Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All

by Corinne Duyvis

  Rocket rolled his eyes. “Wow. This was all it took for you to stop being such a dumbass?”

  “Since when do you not care about plans?” Peter refused to let himself be intimidated by Rocket.

  He also wouldn’t dismiss him.

  He leaned forward, elbows propped onto the insides of his knees. “Give me a solid idea that doesn’t involve blowing open his museum and walking inside, and I’ll listen. Tell me the Collector’s plan for us so we can circumvent it, and I’ll listen. You’re the tactician here, Rocket. You’re the one who keeps us safe.”

  “Maybe I don’t care about keeping her safe.”

  “We know, Rocket. You’ve told us. A lot. And it’s getting old.”

  “Soooo sorry I’m boring you.” His ears flattened.

  “I am Groot,” Groot said quietly.

  “What do you want us to do? Just drop Kiya off at the Collector’s with a bow on top, maybe a note that says, Have fun cutting her open and traumatizing her more; love, G.o.t.G.?”

  As confrontational as Peter’s words were, he kept his voice calm. He wanted to know the answer. He really did.

  “Oh, boo hoo, trauma. I got trauma, you got trauma, the dirt between my toes has trauma. Kiya’s alive and she’s got Gammy as her personal fairy godmother—she could do a lot worse.”

  “I am Groot,” Groot said, disapproving. That he was the only Groot uncomfortable around Kiya apparently didn’t mean he liked Rocket talking about her that way.

  “Stay outta this,” Rocket snapped. “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that? Quill, c’mon. We save a lot of people. We don’t tend to adopt ’em after that. Did you count the Groots in the room?”

  Peter cocked his head. “They aren’t all here?”

  “Nope! Y’know why? ’Cause she’s got, like, three standing guard in her room. Every night. The Groots don’t talk about it, but I see. She messes up his life and thinks she gets to use him as a bodyguard—like those knives she stole from the kitchen and keeps by her bed aren’t enough.” Rocket gestured animatedly with his one hand, the other still propping him up on the upright blaster. “She hides in our ship, makes us go up against a fricking Elder, and still barely talks to us? We’re the ones trying to help her! I’ve been sending Tivan fake tips constantly! Apparently Kiya is a busy lady—didya know she got spotted on Knowhere last night? And Kree-Lar, Kree-Pama, and all their moons? She should be grateful.”

  “She was kidnapped. For a year.” Peter scratched at his bare leg. “I think she wants to connect—I think she’s lonely—but come on, Rocket, you know it isn’t that simple. She went from a normal life on DiMave of all places, one of the quietest planets around, to being part of the Collector’s museum, to”—he spread his hands to indicate the ship—“this. Look at us: We’re loud and scary and different, part of a big terrifying universe, and all she wants is to go home. I can’t blame her for being prickly. For being scared. She’s associating us with him.”

  “So that makes it okay to protect her while we leave those Groots with the Collector? I know you wanna help her. We’re the Guardians. But part of being the Guardians means we don’t dump our own.”

  “She is one of our own. She’s Gamora’s family.”

  “Family? Oh, please! They’re the same species, is all. And you know what?” He leaned in, the gun teetering precariously under his weight. He prodded a sharp finger into Peter’s shirt. “Family you know is more important than the family you don’t.”

  “She’s all Gamora has. Gam thought she was alone so long—Rocket, you understand that. I know you do. And we have Groot. We have the real one right here—”

  “Oh, is that it?” He stood abruptly upright, letting the blaster clatter to the floor.

  By now, the Grootlings in the room had either woken up or stopped their playing. They watched, quiet and wide-eyed.

  “They’re just expendable?” Rocket continued.

  “That’s not what—”

  “There is no ‘real’ Groot, Quill. We grew him from a shard.” He motioned at Groot, then across the room at the flipped-over couch. A Grootling slept on the backrest—the oldest one they’d found with Kiya, the one she’d stolen from the Collector when she escaped. “Collector grew that one from a shard, too. How’re the two of them any different? They ain’t. All these others? Grown from twigs, the same way we do it every time something happens to him. All of ’em are Groot. And you—and Drax—you just think, ‘Oh, well, if we don’t find them, at least we got the real one’? ‘If one of ’em dies, at least they won’t be growing and sucking more energy away from the rest’? You wouldn’t let it slide if you had little Peter Quill clones running around, would you? Getting brainwashed—and fighting—agh.” He made a frustrated sound. “You’d run out and save them all. Trap or no trap. Collector or no Collector.”

  “Rocket…”

  The way Rocket stood there in the dark, wearing only his shorts, his hair on end and his tail lashing—he looked so small. It sure didn’t stop him. He looked up with a fierceness that might’ve scared Peter if he hadn’t known Rocket so well.

  “We can’t lose ’em, Quill, not even one. Any of them might have a memory all the others have lost by now. And it’s more than memories! They’re different. We got shy ones and loud ones and nervous ones and…it’s getting easy to tell them apart, too easy. A Grootling that was raised at Kiya’s laughed when another one fell and got hurt—laughed! That ain’t like Groot! And it didn’t have nothing to do with how a buyer treated him. He’s losing parts of himself. Strength and memories and bravery and his stupid niceness and who knows what else. We need all that if we wanna put him together the way he was. And we’d need to keep ’em all safe even if none of that was true, ’cause they’re still Groot, okay?” He was getting more fired up as he talked. “But none of you see that. And I notice you weren’t in no rush to save them”—he wrinkled his face—“them creepy raccoon things from the Collector, either. Why is that? Huh? If you care so bad about our kin?” He scoffed. “Forget it. I know why. None of you smooth-skinned, average-sized krutackers take us seriously.”

  “That’s not true. We’re trying everything—”

  “I said, forget it!”

  Peter looked away, his jaw set. A half-dozen Grootlings stared back at him.

  Grootlings.

  That was what he was calling them, but—Rocket was right. There wasn’t a difference. Every one of them was their Groot, raised in other circumstances. That was all.

  And he was letting them rot with Tivan. The exact same fate he was trying to save Kiya from.

  “You asked what I want?” Rocket said. “What I want is to know that, push comes to shove, this team ain’t putting her above them.” He nodded at the roomful of Groots.

  “You’re asking me to choose.”

  “Yes, I’m asking you to choose, and I’m asking you to choose right.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Oh, if that’s all.”

  “Yup.”

  Despite everything, he snorted with laughter. “And you’re having this conversation with me instead of Gamora because you know she’d kill you.”

  “She’d use my fur as a pillow, man.” Despite his anger, his mouth half-twitched.

  It wasn’t a smile. Rocket would never admit to it being a smile.

  Peter didn’t need him to admit it.

  “You see her with that girl?” Rocket picked up the gun and slung it over his shoulder, using it to scratch his back. “Eesh. She’s obsessed. I ain’t getting between them if I can help it.”

  “You’ve gotten between them every single day.”

  “Well, can’t help it, most of the time.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Fine, I don’t wanna help it,” Rocket said.

  “I am Groot,” two Grootlings across the room said, snickering.

  “Look.” Peter leaned back on his arms. He looked around the room. “We take you seriously, Groot. We wouldn’t be doing any of this if we didn’t. Y
ou’re part of the team. You’re part of the family. Even if there’s a hundred of you and I have to buy a bigger ship. I’d love that. I could make another Jaws reference none of you would get. Even then you’d still be part of the family.”

  “I am Groot.”

  “I am Groo-oot.”

  “Duh?” Peter echoed. “Duh, we know? Is that what I get for being heartfelt?”

  “I am Groot.”

  “Yeah, it’s gross, Quill,” Rocket said. “Caring. Who needs it.”

  “Not us.” Peter clambered to his feet. “Definitely not us.”

  24

  DIMAVE was the greenest planet Gamora had ever seen.

  The skies turned a soft green-yellow as the Guardians dipped into the atmosphere. The oceans rolled out beneath them, reflecting that same shade. The land was the deeper green of lush forest and wild fields, with stretches of brown and gray making up the cities.

  “I’ve never actually been to this part of the continent.” Kiya was glued to the bridge viewports, watching the town below loom into view, her eyes apprehensive but her posture eager. “But I tracked our contact to this bar. I met the buyer, Baran, when he placed the order for the poison-spore Groot. Once the Grootling was grown, I sent a transmission to this bartender, and she told Baran to come find me on Knowhere.” She frowned, her reflection in the glass mimicking the movement. “If the bar turns up empty, I don’t know where to look next. His first name is all we have, and it’s too common to be useful.”

  Drax stood beside her. Three Grootlings sat across his shoulders, eager to be part of the mission for as long as they could.

  “DiMave looks just like I remember,” Rocket said, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Boring as flark.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Still: Boring might be precisely what Kiya needed. Gamora idly wondered whether there might be some appeal to boredom that she had never considered.

  “Port coordinates and approval to land just came through. We’re here.” Quill leaned over the dash, flicking a few switches to initiate the landing. “The town of Anayin, northeast quadrant of the OnoMave continent. Welcome.”

  Kiya looked pained.

  “I think you botched that pronunciation,” Gamora informed him.

  “Butchered it,” Kiya snorted. Then she looked at Gamora, startled, as if she hadn’t realized who she was responding to. She looked instantly away again.

  “Welcome home,” Quill said.

  Kiya didn’t respond.

  LOOKS closed.” Quill craned his neck to read the bar signage.

  “It is morning,” Drax said.

  “So?” Rocket gestured at the group. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

  “We’re not customers,” Gamora said.

  “What are you talking about? Trust me, I am definitely a customer. It’s a bar, Gamora.”

  She tried the front door. To her surprise, it swung open. She took a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark as she entered. The bar was precisely what one would expect of a shoddy dive in a dubious port-city neighborhood—dank, small—except emptier. The walls were a mix of wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling draperies that might’ve looked nice if not for the layers of dust and grease. Three DiMavi sat in a shadowy corner at the back, looking wary but not aggressive. Gamora noted three exits: the front door, another one near the DiMavi, and one behind the counter.

  On the walls, blaster marks had been inexpertly painted over. Fourteen, at first glance. At least eight separate shootings, based on the spread and the age of the repairs.

  The bartender was crouched behind the counter, visible only because the spikes running along his back poked up over the edge.

  “Oh, good, that makes six,” Rocket muttered from the back of the group.

  Kiya and Groot gave him unsure looks. Gamora had a good idea what he meant, though.

  “Sixth non-DiMavi species I’ve seen here, not counting us,” Rocket said, exaggerating his irritated tone. “None of you noticed? This place is a port city! And they’re all green! It’s creepy.”

  They had gotten a lot of stares on their way here, even though they’d tried not to attract attention. They couldn’t do much about Rocket and Groot standing out—those two often did—but it’d been surprising how people had stared even at Drax and Quill. Gamora had tucked her hair away, which helped her blend in with the DiMavi from a distance, but that wouldn’t work up close. The DiMavi people were more isolated than she’d thought, to spend so much time staring at unknown species.

  On the plus side, they hardly gave Kiya a second look. The Guardians had been unsure whether to bring her, given the reward on her head. The potential benefits of having a local with them—one who’d been in touch with the bartender before—had won out, especially when Kiya assured them that by DiMavi standards, she didn’t stand out in a crowd.

  “Can I help you?” the bartender said. He placed four hands—the arms split off at the elbow—on the counter, leaning in with an appraising look.

  “We’re looking for the owner, Annay,” Kiya said.

  “She’s in the back. I’ll get her.”

  “And I want a tuma-beer!” Rocket called out as the bartender disappeared through a door.

  “I am Groot,” Groot added.

  “And water for my friend! Think he heard us? He heard us, right? Maybe I’ll grab the drink myself—”

  Quill raised an eyebrow.

  “Fine, I’ll wait. You’re the worst, though.” He hopped onto a bar stool, letting his tail swish behind him. “But it’s weird, right? For a port city? I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird?”

  “It’s weird,” Gamora confirmed.

  Kiya cocked her head. “I’d think you were used to it.” When Gamora didn’t reply, she went on, sounding hesitant. “My dad, he always said Zen-Whoberi was the same—not many visitors or strangers. Except for the spring feasts.”

  Gamora stood very still for a moment.

  Zen-Whoberi.

  Quill was waiting for her reaction, she knew; so was Groot. The others didn’t get the significance. Neither did Kiya, judging from the tone of her voice.

  “Spring feasts?” Quill said, saving Gamora from having to ask the question herself.

  “Yeah. It’s when they invited children from every country and from nearby allied planets, and threw a festival in their honor. I mean, I don’t know the details, it was supposed to be some sort of religious, cultural exchange…” Kiya made an annoyed face. “It’s not important.”

  It is.

  Keep talking—it is important—

  Rocket shrugged. “Just ’cause DiMavi aren’t the only isolationist losers don’t make it any less creepy. I mean, jeez, I might’ve seen six species, but only one or two people from each. Except Kree, but having a bunch of Kree on a Pama-galaxy planet ain’t a surprise.”

  Gamora tried to relax. Tried not to think about spring feasts.

  “Actually, the Kree are the only ones that are surprising.” Kiya leaned with her back against the counter, her gaze continually flicking between the DiMavi at the corner table and the street past the grubby windows. Her arms were crossed, but Gamora caught the tightness in her seemingly casual stance. “Where I’m from—a few hours away—they haven’t been welcome since the Maraud.”

  “Yeah, I have no clue what that is,” Rocket remarked.

  “I guess it’s not a big deal to anyone outside the planet.” Her crossed arms tightened further, like she was grabbing onto herself. “The Maraud happened four years ago. A group of Kree took over eight villages and went after a major city, too. They had advanced weapons. And hostages. The government tried to defend the city, but couldn’t do much about the other towns. The occupation lasted months. A lot of people died. Like my dad.” She watched Gamora during those last few words, as if gauging her reaction.

  Gamora didn’t know how to react.

  She had known there were no other Zen-Whoberians. Whether they had died in the massacre when she was a child, or more recently, at the
hands of the Kree—like Kiya’s father—shouldn’t matter.

  They were gone either way, and they had taken the spring feasts with them.

  “I’m sorry,” Quill said. “And this was sanctioned by the Kree government?”

  “No.” She bit her lower lip for a moment, then explained, “They ignored that it even happened. Before I…left, several DiMavi organizations were petitioning the Kree Empire to denounce the Maraud. At the very least, to acknowledge it. Just now, on the way here, we passed posters—I saw something about a ceremony to celebrate 200 years of peace between the DiMavi and Kree people. The Kree must have finally given in.”

  A DiMavi woman came in through the same door the bartender had just used, probably from the back room. Short hair, like Kiya’s, with wide shoulders, wide hips, a round bust and belly. A firmness to her motions. A certainty.

  Dangerous, if she wanted to be. Gamora could tell that much.

  The woman—Annay, Gamora assumed—took in the group before speaking again. If she was intimidated, she didn’t show it. She plucked a bottle of tuma-beer and an empty pitcher from below the counter and placed them before Groot and Rocket. As she filled the pitcher with water, she spoke, sounding friendly but wary. “I don’t know what’s cuter, little one. That you think the Kree Empire would ever acknowledge what happened, or that you think our government would actually show a spine and refuse the ceremony on principle.” She shoved the pitcher at Groot. “Guardians of the Galaxy?”

  “That’s us.” Quill leaned over the counter, putting on the flirty face Gamora had seen a thousand times before. “Would you mind helping us out with something?”

  “Depends. Are you ordering?”

  “I’ll take a second one.” Rocket held up a finger. He was already gulping down the first.

  She slid another bottle at Rocket. “Anything more?”

  If it would make her cooperate, Gamora would happily volunteer. “I’ll take one.”

  Drax nodded. “Yes.”

  “Water?” Kiya said reluctantly.