Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All

by Corinne Duyvis

  Keep the brainwashed Grootling busy. Drax could do that.

  “Meanwhile,” Quill continued, “I’ll keep the bystanders at a distance. Are they placing bets?”

  “Ton-Four, man,” Rocket said. “Ton-Four.”

  Drax dodged another two of the Grootling’s blows. He stepped out of the way of a third—or tried to. The Grootling’s claws raked his chest, leaving nasty scratches.

  The problem was this: Drax was unused to dodging. Dodging was a terrible tactic in a fight. Charging forward and crushing skulls was more effective. Twisting necks. Tearing off limbs. Ripping out spines.

  There were many good tactics in a fight, and none of them involved this vexing “stay out of reach” approach. It took every bit of his self-control not to strike back when attacked.

  The only thing that held him back was the fact that his attacker’s face was his friend’s face, also.

  Drax was beginning to feel conflicted—

  —THIS fight could get nasty. Rocket came to a sliding stop beside Drax.

  “Groot!” He flashed a toothy smile up at the Grootling. Absolutely zero percent of the smile was sincere—he didn’t even recognize the Groot’s face, it was so angry. “Heyyyy, buddy. What’s gotten into you? Grew too many leaves in the brainpan?”

  “I am Groot,” the Grootling cried out.

  “Destroy? That’s all you have to say for yourself? That’s Drax’s jam.”

  Drax nodded briskly in agreement.

  “Hate to be cliché,” Rocket said, shooting forward on all fours and skittering onto the Grootling’s back, “but this ain’t you, Groot. See that sad sap in the street, leaning on Gamora’s shoulders? That’s you.”

  The Grootling twisted. He reached back with his one battered arm, but Rocket zipped out of reach too fast, propping himself up on the Grootling’s opposite shoulder.

  “Do you even recognize us? Hel-lo? This voice ring any bells?”

  “I am Groot!” The Grootling spun ferociously, still trying to grab Rocket. “I—am—Groot!” He hunched over, body tight and tense. Branches sprouted from his back. One smacked into Rocket’s hip; another struck his face. He went flying and landed in a heap several feet away.

  “Was that necessary?” Rocket shouted. He climbed upright—too late. Pressure on his tail. The Grootling had him pinned down with a leg that was still partially iced from Quill’s element gun. Rocket tried to scramble away, his nails scratching uselessly at the pavement.

  The Grootling lifted his other leg, ready to stomp down hard.

  “Oh nonono—” Rocket gave up on trying to escape. He threw himself flat on his back, jerked the blaster from his belt, and pointed it straight up. “Don’t make me do this, buddy—”

  —THE GROOTLING’S foot came down.

  Drax crashed into him. The two of them tumbled toward the fabric shop. Pavement and bark scratched at Drax’s skin. The branches on the Grootling’s back broke off with a clean crack. Drax tried to keep the Grootling pinned, straddling his torso and forcing down his arms.

  “You are supposed to be weakened,” Drax said.

  “I am Groot!”

  By Drax’s side, Rocket clambered to his feet and protectively held his tail. “Yeah, brainwashing’ll do that to ya.” He spat on the ground. “Always comes with stupid strength. He ain’t at full power, though. We’d be toast if he was.”

  “I would not be toast.” Drax leaned into the Grootling, straining—although his opponent seemed to be weakening. “I do not wish to hurt you, Groot.”

  “I am Groot!”

  “The feeling ain’t mutual,” Rocket translated, unnecessarily.

  Drax glared down at the Grootling. He had always wondered about fighting a foe as versatile as Groot—but not once had he actually wanted to do so. Groot did not tend to inspire enmity or aggression.

  A vine twined out and curled around Drax’s torso. He braced himself. The Grootling pulled, trying to drag him off, but it felt like a half-hearted attempt.

  Exhaustion dampened the fury in the Grootling’s eyes. The energy drain all the Groots experienced, the damage from his fights in the pit, the struggle with Drax and Rocket—all this had clearly left him tired.

  “I am…Groot.” He grew thorns to twist into Drax’s skin, but they did not even pierce the outer layer. The attempt only drained him further.

  “Star-Lord?” Drax said, climbing off the Grootling. “He is ready.”

  Quill approached, stopping to hover above the Grootling. A single blast with his element gun was enough to freeze the Grootling into immobility.

  Drax had not expected any of this to be simple, but he had always expected the mission to end in victory. That was how this worked: They would defeat their enemies, rescue those who needed rescuing, and—satisfied with their inevitable victory—return to the ship for a drink.

  He would still take that drink.

  But with the original Groot in pieces and this Grootling a twisted imitation of their friend, this did not come close to feeling like a victory.

  19

  THE PROBLEM with getting Groot out of danger was twofold: His size made him unwieldy, and he didn’t cooperate. He kept pushing Gamora away and turning back toward the street where the others were fighting.

  “I am Groo-oot.” He reached toward the Grootling.

  “Trust Drax and Rocket to handle it.” Gamora redirected him forward.

  Groot half-leaned on her shoulder, half-walked on his own, a crooked imbalanced gait that had his weight thumping down on Gamora with every step. His injuries were growing over—his feet reshaping, his cracked torso straightening—but it was a slow process. At this rate, it could take well over an hour before he fully recovered.

  He shouldn’t have been this badly injured in the first place.

  “We’re being followed,” Kiya said. She trailed Gamora and Groot at a distance, holding the pot with the younger Grootling close as the four of them hustled down the alley. It was the first time Kiya and Gamora had even been close to alone, with no other Guardians around that Kiya could communicate with. The girl was tense—Gamora could almost taste it on the air—but she’d obeyed Quill’s order to follow without a word of argument.

  Maybe she was wary of turning the Guardians against her.

  Maybe she wanted to escape the bystanders who were itching to steal the Grootling.

  Or maybe she was realizing that Gamora wasn’t her enemy.

  That possibility felt unlikely—foolish, as though Gamora had let her hopes get away from her. (She was not sure, precisely, what she was hoping for, or even when she had started doing so.)

  But the truth was, Kiya could have fled from the Guardians just now. Easily. The team had been distracted, and with the buildings, the market stalls, and the bystanders, there’d been plenty of ways to hide and escape. Kiya would’ve seen all the hiding spots and exits.

  And yet, here they were, running through an alley together. Kiya was even speaking to her unprompted.

  Perhaps Gamora’s hope was not so foolish after all.

  She stopped and turned. A handful of silhouettes came jogging at them. Blades flashed in their hands.

  “Only three?” Gamora stepped past Kiya to face them. “You’re not even trying.”

  “I am Groot!”

  “You’re in no shape to fight,” she told him. “Stay back.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “I know you want to help—”

  “I am Groot?” the Grootling in Kiya’s arms piped up.

  “Give me that pot!” one of the men yelled. He walked with a limp, his pants torn and blood-covered, but it barely slowed him down.

  “You get the pot!” another man said. “We’ll get the big one!”

  Sometimes, Gamora wondered where mediocre people found this kind of confidence.

  “That’s the father—the guy who bought this little one from me,” Kiya said.

  Gamora glanced over her shoulder. “He won’t get him back.” Kiya had spread her sta
nce and lowered her core, readying herself for a fight even with her arms full. Her eyes flicked between Gamora and the men coming toward them.

  “Keep the girl intact!” one guy shouted. “Bigger reward that way!”

  Reward?

  Gamora narrowed her eyes. The first guy who’d shouted was reaching inside his pocket. From the shape of it, not for a knife. Something worse.

  “Back!”

  Gamora spun around, flinging Kiya down and covering the girl with her own body.

  Kiya hissed at the movement even before she hit the pavement. A split second later, the grenade thunked down.

  A bang—small, too small—

  sssssssssssstttttt—

  Light drained away. It spiraled into the explosion point and vanished with a blip, leaving the alley pitch dark.

  A darkbomb.

  Interesting choice.

  Pathetic choice.

  Pointless choice.

  “Cowards,” Gamora said.

  The darkness didn’t matter. She could hear them. There. She went low, easily tackling the nearest attacker. His face smacked against the wall. She heard a crunch. (Not a skull. She’d recognize the sound of a crunched skull. Goggles, maybe, to help them see in the dark.)

  The next man went down with a punch. I don’t even need to bring out my sword for this, Gamora thought.

  The third—where? She listened, filtering out the noise from the street, the rustle of Groot’s movements, the groaning of the men she’d taken down, Kiya making a pained sound as her feet shifted—

  Ah.

  “You want this so bad?” Kiya yelled. “Take it!”

  Something cracked—still not a skull—and a body too heavy to be Kiya’s slumped to the ground, surrounded by a rain of something both hard and soft. Shards of the Grootling’s pot, if Gamora had to guess, and the dirt inside.

  “I am Groot,” the Grootling said miserably.

  “You hit him with the pot?” Gamora asked.

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “Little Groot? You okay?”

  “He can survive without a pot for a while at this age.”

  “I am Groot,” the Grootling said, sullen but seemingly healthy.

  “And you? Groot?”

  “I am Groot.”

  Good. Everyone was in one piece. Gamora brought up her arm, dragging a holo from her communicator and rapidly entering search queries. Within seconds, she found what she was looking for. Letters glowed bright in the dark of the alley, revealing an ad promising a reward for Kiya’s safe return to the Collector.

  Her lips tightened. She flicked off the holo, plunging them back into the dark.

  This would complicate things.

  “I am Groot?” Groot asked.

  The Grootling snickered. “I am Groot. I am Grooooot.”

  “What are they saying?” Kiya asked.

  “Groot asked whether we’re all right. The Grootling said it’s an insult to ask me that after a lousy two opponents. He’s not wrong, but I’ll let it slide.”

  She paused. Kiya answering Gamora’s questions—even asking one of her own—was more than she’d expected. Gamora shouldn’t be pushing her luck. Still, she had to know: “Kiya. Are you all right? Are you injured?”

  “No.”

  “You were in pain when you moved.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Gamora walked back to where she’d left Groot. “I know what I heard.”

  Kiya didn’t answer.

  “There is no point in lying to me.”

  “You’re not my—” Kiya started, but cut herself off. For a moment, she stood silently. When she continued, her voice was rushed but hostile, as if she couldn’t stop herself from talking but hated doing so at the same time. “It’s the enhancements. All right? Their implementation is a long process. Months. Years. I escaped before Tivan”—she paused after that name, inhaling sharply—“could finish.”

  Kiya put her hand to the wall (the soft sound of skin on stone) and shuffled over (quiet treads on the pavement).

  “Dangerous,” Gamora mused. Incomplete implants meant Kiya could have strength enhancements without the durability to support them, or speed without the flexibility. Incorrectly healed implants might not be properly integrated with her existing or remaining bone, musculature, joints, tendons… “We can find a way to complete the process.”

  “Complete?” Kiya scoffed. “If I wanted the enhancements complete, I’d look up that ad you just saw and hand myself in. I want this stuff out of my body.”

  Gamora shook her head, glad that Kiya couldn’t see her. You could replace bone with metal. Reversing the process was more complicated.

  “Why do you think I was selling the Groots?” Kiya’s words were quieter, more strained. “It hurts. All the time. I needed units for a qualified cybernetic surgeon.”

  Gamora absorbed the words, walking along in silence.

  Semi-silence. She heard footsteps behind them, bumbling about in the dark.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “But let me dispatch the people tailing us, first.”

  20

  THE FORCE FIELD hissed across the open hatch. Only when it had hit each corner of the hatch, locking the brainwashed, still-iced Grootling safely in Groot’s quarters, did Peter dare loosen his grip on his element gun.

  “Well, that was fun,” Rocket drawled.

  “I disagree,” Drax said.

  The five Guardians and Kiya stood scattered across the leisure area, facing the force field. The other Grootlings had been temporarily moved into the rest of the ship while the team conferred.

  “So,” Peter said. “Telepath?”

  Rocket nodded. “Cosmo or Moondragon could sort out the brainwashing, no big.”

  “Telepaths typically have a hard time with Groot,” Gamora pointed out. “His mind has an unusual structure.”

  “I am Groot.” Groot—the original—stood at the back of the group, tall and quiet. His body was only just growing back into its proper shape. His tone was distracted. He was so tightly focused on his own quarters and the Grootling inside, Peter wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d forgotten about the rest of the team.

  Gamora and Kiya stood on opposite ends of the room, their arms crossed, poses wary and expectant; Rocket stayed near the brainwashed Grootling, either to keep an eye on him or show support.

  “He seems well.” Drax stood behind the central couch, propping his fists on the backrest and leaning in. The force field separating the Grootling from the Guardians was barely visible; just a tremble in the air across the open hatch when you looked at it from the right angle.

  The Grootling looked back, silent.

  He hadn’t cooperated as they’d carried him into the ship and locked him in Groot’s quarters, but he hadn’t fought either. They’d hoped that being in Groot’s—his—quarters, which he had to have memories of, might help bring him back to himself. He hadn’t so much as glanced at the rest of his quarters past the hatch, though. He’d stayed right by the opening, making no attempts to remove the remaining ice on his legs. He’d muttered a few words that translated to nonsense. As time passed, he’d shrunk in on himself, exhaustion overtaking him.

  “Sure, as long as no one says…” I am Grooter, Peter thought. The code words. “…you-know-what. We don’t know what else might set him off.” He turned toward the Grootling. “I’m sorry. We’ll do what we can.”

  “I am Groot,” Groot added, his words a promise.

  That promise nagged at Peter. This was uncharted territory. He was winging it even more than usual—and with his friends at stake, it didn’t feel nearly as comfortable as he was used to.

  “I am Groot?” Groot asked.

  The Grootling didn’t respond.

  Peter waited a few moments, hoping the Grootling might change his mind about answering their questions. As it was, they didn’t dare let him loose in the ship.

  Groot finally sat on the couch. His body creaked with the movement.

  �
�We can try again later,” Peter said. “For now, well, we fought him when he’d just come off a night of pit fighting. I don’t want to see how much damage he can do once he’s recovered.”

  “Even a weakened Groot poses a danger,” Drax agreed. As he leaned over the couch from behind, his face was right beside Groot’s, but Groot didn’t look up or even acknowledge his words. Groot sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the Grootling.

  “Groot,” Drax continued, “I do not think you should accompany us on our next mission. It is too dangerous.”

  “You joking?” Rocket scooted onto the couch to stand on one armrest.

  Peter and Gamora met each other’s eyes. Kiya was nodding her agreement.

  Groot did nothing for another second, two—and then it seemed to sink in. He sprang upright, a branch cracking from his leg. “I am Groot? I am Groot!”

  “Your legs splintered when you simply leapt from the building,” Drax said. “We do not wish to see you harmed further.”

  “You can’t just bench him, man,” Rocket said. “If we’re benching anyone, it’s Kiya. She’s got a fricking reward on her head! Anyone who recognizes her could bring the Collector down on us.”

  Groot turned to Peter, pleading.

  “Whoa, look, I don’t know.” He raised his hands. “We’re not benching you. But you do have to consider it. You’re not exactly in top shape.”

  The bark on Groot’s shoulders crackled and shifted, as if new branches were about to sprout. They didn’t. Peter hoped that meant Groot was holding back his anger and panic—and not that he simply didn’t have the strength to grow more branches so abruptly.

  “I am Groot.” His face twisted in despair. “I—am Groot?” He staggered out of the room.

  “I’m coming, buddy.” Rocket bounded after him.

  “I am Groot?” The brainwashed Grootling raised one hand to the force field.

  Peter glanced back. He couldn’t make much sense of the Grootling’s words—they were slurred, making them hard to translate. But the fact that he was reacting had to be a good sign.