InsaneJournal

This was worse. He couldn’t put a finger – pun definitely not intended – on what, exactly, made the disembodied hand with way too many fingers so much worse than werewolves, but it absolutely was. Maybe it was the skittering way it ran across the ground, like some sort of extra-horrifying spider. Maybe it was that it was so fast, like, unnaturally fast.

Dylan screamed – again – as the hand… thing… dashed at him, and managed to put one of the palm umbrellas that dotted the beach between himself and the hand. The fingers closed around it, and Dylan raised an arm to protect himself from the shower of palm fragments; he hoped that it gave the fucking hand a dozen splinters.

He didn’t wait to see. He was already running to the next bit of shelter before the hand realized its mistake – assuming hands… did realize their mistakes? Did it have a brain? Did it think? How did it see?

Now was definitely not the time to be worrying about any of that.

Rocket had never even seen a beach like this. Groot hadn't either. The dummy had run right into the water and been knocked down immediately by a wave bigger than he was tall. Rocket had fetched him with protective speed and grumbled as he shook himself dry. It was his sense of smell that let him know something was wrong further down the beach; apparently big freaky hand spiders smelled like toe jam. Who knew? He wasn't even sure how that worked and he didn't want to know.

"Stay here," he whispered-ordered to Groot, who was still clearing saltwater out of his nooks and crannies. The little tree froze and stared up at Rocket with too big eyes.

"I am Groot," he said, sounding offended.

"Yeah yeah, the crab started it. I'm freakin' serious! Stay. Here. And don't go back into the water!"

Rocket dropped to all four feet and raced across the sand until he was within range of a humie that looked like he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. "Hey you! What'd you say to piss it off?"

The creepy hand got hold of a lounge chair and broke it half like a breadstick.

Dylan’s run skittered to a stop when someone called to him, and he looked over. It took him a moment to notice the small raccoon. Probably the same raccoon that he’d talked to over the Network.

His immediate thought was to run toward the raccoon, but that would probably just get them both killed. It was a tiny raccoon, the monstrous hand from hell wouldn’t even break a sweat (did it sweat?) crushing him under one of its thumbs.

“I didn’t say anything!” Dylan protested. “I don’t think it has ears, either.”

It definitely seemed to know where he was though, somehow, He started running again, away from the raccoon. Maybe he’d be safe if he could get in the tree cover. That hand probably couldn’t fit between some of the closely packed trees. A few yards never looked so far. Maybe he should star joining Abi for her runs.

It could probably knock them down though.

"Just cause you can't see 'em, don't mean they ain't there," Rocket warned, just as the hand started to chase Dylan. "Ah don't run, goddamn it, you're just--ugh." He was already on the move, reaching up to pull a metal object out of a strap on his back. The object reshaped under his quick-moving hands, going from an innocuous backpack-looking container to a compact machine gun.

The subterfuge had been the only way to walk around a busy city like Vallo without having cops on his ass every minute.

"Hey creepy spiderhand!" The creature kept moving, intent on Dylan. Maybe it was too stupid to realize Rocket was the more dangerous target. Rocket fired a few rounds as the creature reached the tree line, finally getting its attention. It turned slowly towards him, then back towards Dylan, like it was deciding.

"Get up into a tree, kid," he shouted.

Dylan grimaced when Rocket started yelling at the hand, looking over his shoulder to yell at him to run, but he gaped instead at the machine gun that had suddenly appeared in the raccoons hands. His steps faltered, and he turned his attention back to running before he could fall on his face.

He wasn’t sure that climbing a tree was the best decision right now. He didn’t think a tree was liable to stop the hand for more than a second or two if it was really determined at it. Maybe it was better than nothing though.

At least, that’s what Dylan thought, right until he got to the tree and remembered that he’d never been very good at climbing trees even when he had two good hands, and now one of his hands was a hook. His prosthetic was still being worked on. There was no way he could get up that tree, and even less of a chance of him getting down. Instead, he slipped behind it, found some bushes, and hid.

While Rocket had clocked the hook hand cause obviously, who the hell wouldn't, he hadn't thought about it slowing Dylan down at all. Luckily he had the hand's attention fully on him as the kid hid so it was just as good at getting him out of eyesight. Rocket ran up to the creature and lept onto its "back" and fired a number of rounds down at it.

The monster stumbled, finger-legs losing traction in the last bit of sand before the treeline, but it had enough energy to fling Rocket from its back. It scrambled towards him, bleeding something viscous and smelly. Rocket rolled to his back with a beeping device in his hands. When he'd had time to arm it was anyone's guess.

"I'm tryin' to enjoy the ocean, pal." He slapped the device into the very center of the creature, where its fingers couldn't reach, and then he rolled away. "Kick rocks, already." The ticking stopped and an explosion rocked across the beach, turning the monster into mist and carnage.

The explosion unexpected, and loud enough that Dylan reflexively went to cover his ears, both too late and with a painful jab to the temple with the metal curve of his prosthetic. At least, he reflected wryly, his hook wasn’t actually a sharp, pointy pirate hook.

Tentatively, he peered over the bushes, and paled at the gore that now littered the beach. “You’ve seen worse,” he reminded himself. “This is nothing. Just hand meat.” Too bad his little pep talk couldn’t do much for the smell. He took a deep breath, looked both ways for more hands, and then stepped out from the bushes.

“So, you deal with giant killer hands often?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow and hoping he came across as cooler than he felt. “It sure seemed like you knew what you were doing.”

Rocket strolled across the sand with swagger now. He didn't smell any more of these aholes. Then again, it would be hard to smell anything over all the pulpy viscera left on the beach.

"Nah, nothin' like that. But weird crap that needs killin'? Sure. Lots of that. Usually has teeth…" He picked up the tip of a monster finger and then dropkicked it off into the bushes. "...But I'm a roll with the punches kind of guy. You okay?" Dylan looked like he'd been through worse, and recently even, but that didn't mean he couldn't be hurt again. Humies were real fragile.

Dylan picked some spare leaves and brambles from his clothes, frowning a little at them. “Oh, yeah, just fine. I’m old hat at this whole getting attached by vicious monsters thing,” he said. The tightness at the corners of his grin and eyes belied the lightness of his tone, but he waved his hook-hand as demonstration. “It’s a good thing there just happened to be a talking raccoon with a machine gun nearby, huh?”

"Yeah, you're welcome," Rocket said with his particular brand of attitude and sincerity. "Next time, I'm gonna charge ya." That part he didn't really mean, but it never hurt to throw out there. The tiny pattering of feet behind him made him sigh affectionately.

"I told you to stay put."

"I am Groot," the little tree argued indignantly.

"It is dead, but there might be more. Come on. Up." He reached out a hand and Groot leapt onto it and ran up onto Rocket's shoulder. He turned a sideways glance back to Dylan as he took apart his gun. "Anyway, I'm Rocket. You can stop freakin' callin' me a talkin' raccoon."

“Right, Rocket. You mentioned that.” He should probably do better about remembering it. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate very much being called the Human all the time. Not that that would be particularly descriptive, all things considered.

Anyway, Rocket the Raccoon should be easy to remember. One of those nice, alliterative names. “Well, Rocket, it’s nice to meet you in person. I’d shake your hand but…” he held up his hook and tried to keep the grimace from his face.

Rocket wasn't really a shake hands kind of guy anyway. He gave Dylan an amused look and stepped around the gross mess on the beach towards Galdin Quay's waypoint. "Yeah, alright, don't make it weird," he said, as if he wasn't the epitome of weird himself. He stopped a few feet away and shot an impatient squint over his shoulder.

"Hey, are you coming or what? I wasn't kidding when I said there might be more. Even monsters have pals."

Dylan hadn’t been sure what to do. Tagging along with a raccoon and a tree, even if the raccoon was apparently toting around a massive gun, seemed… well, a little awkward, and he wondered if he was supposed to find his way back on his own.

He tried – and failed – not to look too relieved when Rocket called to him though. He jogged a couple of steps to catch up with him. “So,” he said, drawing out the word. “You gotta tell me about these other monsters you’ve fought.”