Rocket wants to rage and scream, to howl at Thor for killing this shitbag before he had a chance to tell them the truth, because the Stones can't be gone, but the Asgardian is already dragging himself out the door like some kind of zombie and leaving them all alone with the body of the monster who killed Rocket's entire family.
Killed so many families, but Rocket's... Rocket's was his, and he'd never had one before, and he loved those losers with all his little heart and now they're all gone.
He grabs at his own ears and pulls hard, and it hurts, but it doesn't wake him up from this horrible nightmare he's been trapped in since the day everything went to shit. This can't be the end, there has to be something, but the gauntlet is empty and Thanos' head is on the other side of the room from his body and even the humans are collapsing into despair, and Rocket falls right along with them.
It's as if his body has an autopilot he never knew about, trudging him back to the ship, because it doesn't feel like him doing it, like he's just watching from somewhere far distant behind his own eyes. He passes Thor, standing uselessly in the middle of the stupid field and staring at a fire that's enveloping the rows of crops, and if Rocket was in control of his own legs he'd be kicking the shit out of him right now. But he's not, so he passes on by as if he doesn't care, following the others back to the ship and leaving Nebula to do whatever she wants with her father's corpse. Spit on it, maybe. Bastard doesn't deserve rites. He didn't give 'em to anyone else he murdered.
He heaves himself into the pilot's seat and stops, though he should be running preflight checks, his hands don't seem to want to move and everything's gone blurry. No one else says a word either, all trapped in this muteness together that seems even worse than the day half the universe went to dust, because now the shock ain't there to muffle the horrible weight of what they're facing. This... this is it.
Natasha's words are like a whipcrack, breaking the silence with a call to action that jolts him out of his head, and Rocket looks up at her, his stomach dropping even further into his feet as he realizes that he doesn't know a damn person still alive that he gives the slightest shit about except for these people. "Where do we even start?" he asks, thinking of the little tasks he's been given over the last three weeks, little ways to keep everyone going, to go out in the world and do... whatever needs doing. But it feels like so little, and Rocket has never felt smaller in his life than he does right now.
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Rocket wants to rage and scream, to howl at Thor for killing this shitbag before he had a chance to tell them the truth, because the Stones can't be gone, but the Asgardian is already dragging himself out the door like some kind of zombie and leaving them all alone with the body of the monster who killed Rocket's entire family.
Killed so many families, but Rocket's... Rocket's was his, and he'd never had one before, and he loved those losers with all his little heart and now they're all gone.
He grabs at his own ears and pulls hard, and it hurts, but it doesn't wake him up from this horrible nightmare he's been trapped in since the day everything went to shit. This can't be the end, there has to be something, but the gauntlet is empty and Thanos' head is on the other side of the room from his body and even the humans are collapsing into despair, and Rocket falls right along with them.
It's as if his body has an autopilot he never knew about, trudging him back to the ship, because it doesn't feel like him doing it, like he's just watching from somewhere far distant behind his own eyes. He passes Thor, standing uselessly in the middle of the stupid field and staring at a fire that's enveloping the rows of crops, and if Rocket was in control of his own legs he'd be kicking the shit out of him right now. But he's not, so he passes on by as if he doesn't care, following the others back to the ship and leaving Nebula to do whatever she wants with her father's corpse. Spit on it, maybe. Bastard doesn't deserve rites. He didn't give 'em to anyone else he murdered.
He heaves himself into the pilot's seat and stops, though he should be running preflight checks, his hands don't seem to want to move and everything's gone blurry. No one else says a word either, all trapped in this muteness together that seems even worse than the day half the universe went to dust, because now the shock ain't there to muffle the horrible weight of what they're facing. This... this is it.
Natasha's words are like a whipcrack, breaking the silence with a call to action that jolts him out of his head, and Rocket looks up at her, his stomach dropping even further into his feet as he realizes that he doesn't know a damn person still alive that he gives the slightest shit about except for these people. "Where do we even start?" he asks, thinking of the little tasks he's been given over the last three weeks, little ways to keep everyone going, to go out in the world and do... whatever needs doing. But it feels like so little, and Rocket has never felt smaller in his life than he does right now.