DON'T call me a raccoon. (pro_asshole) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2017-09-23 21:50:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | marvel: mcu: rocket |
Who: Rocket (narrative)
What: Planning ahead and recuperating
Where: In a somewhat sheltered corner just south of the bat cave, then through the sewer, and into the Shelter.
When: Day 1 of the Hunger Games
Rating: low (with some swearing)
Rocket's idea from the get-go had been one thing: survival, which is exactly why he wasn't sticking around the center room, not even for that glittering gold honeypot of weapons and food. The Atlantean sized hornets nest that place was needed to settle before he even took a shot at it- and he would- but first, he had to find himself a relatively safe spot to sit and count the eggs he managed to get in his basket.
He followed his nose when his eyes weren't quite enough; he had excellent vision for the dark, but in the complete absence of light, even he needed a handicap. There was fresh air mingling with the earthy, pungent smell of cave, acidic and thick as the humidity itself; he headed toward that, and the faint light provided by the hole at the top of the cavern stuffed with day-sleeping bats. Knowing he ran the chance of being swarmed if he made the wrong noise- or worse yet, shit on multiple times- he cautiously made his way through. Thankfully he didn't weigh enough to sink too deep into the guano, leaving behind scant scratches and small boot prints where his paws and feet had gone.
When he reached more solid ground, he found the first somewhat sheltered out-crop of rock to put his back against and assess his situation with more depth.
First out was the flare gun. He checked the chamber: four good, dry flares in shells a little bigger than his paws. Next, he went through the bag he snagged at the sharp rocks near the plates.
"A flashlight..." he snickered to himself, almost completely under his breath. If this whole damned thing was underground, that might come in handy. He checked the wiring and the mount, and made a point to find a way to attach the thing to his hard hat later. Next, he found the MRE's, which only took a little reading on the package to figure out what they were- they were wrapped in the bundle of fabric he grabbed on his way out of the main room- a sleeping bag that was way too big for him. The matches and the weird smelling meat-sticks (hot dogs) were packed back inside; he'd use them later. First, he needed to take care of the goddamn gash in his shoulder. He had nothing to clean it with besides his tongue- which he did as best he could- but the sleeping bag tore easily in his teeth. After fashioning a bandage to double-tie around it, he shredded up a few more bandage-sized strips and tucked them away safe in the backpack.
Not knowing how much time he had to find his way to a more preferable lock-down made planning a bit difficult; he sure as fuck wasn't going to be caught in the open, so he used a longer strip of sleeping bag to tie the whole flash light to the side of his hard hat and fixed his jumpsuit, and moved on.
The dark water of the sewer was much slower-going than the guano; when he could, Rocket kept to the side of the tunnel when it was just level enough to keep out of the water, but that wasn't always the case. It was just over his waist at the deepest parts, but besides nearly tripping over broken concrete and rotten wood (and smelling horrible), the water was mostly still- easy to see and hear if someone (or something) was coming. He was following his nose again, towards something that wasn't so much fresh air, but hinted at something similar- something he couldn't quite name. He kept the bag out of the water's reach as best he could, and spent a good two hours wandering down the long, black corridor.
Finding the shelter almost made picking leaches off his legs worth the second and third hour he spent setting up some pointy insurance through that water to ensure he had some time (and privacy). The little fuckers tasted nasty, but they were protein, right? Wiggly, slimy protein.
Either way, Rocket knew this was a great place to lock down. He stripped of the wet clothes and hung them up, shook off, and went to work.
The end result of Rocket's day one efforts included four 'sticky grenades', fashioned from each flare in the gun and their blaster cap, each ready to velcro onto and blow a chunk out of a big predator or another jumpsuit, and a make-shift canteen created from the emptied Ovaltine drum and part of the sleeping bag. Settling in to sleep was the hardest part; making sure he and all his new shit was well hidden beneath one of the cots.
It sure wasn't the most uncomfortable place Rocket had spent the night.