re_alignment_logs | Take a shot...or two...or three.

Entry tags:

✘ marvel comics (616) | rocket raccoon

Take a shot...or two...or three.

WHO: Rocket and Fort Max
WHERE: The junk pile, aka makeshift shooting range.
WHEN A day or so after all the Christmas stuff appeared.
WHAT: What better way to celebrate the holidays than to destroy stuff?? BD
WARNINGS: N/A...I think.

So his little excursion into the Badlands hadn't exactly been the adventure he'd hoped for. Not that it had been too dangerous or anything, but Rocket was starting to realize just how boring things could be without a team to support you and banter with. He'd grown far too use to being around the other Guardians that going solo just..it didn't feel right.

Needless to say, after a day of wandering the border and having some fun with the things he ran into, Rocket had returned to Haven.

He kept to his loner status for the most part--though that big scaly bastard he'd talked with over the feed had been entertaining and he kind of wanted to meet him in person--but he did end up crossing paths with one of the few giant robots inhabiting the place that who's company he did kind of enjoy.

Despite the fact that there was a shooting range at the police headquarters they could have used, the pair made their own in the junk pile--which allowed for a lot more destruction which was the sort of thing that Rocket absolutely loved.

Firing off a couple shots at one of the larger targets, Rocket smirked to himself as he perched on top of a pile of junk that put him at a good hit for such a target, tail snapping about happily.

"Now this is what I've been missing," he mused, spinning his pistol around in his paw before blowing at the tip. "Always feels good to destroy something."

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Fortress Maximus never would have thought he'd have gotten along so well with an organic, but to be fair, he hadn't met too many organics. This one, though...hell, most've them here were decent. And this one even seemed to have part of the same processor as Max himself.

The larger mech was seated a bit further down, though, considering his size compared to Rocket - this put his helm at about the same height as the smaller creature's. He was adjusting the setting on one of the guns he'd managed to get working, re-calibrating it to another level...

"Got the feeling you were about as used to peace as me," he drawled, raising the rifle, bracing it- and then firing. It belched a satisfactory amount of energy (with a sound to boot), but the alignment was completely off - it missed the target by a good few yards. He shook his head in disapproval, lowering it again to readjust.

Not as working as he thought it was, but hell, that was what this was for.

"It's boring, mate, really farkin' boring," Rocket grumbled, watching the other take the shot, eyes narrowing a bit. Oh yes he was jealous of the big guns all of the robots were packing, especially Max here. How he missed his arsenal back home. "I know that's what us good guys are always fighting for but--"

His tail snapped a bit as he aimed both pistols and fired off a few rapid shots at the target, managing to get a few good hits in, though none of them dead center like he wanted.

"--peace never lasts anywhere, so I'm use to tearing things up all the time."

"Hn. Boring can be good, once in a while." Like when you're the warden of a prison and 'boring' means that everything is going just fine, just according to plan, but...

He watched the shots fly past, nodding slightly at the aim. He hit the target, at least, and if he could just get the damn rifle to as well - he could compensate for the rest.

Maybe if he lowered the power output...

"Too much gets you rusty, though," he amended, "You were out in the field?" Oh, he remembers those days, hell of a lot more exciting even if that went for both good and bad.

Rocket paused, holstering one of his pistols to check the other over a bit, snorting softly as his tail lashed.

"Guess that's true...there are some battles I wish hadn't occurred," he murmured, ears falling back as his thoughts went to the Skrull invasion. Nothing like not being able to trust any of your teammates because you aren't sure if they're them or a shape shifting alien.

"Aye, always. We Guardians always had something else we had to deal with, whether it was a rip in the fabric of reality, an invasion, or a beserk demi-god who was in love with Death," Rocket explained rather nonchalantly, shrugging before locking the barrel of his pistol back in place. "What about you, mate? Out in the field much?"

...

"Huh."

Oddly enough, coming from Rocket, he can take that as at least sort or believable. And considering they're all back on Cybertron, surrounded by a handful of figures passing themselves off as 'Firstforged' - whatever the hell that means - maybe it isn't so hard to believe.

It does get a brief stare from Fort Max, before he shakes his head. He's not even gonna pry.

"Used to be. Was made during the war, for it, really - then I got posted to Garrus-9 as the warden, and things went from there." Wasn't so bad a post, really, not until the last couple of years.

He makes a forceful decision not to linger on that, instead raising the weapon, squinting, and firing. There's much less of a belch...

...but one of the targets is completely gone.

Pity it wasn't the one he was aiming for. He scowls, abruptly, and smacks the side of the rifle. "Piece of slag-!"

"Warden huh? Sounds like it could be fun," Rocket said sincerely, ears pitching forward as the other took his shot. He winced, barely though, tail flicking this way and then before he holstered his other pistol. Dropping to all fours, the raccoon quickly and skillfully darted down the side of the junk pile, ending up beside the other.

"Lemme see it, mate," he quipped as he straightened up, holding up a paw. "This sort of thing is what I live for."

Plus, he would have been lying if he said he didn't just like messing around with different weapons and learning how they worked.

"So you said you were made during the war? Are all you lot made then?"

...down there, you're even smaller, Rocket. If Fort Max dropped the gun on you you would be squished.

So Max doesn't drop it. He lowers it, slowly, with only slightly more care than any soldier would normally give their weapon.

"Had it's moments." A pause. "I think we had our own brush with Death a good few years back, there was this Prime who'd come back from the dead or something and wanted to take Optimus back with him...i'unno."

Quite frankly he was just fine with letting Optimus handle it. He hadn't been happy about it, but he wasn't a complicated mech. His response would have been to throw more at the - zombie? was that the term? - until it went down, but it'd become clear that it wouldn't have worked...

"One way or another. You wanna get theological, we were made by a Hand've gods, but I'm not the one to ask about that."

Ears falling back, Rocket eyed the weapon a bit before he hauled himself right up onto it. He didn't hesitate to start moving about it on all fours, pausing here and there to look at bits of it, familiarizing himself with the make of the entire thing before nodding to himself. The raccoon set to work adjusting a few things here and there, listening at the same time--if the way his ears were pivoting towards Fort Max was any indication.

"And here I thought things were complicated where I'm from," he said with a snort, pausing in his work to glance up at the other, tail swaying. "You'd make for a fine Guardian from the sounds of it, mate. You and Drax would get along real farkin' well."

A little bit of a shrug there. Max is watching Rocket work, trying to figure out what he's doing. The compliment...

"Wouldn't know," he says evasively. "You wanna give me an idea of what a Guardian is?" Because from the sounds of it, it's not just someone who- well, guards. Seems slightly more complex than that.

"We Guardians are the protectors of the galaxy," Rocket said in a bit of a prideful manner, puffing out his chest a bit before sinking down again to get back to work, eyes narrowing as he eyed all the components he was currently toying with. "We lot make sure nothing threatens the galaxy and keep things in balance. There's plenty of crazy farkin' people and groups out there--like those religious zealots that I just wanted to shoot in the face every time they opened their mouths--that want to wipe out everything they can. Shape it all in their image."

His ears flicked before falling back as an annoyed, chittering sort of sound escaped him.

"We Guardians make sure that doesn't happen using any means necessarily. Star Lord, that's our leader, likes to try and avoid killing but you and I both know sometimes it just ends up going that route, right mate?" the raccoon mused, straightening up again and dusting off his paws.

"There. Try that. Adjusted the calibration a bit more to sync with the power output. Should make it a smoother and easier to handle," he said as he skittered down off the gun, hopping off onto the junk again. "Fire away, mate."

Star-eyed about it, aren't you, Rocket? Not that Fort Max can blame him or anything. He smiles, slightly, at the explanation, even makes a short 'hn' that could be a laugh at his clear annoyance. Not laughing at you, Rocket. Really. Honest.

"Sometimes killing's the only way to solve a problem." Or fastest. Or easiest. But...not to say Max has ever outright liked taking life, bu if it's saved more on the long run...

He takes the gun, looking it over briefly. "Dunno, though. Cybertronians're pretty hated where I come from, at least by everybody else - let's just say our little war isn't have as little as it should've been."

A moment to aim...

"Lotta races wouldn't mind seeing us stamped out completely."

He fires. And this time- well, again, not dead center, but at least he hits where he was aiming for. Max makes a surprised 'huh' in approval, and gives a nod of thanks to Rocket.

"Trust me when I say none of us Guardians have the best track records, mate. We all come from different backgrounds. Drax is known to most of the galaxy as Drax the Destroyer. Gamora is the galaxy's deadliest woman, hands down. Groot, my best mate back home, is one of the last of his kind. Star Lord and Quasar are really the only ones that come from good backgrounds..."

And even then it's questionable.

Rocket crosses his arms as he watches the other take the shot, ears flicking happily as he smirks.

"A lot better than it was at least," he said contently, nodding back at the Cybertronian before making his way back up the junk hill. "Can't say I've ever seen any blokes like you back home though. Would give you the advantage, I think."

Slightly reassuring. "Dunno if I like being compared to a Destroyer, then," he drawls, humor countering the uncertainty. "But I guess it fits. Pit knows I earned a name for myself at Simanzi." Among other places.

He tries again, sighting another target now that he's got a feel for the recoil, and-

Closer to the center. Good. He may be able to work with this actually on him.

"I guess being unknown's better than infamous." Nothing else, people'd underestimate him.

Rocket snorted a bit, perched on top of the junk pile once more as he drew his pistols again.

"Don't let the name fool you, mate, Drax is one bloke you'd want on your side. His loyal and fierce. Stands by his team and that is a quality that defines a Guardian," he said with a firm nod before taking aim with one of his guns and firing at the same target that Max had. His hit pretty close to the other's, a satisfied flick to his tail saying without words he was glad he could stay on par with the larger being.

"You'd make a name for yourself, got no doubt about that, mate."

If Rocket says it, he won't doubt it. Max just nods, pulling back the gun so that he can examine Rocket's work for himself. Mech- no. Kid- not in the slightest. Fuzz-no, he's not gonna use that. Soldier knows his way around a weapon, that's for sure.

He wouldn't mind working with him in the future. Better than the Lost Light, anyway. Setting off someplace new, not having to worry about any stigma, just wash everything away and only look ahead...

"Gotta take care of a few things before I do anything like that," he says, almost ruefully. Quietly if nothing else. He's not looking forwards to any of it.

Hell, he's not even sure there'll be an after, but...

He can't run. He's already done too much.

Rocket slowly lowers his pistol, glancing at the other out of the corner of his eye. He's heard a tone like that before, few times actually, and he knows what it could potentially mean. Hell, he's used it a few times himself when the situation's seemed bleak at best.

Holstering his weapon, the raccoon rests his paws on the pistols on their respective sides, peering over and up at the larger being with a bit of a nod.

"Understood, mate. If there's anything I can ever do...Guardian or not, mate, you're still a friend and I'll stand by you if you need be to. No matter what the situation," he said in all seriousness, ears perked forward. "Everyone needs someone to watch their back after all, mate."

There's a wry smile, barely visible over how close he's examining the gun. It's... reassuring, but at the same time...

"Not myself I'm worried about, Rocket." That's a lie and you know it. "But thanks. We'll see if I ever get the opportunity to take care of things, with the way they're goin' here..."

Those 'things' may just have the luck to wander off in to the Badlands before he confronts them.

"All the more reason you need someone to worry about you, mate," the raccoon said as he tapped his claws on his guns before peering over at the targets. "No matter what, I hope fate's on your side."

Too many times he'd been on the wrong side of fate and he knew how crappy that could be. Hopefully things would work out well enough for his large companion.

Tail flicking, Rocket drew his weapons and fired, hitting three different targets, two shots to each right near the center.

"And that you're carrying a farkin' good weapon or two," he added, glancing at the other with a smirk.

"Hn." A wry smile. "Appreciate it."

And he does. It's...nice to have the support. Pit knows he'll need all he can get, one way or another.

"Though- why do you think I'm out here?" he remarks, watching Rocket fire. Not bad. "Odds are, I'm gonna need more than just two."

Or at least, more than two average ones. He needs to outmatch his enemy, one way or another, and that won't be easy. All the guns in the world won't do him any good if they can't even make a dent on the Phase Sixer's frame...

"Mate, everyone needs more than two. It's driving me nuts not having all my guns here," Rocket said, growling a bit irritably before a wistful sort of sigh escaped him. "Bloody hell do I have some beautiful pieces back home. Especially my rocket launcher."

Yeah, that one was one of his personal favorites. His pistols were great and all, but sometimes a good rocket launcher to the face was what some people needed.

"You tried making anything new?" he asked, tail flicking curiously.

"Found a hell of lot of spare parts in the pile. You're welcome to mess with them, if you can make sense of'm." Never hurts to have things that look like weapons, if nothing else. Worst comes to worse, they could be used as bludgeons.

As to making something new...

"Nah. I can upkeep a gun, I can do some repairs, but making one from scratch?" Sure, you put the energy pack in one part and put the wires there, but...he shrugs.

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Take a shot...or two...or three.

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