Sometimes Groot dreams. There’s earth between his toes: loam and leaf fall. Groot wants to root in it, sink deep. Groot wants to turn his face to the sky. Groot wants to bud; how might a groot bloom under its native sun?
Probably Groot knew once. He doesn’t remember now.
The Quadrant’s decks taste of engine grease and ozone, steel and mammal sweat. Peter’s music shifts the air like the breeze off an exotic ocean. Groot anchors himself to the grating with rootlets; he sways with the beat. Gamora sways gently, too, like a fellow groot in a wood.