by Alex Irvine
“My kinda place,” announces Rocket Raccoon with relish.
“I am Groot,” his towering companion agrees, nodding.
A talking raccoon and a mobile tree. As heroes go, they’re not much to record home about. That was certainly my reaction when I met them. I am presuming that it is yours, too, loyal reader, as you observe them for the first time stepping into my expertly woven narrative. A raccoon and a tree. One talks, one walks.
Surely, I hear you say, loyal reader, they are not the heroes of this tale? Surely, you add anxiously, the fate of the Multiverse does not depend upon them?
Well, yes. Yes, it does. Loyal reader, if this idea alarms you, then maybe the fate of the Multiverse isn’t something you should think about too hard.
If it matters at all, and I hope it does, my first impressions of them were similarly underwhelming. It took a while for me to fully appreciate that Rocket Raccoon and Groot of Planet X were proper, Multiverse-saving heroes. Quite a while, actually. I’ll shout out when, in the course of this narrative, it happens.
Anyway…
“My kinda place,” says Rocket Raccoon with relish. He is very much less than a human meter tall. His coat is glossy and in wonderful condition. His spectacular tail is bouffant. He walks upright in a way that makes the human in you want to exclaim, “Lookit the little man! Lookit! Walking on his back paws! Oooooaww!”
Do not do that. Ever. If you do that, he will shoot you to death as many times as necessary. Rocket Raccoon has, I’m sorry to say, experienced a twisted and unpleasant background (an “origin,” as I suspect you might regard it, loyal reader), but that twisted and unpleasant background has made him the glossy-snouted, cheeky-as-a-button space warrior he is today. I may reveal some details of his “origin” as this tale advances. I can’t promise. I was warned with actual guns not to reveal certain particulars. Look, if you know him as I do, you’ll know his heart is in the right place (in the upper-left-hand quadrant of his thorax), and he has a very specific moral code (“Flark everything and everyone!” © 2014 Rocket Raccoon. All rights reserved), and he likes unfeasibly large guns.
One of which is strapped across his back as he enters Leery’s. Look at him! Look at him, walking upright! Like a trained dog! Gawwww! Good boy! Good boy!
Sorry.
And then there’s the hands. Look, this is the thing. I can’t get past it. Rocket’s hands…they’re so disconcertingly human. It’s uncanny (not in the mutant sense, obviously. Mutants are uncanny in an entirely different way). It’s amazing, astonishing, astounding, incredible, adjective-less…okay, it’s just distressing. Rocket Raccoon’s hands are disconcertingly human in the most distressing way.
Let’s think about something else for a moment, because the hands thing is creeping me out a bit.
Something else, something else…okay, Rocket is wearing a uniform. It’s dark blue, militaristic, with red flashing and frogging. It’s the uniform of the Guardians of the Galaxy, a cosmos-defending supergroup that really doesn’t get the respect it deserves. Or the publicity. Or anything. Mention the name, and most people will go, “Huh? Guardians of the where now?”
Rocket is enjoying a sabbatical. The Guardians, you see, are on a bit of a hiatus between their efforts to save an ungrateful cosmos (and guard a sniffily “I don’t need to be guarded” Galaxy). Star-Lord’s off doing this. Gamora’s off doing that. Drax is off… destroying. That’s just a guess.
So Rocket and Groot, they’ve gone back to what they do best: make a little action, develop a little cash. They have the keys and papers for a subcompact jump freighter and a fresh cargo of zunks. Forty-eight tons of zunks, in fact. They’ve come to Leery’s because they’ve got a lead that a zunk trader might be in the house tonight—a zunk trader looking to move between forty-seven and forty-nine tons of zunks. So this is business time for Rocket…just him and his trusted pal Groot.
Speaking of which…Groot is a tree. Imagine an ancient, giant oak tree with a face, arms, and feet. Imagine it walking toward you. Groot has to duck as he comes in through Leery’s doorway—and even though he does, twigs scrape off and clatter to the floor.
Rocket looks at the almost entirely not Skrullian barman.
“Two Timothies!” he declares.
“I am Groot,” says Groot.
Rocket sighs.
“Okay, make that one Timothy, and one bitterbark and soda.”
Nrrsh scurries to his task. Rocket glances up at his leafy friend.
“Lightweight,” he says. Then he sniffs the air with his glossy button nose. He smells snake oil and leather. He smells reptiles. He smells lizard belly.
“Flark it,” he says. “Badoon.”
It is not long after this that the fight begins.
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY: ROCKET
RACCOON & GROOT —STEAL THE GALAXY!
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Acknowledgments
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
Special Excerpt
Back Cover