5655/Fractured Memories at a Bar in the Middle of Nowhere (but not Knowhere)

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Fractured Memories at a Bar in the Middle of Nowhere (but not Knowhere)
Date of Scene: 20 March 2021
Location: Some Bar in Space
Synopsis: An increasingly drunk Rocket is found by somebunny from his past he doesn't recall: Blackjack.
Cast of Characters: Rocket, Blackjack O'Hare

Rocket has posed:
(Set not long after the conclusion of the Guardians/Kryptonians trip)

Rocket needed a little time to himself, and he needed a lot to drink. He was definitely questioning the decision to go forward with having 'tourists' on the Milano, and as soon as the ship set down somewhere he came up with an excuse. Something he remembered he had to do here for a while, and what a nice coincidence that they just happened to land for a refueling or whatever.

The truth of it was he wanted to get fucked up in a bar, away from the rest of the crew, and he found the most out of the way dive he could on this scrap heap of a stop. There were already half a dozen shot glasses arranged in a disorganized fashion on the bar in front of him, just as he knocked back another. Nobody dared say a word about him having to use a booster seat atop the stool just for enough reach. The place was already down a couple regulars who'd got their hair singed when they said something he didn't like.

"Keep 'em comin'! Ol' Rocket's just gettin' started!" he called out, motioning for a refill from the barkeep. "This is hittin' the spot!"

Blackjack O'Hare has posed:
    Nobody ever accused Blackjack of being a bounty hunter, he had always preferred the spectacle of larger battles if we're honest. Yet when you're in the business for long enough it's not too difficult to ask folks to keep an eye out for somebody, and Blackjack had asked more than a few over the years. Rocket had been sighted, nearby and he was apparently going to be there awhile getting shitfaced which makes this the perfect opportunity really.

    He's easy to miss at the doorway, until those occulars flare to life with a dull red glow that is. He pauses there, straightening that trademark purple coat before heading towards the bar proper. Theres another pause to survey the room one last time, before snagging an empty seat and flagging down the bartender with a wave of his gloved hand. "Red Tea if you'd be so kind, and a glass of Turni for my fine furred friend over there?"Gaze sweeping off towards Rocket, as if there was anyone else that could apply to.

    Order placed he settles in somewhat, digging about in a breast pocket before producing a neat slip of foil and alloy. "Oh excuse me, you know you dropped this some time ago Rocket."Casually sliding the thing across the few empty bar stools down to Rocket. "I thought perhaps you might like to have it back, for nostalgia's sake if nothing else yes?"

Rocket has posed:
All at once, the crowd in the bar begins to thin out. At first, it's a universal shift closer to the exit after Blackjack's entered the place. Whispers of his name follow, along with things like 'bunny,' or 'brigade,' or 'rabbit.' As soon as the purple-jacketed hare has passed someone, that person finds reason to be somewhere else. So it is that by the time Blackjack reaches the bar, a few spots down from Rocket's perch, only they remain along with the bartender, who hastily gets to cracking on the request with nearly silent assent.

Meanwhile, Rocket tosses back two more shots and proves guns aren't the only thing he's capable of dual-wielding. There's something oddly grating about the voice, but nothing's coming to him yet. The only thing he knows is the Black Bunny Brigade has one of the dirtiest, rottenest reputations for many sectors around. After the badge from a time and place long since forgotten (rather, erased) comes to a stop in Rocket's near vicinity, he covers it with an empty glass without giving it much of a glance. "Refill," he says to the guy keeping the drinks coming, a finger pointing down at what he' just emptied out. No acknowledgement of O'Hare yet. Did Rocket even catch his own name being spoken?

Blackjack O'Hare has posed:
    "You know we thought you were dead, I was very happy to learn you'd gotten out."And a pause to accept his tea with a nod of thanks, theres a sip and a wince that telegraphs even with that chromite dome covering half his face. "You've proven to be a very difficult fellow to check in on, but it's funny you know."And a pause as he sources a short cigar and brings it to light with a match. "We realized after awhile, things started to fuzz out. Got hard to remember dates and names first, then the rest just sort of faded away. Lucky for us a few wrote things down to keep the memories alive."He dismounts finally, grabbing his tea before meandering down the bar line.

    A cigar and a single self lighting match set delicately atop the bar within easy reach if Rocket should fancy it. "You don't remember me at all, do you Rocket?"Laid out like the fresh dead, a grim observation more than an accusation.

Rocket has posed:
While the one-sided conversation is taking place, Rocket secures his next round of shots, downing them with the quickness. That would put him at about a dozen now. He can hear Blackjack. The subtle shifting of his ears is enough to give that away. However, he still says nothing. Maybe he's running it all through his head internally, trying to figure out what he's being told. Maybe he's just focused solely on the drinking.

However, after the cigar is left close enough to him, and the one offering it is also nearby, Rocket finally reaches for something. Not to have a smoke, but to come up with a laser pistol from his belt, now pointed between Blackjack's red eyes, without even needing to look to find them. "Some of us are here tryin' to have a nice, quiet drink. Some of us are gettin' tired of strangers babbling about shit that ain't real. Some of us are thinkin' about makin' these strangers shut up."

This time, the bartender disappears, leaving just the two of them behind. "I ain't done yet!" he calls after the guy, to no avail. "This is bullshit," he mutters. Question is how the gun will be handled.

Blackjack O'Hare has posed:
    "I can see you've also forgotten why you're the one off, and I'm the mass production model."He returns casually. Teacup still held in one hand, as he looks cooly down the barrel of that gun. He's quick though, much quicker than folks usually expect. His left hand held low at waist length, has managed to pluck that beautifully engraved PRDO battle blaster from it's holster and find a bead on Rocket in return. "I came here to make sure you were alright, that you remembered who did this to us."And a slow exhale of that acrid cigar smoke.

    "I reckon it's been a far bit since you ain't been the smartest man in the room Rocket, but you've forgotten things. Now if the first living being to escape Half world just wants to cash in his chips, well I'm happy to oblige."The hare doesn't betray so much as a whisker's twitch, that mechanical heart still whirring away. "So you wanna deal the cards and go out in a blaze of glory, or you wanna put that pop gun back down and talk like a rational being?"

Rocket has posed:
Drunk as he smells, Rocket's aim is steady with minimal wavering. "I broke the mold, an' you know what they say about rabbits an' multiplying. Guess who's more expendable." Does this mean he knows exactly what Blackjack is talking about? It suggests he has an idea. There's probably something in that head of his that remembers a few bits and pieces. Little might Blackjack know, but there's been an outburst or two around others.

Halfworld is not ringing a bell just yet, though. It might be a name buried too deep in his subconscious. That's what tends to happen with memory wipes, though. Things aren't truly removed, just repressed behind multiple layers of doors and walls, and sometimes they open. Sometimes they're broken through, and one gets closer to the truth.

"Oh, when it's my time to go out, I'm definitely goin' out with guns blazing. You must be mistakin' me for someone who's rational." But he does flip the gun down enough to take a reach for the cigar, attempting to dunk it in a glass of water lingering nearby. That is, unless Blackjack prevents it. If it's avoided, he'll grumble, "Put that out. And why do you think I got anything to say to you, bunny? Ain't you got some pirating to go do? Planets to wipe out? I know what you guys do."

Blackjack O'Hare has posed:
    "They broke the mold because you were too clever, and too slow."Returns our favorite Hare, slowly lowering his own blaster for a moment when Rocket finally sets his back down. Reholstering after a moment with a little twirling flourish, and finally the snap of that holster flap. As for the cigar, well he rather just takes a step back out of range. Circling back around to the bar to puff on his cigar, and well thankfully blow the smoke in another direction instead.

    "A long time ago, you were just about my very best friend Rocket."He lays that one right out there, before taking another sip of his tea with yet another wince. "Then I thought you died, and when we broke out you better believe I cut your name into somebody's chest before I did'em."Finally setting that tea cup down, and parking his cigar in a convient ashtray for a moment. "Then I hear word there's some ring tailed lunatic wrecking shit somewhere, and I go looking but you ain't so easy to find."

    One gloved hand lifting to grasp that chromite helmet, and after a momentary fussy with his ears he pulls the thing off. Without those trademark red occulars, well ok those beady black eyes may not be any less intimidating to some. "I know how it works though, Half-world makes it hard to remember it. So I know you're forgetting who I am every day that goes by, until here I am and you don't know me from a bum on the street."He mmms a moment, peering after his tea for a moment. "It sucks."
    "As far as my reputation goes, well I'll have you know I'm not quite the savage I'm made out to be. It's mostly propaganda really, Our contractees get to blame it all on us and hype it up. So when we walk away we take all the blame with us, and they get to look like the good guys."Retaking that cigar finally. "Looking like we do, people don't take you seriously unless you've got this killer rep anyway. So I'm hardly complaining, people actually stop doing scum bag shit when I tell them to sometimes. Much more profitable."

Rocket has posed:
Rocket's beady little eyes narrow at all the words. While Blackjack's talking, he climbs up to the counter and foregoes the shot glasses in the interest of drinking straight from the bottle that was being poured from previously. All this storytelling drives him to drink...more.

"First things first. I ain't got any friends. Don't need 'em. Don't want 'em." What of Groot? The tree doesn't fit the narrative of denial he's projecting right now, so Groot is not mentioned. "So that's the first hole in your story." He squints at the rabbit just as he's taking the helmet off, right about the time 'wrecking shit' is mentioned. "/That/..I do," he at least verifies.

"But enough about Halfworld. I don't know shit about Halfworld." Which probably just confirms everything Blackjack believes about what happened. He knows it. Rocket does not. But, there are a few visible markings near the collar, metallic ones. Signs of experimentation. "And I got made in a lab. Woo-fucking-hoo. Who /hasn't/ been augmented and improved and given artificial shit to make them more badass? That's how it is in space. I know that much." Seems to come out most when he's had a few to drink. Like..here and now.

"You know what else sucks? Havin' to listen to stupid stories while I'm trying to forget about shit in here. I don't care who you are. I got a crew, and I got a ship, and I got all the guns I need, and others fear me. That's right. They fear Rocket, 'cause I'm the best at everything," he boasts, raising the bottle above his head, sloshing some of the sweet, sweet nectar around and out. "Noooo, come back to me!" He reaches for it, then falls on the other side of the bar, crashing into some used glasses. Definitely wrecking shit.

Blackjack O'Hare has posed:
    Theres a roll of those beady black eyes, before Blackjack produces a business card with the snap of the fingers and tosses it on the bartop. Then well he's back to that cigar, puffing away before exhaling slowly off to the side. At mention of labratories and augmentations theres a snort, but well he doesn't say anything there. "You wanna move on, look buddy I'm not here to try and lash you to an anchor. I just thought you'd want to know."

    The rabbit hops down from the barstool finally, carefully threading those ears through the holes on his helmet before pulling it back down. "You were made in Half world same as me and all the Bunnies, and I'm pretty sure a bunch of others. If you don't know anything else, at least know where you were made."And finally he drops that cigar on the ground to grind the cherry out with an armored chromite foot.
    Theres a few coins flipped onto the table before he turns and starts towards the door. "Look I got bunny business to attend to, people to shoot and all that. You wanna talk to me when you're sobered up, got questions, get in a jam? Give me a ring, I'll set some time aside for you."and well off he goes same direction he came. "See you around, Buddy."

Rocket has posed:
Rocket's ringed tail remains visible until he shifts positions climbing back up to a crouch as he seeks to steady himself. "I'm all right. Don't worry! Takes more than that to do ol' Rocket in!" Takes a lot more.

There's a fair number of things Rocket would /like/ to move on from, and he can already tell the hangover that's going to follow is going to be a doozy. Might as well make it worth it. Another swig from the bottle, which he managed to protect, and he scrambles back up to the countertop, if wobbly, in time to see the card.

"You got business cards? That's rich." The eyes narrow on the text. "Why's it movin'?" he wonders before squinting at the bunny as he turns to leave. "That's right, keep walkin'.." he mutters under his breath, though chances are it's audible in here right now. The music isn't that loud. "If I hear one more thing about fuckin' Halfworld.." Except once he sobers up, if he remembers to plug that name into the database and run a query...

"Hey, I ain't your buddy, pal! I'm Rocket, and I don't need anybody else!" he shouts at the empty bar after the door closes. He steps on the badge, nearly slipping before just thumping down on his backside with his legs dangling over the side. Grabbing the thing Blackjack left earlier, he finally gives it a closer look. "Handsome devil..name's Rocket..might be a coincidence, probably faked, but..ehh." With a shrug, he tucks it into a pocket in his jumpsuit and goes with finishing off the bottle before tossing it behind him to the sound of a crash and glass shattering. "Oops. Hey! This place got any snacks?! I gotta do everything myself? I should be the one gettin' paid here!"