DON'T call me a raccoon. (pro_asshole) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2017-09-26 17:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | marvel: mcu: rocket |
Who: Rocket
What: Setting up a fortress at the Cornucopia
Where: Room D, smack in the middle
When: After his run-in with Phyrne
Rating: Language, HG scenario
"Fuck this place sideways- Fuck it up and down with an Argolian spine-slug and fuck the goddamn spine-slug too."
Rocket's favorite pastimes often included swearing, but right now everything he muttered just beneath his breath was completely sour. He'd just killed some scrawny chick because she was probably hungry. Sure, he didn't MEAN to actually kill her, but she went down on that piece-a-shit rock because he'd pounced on her chest- because she was going for food that he wanted. Food that he ended up getting, because said scrawny chick lay lifeless with the back of her head caved in by the jagged rock she fell on.
He'd taken a lick in the fall, as well- another fucking knife of limestone tore right through his dirty jumpsuit and dug a gash out of his thigh. It was still bleeding by the time he not-so-begrudgingly relieved the girl's corpse of everything useful- but at least he had the decency to close her eyes.
He continued to swear to himself as a form of meditation- or something- while making his way around the nearly empty cornucopia, preparing it for as long a stay has he could possibly get away with. It was dry and well sheltered, with only one entrance that he could very easily fortify with the container of pressurized gas he found in the camping stove, along with the lighter he found on the chick. Nice little flame-thrower came along easily after some adjustments to the nozzle, which he bent into place with a hand-held rock. It would only get off three, maybe four good shots, but it was better than nothing. He still had his four flare-bombs. He could see a lot better with her night-vision goggles, too- though his vision had never really been the issue down here. Not unless there was absolutely no light.
After finishing off the stew, he felt a little better- though inside was still a pit of anger and bitterness. More than once, he considered picking off everyone that came near, just to hurry this fuckfest up, but the small voice of reason and conscience in the back of his head pushed that thought back down.
Fatigue started to set in after he'd stripped out of the jump suit, cleaned his new injury with his tongue, and wrapped it tight with a strip of sleeping bag. The cut on his shoulder wasn't burning, at least, but it still smarted like a sonovabitch. He changed the bandage and transferred the water from his home made canteen into the much better one he'd found on Phyrne. There wasn't enough rope from the 25 feet coil he found to fashion a proper gate, and he didn't have anything besides his teeth to cut it with- it was a hell of a lot tougher than the sleeping bag, so he decided to use it as a bed, tucked in the back corner of the cornucopia. With his shit safely stashed behind him, and his bombs and flamethrower within reach, he bedded down for as much fitful sleep as he could get.