Chapter Text
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Rocket hated silence.
It sat wrong in his chest, crawled under his skin. It was the kind that made thoughts get loud.
The room was a mess—tools half-put-away, sheet music crumpled and tossed like it had personally offended him. His guitar rested against the wall, strings still, accusing. Rocket stood in the middle of it all with his jaw clenched and his shoulders tight, one hand raking through his hair hard enough to hurt.
“Stupid,” he snapped, not sure if he meant the song or himself. “Write something, you idiot.” he mutters, voice rough with the kind of impatience he wears like armor. He bangs his knee—what’s left of it—against the chair leg and then laughs, a sharp, self-directed sound.
He’d written dozens of things before—rowdy tunes, noise for noise’s sake. But this? This was supposed to mean something. He wanted it to come from somewhere real. Something honest.
And unfortunately, the only familiar place it could come from was his past.
Rocket exhaled sharply and dragged a chair closer, sitting down heavier than necessary. His prosthetic clicked faintly as he adjusted it, the sound familiar enough that he barely noticed it anymore. Barely.
Close your eyes, he told himself. Think.
The countryside came back whether he wanted it to or not.
It always smelled like dirt and oil and cut grass. Wide skies, too big for a kid who didn’t know what to do with all that space. Rocket remembered running through tall weeds with scraped knees and soot on his hands, pockets full of half-working parts he’d scavenged and stolen and borrowed. He’d always been building something—little contraptions that sparked and hissed and sometimes blew up a bit too close.
He’d wanted to be an engineer before he even knew the word for it.
His caretaker used to shout when things broke. Not at first—first there were sighs, pinched looks, muttered complaints. Rocket had learned early how to shrink himself when voices got sharp. Still, he kept building. Kept dreaming. Kept telling himself that one day he’d make something that worked so well it’d make everything worth it.
The memory turned sour fast.
Metal.
Fire.
A sound so loud it swallowed everything else.
And him, too.
When he woke up, he was lighter. Right arm. Left leg.
Just… gone.
Rocket swallowed, jaw clenching as his shoulders tensed. His fingers curled into fists on the desk, knuckles whitening. He remembered the way the room felt smaller after that. The way eyes lingered too long. The way his caretaker stopped meeting his gaze.
He hadn’t been yelled at.
That would’ve been easier.
Instead, there was distance. Frustration. A quiet resentment that settled in the air like dust. Feeding him felt like obligation. Helping him move felt like burden. The kid who once built things was now something broken that needed fixing.
The day it happened was burned into him.
No big fight. No dramatic goodbye.
Just a trip.
A stop.
And then—
Playgrounds.
Not laughter or swings like the name suggested. Just concrete, noise, and the heavy understanding that he wasn’t being picked back up. He remembered sitting there, staring after the retreating figure, waiting longer than he should have because part of him refused to believe it.
Rocket swallowed hard in the present, breath coming a little rougher than before.
He stared down at the blank half-crumpled page of music in front of him.
The page blurred.
Rocket dragged a hand down his face, teeth digging into his lip like he could bite the memories back where they came from. The room felt too quiet again—too tight. His chest ached in that dull, familiar way he never talked about.
Then—
BZZT.
His desk rattled as his phone lit up, vibrating against a scattered pile of screws and guitar picks.
Rocket flinched, then scowled at it. “What is it this time?”
Another buzz.
Then another.
He grabbed it, thumb hovering before he unlocked the screen.
[GROUPCHAT: NO BRAKES]
Skateboard: ayo is saturday still a thing or are we bailing again
Boombox: who is “we” speak for urself coward
Coil: i literally already told my mom im busy saturday so it better be
Skateboard: see this is why we need CONFIRMATION
Boombox: confirmation for what bro u just show up
Coil: rocket u alive or did u explode again
Rocket snorted before he could stop himself.
The sound surprised him.
He leaned back in the chair, shoulders easing just a fraction, and typed one-handed.
Rocket: rude
Rocket: also i didn’t explode this week so yes im alive
Boombox: THIS WEEK
Boombox: insane qualifier
Skateboard: so saturday yes or no my guy
Coil: i already called dibs on aux btw
Rocket: absolutely not
Coil: fight me
Rocket huffed, shaking his head. The tightness in his chest loosened, just a little. The silence didn’t feel as loud with them talking over it.
Rocket: saturday’s on. same place. dont be late or im leaving u
Skateboard: u say that every time
Rocket: and yet
Boombox: LMAO
Coil: okay but like fr ur bringing the guitar right
Rocket: …maybe
Boombox: that’s a yes
Skateboard: HE’S DOING THE THING
Rocket: shut up
He stared at the screen for a moment longer, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.
The glow faded as he locked the phone and set it face-down on the desk. The room slipped back into quiet, but it didn’t drag him under this time. Instead, it tugged him sideways—backward.
To the first time he’d learned what silence really meant.
Playgrounds didn’t sleep.
The name was a lie. Always had been.
There were no swings, no laughter. Just cracked concrete, busted fencing, and the constant hum of voices raised too loud or too low—arguments, deals, warnings. Kids slept with one eye open there. If they slept at all. You learned fast who to avoid, where not to step, and how to keep your back against something solid.
Rocket learned faster than most.
He had to.
Losing his arm and leg didn’t make Playgrounds kinder. It made him a target.
So he adapted.
Scrap metal became joints. Leather straps turned into braces. Bolts scavenged from trash bins held together something that barely passed as a prosthetic, but it was his. Crude. Heavy. Functional. He made it work because there wasn’t another option.
The hammer came later.
He kept it hooked at his side, weight familiar in his palm. When hands got grabby or eyes lingered too long, he swung once—hard, precise. Word spread quickly. The kid with the metal limbs hit back.
Harder than you’d expect.
He’d found it half-buried under debris—rusted, chipped, the handle wrapped in tape someone else had given up on. Rocket cleaned it, balanced it, learned its weight like an extension of his body. It cracked knuckles. Broke fingers. Sent a message.
Don’t try me.
He used it to guard his space, to scare off thieves who thought missing limbs meant easy prey. When money was tight—and it always was—he learned which passers-by didn’t look down at their hands, which pockets hung loose. He hated it, but hate didn’t fill his stomach.
Survival did.
That’s when Skateboard showed up.
Too clean, for one. Too casual. He’d rolled in one afternoon like he belonged there, board tucked under his arm, eyes sharp but not cruel. He watched Rocket fend off a would-be thief with one clean swing of the hammer, metal ringing against concrete.
Instead of backing off, Skateboard whistled.
“Damn,” he said. “You always hit like that?”
Rocket spun on him instantly, hammer raised. “You looking to find out?”
Skateboard lifted both hands, grinning. “Relax, man. Just saying. You got form.”
Rocket didn’t lower the hammer.
Skateboard didn’t leave.
They talked in short bursts after that. Mostly trash. Mostly nothing. Skateboard brought food sometimes—claimed he had extra. Claimed wrong turns. Claimed excuses Rocket didn’t believe for a second.
One night, Skateboard finally said it.
“Look,” he muttered, not meeting Rocket’s eyes. “I got a place. Not great, but it’s got walls. You could crash. If you want.”
Rocket laughed.
Sharp. Humorless.
“I don’t need charity,” he snapped. “Find someone else.”
Skateboard nodded. “Sure.”
And then—he stayed anyway.
Didn’t push. Didn’t pity. Just stuck close. Showed Rocket shortcuts. Which streets to avoid after dark. How to balance better on uneven ground.
He never once treated Rocket like he was fragile.
That was what did it.
Somewhere between shared meals and near-misses, between bruises and bad jokes, Skateboard stopped being a stranger.
He became constant.
And constants were dangerous things to get used to, for a lot of reasons, really.
Rocket was halfway down that thought when—
“Rocket.”
The voice was flat. Familiar. Cutting clean through the memory like a blade.
Rocket jerked, eyes snapping open. “—What?”
“Trash,” Zuka said from the doorway. “It’s full. Again.”
Rocket blinked, disoriented for half a second, then groaned. “I was busy.”
Zuka raised an eyebrow. “You were staring at paper.”
Rocket scowled. “You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do,” Zuka replied, deadpan. “Take it out before it starts gaining sentience.”
Rocket snorted despite himself, pushing up from the chair. He grabbed the bag, muttering under his breath as he limped past. “You ever think about asking nicely?”
Zuka shrugged. “No.”
That—that was the man who’d found him.
It had been late. Cold. Rocket had been crouched behind a dumpster in some back alley after he’d ran far, far away from another gang fight, a dimmer place—away from all the god awful city lights of whatever place he’s found himself stranded in. He had his hammer in hand, half-asleep and bleeding from a cut above his brow he hadn’t bothered to clean. He’d heard footsteps and swung on instinct.
The hammer never landed.
Zuka had caught his wrist mid-swing, grip firm.
“Easy,” he’d said, calm as anything. “If I wanted you unconscious, you’d already be there.”
Rocket tore himself away from Zuka’s hand like it burnt.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Watch ‘yer manners, kid.”
Rocket snarled, tail swaying behind him in irritation. “Never heard of ‘em, old man.”
Zuka sighed.
Not annoyed. Not angry.
Just… tired.
Rocket took that personally.
He lunged.
The hammer came down hard, metal whistling through the air. Zuka stepped aside with infuriating ease, letting the blow crater the pavement where his foot had been.
“Hold still!” Rocket barked, pivoting fast despite the leg, swinging again.
Zuka blocked with his forearm—not catching the hammer, just redirecting the arc enough that it glanced off and skidded wide.
“Kid,” Zuka said calmly, “you’re telegraphing.”
“Kid—” Rocket snapped, jabbing forward. “—you’re condescending.”
Another swing. Faster this time. Rocket put his weight into it, teeth bared, sparks flying when the hammer scraped brick.
Zuka ducked, spun, and shoved Rocket’s shoulder just hard enough to throw him off balance.
Rocket stumbled, caught himself, and snarled. “Oh, real brave. Pushing a cripple.”
Zuka winced. Just a little. “You said it, not me.”
“Don’t get cute,” Rocket snapped, charging again. “I eat guys like you for breakfast.”
Zuka raised both hands, palms out, backing up as Rocket advanced. “Given your aim, I doubt that.”
Rocket swung low—dirty, meant to take out the legs. Zuka hopped back, coat fluttering, then caught the hammer’s handle with both hands when Rocket tried to yank it back.
For a second, they were locked there.
Rocket glared up at him, chest heaving. “Let. Go.”
Zuka looked down at the prosthetic, at the arm, at the fury packed into too-young eyes.
“No,” he said simply.
Rocket growled and headbutted him.
It almost worked.
Zuka staggered half a step, grip loosening just enough for Rocket to wrench the hammer free and swing again—only for Zuka to catch the shaft near the head and twist, sending the weapon clattering across the alley.
“Hey!” Rocket shouted. “That’s mine!”
“You were going to dent my ribs with it,” Zuka replied mildly. “I object.”
Rocket launched himself forward anyway, fist flying. Zuka blocked, turned the momentum, and swept Rocket’s leg out from under him—careful. Controlled. Rocket hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean out of him.
Zuka stepped back immediately.
Didn’t press it.
Rocket lay there for a second, stunned. Then he laughed—a sharp, breathless sound. “Wow. Congrats. You beat up a half-dead teenager.”
Zuka rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You attacked me first.”
“Yeah? You walked too loud.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“Given my state?” Rocket shot back, scrambling up. “It is, since I wanted to live.”
They stared at each other across the alley.
“…You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Zuka said finally.
Rocket scoffed. “Join the line.”
Zuka tilted his head, studying him. “You always this charming?”
“Only with strangers who walk up to me in dark alleys.”
A pause.
Then—unexpectedly—Zuka huffed out a laugh.
Rocket blinked, thrown. “What?”
“Nothing,” Zuka said. “Just—figured you’d bite. Didn’t expect you to talk this much while doing it.”
Rocket bristled. “You still here?”
Zuka nodded once. “Yeah.”
“…Why?”
Zuka glanced down the alley, then back at Rocket. “Because you swing like someone who’s been alone too long.”
Rocket’s grip tightened around empty air where his hammer should be.
“…I don’t need help.”
Zuka’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Sit,” he said, nodding to a crate.
Rocket bristled. “I’m not—”
“Bleeding,” Zuka cut in, already crouching. “And you’re swaying.”
Rocket opened his mouth to argue, then hissed as Zuka pressed a cloth to the cut on his brow. He froze, startled more than hurt.
“…You gonna knock me out now?” Rocket muttered.
“If I wanted that,” Zuka said calmly, dabbing away blood, “you’d be snoring.”
Rocket scowled but didn’t pull away.
Zuka worked efficiently. Cleaned the cut. Wrapped it tight. Didn’t comment on the scars, the prosthetics, the way Rocket flinched when fingers brushed metal instead of skin. When he was done, he stood and held out a hand.
“C’mon.”
“To where,” Rocket demanded.
“Food.”
Rocket squinted. “That’s it?”
Zuka raised an eyebrow. “You want soup and bread?”
Rocket followed him anyway.
Turns out, Rocket wasn’t in Playground anymore—he was in some sort of bigshot city named Crossroads.
Dunno how he found himself there from just running, though.
The street vendor didn’t ask questions. Zuka paid quick, handed Rocket a steaming container before Rocket could protest. Rocket ate like he hadn’t seen food in days—which, admittedly, he hadn’t—watching Zuka over the rim of the bowl like he was waiting for the catch.
It came later. In Zuka’s place.
The apartment was small but clean. Lived-in. Warm. Zuka pointed him toward the bathroom, tossed him a towel without ceremony.
“Shower,” he said. “I’ll set clean clothes outside.”
Rocket stared. “What’s the angle.”
Zuka paused, then turned slowly. “The what.”
“No one does this for free,” Rocket snapped. “You want something. Money. Revenge. Blood. Say it.”
Zuka’s expression hardened—not angry, but firm in a way that stopped Rocket cold.
“I don’t collect debts from kids,” he said. “Especially not hurt ones.”
Rocket scoffed weakly. “I’m not a kid.”
“Yeah,” Zuka said quietly. “You are.”
“Tch. Whatever.”
Rocket showered. Let the grime and blood wash down the drain. He stood there longer than necessary, steam fogging the mirror, trying to figure out when exactly this had gone wrong—when kindness had started to feel suspicious instead of safe.
He slept that night. Properly. For the first time in a long while.
He stayed the next day.
And the one after that.
Zuka didn’t hover. Didn’t smother. He showed Rocket the shop instead—tools neatly arranged, machines humming low and steady. He put Rocket to work in ways that mattered. Small fixes at first. Sorting parts. Watching. Learning.
“Anger’s not bad,” Zuka told him once, after Rocket snapped a wrench clean in half. “Just gotta aim it.”
Rocket didn’t always listen.
Zuka never gave up.
Somewhere between late nights at the shop and shared meals, between lectures and laughter Rocket pretended not to enjoy, the constant settled in again.
Though for whatever reason (that he's glad for), he finally found it in himself to accept these constants.
Click.
After he shut the door, Rocket tied the trash bag off with a sharp tug and slung it over his shoulder.
The night air hit him the moment he stepped outside—cool, damp, familiar. He dumped the bag into the bin with a hollow thud, wiped his hands on his pants, and stood there a second longer than necessary, staring up at the dim slice of sky between buildings.
I don’t have any idea what to write. He thought.
He shook his head, muttering, “Think, dumbass.”
Then he headed back inside.
The door barely closed behind him when Zuka’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Before you sit back down—store run.”
Rocket froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned. “I just took out the trash.”
“Yes. Gold star,” Zuka replied. “Now we’re out of rice.”
Rocket squinted. “We literally bought rice.”
“Three days ago.”
“And?”
“And you eat like you’re preparing for winter.”
Rocket scoffed, limping into the kitchen. “Maybe if you didn’t cook like you’re allergic to seasoning, I wouldn’t have to compensate.”
Zuka didn’t look up from the counter. “Shoes. Wallet. List’s on the fridge.”
Rocket stared at him. “You didn’t even ask.”
Zuka finally glanced over, unimpressed. “You want me to beg?”
Rocket opened his mouth. Closed it. Clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“…You’re lucky I’m already up,” he muttered, grabbing the list.
Zuka hummed. “Uh-huh.”
Rocket snatched his jacket off the hook, jamming his arm through a little too aggressively. He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder.
“You know I’m charging you emotional damages for this.”
Zuka waved him off. “Get the cheap brand.”
Rocket rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t miss me too much,” he shot back, already halfway out the door.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
And Zuka, alone in the kitchen, allowed himself the faintest smile.
Rocket had shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he headed down the street, gait uneven but practiced. The city hummed around him—traffic hissing past, signs buzzing, voices layering into that familiar wall of noise he preferred over silence.
Grocery runs were easy. Simple.
He pushed through the automatic doors, ignoring the blast of cold air, and grabbed a basket on reflex. Rice. Canned stuff. Whatever Zuka would complain about later if he didn’t get it. He moved down the aisles with quick efficiency, scanning shelves, tossing items in with dull thuds. Muscle memory. Years of counting coins, weighing needs against wants.
A kid nearly clipped his basket, muttered an apology. Rocket grunted back, not unkindly.
He reached for a bag of rice—
A sharp shout cut through the store.
Rocket’s hand paused mid-grab.
Another voice followed. Louder. Angry.
Something clattered. A shelf rattled.
Rocket slowly straightened, head turning toward the sound. His grip tightened on the basket handle, knuckles whitening as his senses sharpened, body already shifting into that old, familiar readiness.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.
Rocket set the basket down.
And started toward the noise.
Rocket rounded the end of the aisle just as the tension peaked.
He spotted them immediately.
The guy stood out in the worst possible way—tall, hood pulled low, black hoodie and sweatpants blending into the crowd almost well enough. A face mask covered most of his expression, cap brim shadowing his eyes. Almost discreet.
Almost.
The wings ruined that.
Two sets. One flaring faintly from his back, feathers tucked tight like he was trying to make himself smaller. The other—smaller, curved—rose from his head, half-hidden under the cap. Brown and white feathers, clean and bright. His hair matched—mostly white though red-tipped, with brown at the crown and a few stubborn brown strands slipping free all around.
People were staring. Some whispering. Phones half-raised.
Rocket’s jaw tightened.
The winged man was backed near a display of instant noodles, hands up in a placating gesture. His posture screamed calm, every movement measured and careful, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal
“I really appreciate your support.” the man was saying softly, voice low, steady. “But I’m just here to shop. That’s all.”
The other person—too close, eyes too bright, uncanny almost—laughed nervously. “C’mon, just one picture! Or one hug… I’ve followed you forever. You can’t just ignore your fans like that. Please!”
“I’m not ignoring you,” the man replied gently. “I’m just asking for space. I—”
The fan didn’t move.
They leaned in instead, hand lifting like they might grab a sleeve, a feather—something.
Rocket felt that old, ugly spark flare in his chest.
The winged man shifted, wings rustling despite himself, feathers brushing the shelves with a soft, unmistakable sound.
“I need you to step back,” the man said, still calm—but firmer now. Like this was another Tuesday for him.
The fan scoffed. “Why? Please don't be scared of me, Swordie! You know I just wanna take a pic, surely you’d let me?”
Rocket stopped a few steps away.
His fingers flexed.
The fan reached out.
Just a light touch—fingers brushing the sleeve of the hoodie, edging toward the feathers like he’d already decided they belonged to him.
That was enough.
Rocket moved.
He crossed the distance in two strides and shoved the fan hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back into a display of boxed snacks.
“Hands off,” Rocket snapped, voice sharp as a crack of metal.
The fan yelped, more shocked than hurt. “What the hell, man?! Who the fuck are you?!”
“None of your goddamn business, and the hell is you,” Rocket shot back, planting himself between them. He stood wide, unyielding, prosthetic clicking softly from underneath his pants as he settled his weight. “Did you miss the part where he said no, or do you just ignore words you don’t like?”
The winged man froze behind him.
The fan recovered fast, face flushing red. “This doesn’t concern you! I wasn’t even—”
“You were touching him,” Rocket said flatly. “Even after he said no.”
The fan shoved Rocket’s shoulder.
Bad move.
Rocket swung back on instinct—not with the hammer, not here—but with his left, catching the guy across the jaw. The impact echoed loud enough to turn every head in the aisle.
“Back. Up,” Rocket growled.
The fan staggered, then lunged, wild and angry. Rocket blocked the grab, elbowed him hard in the ribs, and drove him backward again. Shelves rattled. Something shattered on the floor.
“Security!” someone shouted.
The fan tried to swing again. Rocket caught his wrist and twisted, forcing a sharp cry out of him.
Before Rocket could press it further, uniformed officers appeared, hustling the fan into their grasp.
“No! No!! Swordie! Please! I didn’t mean—please! Sword! I—” the fan screamed, wriggling uselessly in the officers’ grip, face red, voice high-pitched and pleading.
“I—I’m so sorry! Please! I just wanted to—he—please don’t—Sword! Please! I love you!!”
Rocket scoffed, picking up his basket from where it was last discarded and leaning against the nearby shelf. “What a freak show.”
Rocket froze mid-step, eyes darting around as the murmur of the crowd turned into an actual swarm of movement.
People shuffled, phones lifted, some whispering urgently. And then—guards. Thick, broad-shouldered, moving like walls of black between the crowd and the winged man.
Rocket blinked. What the hell is going on?
Sword stepped forward, bright, despite the chaos. He moved past the guards with ease, and came face to face with Rocket.
“Hi there!” Sword said, voice cheerful, voice carrying over the murmurs. “I—I just wanted to personally thank you for stepping in.”
Rocket froze mid-breath. “Uh… who are you?”
Sword tilted his head slightly, smile unshakable. “Oh! You don’t know me? That’s okay—I guess that’s probably… safer, huh?” He laughed lightly, the sound bright like bells. “I’m Sword! You saved me just now. That was very brave and cool!”
Rocket took a second to register everything that's happened, then he crossed his arms—his basket hooked through his prosthetic arm—and raised one brow. “Uh… right. So you’re… some bigshot, yeah? Fancy guy with a fan club and bodyguards or something?”
Sword chuckled again, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Bigshot? Oh, no, not really! I mean… I’m just me. I like my life pretty simple. But—uh—I am a little… known, I guess.” His wings shifted gently, a soft brush of feathers against his hoodie. “I don’t like to make a fuss about it, but… I really am grateful you helped me.”
Rocket huffed, clearly unimpressed. “Grateful, huh? You don’t even know me. I just don’t like weirdos.”
Sword’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew warmer, brighter—almost painfully cheerful. “Well, that’s exactly why I’m glad you did it. You did the right thing even without knowing me. That’s… rare, you know?”
Rocket blinked. Bright… too bright. He let out a dry snort. “Right. Sure, uhuh.”
Sword laughs awkwardly before tugging at the strings of his hood. “Actually… that reminds me. I’ve been looking for a bodyguard. And… You seemed reliable!”
Rocket froze mid-step, jaw tightening. “…Me? You kidding?”
Sword shook his head, wings fluttering faintly behind him. “Nope! I mean it!”
Rocket snorted, almost bitterly. “Yeah, well… I just don’t like idiots getting grabbed at without their consent. Doesn’t mean I wanna babysit one.”
Sword leaned just slightly closer, tone softening. And from that angle, Rocket could almost make out some of his features from beneath that cap and mask “Please? I mean… please, I’d really appreciate it. I can tell you’re capable. Please, just consider it?”
Rocket’s eyebrow twitched. “You sure are persistent.”
Sword laughed lightly. “Yeah, I am. But that’s because I mean it! I’m serious about this. You’d help me… and I’d make it worth your while. I promise.”
Rocket hesitated longer, jaw working as he chewed over the absurdity of it. Protecting a random guy in a mask? Ridiculous.
But if he's gonna guard a bigshot, surely the pay is gonna be hella good too.
“…Fine,” Rocket said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “…But give me a few days to think about it, alright? I’m not just gonna go jumping into someone else’s mess.”
Sword’s grin widened like it might split his face in two. “Of course! Take all the time you need. Really. But I’m really looking forward to it, if you say yes.”
Rocket muttered something under his breath, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, voice rough, reluctant. A few days.
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