[ In that dithering sort of way that somehow manages to be both certain and uncertain. ]
This place looks a lot like the station up top, right? When I was running around I found the sleeping quarters and a simulation room, except it was all, like, clunky and crappy.
And if this place is, like, the first draft of Thesa, there's gotta be a mecha station, right?
[ ... is Peter hoping they're getting out of this shithole with a salvageable mech?
Peter is absolutely hoping they're getting out of this shithole with a salvageable mech. ]
[He knows the way to the mecha station by heart, so if the layout is the same he should be able to find it... Or get them lost in a maze of crap.]
Wonder how long it'll take before the other station goes down and we're all freezing our asses off. [He shudders. God, he hates the cold even more than he already did, and the ear clips broadcast thoughts so he hasn't been wearing them.] Makes you miss Wyver. It was sticky and gross and hot all the time, but it was so much better than this.
Really? I would've figured you'd like all the tech.
[ Nadril is about on par with what the Guardians are used to, if they're honest. The station, too, if it weren't for that weird, creepy sensation that they're always being watched.
Or maybe that's just Peter and his general distrust of anyone who calls themselves gods? ]
Watch your step. I'm pretty sure this place is liable to collapse if you even cough wrong.
I love all the tech. It's the best part of this place. On the other hand... My particular set of skills are way more useful when the people around me are a bunch of rubes.
[He rubs two of his fingers together which is a gesture freaky raccoon hands should not be able to make.] Think of all that money, Quill. We're gonna be rolling in it if I can get a decent business started. Now that Rosalind and Rhys are back in stasis, it's on me to keep these jerks in decent-
[And despite Quill's warning and Rocket's general dexterity, he is so focused on the excitement for mecha and new inventions he can sell, he misses a panel that's been slightly ripped out of the floor and trips on it, falling flat on his face.
He's fine.
His dignity is a little bruised, but... He's fine.]
[ ... admittedly, Rocket's big dreams about a slightly illicit cash flow is a tempting one, and while Peter's still firmly in the "we really shouldn't arm a bunch of randos" camp, he's not immune to the siren call of rolling in dough.
Thankfully, he's saved from his grey morality by the giant clatter beside him, and Peter whirls around, expecting the worst.
What he doesn't expect is for Rocket to eat shit on the deck.
... Sorry, bro. Peter is just. Gonna be laughing his ass off over here. ]
[Rocket pushes himself up onto all fours and then back onto two legs so he can focus on rubbing his muzzle. For a second, it looks like he's going to ignore that laughter and press on with little more than a glower.
But this is Rocket. He may look like he's going to glare and pretend it didn't happen but the second he's about to pass by Quill's leg, he stops and gives him a hard kick to the shin.]
[ When he was a kid, he remembered watching house cats around the neighborhood, leaping from fence to fence. He remembers, too, watching a big, white fluffy cat (probably appropriately named Snowball or something) totally eat shit as it tried to jump up onto a trash can and walk away like it totally meant to do that.
Peter isn’t entirely naïve enough to think that Rocket is going to brush it off, so when the dude kicks him, he’s hardly surprised. He does, however, let out an affronted noise that echoes eerily down the empty corridor. ]
Prick.
[ He rubs at his shin for a second before following after Rocket.
Unfortunately, given the differences in their weight, Rocket can get away with walking over panels that Peter can’t. He has to test each step, jumping over suspicious tiles when he can, hurrying over them while they groan underneath the soles of his boot when he can’t. He’s probably being overly cautious, but the last thing Peter wants is for the deck to collapse underneath him, for some fallen support beam to skewer him, or for rusted metal to slash at his skin and give him space tetanus. ]
[And Rocket, satisfied by his revenge, and the unspoken fact that he has to lead this adventure both out of necessity for avoiding pitfalls and because he has a good idea about where the mecha bay is, continues on smugly. At least he isn't petty enough to not warn Quill about dangers until the last possible second- okay he is exactly that petty, but he's too focused on avoiding catching his feet on something else to try and press his luck by being a dick.
The Mecha bay looms large in about the place where Rocket expected it to be, the doors seemingly yanked open and left dented and ruined and only wide enough for a full-grown humanoid to slide through with little effort. That seems promising anyway.
Unfortunately, what little hope Rocket had is quashed as he steps onto the ice-cold floor of the bay and feels the sudden temperature drop due to the giant, gaping hole in the side leading into the snow, where someone must have blasted their way out and marched on with the goods. Rocket's ears flick down onto his skull in disappointment.]
Frickin' scavengers. [Ignoring that he is, of course, a scavenger.]
[ The instant Peter feels the chill of the outside air on his face, even without worming his way through the small gap in the doors, he feels that sour note of disappointment. Yeeeaaah, it was probably too much to hope the two of them could ride out of here on a literal mecha.
Probably for the best, too, admittedly, because where the hell were they going to put it? In the nonexistent garage of their currently time-locked house?
Peter huffs out a sigh, leaning against doors without committing to squeezing through. He could, but is there a point to it, when the only cool shit in here is apparently gone? ]
Well, that's a bust.
[ His breath crystallizes in the air as he heaves out a sigh. He peers through the gap in the doors. ]
Won't stop me from tryin'. [Rocket adjusts his earcuff a bit to keep to the chill in the air out as he circles around the terminals, hunting for anything that might have been deemed useless, but still has a use to him. The freezing cold metal under his bare feet makes him shudder involuntarily.
Been frickin' months and I still can't handle the cold. So of course the best place on the whole planet is a frigid wasteland. Screw that.
[The words don't come from him directly as he's turning over a little bit of busted tech in his hands. He keeps forgetting those damn earcuffs transmit thoughts.]
[ Peter, in the mean time, heaves out a sigh as Rocket wanders further in. He could just wait here, probably, and let the guy do as he pleases, but considering how rickety this place is, the likelihood of the ceilings caving in above them is reasonably high. Peter figures it's a better idea for the two of them to stick together.
Which means trying to worm his way through the doors, and he spends a few seconds trying to make the space even marginally wider. The metal creaks in protest as he works, and Rocket's words carry to him.
Naturally, without his eyes on the other guy, Peter assumes the dude is speaking. Which is why he responds aloud, ]
Yeah. Pretty much our luck that the coolest place also sucks like hell.
Are you talking to someone? [Rocket whirls around, not quite registering yet that he was broadcasting. He's greeted to Quill squeezing through the door and nothing else.]
You better not be going space crazy on me, Quill, which is a real and very serious medical condition [that he did not make up on the spot].
[Meanwhile, in Rocket's head.] Maybe he's seeing things. God, that'd be just our luck if this place were frickin' haunted.
[ Slightly strained, as he continues to work at widening the gap between the door panels. Eventually, he realizes that this is as good as it’s going to get, so he heaves out a sigh, twisting sideways to work on getting himself through.
Peter doesn’t have a clue why Rocket’s acting strangely; he forwent the head bubble things, preferring the comfort of his own helmet, so his own thoughts are contained in his head – a blessing for everyone involved. ]
“Space crazy” isn’t a thing. [ You can be crazy, and you can be in space, but one doesn’t lead to the other. And Peter should know. He knows crazy, after all, and you need look no further than the Ravagers to understand why he’s an authority. ]
And I’m not— shit! [ Which is about when he manages to squeeze his way through the doors. He stumbles, nearly eats shit on the deck, but he manages to stay upright. As he’s brushing himself off, ]
I’m not “seeing things.” Why are you being so weird?
I'm not being weird! [He's so indignant about it, that he can't even appreciate Peter squeezing through that tiny gap and almost faceplanting.] You're talking like I'm saying things I ain't saying.
[And then, out loud, he says what he was thinking.] Aw shit, this place is haunted. It's messing with our heads.
[It's half sarcastic, but also... It could happen. There's no place in El Nysa safe from the perpetual mindfuck. He hasn't traced this back to the ear cuff, since he hasn't thought about in awhile and the reason it wasn't on in the first place was because he doesn't like the thought share. Sometimes when you get cold, you just forget why you weren't wearing it in desperation for sweet relief.]
[ Listen, sometimes, Peter isn’t above classic schoolyard-isms, and Rocket is being 100% weird.
He straightens his coat, readjusts his gloves, and with the chill in the air, Peter taps the trigger behind his ear, deploying his mask. ]
There’s no such thing as ghosts. And there’s no such thing as being space crazy, either, but with the way you’re acting right now, I’m having my doubts.
Your face is weird. [Let's be real, neither is Rocket. It's a natural response to being around Quill for as long as he has.] And normally I'd be right there with you on the ghost thing, but I have seen some crap since I been here. Just... shut up a minute.
[The girl he'd been with could sense ghosts even if he couldn't. He can't even remember her name, but maybe if he stands really still he can feel something move.]
This is stupid. I gotta look like the biggest moron standin' here tryin' to sense a frickin' ghost.
[He reaches up to scratch his head and his hand swipes across the little metal cuff on his ear as if he only just realized he put it on when he entered the colder area just on impulse. Realization floods him and he tugs it off and slams it on the ground with enough force to break it. He'll regret that later when his ears are cold, but at least it'll save him this embarrassment. If he could turn red, he'd be doing it right now.
But as it stands, he still looks like a cat that fell off a table while everyone was watching and is a little huffy about it.]
That stupid- [he makes angry noises] Who builds something that keeps you warm but also projects your frickin' thoughts, huh? What is the technological advantage of that? Those two things don't even correlate!
Peter just sort of watches, eyes wide behind his mask and lips pressed together in a thin line – that awkward sort of face one makes when witnessing something at least a little wild. Like being a kid at your friend’s house while their parents start lecturing them about the unwashed dishes still sitting in the sink.
It takes a second or two for Peter to mentally catch up, but at length, a slow smile spreads across his face. ]
Dude.
That’s hilarious.
[ sorry about your dignity tho rocket. F to pay respects. ]
[Rocket's tantrum is short-lived but no less beautiful in its angrish and flailing. At some point, he just stops saying words at all in favor of just miming strangling and growling, but it all comes to a head when Quill speaks and he remembers that his loss of dignity had a witness.]
Oh, shut up, Quill. You ain't hot shit 'cause you got a nice toasty helmet to wear all the d'ast time. [That wasn't even remotely a good comeback, but... but SHUT UP.
Much like the kid who got scolded while his friends were around, he has nothing to say in defense of himself.]
[ Peter could point out that wearing the mask too long in below freezing temperatures probably isn’t a strong move, since the metal at the top of the helmet has a very real chance of freezing to his skin.
But, no, Rocket has a point. His helmet is awesome.
And with that little ego-boost, Peter moves further into the bay. His grin is hidden behind his mask, but it’s obvious enough in his voice. ]
If it makes you feel any better, at least all you were doing was bitching about the cold. Which, you know. Is obviously fair. But it could’ve been way worse.
[ Like, can you imagine hearing Peter’s thoughts? Snippets of songs and random clips from 80s TV shows and the occasional, I wonder what Gamora’s doing right now? and all the unbidden daydreams that come with it?
That does not make it better, Quill! The contents of my head are not for public display!
[He's yelling that over his shoulder as he crosses his arms over his chest and gives his head a good hard shake. That cold takes no time to set in around the ear area and the wrist cuffs only do so much.
Well, it's either this display of pathetic or making this trek useful, so after letting Quill get a significant headstart, he scowls, and takes off at a brisk pace to catch up.] Aw hell. Wait up!
[ Guess who’s still grinning like the little shit he is. ]
Trust me, man. Nobody in the world wants to see the weird shit you think about.
[ He’s picking his way through, just sort of getting a lay of the land. The funny thing is, distracted as he was by the bullshit with the earpieces, Peter has totally and completely forgotten that this crashed station is fucked up and old and held together by shoestring and prayers. It slips his mind that exposed to the elements as this area has been, he should probably keep an eye out for falling debris from overhead or—
Weak deck supports.
It’s kind of like walking out onto a frozen lake, feeling and hearing the ice crack underfoot. Because Peter takes one step, then another, and there’s a sudden worrying groan, a worrying lurch, and Peter freezes.
And when Rocket approaches, Peter frantically holds up a hand. ]
Sssstoooop!
[ And in case he didn’t hear him the first time: ]
Oh my god, Quill. [Rocket's exasperation can be heard back on the station and his eyerolling is probably in danger of straining something, but he does stop just shy of where the unsteady deck supports are threatening to cave inwards.] Y'know that hand signals thing? It's never gonna take off. Stop trying to take it happen.
[He steps down beside Quill's foot without consideration, figuring that Quill may have said stop, but he didn't say where to stop, and the groan and lurch of metal gets that much louder and that much more foreboding, tipped further towards its breaking point by a scant twenty-five pounds of extra weight.
And then he realizes why maybe he should have listened closer, because sometimes Quill has a point and sometimes not listening to him is a bad idea. That acknowledgment is not what he says. Instead, he sums up the situation a little more succinctly.]
[ You know, someday, one of the other Guardians will listen to Peter's good sense. And you know what'll happen on that day? Everything will go right.
Today, as has been the case with many others, is not that day, and as Rocket moves closer, Peter just keeps telling him to stop to an absolutely predictable amount of success.
And as the ground groans, Peter rocks back to keep his balance.
In a half-octave higher than usual: ] What part of "stop" did you not understand?!
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[ In that dithering sort of way that somehow manages to be both certain and uncertain. ]
This place looks a lot like the station up top, right? When I was running around I found the sleeping quarters and a simulation room, except it was all, like, clunky and crappy.
And if this place is, like, the first draft of Thesa, there's gotta be a mecha station, right?
[ ... is Peter hoping they're getting out of this shithole with a salvageable mech?
Peter is absolutely hoping they're getting out of this shithole with a salvageable mech. ]
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[He knows the way to the mecha station by heart, so if the layout is the same he should be able to find it... Or get them lost in a maze of crap.]
Wonder how long it'll take before the other station goes down and we're all freezing our asses off. [He shudders. God, he hates the cold even more than he already did, and the ear clips broadcast thoughts so he hasn't been wearing them.] Makes you miss Wyver. It was sticky and gross and hot all the time, but it was so much better than this.
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[ Nadril is about on par with what the Guardians are used to, if they're honest. The station, too, if it weren't for that weird, creepy sensation that they're always being watched.
Or maybe that's just Peter and his general distrust of anyone who calls themselves gods? ]
Watch your step. I'm pretty sure this place is liable to collapse if you even cough wrong.
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[He rubs two of his fingers together which is a gesture freaky raccoon hands should not be able to make.] Think of all that money, Quill. We're gonna be rolling in it if I can get a decent business started. Now that Rosalind and Rhys are back in stasis, it's on me to keep these jerks in decent-
[And despite Quill's warning and Rocket's general dexterity, he is so focused on the excitement for mecha and new inventions he can sell, he misses a panel that's been slightly ripped out of the floor and trips on it, falling flat on his face.
He's fine.
His dignity is a little bruised, but... He's fine.]
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Thankfully, he's saved from his grey morality by the giant clatter beside him, and Peter whirls around, expecting the worst.
What he doesn't expect is for Rocket to eat shit on the deck.
... Sorry, bro. Peter is just. Gonna be laughing his ass off over here. ]
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But this is Rocket. He may look like he's going to glare and pretend it didn't happen but the second he's about to pass by Quill's leg, he stops and gives him a hard kick to the shin.]
Jerk.
[And then, smugly satisfied, he walks on.]
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Peter isn’t entirely naïve enough to think that Rocket is going to brush it off, so when the dude kicks him, he’s hardly surprised. He does, however, let out an affronted noise that echoes eerily down the empty corridor. ]
Prick.
[ He rubs at his shin for a second before following after Rocket.
Unfortunately, given the differences in their weight, Rocket can get away with walking over panels that Peter can’t. He has to test each step, jumping over suspicious tiles when he can, hurrying over them while they groan underneath the soles of his boot when he can’t. He’s probably being overly cautious, but the last thing Peter wants is for the deck to collapse underneath him, for some fallen support beam to skewer him, or for rusted metal to slash at his skin and give him space tetanus. ]
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The Mecha bay looms large in about the place where Rocket expected it to be, the doors seemingly yanked open and left dented and ruined and only wide enough for a full-grown humanoid to slide through with little effort. That seems promising anyway.
Unfortunately, what little hope Rocket had is quashed as he steps onto the ice-cold floor of the bay and feels the sudden temperature drop due to the giant, gaping hole in the side leading into the snow, where someone must have blasted their way out and marched on with the goods. Rocket's ears flick down onto his skull in disappointment.]
Frickin' scavengers. [Ignoring that he is, of course, a scavenger.]
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Probably for the best, too, admittedly, because where the hell were they going to put it? In the nonexistent garage of their currently time-locked house?
Peter huffs out a sigh, leaning against doors without committing to squeezing through. He could, but is there a point to it, when the only cool shit in here is apparently gone? ]
Well, that's a bust.
[ His breath crystallizes in the air as he heaves out a sigh. He peers through the gap in the doors. ]
I doubt there's anything worth takin' in here.
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Been frickin' months and I still can't handle the cold. So of course the best place on the whole planet is a frigid wasteland. Screw that.
[The words don't come from him directly as he's turning over a little bit of busted tech in his hands. He keeps forgetting those damn earcuffs transmit thoughts.]
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Which means trying to worm his way through the doors, and he spends a few seconds trying to make the space even marginally wider. The metal creaks in protest as he works, and Rocket's words carry to him.
Naturally, without his eyes on the other guy, Peter assumes the dude is speaking. Which is why he responds aloud, ]
Yeah. Pretty much our luck that the coolest place also sucks like hell.
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You better not be going space crazy on me, Quill, which is a real and very serious medical condition [that he did not make up on the spot].
[Meanwhile, in Rocket's head.] Maybe he's seeing things. God, that'd be just our luck if this place were frickin' haunted.
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[ Slightly strained, as he continues to work at widening the gap between the door panels. Eventually, he realizes that this is as good as it’s going to get, so he heaves out a sigh, twisting sideways to work on getting himself through.
Peter doesn’t have a clue why Rocket’s acting strangely; he forwent the head bubble things, preferring the comfort of his own helmet, so his own thoughts are contained in his head – a blessing for everyone involved. ]
“Space crazy” isn’t a thing. [ You can be crazy, and you can be in space, but one doesn’t lead to the other. And Peter should know. He knows crazy, after all, and you need look no further than the Ravagers to understand why he’s an authority. ]
And I’m not— shit! [ Which is about when he manages to squeeze his way through the doors. He stumbles, nearly eats shit on the deck, but he manages to stay upright. As he’s brushing himself off, ]
I’m not “seeing things.” Why are you being so weird?
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[And then, out loud, he says what he was thinking.] Aw shit, this place is haunted. It's messing with our heads.
[It's half sarcastic, but also... It could happen. There's no place in El Nysa safe from the perpetual mindfuck. He hasn't traced this back to the ear cuff, since he hasn't thought about in awhile and the reason it wasn't on in the first place was because he doesn't like the thought share. Sometimes when you get cold, you just forget why you weren't wearing it in desperation for sweet relief.]
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[ Listen, sometimes, Peter isn’t above classic schoolyard-isms, and Rocket is being 100% weird.
He straightens his coat, readjusts his gloves, and with the chill in the air, Peter taps the trigger behind his ear, deploying his mask. ]
There’s no such thing as ghosts. And there’s no such thing as being space crazy, either, but with the way you’re acting right now, I’m having my doubts.
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[The girl he'd been with could sense ghosts even if he couldn't. He can't even remember her name, but maybe if he stands really still he can feel something move.]
This is stupid. I gotta look like the biggest moron standin' here tryin' to sense a frickin' ghost.
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Or— doesn't speak, more accurately, and his look of confusion goes hidden behind his mask. ]
You're an absolute moron.
[ —because Peter has never been above petty jabs, even when he may or may not be going totally crazy. ]
When did you learn to throw your voice like that?
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[He reaches up to scratch his head and his hand swipes across the little metal cuff on his ear as if he only just realized he put it on when he entered the colder area just on impulse. Realization floods him and he tugs it off and slams it on the ground with enough force to break it. He'll regret that later when his ears are cold, but at least it'll save him this embarrassment. If he could turn red, he'd be doing it right now.
But as it stands, he still looks like a cat that fell off a table while everyone was watching and is a little huffy about it.]
That stupid- [he makes angry noises] Who builds something that keeps you warm but also projects your frickin' thoughts, huh? What is the technological advantage of that? Those two things don't even correlate!
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Rocket’s throwing a tantrum.
Peter just sort of watches, eyes wide behind his mask and lips pressed together in a thin line – that awkward sort of face one makes when witnessing something at least a little wild. Like being a kid at your friend’s house while their parents start lecturing them about the unwashed dishes still sitting in the sink.
It takes a second or two for Peter to mentally catch up, but at length, a slow smile spreads across his face. ]
Dude.
That’s hilarious.
[ sorry about your dignity tho rocket. F to pay respects. ]
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Oh, shut up, Quill. You ain't hot shit 'cause you got a nice toasty helmet to wear all the d'ast time. [That wasn't even remotely a good comeback, but... but SHUT UP.
Much like the kid who got scolded while his friends were around, he has nothing to say in defense of himself.]
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But, no, Rocket has a point. His helmet is awesome.
And with that little ego-boost, Peter moves further into the bay. His grin is hidden behind his mask, but it’s obvious enough in his voice. ]
If it makes you feel any better, at least all you were doing was bitching about the cold. Which, you know. Is obviously fair. But it could’ve been way worse.
[ Like, can you imagine hearing Peter’s thoughts? Snippets of songs and random clips from 80s TV shows and the occasional, I wonder what Gamora’s doing right now? and all the unbidden daydreams that come with it?
It'd be like watching a YouTube poop video. ]
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[He's yelling that over his shoulder as he crosses his arms over his chest and gives his head a good hard shake. That cold takes no time to set in around the ear area and the wrist cuffs only do so much.
Well, it's either this display of pathetic or making this trek useful, so after letting Quill get a significant headstart, he scowls, and takes off at a brisk pace to catch up.] Aw hell. Wait up!
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Trust me, man. Nobody in the world wants to see the weird shit you think about.
[ He’s picking his way through, just sort of getting a lay of the land. The funny thing is, distracted as he was by the bullshit with the earpieces, Peter has totally and completely forgotten that this crashed station is fucked up and old and held together by shoestring and prayers. It slips his mind that exposed to the elements as this area has been, he should probably keep an eye out for falling debris from overhead or—
Weak deck supports.
It’s kind of like walking out onto a frozen lake, feeling and hearing the ice crack underfoot. Because Peter takes one step, then another, and there’s a sudden worrying groan, a worrying lurch, and Peter freezes.
And when Rocket approaches, Peter frantically holds up a hand. ]
Sssstoooop!
[ And in case he didn’t hear him the first time: ]
Stopstopstop! Stop!
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[He steps down beside Quill's foot without consideration, figuring that Quill may have said stop, but he didn't say where to stop, and the groan and lurch of metal gets that much louder and that much more foreboding, tipped further towards its breaking point by a scant twenty-five pounds of extra weight.
And then he realizes why maybe he should have listened closer, because sometimes Quill has a point and sometimes not listening to him is a bad idea. That acknowledgment is not what he says. Instead, he sums up the situation a little more succinctly.]
...Oh crap.
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Today, as has been the case with many others, is not that day, and as Rocket moves closer, Peter just keeps telling him to stop to an absolutely predictable amount of success.
And as the ground groans, Peter rocks back to keep his balance.
In a half-octave higher than usual: ] What part of "stop" did you not understand?!
[ No. Okay. Bitching later. ]
Back up. Really, really slow.
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