop thinking about them. He’s been fixating all day — wondering which ones she’s wearing, if they’re as comfortable as he wants them to be, how they’d feel against his fingers if he stroked between her thighs — how they’d feel against her if he pet her cl*t through them. How she’d look in each pair: just a little shred of frothy soft lace or glassy satin, and one of his faded cotton t-shirts stretched tight over those pretty tit* of hers.
Of course she’d be pretty in whatever she’d decided she’d wanted from that place, even though none of it had been the cloud-lined armor he would’ve wanted for her. Still, it’s a frickin’ relief, just knowing she’s got something that might be comfortable on all her soft, vulnerable parts, and that pretty little gem tucked between her folds.
The unfortunate thing is that he’s trying to haggle for — and occasionally swipe — a wide variety of hardware, and instead, he keeps getting distracted by the idea of silky ruffles stuffed prettily in her mouth. Ever since he’d cut out her tracker and she’d had that little towel between her teeth, some variation on the image has been his constant companion.
“New ion blaster model,” he overhears one of the seedier merchants hiss to some A’askvariian scumbags. Not every neighborhood in Cyxlore is as pristine as the spot where he’s holed up with pearl. “Just brought in a bunch of ‘em from the Hub.”
Rocket smooths his thumb over the circle of metal in his pocket, checking to make sure it’s on. It’s just a tiny piece of tech he’d invented ages ago, with scrap he’d stolen off the streets and a few of the remaining pieces he’d pocketed in his collarbone when he’d first run from HalfWorld: an energy-and-data-disorganizer. He’d crafted it to interfere with just about any program that tries to scan him and cross-reference him with the lengthy list of bounties and records he’s got trailing after him like little comets.
Energy-and-data-disorganizer is a mouthful, though, so he mostly just calls it his f*ck-You-Disk. It’s worked for him so far: most hunters — even the Nova Corps and assorted localized police systems — are too lazy and untrained to manually match him with his records, so the disorganizer has effectively hidden him in every situation where he hasn’t already been stripped bare and incarcerated.
Still, it makes him nervous to be out here, so exposed, after such a recent and direct attack on Wyndham. The High sh*tbag has almost certainly had 89P13’s HalfWorld bounty doubled by now. Again, the Monster makes sure the f*ck-You-Disk is toggled on before he meanders casually toward the dealer’s stall.
From here, the blaster does look nice. It would probably look even better in pieces and divided between the three other firearms and two mines he’s working on right now. Maybe the ion generator from the blaster combined with the ‘fuser he’d stolen from Wona Beax’s shop yesterday. It could replace some of the sh*t he’d had in the first draft of the enforcer. Generate a big enough stream of ionized subatomic particulate, and he bets he could blow up a moon.
That’s why he’s scoping out the weapons-dealer’s stall from a rocky outcropping on the second level of the tiered mountainside — trying to figure out where they keep their stockpile and how to access it — when he sees her.
She’s a f*ckin’ dream.
All sloping curves and neat lines, gleaming in the sunlight. Bigger than he’s used to — which is f*ckin’ exciting if he’s being honest— and draped in gold, with four elegant, petal-like arms. She’s almost as pretty as pearl.
Almost.
She’s just as cold as Madame Lavenza, though — all Sovereign, through and through. Aloof — arrogant. At first glance, her artillery looks impressive — a medley of enormous carronades and narrow-barreled rotating autocannons — though he bets he can bring all of her firepower up a notch or two.
Combined with her five engines, rotating gravity wheel, and the sunken co*ckpit that doubles as a detachable emergency pod?
Oh, yeah.
Rocket’s always wanted a Sovereign Dreadnought — never thought he’d have a chance to get his hands on a working version, though. The best he’d hoped for was finding a burnt-out abandoned one on a scrapper-planet somewhere. But here she sits: prettily wedged between three shifty little shops set into the mountain wall, taking up valuable real estate and probably annoying every thief, smuggler, and lowlife trying to sell their sh*t today.
Rocket stares and salivates.
His eyes roam the streets, trying to find the pilot. Sovereign don’t fly their Dreadnoughts themselves, of course. Unlike the omnicraft, Dreadnoughts can’t be used via frickin’ arcade-game, and the snobs can’t bear to put their pretty gold necks on the line — which means they generally contract out for captains, mechanics, and gunners.
It takes less than thirty seconds for Rocket to identify the moron flying the thing: chest all puffed up, smug sh*t-eating grin on his stupid face. He’s got a look that says I been handed everything my entire frickin’ life. Prob’ly went to the Xandaran flight academy and everything. Hell, maybe he’s even ex-Nova Corps. And, sure, Rocket’s instinctive ability to assess a person’s character may have served him bitterly in the last handful of rotations, but he’s sure he ain’t wrong about this dickhe*d.
He twitches his ears, funneling the delicate shells toward the baldbody in question.
“— a Gold Captain. I earned it through a contract with the High Priestess — for handling an abilisk migration a few circumrotations back.”
Even from here, Rocket can read the jealousy on the faces of everyone listening. He tsks under his breath. He could slip past the moron and hack the biolock on the cargo-hold hatch in probably under twenty seconds. Once inside, recalibrating the controls and IDs would take three minutes max — less, most likely. He’d get the gold warship up in the air and break exosphere before the co*cky jackass on the ground could get out more than a mournful, sputtering wail. And the best part is, this guy’s making such a target of himself that the Monster would probably get cheered on as he went—
‘Course, he can’t. At least, he can’t for now — not till he knows what’s going on with pearl. If she tells him today that she wants to stay on Cyxlore — well, then he’ll steal the Dreadnought tomorrow. He can’t leave her behind for a golden ship though, no matter how pretty it is. It might have guns he could cry over, but he’s already memorized pearl’s hands and the curves of her ass and thighs, the valley at the base of her spine. A Dreadnought won’t make him a stupid den out of blankets when he has nightmares. It won’t tuck itself up behind a bulwark and show him made-up constellations, or squeak when it gets in the shower, or thank him for everything he does — no matter how stupid or self-serving. It won’t say his name — the new name he’d chosen, probably only because of her — like it’s the world’s most perfect secret on her lips. And it won’t whisper a hundred comforting little idiocies at him — small kindnesses that he steals away and holds onto like stray units, like shiny little vials of universal antivenom.
You’re not a monster. You never have been.
You’re the most your-own-person I’ve ever met, and I think it’s the worst thing in the galaxy that you don’t even like those parts of you.
You’re nothing like him.
She’d sprinkled those little sentiments over the last handful of rotations like stardust and snowflakes and glitter-confetti, and each time, he’d focused all his attention on cracking his knuckles, intent on pretending like it hadn’t mattered. Like her words hadn’t broken the ancient leaden stalactites off of his ribs.
It had hurt to hear them, but he’d still felt lighter.
Seems like Wyndham and I got similar destructive tendencies, he’d protested flatly.
But she hadn’t believed him, had she? It’s such a strange, fragile gift and he’d be lying if he said his first impulse isn’t to immediately smash it on the floor. Too many people have trusted him and paid the price.Too many people have hurt him, too — rotten to the core, teaching him how to be vile and violent by their own frickin’ example. Better for everyone if he ends her image of him quickly.
But some perverse part of him wants to see how long he can fake it —how long he can pretend to be worthy of this fragile, vulnerable glass bubble she’s handed him.
Then, late in last rotation’s sleep cycle, she’d twisted in her sleep onto her bruised side, and had let out a low, muffled mew of discomfort. He’d carefully tugged her back without thinking — only to find her turning his way instead, arms winding around his waist and twisting him as she’d pulled him in. His eyes had gone circular with the shock of it as she’d tugged his scarred spine against her soft belly and breasts, nuzzling in at his ear. It had flicked with every soft exhalation she’d purred into it, and every fiber of his fur had stood on end. He’d attempted to disentangle himself — only once, with petrifying results: she’d reacted by cuddling him in, wedging the back of his head into her soft cleavage, separated only by the thin layer of his stupid tiny t-shirt.
What he wouldn’t have given to roll over and taste her instead.
He hadn’t been able to sleep at first — hesitantly tracing the backs of her hands and forearms where they’d curled protectively around his belly, the little butterfly-bones in her wrists.
At some point, though, the maps he’d made of her skin had become some sort of labyrinthine meditation, and the flex-vibranium ribs that always seem too tight on his lungs had slowly opened like cage doors. He’d breathed deep without realizing it, till he’d been slipping in and out of slumber as easily as he maneuvers the runabout.
When pearl had finally woken up, she hadn’t moved — just stayed there, cradling him, lips buried in the plush fur behind his ear. She’d murmured stupid, silly, sleepy questions — a hundred quiet, domestic-daydream comforts like the ones she’d given him after his nightmare — and any lingering tension in the set of his shoulders had slowly melted into the purple shadows of the bunk.
“Why do you always smell like marzipan?” she’d murmured at one point, voice drowsy — as thick and soft as those silk chenille blankets in Sanna Orix’s shop. “Everything else — the forest, the campfire — that all makes sense. But the marzipan—"
“What the f*ck is marzipan?” he’d scoffed, and if his voice had been more hushed than usual, he wasn’t gonna dwell on it.
She’d laughed — something too deep and melting in her throat to be a giggle, but too sleepy and light to be a chuckle. “A little…cake? Kind of? Made from sugar and honey and almonds. It’s like — you have this sweet, nutty smell—"
She’d buried her nose into the thick velvet fur where his throat had met his shoulder, and he’d had to bite back a groan. It was like she’d been trying to scent-mark him, her cheeks and jaw and neck all scrubbed up against his fur. He’d wanted to return the favor — stroke his nose along her throat, between her thighs. Make sure she’d smelled like him everywhere—
“Uh.” He’d been able to feel the heat under his fur, and he’d closed his eyes, swallowing. His throat had been squeezed so tight that it had hurt. “Some kinds of the explosives I use, prob’ly. When the chemical compounds start breaking down, they uh — they smell like that.”
“Your shirts do, too,” she’d added. “Sometimes I just want to—"
Her voice had cracked off into something suddenly awake and self-conscious and shy, and some part of him had mourned the loss of whatever she’d been going to say.
What, kitten? You wanna rub me all over yourself? That’s just fine, sweetheart. You go right ahead.
No. No. There’s no way he’s leaving her behind.
Not if there’s any chance she’ll leave with him.
“I’ll be going back to negotiate a contract for this migration, too,” the owner of the Dreadnought boasts, grinning. “Maybe for a few million units. The abilisks should be coming through in a cycle or two—"
And there it is. There’s the magic he’s been waiting for.
The Monster — he still hasn’t been able to completely stop thinking of himself this way — the Monster strolls lazily down the stone steps and cuts across the chipped mosaic street. He meanders between degenerates and reprobates, lightfooted and innocuous as a flerken. When he reaches the far side of the Dreadnought, he strokes a palm lovingly over the gold-plated hull — too gaudy for his tastes, but he knows there’s a perfect dura-vibranium alloy underneath — and then sidles up under the external hatch leading to the engine access.
It takes a whole fifteen seconds to hack the biometrics, and forty-five to unscrew the remaining protective panels and hardware. Three more excruciatingly-long minutes to identify and remove a small handful of vital components. The only reason it’s so time-consuming is because he’s being careful — if pearl tells him she’s going to stay moonside, he’ll just come back and replace the parts and take off into the sky. Probably immediately. A stolen Dreadnought ain’t worth leaving her for, but it’ll be an adequate place to lick his wounds.
Meanwhile, it sure as hell won’t fly for its current owner — not any time soon. Rocket bets no-one on this damn moon will even be able to identify what’s wrong with the thing. Not many ace mechanics on Cyxlore, and fewer still who’ve ever seen the insides of a Dreadnought.
He tucks the parts into the pouches and pockets on his jumpsuit, seals up the belly of the ship, and strolls away — whistling a jaunty tune.
He steals a few more things — the ion blaster’s his — but he’s distracted by his new goal. Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow it’s up and away toward a new job, and a new ship, and a new planet. Toward Fron, for now.
And then — he doesn’t want to think too hard on it, doesn’t want to betray himself with anything resembling hope or want or need — then maybe it’s an Acanti migration or two. Once the High Evolutionary forgets about him.
Fat chance, he thinks suddenly, morosely. He’d broken into the HalfWorld atmosphere with the intention of ripping off Sire’s face and killing his new little ice-bitch wife and then running off, with only marginal concern for whether or not he lived through it all. Now that he’s got pearl — maybe — it occurs to him that perhaps he should’ve tried to be more sneaky in this whole stupid revenge-plot, should have stolen her away without letting his face be seen, without making a spectacle of his revenge, without making sure that Wyndham would be after him forever.
He sighs exhaustedly when he reaches Sanna Orix’s shop, squeezing the space between his eyes. He’s just stopping in to pick up their boots, his new sleep pants — who’d’ve thought he’d ever waste units on sleep pants? — and a few other odds and ends. But he pauses on his way in, eyes drawn to the soft chenille blankets on the far wall again. He hasn’t been able to get them out of his head. Next to them is a drawer full of body soaps and shampoos, and lotions and oils, too. For a second, he toys with the idea of getting pearl some — then decides no, he likes that she uses his shampoo and soap — he likes that she smells like him. But —
“Is there anything — uh, anything baldbodies need? ‘Sides food an’ water?”
The words funnel up out of his mouth without his conscious permission, and Sanna quirks a hairless brow at him. He knows he’s talking about pearl like she’s a pet — a bedraggled little kitten who’s decided to stay on his ship — but he decides he doesn’t care.
If anything, he just hates how much he likes the idea of it.
Sanna Orix drifts toward him, surveying all the little bottles of cleansers and ointments that Rocket’s been staring at distractedly. They tilt their head.
“If she’s using your toiletries, they might start to take a toll on her skin and hair,” they muse, shifting through the bottles and jars. “Do you know what she likes?”
I don’t even know what I like, she’d said. He sighs.
“Nope.” He lingers on the n and pops the p. He hesitates and picks up a glass bottle etched with leaves and flowers. It looks… luxurious. “She had real fancy stuff back — back at her last place.” That seems like a safe bet.
“Hmmm.” Orix lifts a little basket from the drawer and sets it in a lower shelf. “These are the supplies we have that are generally suited to mammalian humanoids. Can I assume you’re scent-marking her?”
Rocket nearly fumbles the glass bottle in his hands. “What?”
They just stare down at him patiently. “If you’re scent-marking her, I recommend these — or these.” They pluck a few vials from the basket and lift their left hand. “This set — hair cleansing conditioner, soap, moisturizer — has a neutral smell. This set—“ They indicate the other handful. “—enhances the scent-marking. Generally imperceptible to anyone whose species doesn’t rely on olfactory input, but very salient to the rest of us.”
To the rest of us. f*ck. Orix had picked up on the smell of him all over the pearl, then — and maybe a hundred other little cues besides. Rocket scrubs one palm over the back of his neck, squeezing the base of his skull and pinching his eyes closed. He can already feel a migraine coming on. “The — uh — the neutral’s fine.” He regrets it as soon as he says it, but he knows it’s the responsible choice. He clears his throat. “Can I get some extra? Not sure when we’ll be able to stock up.”
Sanna tilts their head, then nods. “Moisturizing oil may be good for her as well. Friction increases the fluidity, so even a small bottle should last a few circumrotations. Most of them don’t come in neutral scents, exactly, but this one enhances the natural scent of the wearer — along with any other fragrances their bodies might be carrying.”
He hesitates. Maybe this whole thing is a bad idea. Buying lotions and soaps and sh*t for her seems — intimate. Seems like he’s planning on more than he should. And that makes it seem like he’s putting an expiration date on this whole stupid thing they have going on — whatever it is — just by thinking about it too much.
“That’s fine,” he manages to spit out, the fur on his shoulders slowly raising into bristles. “I should — probably go, though—”
“Of course,” Sanna Orix says smoothly. “I did notice you’ve been drawn to the blankets today and during your last visit, though. Are you sure you don’t want to take a look?”
You’re good — you’re so good, he remembers her murmuring under the control-panel lights, and how the gratings must’ve bit into her skin. I know it.
“Maybe — yeah, okay. Whatever. Just a quick look.”
The silken-soft weave of them is as woolly and gleaming as he’d remembered. Pearl had mentioned some blue-green colors a bunch — her sweater, her childhood dreams of murmay-hair — so maybe he should grab the teal one. But there’s also one that’s the same stardust-blue as her shiny new curls, and another that’s the perfect f*ckin’ shade of pink, like the heart of a waterlily. Imagining her all wrapped up in it, naked underneath, just as pink in some places—
Okay, maybe not the pink—
“You can get more than one,” Sanna Orix says, sounding amused.
Rocket rolls his eyes. “You’re just trying to sell me more sh*t,” he grumbles, but he runs his fingers through the loose tassels. They feel like cool water, flowing smooth and clear from a spout.
But Orix laughs. “Stranger, you could take every blanket on this wall and still end up with almost three-and-a-half million units back from the pearls you brought me.”
He blinks, and stares up at them. “Three million?”
“I told you,” Sanna Orix says with a dismissive gesture. “I haven’t seen anything like them. The closest, in my experience, are from Aladnan sun-oysters — but even those don’t have the same depth of luster. The nacre is astonishing — I think the crystal structure is unique, probably made of something other than arogonite. And the surface quality and symmetry are — flawless, honestly. I know at least three jewelers who will offer over three-hundred thousand for each of the large ones. I’ll make three times what I’m paying you.”
“Well, that hardly seems frickin’ fair,” he grunts, but he’s not surprised. Sanna Orix is the best at what they do.
“Four blankets,” Sanna suggests. “Since you said you wouldn’t be back for a while. I’ll throw in a few pillows, too.”
He tilts his head. “Make ‘em big enough to sit on, and you got a deal.” He hadn’t been able to find any floor mats. Orix would probably lose his mind if they knew Rocket was planning on eventually using their fancy pillows in a make-shift den on the grating of the flightdeck, but they don’t need to know.
“I know you said the other day that she’s not your girl,” Sanna Orix says as they tally up the purchases, then start the transfer to Rocket’s account. There’s a hefty three-point-seven million fresh units making their way onto his data-card, and he tries to keep his face nonchalant even as his tail whisks behind him nervously. He’s never had this much money before and the apprehension is rippling through his fur — doubled by the way Orix is talking about pearl.
“She ain’t,” he bites out warningly. “She’s—”
“Her own,” Sanna says. “I know, I know. But I’ve decided I do like you, Stranger, so I’ll share a little Cyxlorade wisdom with you.” They lean forward just a bit as the last unit pings over, dropping her voice into a theatrical whisper. “A person can be both.”
He swallows, whiskers twitching, and then rolls his eyes and tsks. “That’s nice and all, but it’s a little sentimentalistic for me.”
He might claim it’s too sappy, but by the time the Monster leaves, he’s disgruntled by how many pretty little luxuries he’s juggling: pockets stuffed full of body products and Dreadnought parts; two pairs of boots pinched in his fist and a veritable mountain of blankets, linens, and pillows stuffed into a sack that Sanna Orix had graciously suctioned all the air out of with a vacuum-sealer, shrinking the bundle down to a cylinder the size and density of a Kylosian fighting-club. He’d never thought of bedding as a weapon before, but here he is.
Pearl’s waiting for him when he gets back to the runabout, and the sight of her nearly knocks the lungs right out of his manufactured ribs. How could he have thought the Dreadnought even came close? She’s bouncing on her toes in her stupid dusk-blue boots, curls and tit* all bouncing too. The stardust-shimmer of her hair looks glossy in this light, and her eyes are as wide as the whole frickin’ moon. Her cheeks are pink and her lips are pink and she looks just as excited as she had that first night he’d gotten her on the runabout, but less scared, and she’s got her fingers all twisted up against her cleavage and collarbone.
Those leggings are probably gonna kill him, too. Maybe they were as bad of an idea as the panties.
Maybe he just needs to keep her naked.
“I have something to tell you!” she bursts out eagerly.
“Me too,” he grunts, slinging down the cylinder of bedding and the four boots by the hatch, and then strolling toward the locker next to the shower. He starts emptying his pockets of bottles and vials.
“You first,” she urges, and when he casts a sideways glance over his shoulder, she’s got both palms extended to him like it’s an entreaty. He swings his head back toward the locker, ducking instinctively, grateful for the fur hiding his flush. Dammit.
“Heading out tomorrow,” he tells her evenly. “Think I can get a job that can get me a bigger, better ship.” He swivels his ears toward her, trying to see if he can catch a hitch in her heartbeat or her lungs.
But she just bounces higher — smiling harder when he turns around to face her. He bends one knee and braces it against the locker, leaning his shoulders against it, and lets his eyelids drop to half-mast. His gaze skims over her — the toes of her boots to the ends of her hair and back again — while he tries not to let anything show on his face. His tail flicks back and forth. Is she still in? Does she still want—
“That’s perfect!” she says, eyes curving into crescents. She leans in, and she’s so damn pretty his heart climbs right up in his chest, into the back of his throat. She drops her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I think I made a friend.”
꧁:･☁︎･:꧂
