“All right, let’s get these babies to freedom,” Quill said. “You want to open a cage?”
“Nope.” Rocket watched the raccoons warily. Two of them hissed and snapped furiously at the cage bars. The other two seemed more resigned, but were still twisting and turning and feeling up the cage with those weird little hands that Rocket hadn’t seen on anyone except himself in years.
“Suit yourself! Groot, on the count of three…” They ripped away the fronts of the cages and danced back. One raccoon shot out with such force that Quill made a half-leap away and ended up flat on his ass. The others scuttled out more slowly, sniffing the ground and inspecting their surroundings.
“I am Groot.” Groot had the widest smile on his face.
“You are so embarrassing.”
“Aw, look at them go,” Quill said. “Goodbye, Peter! Goodbye, Fluffy! Goodbye, Squishy! Goodbye, Stinky-Butt!”
“I am Groo-oot!” Groot called out.
“Huh, that’s right, ain’t it?” Rocket looked up at Groot. “You—part of you—lived with them in the arboretum.”
“I am Groot.”
“I’m sure they’ll miss you, too, buddy. Hey, Quill, did the Collector really just give them to you?”
“He has no more use for them.” Quill watched the raccoons sniff around their new home. One of them promptly climbed a tree. “A while ago, I said there wouldn’t be a team without Gamora. I also said that Kiya was hard to replace. The Collector feels the same way. She was the core of his tribute team: Without a Zen-Whoberian, he doesn’t see the point in even trying to replicate the rest of us. It would be a poor knockoff—beneath his standards.”
Rocket nodded slowly. “What was he gonna do with them, you think?”
“I don’t want to know. This is better.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess.”
“If you care about that sort of thing.”
“Exactly.” He paused. “Hey, I think Peter and Squishy are—”
“And that’s enough raccoon-watching for today, children,” Quill announced. “Let’s go back to the ship. Gamora should be done by now.”
The three of them turned back to the shuttle, leaving the raccoons to their own devices.
“I am Groot. I am Groot?”
“I actually have no idea.” Rocket wrinkled his nose. “Are we endangering the local ecosystem?”
“Probably,” Quill said thoughtfully.
Rocket shrugged. “Ah well.”
51
THIS is the last of it, right?” Ka-Lenn stood in the doorway of his research and storage facility, watching Gamora lead out the emaciated Grootling. “You have your Groot, Kiya survived the surgeries and is thriving, and my government is pursuing the bandits responsible for the Maraud. You’ll leave me alone?”
Gamora focused on the Grootling by her side, her hand on his back. He walked unsteadily.
“I am Groot,” he said quietly.
“Don’t thank us,” she said. “Not for this. We should have come sooner.”
“I am Groot.” He climbed into the newly repaired ship she’d landed in the field, where Drax was waiting for him.
Gamora did not follow. She turned, walking back to Ka-Lenn. Gravel crunched under her feet.
“We’ll leave you alone,” she told him.
“And you won’t tell my superiors?”
“We won’t. I keep my promises.”
“I’d say it was a pleasure doing business with you, but it was primarily blackmail, so…”
“I never promised I wouldn’t kill you for performing invasive surgery on an unwilling, unconscious girl, however.”
He stepped instinctively back.
Gamora pulled her sword.
AND WE’RE all complete again.” Quill thumped into the pilot seat.
Time to leave Kree-Lar and finish this thing for good.
Rocket twisted around in the navigator’s seat to look at Groot behind him.
Groot took a few moments to look around the bridge. His eyes went from Rocket to Gamora, from Drax to Quill, before finally settling back on Rocket.
Contently, he said, “I am Groot.”
“Man, you’re such a sap.”
“I almost miss those little Grootling buggers, you know?” Quill said wistfully. “Running around, destroying my ship, being all obnoxious and cuddly…”
“I am Groot?”
“I said I almost miss them.”
“I prefer you like this, Groot.” Gamora reached over to affectionately flick a stray branch growing from his elbow. “Back to normal.”
“I am Groot.”
“I would not personally describe the Guardians as normal,” Drax said, his brow furrowing. “And as you pointed out, Gamora, I once lived a normal life.”
It was something few of the others—perhaps only Quill—could claim.
“What?” Rocket said. “Why, we ain’t normal?”
Drax studied Gamora. His forehead wrinkled further. “Did you not consider such a life?”
Quill looked up from the star map he’d been engrossed in.
“There’s nothing to consider,” Gamora said. “That life doesn’t exist for me.”
“You’ve never wondered?” Quill said.
“I wondered. I never wanted.” She leaned back and settled comfortably into her chair. “Why would I? I like this normal. I like our normal.”
“No, wait, but what ain’t normal about us?” Rocket repeated.
“Our normal is pretty good,” Quill said.
“I am Groot.”
Drax nodded. “I am satisfied with it.”
Rocket gave up. “I guess it’s all right.”
“I am Groot.”
“Exactly.” Gamora propped up her legs against the back of Quill’s seat. “Let’s fly.”
THE END
THE CASTLE floated in space, three stories high and a quarter-mile wide. Frozen jewels shone from immense stone columns; enormous gargoyles stared down from the turrets. Twin carved faces—a huge skull and a beautiful young woman—flanked the thick wooden door that stood atop a stairway of worn slate. Smaller skulls spilled from every window and ran up and down the walls, creeping across the stone façade like ivy.
Thanos docked his wheezing single-flier ship and launched himself out of the cockpit, into open space. Cold stones cracked as he landed on the flat-carved meteorite that held the castle.
He rose to his feet, staring up at the huge carvings. Two faces of Death: the destroyer and the comforter. Age and youth. Horror and beauty.
He allowed himself a moment of hope. He had built this castle with his own two hands, as a gift to his dark love. Now she had summoned him back here. Did that mean she forgave him his trespasses, his failures? Could it be that she did love him, despite everything?
“Master?”
Thanos whirled, annoyed. At the edge of the castle wall, a small humanoid figure stood watching him. The figure wore a thinsuit and oval-shaped helmet, fitted to his elongated head. One of Captain Styx’s lesser officers; as he shifted nervously back and forth, Thanos struggled to recall his name. Nil. That was it.
“I received your message,” Nil continued, a slight quiver in his voice. “I’m afraid the, uh, the rest of the crew aren’t coming. Even the ones that escaped. After the business with the, erm, the uh-uh-uh Gems—”
Thanos turned away, raised his hand, and without looking loosed a plasma blast in Nil’s direction. Nil didn’t even have time to scream. One moment he stood before the looming castle; the next, he was a wisp of vapor.
Thanos turned and strode up the stairs, leaving the last of Nil to waft off into space.
Inside the heavy double doors, the castle’s main hallway was filled with air. Thanos allowed himself to breathe. He didn’t require oxygen, but his senses felt stunted, limited without the Gems. He craved input: a sound, a taste, a stray scent.
A stench of mildew and decay washed over him. He looked around at the high, green-tinged walls,
built of stone blocks weighing half a ton apiece. Thanos had salvaged them from the planet Agathon, from the oldest castle in the galaxy. The last Agathonian had watched, bloody and dying, as Thanos hauled away the stones one by one.
He reached out and touched the wall. It flaked and chipped against his finger. Slivers of stone fell slowly to the ground, hesitant in the meteorite’s low gravity. He frowned. How long ago had he built this place? Not long enough, surely, for it to have fallen into such a decayed state?
He continued down the narrow corridor, past guttering torches mounted high on the walls. As he approached the throne room, his doubts grew. Was it truly Death who had called him here? He’d only heard her voice a few times before, on the rare occasions she’d deigned to address him. Could this be someone else? An enemy, perhaps?
Come to me.
He paused before the doors, willing his fear away. He had already lost ultimate power today. What more could an enemy do to him? What punishment, what fate could be more painful?
When he thrust open the double doors, his breath caught in his throat.
The room held hundreds of skulls. They lined the walls, covered the fixtures, even the columns reaching up to the distant ceiling. A rack of ancient weapons sat against one wall: knives, slingshots, heavy-gauge energy swords, dueling pistols salvaged from some backward world. The bones of long-dead foes littered the floor, cleared only to form a small pathway leading to the throne itself.
Mistress Death sat atop the high throne, resplendent in deep viridian robes.
Thanos stared, struck speechless by her beauty. The throne was constructed from a set of teeth and jaws 12 feet high. Thanos himself had pulled out the creature’s heart and skinned the flesh from its bones.
Slowly Death turned dark eyes to stare at him. She uncrossed her legs—a divine, graceful motion—and rose to her full height. With quick, gentle movements, she began to descend the pile of skulls forming the throne’s base.
He stood still, stricken with doubt, paralyzed by her beauty. Her skin shone white as marble; her face was flawless—eyes dark as pulsars set above perfect cheekbones, all framed by a regal silk hood in dark cerulean tones. Her lips were pale but full, with just a hint of blood pulsing beneath. She was as tall as Thanos himself and as slim as a single-stemmed rose.
We’re alone, he realized. That was unusual. Death normally traveled with a guard of demons and animal-men.
“Mistress,” Thanos said. “I come to you in a somewhat diminished state.”
She stared at him with a blank, enigmatic intensity.
“I had hoped to present you with a great bounty,” he continued. “An offering, a gift of billions of souls. But my grandfather…”
She stopped and held up a hand. Her eyes narrowed, as if to say: No excuses.
“Of course. Yes. I merely wish you to know: I have not abandoned you. I will never stop trying to win your love.”
A slight smile tugged at her lips.
“Already I have begun setting new plans in motion. Masterworks of slaughter, weapons that will shake the stars.” He clenched his fist. “I will be worthy of you, Mistress. I…”
Mistress Death held a slim, black-nailed finger up to her lips.
“Mistress?”
Her eyes locked onto his. Thanos found he could not look away. In her gaze, he saw worlds colliding, a massive starship punching a hole through the stars. Gray steel planes, bombs with fins, cities reduced to ash. Bodies torn apart; a woman’s flesh melting from her face.
She stepped closer.
Thanos held his breath. Was it possible? Did she love him after all? He had come here empty-handed, his life’s work in ruins. But he had tried. Had that proven his devotion? Was the mere attempt enough?
He reached out to take her in his arms. She was cold and warm, vacuum-death and starfire. Her flesh was paper-thin, her muscles wiry. Her hands reached out to encircle his neck.
This, he thought. This is everything. I will never stop, Mistress. I will bring you the stars, the soul of every sentient being that has ever lived.
Her lips parted. He closed his eyes and leaned in for the kiss.
Cold teeth bit down on his lip. Bone sliced through rocky skin, digging deep, drawing blood.
Thanos cried out. His eyes shot open to see Death’s true face: a grinning skull, stark white against her deep blue hood. He could almost hear her cruel, silent laughter.
He struck out in anger. When he slapped her face, he expected to hear the clatter of bone, the shattering of enamel. But instead he felt flesh—the flesh of a woman, warm and yielding against his savage blow.
Thanos howled with rage. Psionic energy poured out of him; cosmic beams blasted from his eyes, fanning out in waves through the room and out into the halls of the castle. The stones of Agathon bent and cracked under his assault.
He was oblivious, lost in a raging blood fever. His lip ached, but that pain was nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. His love had spurned him, rejected his offer. Returned his affection—at the moment of his greatest vulnerability—with a vicious, personal attack.
She would pay, he vowed. He would bring her to her knees, hear her bones crack beneath his powerful fists. Then…then maybe she would understand…
He shook his head, his vision clearing. The room still stood, but in his rage he’d cracked the high throne in half. Skulls tumbled onto the floor, mixing with grains of rock that spilled down from the ceiling.
And Death was gone.
He turned sharply at a creaking noise. A heavy wooden door swung open on thick hinges. The room beyond was dark and indistinct. With a shock, he recognized it as Death’s bedchamber.
A woman’s hand appeared from within, finger curled, beckoning him inside.
He paused. Remembered the feel of Death’s cheek as he struck her, the impact of his granite hand against soft flesh.
He strode to the door, crushing skulls beneath his feet. A strange excitement, some terrible masculine urge, came over him. If she awaited inside that room, if this were all some twisted game, he would force her to confront what she’d awakened. He would make her feel his power.
The room was dark, windowless. Skull-patterned wallpaper, just beginning to peel, lined the walls. In the center of the room, dominating the space, stood a high, canopied Victorian bed. Dark crimson curtains surrounded the bed, suspended from posts carved to resemble ancient snake demons.
He walked to the bed, his heavy steps shaking the room. He leaned forward to place his knee on the bed and thrust the curtain aside.
Nothing. No one here. He was alone.
Consumed by fury, he ripped and tore at the bedcovers. He yanked a curtain down, rending it from end to end. He snapped a post free of the bed, cracked the carved serpent in half, and flung its severed head across the room.
He sank onto the bed, struggling to clear his head. A strange sensation came over him, a deep fog of unreality. As if he’d entered into a fever dream, a sort of cosmic delirium. He almost laughed. Was there such a thing as an Infinity Gem hangover?
Then his thoughts grew dark again. Death was gone. She had lured him here, to this chamber that he himself had furnished. Everything in this room, all the trappings of the castle, were tributes of his love—
No. Not everything.
He crawled to the edge of the bed, swept aside a half-torn curtain, and stared back toward the door. A large wardrobe stood against the wall, its polished mahogany surface carved into four segments: two thin, hinged doors in the center, and a larger mirrored panel on either side.
He walked to the wardrobe, examined it. He had never seen it before. He stood before one of the mirrors, studying his image. His blue-gold battlesuit was torn; his boots were stained with mud. His lip was red with blood.
But still he was Thanos.
Guardians Of The Galaxy: Collect Them All Prose Novel Page 32