Chapter Text
"Thor ain't comin', let's roll."
Nebula had been waiting for Rocket to say those words for four days. She hadn't expected anything else from the dejected heap that the "God of Thunder" had become. Rocket hadn't voiced them, but had clearly already had his doubts. His solo return to the ship had confirmed them.
They'd spent a few days at the Avengers compound, trying to figure out what, exactly, was the right thing to do after the snap. The consensus? Nothing. They'd tried.
Steve Rogers had more or less said it himself. An annoyingly persistent optimist. Even he was hopeless.
Thanos was dead. That's where it had ended for Nebula. His plan had been engraved in her brain for years, with machinery and torture and, dare she say it, in the sickness of her own mind, love. There was nothing they could do about what had been done.
Thanos, Infinity Stones in hand, had snapped his fingers, just as he'd promised he would. He'd said it himself; he was inevitable.
All they could hope to do was clean up the mess.
Rocket had insisted on a few more days at the compound. The Benatar was in rough shape and, despite the state he was in, Tony Stark had a few decent ideas on how to get her going. The tech on Earth was limited and extremely primitive, a fact Rocket had complained loudly and at length about to the ill-used Terran. He'd also admitted it was necessary to get their ship properly off the ground. It was all he'd had to work with. The last remaining Guardain had managed to pilfer (borrow, as he put it) enough parts to get their rig flying until, at long last, the ship was ready to go.
Instead of leaving Earth as Nebula hoped he would, Rocket had flown them to New Asgard. He'd spent four whole days on a bender with the Asgardian. Obviously, it hadn't mattered, much like Nebula had expected.
Finally, they were headed out.
Sighing, closing the gangplank of the repaired spacecraft, Rocket took stock of what they had to work with.
Nebula was leaning against the wall, fiddling with her left arm. She'd given herself a tour, and this ship, the one the Guardians, and in extension her sister, had been galavanting around in... it didn't make any sense.
"He forgot." Rocket said, his voice void of emotion.
Nebula looked up at him. The strange creature, sentient and not a fox, according to her... dead... her now dead sister, was staring at something rectangular and, so far as she was concerned, inconsequential.
But Rocket... he was frozen in place. It was all he could see, consuming. The Zune. There it was, forgotten but not forgotten, next to the ratty old backpack Quill was -
No. Had been...
so loathe to part with, sitting on the community table. A table covered in food and cards and empty plates and cups. No Gamora to complain and insist they clean it up. No Peter to feel bad about the forever mess. No Drax to blame it on someone else. No Mantis to eventually groan and clean up the majority. No Groot to... dammit, no Groot to sit back and annoy the shit outta him... no Groot.
Rocket felt sick.
Damn.
Nebula, closing up her arm, paid discrete attention. After a moment of simply staring at it, Rocket took the Zune in his hand and tapped a single button.
Play.
Instantly, music emanated throughout the ship.
Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothin' ever seems to fit
Hangin' around…
Rocket pushed the play button quickly. Abruptly the music stopped, silence crowding in around them. He stared at the device in his hands, frowning. Nebula, as nonchalantly as she could, watched him; after a long moment, he carried it as though it were something other, something precious, to a perch in the corner, a place where it clearly belonged, set it up, and left it there.
Clearing his throat, wiping his nose on his sleeve, the small creature moved to the head of the table and stared up into what, so far as Nebula could tell, was a void.
"Damn," he said, more to himself, "how the hell...?" He looked around, then grabbed a chair, dragging it across the floor and climbing up on it.
Man.
He continued staring. Then -
"Are you stayin'?"
Nebula looked up sharply. Rocket hadn't taken his eyes off of the blank space in front of him, hands limp at his sides. His voice had sounded thick, distant. Strange. Clearly, though, the question was directed at her.
For a moment, Nebula considered:
"Yes."
The thing in front of her, an enemy and brief acquaintance, a thing she had shot and also held the hand of, sighed and looked at the floor. For a moment, the sides of his mouth trembled.
"It ain't much. It ain't what it should be," he said, finally looking towards her. His jaw was clenched, but after a rough heartbeat he breathed, "but welcome to the Guardians of the Galaxy."
Curtly, Nebula nodded.
Rocket nodded back. Looking up, he tapped the air in front of him, brow set. A huge screen appeared before him, blinking lights and messages crowding the world of his gaze.
His eyes widened at the overwhelming information before him, then narrowed.
"Okay," he said, "Here we go."