[ True to his word, James knocks on Rocket's door a little while later. He's got his brand new arm bundled up in a case that was clearly made for a gun, but it's a lot easier to lug it around that way. He doesn't even have to look at it.
He sets the case down so he can knock. ] Hey, it's Barnes.
[The door opens seemingly of its own accord, if only because Rocket has to jump and swing the door open. Fucking doors that don't open automatically. Or won't adjust for height. He drops back down onto the floor and circles around, revealing his grease-stained overalls, all of his raccoon glory, and the massive junk pile that is his room. How it actually functions as a living space is beyond anyone's comprehension- the fast answer is Rocket sleeps on the roof when he sleeps at all. He just works in here.]
Been awhile since I had to do this. I was thinkin' I was gonna get rusty. [sound less amused, Rocket.]
[ James steps inside - as best he can without actually stepping on something. He's never seen the inside of Rocket's room before. Rocket has mentioned it being a mess offhand, but it seems like little more than a workspace.
Considering that Rocket keeps to hours that are at least as bad as his own, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised that it's not set up for things like sleeping. ]
There are sprays for that kinda thing, you know. [ From one cyborg to another. ]
[ He can't say that he minds Rocket sounding amused by all of this - it's better than any of the alternatives. ] Where should I set down?
[He rolls his eyes at the joke.] Don't get smart, Barnes. You ain't that precious.
[He clears off a chair in the corner that seems to have been mostly designated as a place to toss greasy rags, which means it's not the most pleasantly scented or unstained piece of furniture in the room, but it is the most comfortable. Once it's cleaned off, Rocket proceeds to drag a bench closer so he can stand on it to work.] You're lucky you don't have to do this yourself. Back in the day, I used to have to do amateur surgery with minimal anesthetic and Groot holding a mirror. [He rolls his eyes again, though there's a bit of nostalgia in it. He misses Groot fierce sometimes.] And he's squeamish.
[ He flashes Rocket a grin that's mostly teeth, then settles down on the chair and sets the case down in easy reach. He doesn't really care about the state of it - if it's good enough for Rocket, it's good enough for him.
He goes about stripping down to an undershirt so Rocket can actually get a look at his arm - or what's left of it. It was torn off just below the shoulder, and James has since dumped most of the ruined scrap metal and trimmed the excess wiring to keep it out of the way. It's not like he hasn't poked around trying to figure out how to get the new one on, but it isn't as simple as slapping it back in place, and he's no tech expert.
If it was anyone else telling him about doing self-surgery with a mirror, he'd probably call it bull, but this is Rocket. ]
They messed you up that bad, huh? What did you have to fix that you needed to cut yourself open for it? [ Rocket's right; he's lucky in that respect. Most of the internal stuff doesn't need his intervention. ] And who's Groot?
[Rocket sets to examining the wiring to see what can be salvaged and what will have to be replaced and just rearranging them in a way that's too his liking. At least his hands are tiny and well suited to futzing about in small spaces with minimal discomfort.
He grunts. Yeah, they messed him up bad. Most of what's on the outside is the last of his truly organic pieces. He's a hardware store in a fur coat.] Voicebox, usually. It futzes out sometimes. [it's not an easy subject to talk about, but it seems a little bit simpler when he's wrist-deep in someone else's cyborg parts.] Every now and then a joint will pop badly. Not my hips though. If that shit breaks, I'm flarked. [In case you've ever wondered just exactly how a raccoon can walk upright like a person. Custom hips that pop from upright to all fours with a good back arch. He's not the best work anyone could ever do, but he knows to the average Joe, he's a rare thing, indeed.
It makes him bristle a bit as he sets his pliers down.] Most of the stuff in me was dug out of a scrap heap. They weren't interested in makin' anything worth crap at first- they just wanted to prove they could.
[Put too many scientists in an isolated system with very little contact with the rest of the galaxy and they will get bored. And boredom doesn't end well for the lesser lifeforms.] Prototypes, y'know?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ True to his word, James knocks on Rocket's door a little while later. He's got his brand new arm bundled up in a case that was clearly made for a gun, but it's a lot easier to lug it around that way. He doesn't even have to look at it.
He sets the case down so he can knock. ] Hey, it's Barnes.
no subject
Been awhile since I had to do this. I was thinkin' I was gonna get rusty. [sound less amused, Rocket.]
no subject
Considering that Rocket keeps to hours that are at least as bad as his own, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised that it's not set up for things like sleeping. ]
There are sprays for that kinda thing, you know. [ From one cyborg to another. ]
[ He can't say that he minds Rocket sounding amused by all of this - it's better than any of the alternatives. ] Where should I set down?
no subject
[He clears off a chair in the corner that seems to have been mostly designated as a place to toss greasy rags, which means it's not the most pleasantly scented or unstained piece of furniture in the room, but it is the most comfortable. Once it's cleaned off, Rocket proceeds to drag a bench closer so he can stand on it to work.] You're lucky you don't have to do this yourself. Back in the day, I used to have to do amateur surgery with minimal anesthetic and Groot holding a mirror. [He rolls his eyes again, though there's a bit of nostalgia in it. He misses Groot fierce sometimes.] And he's squeamish.
no subject
He goes about stripping down to an undershirt so Rocket can actually get a look at his arm - or what's left of it. It was torn off just below the shoulder, and James has since dumped most of the ruined scrap metal and trimmed the excess wiring to keep it out of the way. It's not like he hasn't poked around trying to figure out how to get the new one on, but it isn't as simple as slapping it back in place, and he's no tech expert.
If it was anyone else telling him about doing self-surgery with a mirror, he'd probably call it bull, but this is Rocket. ]
They messed you up that bad, huh? What did you have to fix that you needed to cut yourself open for it? [ Rocket's right; he's lucky in that respect. Most of the internal stuff doesn't need his intervention. ] And who's Groot?
no subject
He grunts. Yeah, they messed him up bad. Most of what's on the outside is the last of his truly organic pieces. He's a hardware store in a fur coat.] Voicebox, usually. It futzes out sometimes. [it's not an easy subject to talk about, but it seems a little bit simpler when he's wrist-deep in someone else's cyborg parts.] Every now and then a joint will pop badly. Not my hips though. If that shit breaks, I'm flarked. [In case you've ever wondered just exactly how a raccoon can walk upright like a person. Custom hips that pop from upright to all fours with a good back arch. He's not the best work anyone could ever do, but he knows to the average Joe, he's a rare thing, indeed.
It makes him bristle a bit as he sets his pliers down.] Most of the stuff in me was dug out of a scrap heap. They weren't interested in makin' anything worth crap at first- they just wanted to prove they could.
[Put too many scientists in an isolated system with very little contact with the rest of the galaxy and they will get bored. And boredom doesn't end well for the lesser lifeforms.] Prototypes, y'know?