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He had felt burning before. He felt the pricks and pins of heat from the aftermath of that dying star he was born of. He felt the presence of white hot burning as he opened his eyes and watched the outward burst of stardust and debris. He felt it in his arm before he felt the lack thereof.
Yes, he had felt burning before. It was something he did not enjoy. It was not something he longed to feel again, but here he is. His fake arm and leg (prosthetics, they're called, he remembers) blown off and apart, pieces of raw skin and viscera (he has no blood, he has no flesh. He has no corporeal musculature) strewed across the concrete and spattered like the strange fireworks that looked so similar to his faraway brethren.
He winced as he laid back against the crumbling ruin of the phighting arena. There's ringing in his ears, silencing the background gunshots and still ongoing phight. They caught him off guard. He's not meant to bleed. He wasn't built for violence. They haven't noticed his absence yet. Good.
He got to his feet with some difficulty. Black liquid-solid haze is dripping from his torso and the mangled remains of his leg and arm. He'll have to use the wall for support then. It dripped from his nose, from his ears, from his wounds. It was like the void, like the product of a blackhole liquefied. It shimmered. He could see stars in the depths of it. Orion, Andromeda, Ursa Major. Names he had learned by heart after learning his own. He had nothing before he floated by that strange rocky ball. No name, no language, no identity other than his astrological origins. Not before he came down and met Him.
Space. The stars. He can't see them from his position. He hobbled against the wall. It took some effort, but he made it to a clearing. He couldn't see the stars from the bright choking lights of the city, but he knew they were there. Home. Family. Emptiness. Expanse. It called out to him.
The pavement was still as he collapsed against it. The sky could wait. He just needed a little rest.
Him. Sword. The first earth dweller he had met, and he quickly learned he was an outlier to the others. Mortal. He was mortal, despite his almost ethereal nature. The others were mortal too, but Sword seeped an aura of celestial. Rocket almost mistook him for one of his own, until he saw those wings. Flapping, beating, folding, extending. Rocket loved them, how couldn't he? They were beautiful. He missed them dearly now. The way they would puff up or wrap around him. But now he's slumped over and alone. No stray feathers, no warmth.
He was dying. He was aware. The stars were calling him, and he needed to answer.
He felt airy as he floated up and towards the inky abyss above head. Would Zuka miss him? He had practically adopted him when he first landed, taking him in immediately and teaching him how to speak. Earth was so different to him compared to space. It was warm, it was solid, and he had a voice. No noise echoed in space. But he could talk, he could yell, he could feel. And now he had to leave.
Rocket held onto his mask as he stared at the planet growing smaller and smaller behind him. Sword would miss him, he's sure. He hoped. The stars called and he had answered.
He let his eyes close as he finally relaxed and felt the pressure building inside him until it turned into a steady burning. His insides set themselves ablaze, the cells volatile against eachother. The debris around him started to pull closer to him. He was a star, he knew this. Stars implode when they die, he knew this. He let out a final breath before letting his empty screams ring out as his being erupted into tiny particles and a bright light overtook his vision.
Yes, he had felt burning before.