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mybukz · 4 years

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Fiction: Nona Annabelle by Peter Soh

Image by T RR from Unsplash

This is a catastrophe. I must be dreaming. Wake up, Annabelle. Only when you wake up will you realise this is just a dream.

But they are still here. Pairs of black eyes are looking at me, no matter how many times I close and open my eyes. I can’t recognise any of them. They are not my family members and they definitely can’t be the servants in the house! He must have eaten a lion’s heart to simply enter a nona’s room! So, who are all these men? And the ladies here?

“Who is this girl? She looks like she has no idea where she is. I love mindless girls!” a boy smirks. “Shut up, Andrew Zach,” the girls growl in unison.

“No girls will like an arrogant guy,” a girl with a ponytail echoes.

The boy scoffs. “Well, I can prove you wrong. Mr Ian always says no one carries the skinhead as good as I do. I don’t blame you girls. You girls have no taste.”

The man is Andrew Zach. His name resembles my cousin’s husband’s, Marvin Zach Pereira, who is a Portuguese.

Wait a minute. Am I in Portugal now?

This Andrew Zach indeed looks like a Portuguese. He has a natural tan on his face, neck, and arms – the one that is completely different from other men where their face and neck and arms are covered with different shades of brown. He has a pair of deep eyes and together with his almost-bald head, his piercing eyes make him a forbidding figure.

“Siapa kamu semua?” I ask faintly.

“She speaks Malay. I fail my Malay,” the girl with a ponytail turns to someone.

“I am not good in Malay too,” Andrew Zach seconds the girl. “Kah Heng, you go and ask the girl who is she instead. You come from the government school and your Malay is better than us.”

Everyone looks into the direction of a boy with small eyes. He shakes his head.

“I don’t want,” he splutters his refusal.

“What do you mean by ‘I don’t want’? Find out where she comes from before Mr Ian comes in.” Andrew Zach is rather loud.

The boy with the name of Kah Heng walks towards me. I retract my legs and redirect my gaze to the floor. I feel so uneasy – I have never come across a man face-to-face before. Except Father.

“Hi,” Kah Heng greets softly.

I avoid his gaze and continue to look at the carpeted floor.

What is ‘hi’?

Wait a minute. Did he mean ‘hoi’? I have heard of this Dutch greeting when Father held meetings with the Dutch in our home. Let’s just try.

“Hoi,” I mutter.

“She is weird,” Andrew Zach interrupts.

“Shut up, Andrew. Let Kah Heng do his job first,” the girl with a ponytail speaks again. This time she looks annoyed.

“All right, Isabelle the class monitor,” Andrew Zach jeers.

Isabelle? Is her name Isabelle? I think that’s a name because my name is Annabelle.

“Apakah nama kamu?” Kah Heng continues.

Did I hear it wrong? He speaks Malay?

“Lu tau cakap bahasa? Gua Annabelle! Kenapa gua kat sini? Ini tempat mana eh? Lu orang siapa?” I cough out all the questions I have in my mind.

“Kami pun tak tau kenapa you kat sini. You kat sini sudah bila kami semua balik ke kelas.”

“Kelas?”

I am in a class? I have never been to a school and I am forbidden from doing so.

“Mana tempat ni?” I try to probe further of my whereabout.

“Quincey International School,”

I can’t understand the language. “Apa?”

“Ni sekolah antarabangsa. You pelajar baru?”

“Pelajar?”

I look at the surroundings. There are many tables and chairs. Underneath those tables are cascades of papers and books. Two white boards are fixed behind me and there are many bright long tubes on the ceiling. The room is extremely cold and everyone looks bewildered.

I sit at a metal table not knowing why am I here. All I can remember is I uncoiled my long hair and washed my feet before I went to bed. I am very sure I washed my feet before bed because this has been a practice in my household for generations. It is said to prevent sleepers from having nightmares.

But why am I in a school now? Am I dreaming, still?

Many people are queueing up for food. I have no idea why they have to queue in such a manner – people are distancing themselves from one another for about three feet. They all look scruffy and depressed; the men have long hair and moustaches and their white shirts are full of creases and stains. The ladies have bags under their swollen and bleary eyes and most of them let their hair down like homeless people. And that’s not the worst.

I can’t bear to look at the ladies who are all in short skirts. It is despicable to even create such a dress in the first place, not to mention putting it on. Tak seronoh langsung. A self-respected and dignified nona will never make themselves seen by others, least of all to expose such immodest amount of legs to the public!

I am never allowed to make myself seen. Even my existence in the house is highly guarded and I can never cross to the thia besar where guests and visitors will be seated. The furthest I can venture out without company is the thia gelap. I used to peek through the gilded screen door in the second hall to catch a glimpse of the Dutch businessmen but it wasn’t long for me to have to stay at the quarter end of the household to learn about my jobs.

Mother never lauds me for keeping the thia abu immaculate nor pressing her favourite maroon kain chelay smooth. She often reminds me the laurels of my highest acclaim will be the day when she receives nasi lemak on the 12th day of my wedding. I do not understand what Mother means but I perceive it as the day where I am free to go out from the household without hiding myself in a gunnysack.

At the moment, in the event of me leaving the house – usually to a Baba’s household to help out in cooking for weddings or funerals – Mother will require two male servants in the house to prepare a gunnysack for me to sit in. After I am well covered, a thick bamboo pole will be placed through the gunnysack for the carriers to transport me out from the house. And even so, Mother will never leave me with the carriers; she will always tag along closely because I can never be exposed under the sun.

“This is for you,”

Isabelle carries a tray of food and lays it in front of me.

“Isabelle?” I point at her.

“Yeah, I am Isabelle. This is for you. Food stocks are running low. I hope you don’t mind. Eat something.”

The last thing I want to do is stare at her again but I can’t comprehend any of the words she said. Except her name.

“Makan sikit, Annabelle. You need energy to go through this time,” Isabelle starts tucking a sludgy brown piece of meat into her mouth.

It must have taken a voracious man to be able to swallow such abominable food. I gag at the sight of the food but I sniff a pungent reek of curry.

“Kari?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is green curry chicken.”

I whip a spoonful of gravy and taste it. It isn’t spicy. The food tastes sweet and I find it funny. How can a curry be sweet? Mother would have thrown this rubbish and commanded a re-cook had I possessed the gut to serve this on the family table. I remember the hot slap on my left cheek when I mindlessly put in an extra tablespoon of salt into the curry chicken.

It is always about concentration, precision, and perfection in prepping a nona’s dish, as a nuance in taste can take its toll on my prospective marriage. Mother doesn’t have to keep her eyes on me to know my shortcomings; she knows from the way the rhythm plays when I pound the spices to the taste of the food I prepare.

I find cooking a gruelling task because there is no absolute way to tell how much spices, condiments, and herbs one has to put in in prepping the dishes. It continues to elude me how much to put in; it depends on the portions served and the preferences of each eater. I find it an irony to base my cooking by mere estimation to achieve perfection but I choose to keep quiet. It is better for me to endure the long hours in the steamy kitchen to pound, grind, cook, and steam dish after dish, pastry after pastry, than receiving curses, pains, and humiliation. After all, I am waiting for the day when nasi lemak will be sent home. That’s the day when I can go beyond the thia gelap, step out from the Chan’s family door, to look at the world.

How does the world look like in 1800? I heard from Father that The Stadthuys – the previous residence of the Dutch Governor – is painted in white but I am yet to see it myself. How massive are its walls? How tall are the doors? I believe it must be a prominent building because Mother says it houses important people from the Dutch, and now Britain. It must be interesting to see how different the Dutch and the Brits are since I have never seen a Brit in our house before.

I also heard that there are also a lot of Chinese slowly streaming into Melaka but Father detests them. He always complains how the Napoleonic wars gave chances to the British to bring in more Chinese and my marriage should only take place between compatible families, and never with the sinkeh. I always wonder why Father hates them since our Chinese forebears hailed from Fujian, China, too.

Just like the sinkeh, we bear a Chinese name and we pray to Dato’ Hoot Chor for Her protection and blessings. We celebrate numerous Chinese festivals and these are times when I confine myself mostly to the kitchen, busy grinding flour, separating rice grains, washing pandan leaves, plucking, drying and boiling bunga telang to make different offerings for Mother to bring to temples, such as kueh bakul for Chinese New Year, kueh chang for Kueh Chang Festival, and nasi kunyit during Semayang Bulan Tujuh, where souls of the departed are free to roam around the streets. I never understand much about Father’s concern for the presence of the new Chinese. The only thing that I am free from doubt is the fact that dishes can never be ruined for they are served to deities, ethereal beings and guests.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Isabelle asks. “Gosh, I keep forgetting that she doesn’t understand English. Kenapa tak makan?”

“Gua tak lapar. Gua dah makan semalam,”

“Yesterday? Then why are you here? Kenapa kamu kat sini?” Isabelle continues to munch on the chicken.

“Gua tak tau…”

“What? How do you come in to the school? The whole school is in lockdown.”

“She is probably a boarder who just somehow wanders into our classroom. We have many international students here, come on.” Andrew Zach chimes in.

“Maybe…Look at her costumes. She is definitely not a local.”

“Mintak tanya eh. Macam mana gua boleh balik rumah?”

“Balik rumah?” Isabelle frowns.

“I told you she is weird,” Andrew Zach concedes.

“Semua orang pun nak balik rumah. Tapi tak boleh,” Isabelle sighs.

“Kenapa?”

“Adui. The school has been placed on lockdown. How to go back?” Isabelle snaps suddenly.

I am shocked at the abrupt change of her tone. I think I must have said something wrong.

I never ask anything again. Everyone looks despondent and it seems like the people here are going through a difficult time.

I sit upright and rooted, watching Isabelle and Andrew Zach gulping down the green curry chicken. I never eat the chicken.

“Mr Ian, there’s a new girl in our class,” Isabelle chirps.

Andrew Zach sneers at my direction. “And she is weird.”

Someone comes into the classroom. A middle-aged man with spectacles. He stands in front of the students, his face oily, his hair tousled, and his clothes smudged.

What on earth is happening to the people in this school? Dirty-looking, eating rubbish, and speaking alien language.

Am I dreaming, still? Why on earth people want to behave this way? I must be dreaming.

“Are you a nyonya?” the man looks at me with utter surprise.

I can’t decipher what he says but he mentions the word ‘nyonya’, which is quite similar to the Dutch word ‘nona’ in describing people like me who looks foreign in Melaka.

I smile weakly at him and quickly avoid his gaze. I think he must be a teacher of this class.

“Is she a new student? Where does she come from?” the man asks around his students.

“Mr Ian, we found her when we came back from the lab. We have no idea where she comes from but we think that she is not a local. She can’t speak English at all. She can only speak Malay!” Isabelle explains. “And her name is Annabelle.”

“Annabelle the doll,”

“Shut up, Andrew. Stop being so mean!” Isabelle retorts.

“She can speak Malay? Then why don’t you all speak to her and find out where she comes from?” The teacher looks displeased.

“Well… My Malay is not good,” Isabelle says.

“All of us are bad at Malay. We just take it because we have to!” Andrew Zach adds while spinning a basketball.

I can sense that the teacher seems to be very fascinated of my presence. I can see from the corner of my eyes that his eyes are darting up and down at me. I tug the opening of my brown baju panjang to the right.

“Annabelle, you datang dari mana?” the teacher asks genteelly.

This man can speak Malay! I turn and look at him. I can’t hide my excitement.

“Gua datang dari Melaka! Boleh encik hantar gua balik rumah?” I gabble.

“Kenapa you kat sini?”

“Gua tak tau. Bila gua bangun, gua dah ada kat sini,”

The teacher looks baffled for a second. “Takpe, esok dah boleh balik rumah.”

Clearing his throat, the teacher turns to everyone. “After 60 days of lockdown, the government has managed to weather the Covid-19 situation. I am here to inform you that we can all go back tomorrow. And the school is going to shut down for the entire year so that everyone can take this time to stay at home, have a good rest and reconnect with their family. Today shall be the last day for us to be here.”

A deafening cheer erupts. The girls hug each other while some cover their faces and wail loudly. I am not sure why they cry but it seems like the class has won a victory as all the girls quickly gather and form a big circle around each other. The men look calm but I notice that they aren’t looking so depressed anymore. Andrew Zach smiles to himself and he turns to his friends when he sees me looking at him.

“Mr Ian, how are we going to send Annabelle home? She will have no place to stay since the school is going to close.” Isabelle asks.

“No worries, we can book a bus ticket for her now since we now know where she comes from.” Mr Ian says.

“Good idea!” Isabelle trills. “But she doesn’t know how to speak English. What if she is stranded in the bus station?”

“Hmm…” Mr Ian thinks for a moment.

I have no idea what’s going on. I just heard my name being read, and the man, Isabelle, Andrew Zach, and some other students are all looking at me.

“That’s easy. We can just pre-arrange a Grab driver for her upon her arrival to the bus station. We just inform the driver how she looks like and what time the bus will arrive. I am sure the driver will know who to pick up because she is the only one who dresses like an ancient person. Probably comes from the grave since her name is also Annabelle.”

Andrew Zach bursts out laughing suddenly and Isabelle rolls her eyes again. I don’t know what’s happening but the environment is jovial. I am convinced that something good must have happened.

Mr Ian looks pleased with what Andrew Zach has said. “That’s a good one. Let’s ask for her address and we can settle everything now!”

“Annabelle, esok dah boleh balik rumah. Kami akan hantar you balik. Boleh tolong bagi alamat you?” the man asks me.

“Gua tinggal kat 133, Jalan Gelanggang,”

“Okay, tunggu jap,”

The man opens a box and starts typing. The box emits light and Isabelle is looking at her teacher’s actions.

“Done!” the man exclaims. “I will send her to the bus station tomorrow. The bus will depart from Kuala Lumpur at 9a.m. and I have booked her a Grab driver in Melaka. I have also told the Grab driver how she looks like – a tan girl in a chignon and a white-and-green school uniform.”

“Our school uniforms?” Isabelle asks.

“She is going to change her attire now. I will get her one from the storeroom. She is going to freak people with this outlook!” The teacher points at me suddenly.

Isabelle brings me to a room with a huge mirror. There are five doors standing next to each other. I notice that there is a white vase in each of the room.

“Do you want to pee?” Isabelle asks. “Wait, I forgot you don’t know English. Nak kencing?”

I am bemused with what Isabelle says. “Kencing? Sini?”

Isabelle looks at me and frowns once again. “Yeah… sini.”

“Kat sini?” I point at the white vase.

Isabelle seems to be appalled by what I ask. She nods at me with much confusion as I do.

“And tukar baju you kepada ni,” she points at the school uniforms that she holds.

“Kenapa?” I put my hand across my kerosang.

“Cikgu kata you pakai macam ni nanti semua orang tengok. Dia kata you pakai baju ni dan esok you boleh balik rumah terus.”

Desperately wanting to go home – or hoping this dream to come to a halt as I wish it to, I quickly undo my three kerosang and pass them to Isabelle. I take off my baju panjang, later my baju kechik, and Isabelle turns her back hastily.

“Why are you not wearing bra?” Isabelle calls out. She passes the uniform to me on her left hand without looking at me.

I don’t understand what she says. My sarong drops when I unfasten my silver belt. I take the clothes from her and put on the clothes that I loathe.

I look at the mirror in front of me. Such an ugly and distasteful concoction – a white-and-green short sleeve and short skirt attire paired with my sanggol tiga batang and kasut seret. I feel like killing myself before Mother does.

I am no longer a nona.

I sit in a moving vehicle and the man drops me at a crowded and smelly place. I use my batik handkerchief to cover my nose from the nauseating black smoke coming out from the many moving vehicles.

“I bagi you ni. You bagi I sapu tangan you,” the man points at my handkerchief while giving out a small bag of white paper. It seems like he wants to exchange things with me.

Wanting to end this dream, I pass him my handkerchief in exchange for the white paper.

He points at my chignon this time. I can tell that he wants my three gold hairpins.

I shake my head. No nona will ever let their hair down in the public and I refuse to give him my hairpins.

The people around start noticing us. I start to believe that my outlook attracts unwanted attention. I want to cry.

I pull out my three hairpins and throw them at him. My long hair uncurls as people watch our – or my – ungodly affairs.

He looks satisfied with what he gets and I stand there repressing my urge to cry, waiting for his next instruction.

“Naik bas tu. You akan sampai rumah. Jangan khuatir.”

I look at where he points. It is a blue vehicle. I point at the vehicle and look at him again and he nods his head.

I scuttle to the blue vehicle in my kasut seret. This is the only belonging that I never exchange with the man. My precious gold hairpins, kerosang and silver belt are now gone, to a man that doesn’t even need these items.

The blue vehicle moves. I heave a sigh of relief. I believe I am going to wake up in the Chan’s household again. I weep silently until I drift off to sleep.

“Mr Ian is dead!” Isabelle screamed.

“What the fuck? Since when?” Andrew Zach was taken aback at what Isabelle said and everyone was aghast at what they heard.

“I heard from other teachers that he died of sudden cardiac death on the last day of school.”

“On the last day of school? What did he do?” someone chimed in.

Another student spoke. “I don’t know. I saw him leaving the school with Annabelle.”

“Oh yes! That mindless girl. Any way we can contact her? Maybe she notices what happens prior to Mr Ian’s death.” Andrew Zach suggested.

“I remember where she stays!”

Isabelle took out her laptop and started typing away.

“133, Jalan Gelanggang.” Isabelle murmured to herself. “Here we are! A temple?”

“How can she live in a temple? I am sure she is not a nun!” Andrew Zach tried to deduce things with rationale.

“But here’s the location from the internet. And there’s a phone number too. Let’s just call and find out. If it is wrong, then at least we don’t make assumptions anymore.”

Isabelle called the number. Andrew Zach snatched the phone and put the conversation on speaker. The ringing continued until someone picked up their call.

“Hello,” a breathy voice answered.

“Hello. We are calling to look for Annabelle. Is she here?” Isabelle asked.

“Annabelle? Who are you?” the man sounded stunned when he heard the name.

“Yes, Annabelle Chan. She came to our school for a day last year. Is she here?”

“That’s impossible. The little girl had passed away more than 200 years ago.”

“WHAT?” everyone bellowed in mystification.

“How sure are you, uncle? How come you know things that happened 200 years ago?” Andrew Zach confronted the man.

“Of course, I am very sure. I am the keeper of this temple. The lady whom you mentioned is the daughter of this temple’s founder. Their tablets are venerated here.”

Sense of creepiness swept through the students. Isabelle trembled upon hearing what the man said. However, she plucked up her final courage to ask the uncle one more question.

“Do you know how did she die?” Her voice quavered. She couldn’t process all the things that had happened.

“According to the previous keeper here, Annabelle Chan committed suicide not long after she got married to a Baba household in Kuala Lumpur. It was said that she didn’t want to stay at home and so she took lots of sleeping pills and killed herself. Some people saw from the newspaper that her name is in one of the many graves exhumed to make way for a school. I am not so sure about this because her plaque is placed here. Aiya, there are so many nyonya ghost stories nowadays. Some even said those who owned vintage nyonya costumes and jewellery are cursed because nyonya adored their costumes and accessories much. You young fellas are reading too much ghost stories. Bye! Stop fooling around. I am very busy.”

The students looked at each other in silence. Isabelle’s legs went limp suddenly and passed out on the carpeted floor – at the same location where they first found Annabelle.

Peter Soh is an ambitious Malaysian writer whose stories are about darkness, pain, struggles, identity searching and what it means to be a human being. He made his publishing debut with his short story, ‘The Missing Tomb’ in the ‘Emerging Malaysian Writers 2018’ anthology and has unknowingly written six features about the baba nyonya in Penang Monthly. He is currently teaching First Language English and Sociology in Kingsley International School.

#nyonya annabelle #peter soh #peranakan #short story #malaysian fiction #malaysian literature

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woozletania · 7 years

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Sanctuary, Part 6 (RR/Lylla

After reconciling with Lylla (again), Rocket begins to admit to himself that he feels something for her he’s never felt before. Maybe it’s even love. Who knows? He doesn’t have a lot of experience in the area. After all, who’s going to want to kiss a little monster?

*****

It was the third time he’d woken up in the little round bed with Lylla. This time was different.

The first time they’d shared a bed, he’d been injured and she was exhausted from her escape from the illegal research center where she was made. He’d only crawled into bed with her to comfort her as she was gripped by a nightmare. The next morning he’d crept back out without her ever knowing he was there, as far as he knew. Then he’d said something stupid over a meal and scared her, yet she’d asked him to curl up with her again so she’d feel safe. Both times she’d been scared and he’d still been recovering from injuries he received while rescuing her. He’d once again crawled out of bed, careful not to wake her since he knew she needed to rest.

And then, like the idiot he was, he’d scared her again and that’d been it for the briefly known warmth and comfort of sharing a bed with her. He made her a separate bed and despite what he suspected were Groot’s efforts to get them back together their relationship never quite got back to that point, until last night.

She’d only been on board a week and already Rocket was more confused than he’d been in his life. He’d had enemies, rivals. Even, all too seldom, friends. The Guardians were the closest thing he’d ever had to a family and Pete had stuck with him even when he bit him. Twice. They stuck with him despite all his issues and Rocket knew, deep inside where it counted, that if there came a time where either he or the Guardians had to die he’d step forward to take the bullet. Just as Yondu had, sacrificing himself to save Pete without a second thought.

And after only a week, he knew he’d do the same for Lylla. He’d almost died getting her free. He’d do it again in a second. What did that mean? What was happening to him?

The lights came on in the galley area down the hall and Lylla stirred, wrapped warmly around him and sleepily nuzzling his neck. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up next to someone. He’d been in plenty of prisons where the prisoners slept in piles and he had to find the least smelly crevice in the stack of bodies to sleep. But this was the first time he woke up sleeping next to someone and liked it. Found himself looking forward to the next nap, the warm presence against his side, the fur against fur, the tickle of her whiskers. The touch of someone who might be built a little differently, but was like him in so many ways.

Gamora appeared in the doorway and tapped the bulkhead gently until Lylla started awake. "Breakfast up in five,“ she said, and though she smiled to see them back in the same bed she didn’t comment on it.

Lylla stretched and yawned as Rocket slid out of the round, padded bed the two of them filled so neatly. He pulled on his armored tunic, snapping the latches even as he listened to her move behind him.

He heard the slight hesitations, the wince. The researchers had done a better job on her than they had on him but she still hurt sometimes when she moved. Hopefully Doc Foster could fix that. Hopefully by the end of the day her movement would be as painless as his was after that day-long session on Paul Foster’s operating table.

"Rocket,” she chirped as he handed over the harness he’d made for her. She slept in the nude, if you didn’t count the fur. Sometimes he did too, but not when he was with her. It seemed wrong, somehow. He always kept on at least his pants.

“Good morning,” he said, and resisted an urge he’d never had before. The urge to lean over and nuzzle her neck, or maybe even to try out this kissing thing that Pete managed so easily. It wouldn’t be right, though. It would be taking advantage of someone who relied on him to protect her.

Not that she needed to be protected, or for him to make decisions for her. She came out of the bed on all fours and hugged him, nuzzling that same spot below his ear where her bite had nearly killed him. "Rocket,“ she whispered. "Why do you trust me? I almost killed you. And then I, I used you to get me out, even knowing what I’d done.”

Now it was Pete watching from the doorway. Rocket ignored him as he hugged Lylla. "I told you. You were desperate. I did things to get free I still don’t like to think about. Yeah, you bit me and rode me out, but you also kept me alive by doing that. Sometimes we do bad things and it still works out all right.“

"That’s pretty much our motto,” Pete said as Lylla fastened her black and green harness. A few minutes later they were chowing down on eggs and sausage once again (the selection in the cupboard wasn’t so good at the moment, everyone agreed) and the highly carnivorous she-otter picked at the muffins Pete had baked, extracting the baked-in berries and happily eating those while leaving the dismembered bready husk behind. That got her a bowl of blue and red berries to munch. Rocket, more omnivorous, ate everything put in front of him including the remains of Lylla’s muffins. They both ate more than one would expect, the shipboard joke being that Rocket ate more than Drax. That wasn’t true, but their enhanced metabolisms and cybernetics consumed many more calories than a normal forty-pound creature.

It was a drawback of the Uplift. An energy hungry enhanced brain, reinforced immune system and cybernetics that drew power from the metabolism. The result was that Rocket ate at least twice as much as an animal his size would and more than once had teetered on the edge of starvation back in the bad old days after he escaped from the Halfworld complex. He’d gained several pounds after coming on board the Milano and thankfully had stopped there. Some sort of weight control system must be in place in his engineered metabolism or else he’d be a fat not-a-raccoon now with all the food he put down.

“You two are going to eat me out of house and home,” Pete joked as he shoveled another helping of sausage-and-pepper omelet onto Lylla’s plate. She at once set to work eating her way around the peppers.

“Need to pick up some fish next stopover,” Rocket mumbled through a mouthful of food. Like Lylla, he ate with his hands.

“What’s fish,” Lylla chirped.

“Aquatic scaly thing,” Rocket said after swallowing. "What you’d probably be eating if you weren’t here,“ which was a diplomatic way of saying the animal she appeared based on was probably a fish eater.

Peter finished serving Mantis, Drax and Gamora (and a small helping for three-foot-tall Groot, who didn’t need to eat much) before speaking. "So, I guess…” He shot a look at Rocket.

“He told me, yes,” Lylla chirped, which got a curious look from Gamora.

“Told you what?”

“Rocket found something in my scans he thinks are poison glands,” Lylla chirped, and touched her cheek. "So I can just bite once and, and leave my victim to die.“

"Ah,” said Gamora, but she didn’t miss the way Lylla’s voice went weak at the end, nor did she miss how Rocket put his hand on Lylla’s when he sensed her distress. That got a small smile out of Gamora. Drax, being Drax, was oblivious.

“Efficient,” rumbled the giant. "What if the target’s biology is different? One poison won’t work on everyone.“

"Don’t know,” Rocket said, mouth again full of food. "Might be set each time somehow, though I didn’t see any way to interface with the implants. I’m pretty sure they aren’t active right now.“

"Because I didn’t kill him when I bit him,” Lylla said, and the hurt in her voice made Rocket squeeze her hand and whisper something to her.

“You nearly did,” observed Drax, which got him elbowed by Gamora. "What?“

After that were several minutes of silence as the crew finished eating. "So, we off to Gumwalt?”

“Xandar,” Rocket said briefly. "‘Parently Doc Foster’s there now. Right in city center where Ronan’s ship crashed, even. It’ll be like old times.“

After breakfast and a shower for Pete, some self-grooming for Rocket, they made their way up to the cockpit. Peter knew what was coming when Rocket turned up the music. Some Yardbirds, along with the ambient ship noise ought to let them talk privately. Lylla’d probably figured that out by now, but she was too polite to poke her nose in every time the music got turned up. Peter repressed a smile at the song choice, though Heart Full Of Soul was at least a less obvious choice than For Your Love.

“I think there’s something wrong with me, Pete,” Rocket said, staring fixedly through the windscreen even as his little hands programmed in jumps with no need of input from his brain.

“No there isn’t,” Peter said.

“I’m goin’ soft in the head,” Rocket complained. “All sorts a stupid thoughts.”

“That’s how it starts,” Peter said unhelpfully, and no amount of prying could get him to say any more. Instead he changed the subject.

"So, Xandar,” Peter said as he checked the series of jumps Rocket had set up that would take them there. Naturally there were no errors. "That’s a pretty drastic move. I thought you said he was out on Gumwalt keeping a low profile.“

"Because he thought I might track him down and kill him,” Rocket said matter-of-factly. "But that’s in the past. If it weren’t for Doc Foster we wouldn’t be having this conversation, Pete.“

"I know, Rock,” said Peter Quill, who over the months had pieced together enough of Rocket’s horrifying background to know that if it weren’t for Paul Foster they’d probably be taking a bounty on Rocket instead of taking them with him. And Doc Foster had fixed up Rocket’s shoddily installed cybernetics, too. Peter never heard his friend hide a wince of pain or saw him flinch in the middle of what should be a simple motion any more. And it’d been Foster, too, who had clued Rocket in to the existence of more Uplifts. If the doctor ever needed a favor, Rocket wouldn’t have to do it alone. All of the Guardians would be right there to help.

“Anyway, he’s on Xandar now. I have his address but he didn’t say what he was doing there. I guess he wants to surprise me.”

And it was a surprise. In fact it turned out to be a whole series of them.

#rocket raccoon #lylla otter #guardians of the galaxy #slice of life

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