A Roots-Deep Conspiracy Looms in Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All

The planet Levet wasn’t, strictly speaking, uninhabitable.

On paper, it ranked a solid 5.1 out of 7 on the Az-Moris scale. It had breathable air, significant landmass, and scads of fresh water.

That ranking, however, did not go into detail about said air (putrid), said landmass (90 percent swamp), or said water (chunky). 

Between those elements and the fact that the surface was devoid of life aside from the criminals banished there by the Kree, Levet was, in all honesty, a terrible excuse for a planet.

“Gotta admit,” Rocket said, “that space debris is choosing the right hunk of rock to destroy.”

“Yeah, I won’t lose sleep over this one.” Peter Quill scanned the observation screens from the pilot’s seat. They were taking slow sweeps across the planet’s surface, making occasional—so far futile—stops to search for life at the rare encampments they encountered. “Does it even have a decent bar?”

“Does it even have people? They could be long gone. You sure we ain’t wasting our time, Quill?”

“We did come across those fly-infested corpses with their heads bashed in,” Gamora pointed out. “They looked fresh.”

Drax nodded. “I admire their assailants’ resilience. It takes gusto to kill in this heat.”

“There.” Gamora jammed a finger at one of the screens. “Movement.”

The five of them—Rocket, Quill, Gamora, Groot, and Drax—stood on the bridge and squinted at the screen.

“Nah, that’s another cloud of stormflies,” Rocket growled.

Groot looked out the viewport, holding one splayed, branched hand to the glass. “I am Groot?”

“Let’s check.” Quill flicked a switch. His voice boomed down over the planet below. “Ahoy there, Levet! If anyone is listening, you’ll want to make yourselves known right about now. We’ll make it worth your while.”

Gamora sighed and leaned in. “Space debris has entered your solar system, and some of it is headed for impact. We know the Kree left before everyone was evacuated; we’re here to get you out.”

“We apologize about the debris,” Drax added.

“Yeah, that was …” Quill flicked off the microphone. He spun his seat to face the others, leaving the ship on autopilot. “Come on, the debris didn’t have much to do with us. This time.”

“Most of the interstellar fiascos of the month have at least a little to do with us, Quill,” Rocket said. “Have some pride in what we do.”

Groot tapped the glass. “I am Groot?” 

“Hey, what do you know.” Rocket stretched to peer at the screens. “There really is life out here.”

Quill swiveled his seat. “Let’s get to work.”

Gamora’s fierce reputation meant she rarely experienced stubbornness. People either cooperated with her, fled, or attacked.

They did not argue.

Her patience, as a result, was underdeveloped.

Gamora extended a long, green finger toward the Guardians’ ship, which loomed over her, Drax, Rocket, and a pair of convicts. Its worn, patchwork-metal hull looked fantastically out of place in the swamp-and-bog landscape around them. The hatch was still wide open; most of the convicts were already cuffed and inside. The two left out here had other priorities. 

“For the last time—” Gamora snapped.

The convicts went right on squabbling. One yapped on about honor. The other refused to set foot on board the same ship as the first convict, out of principle. 

“Hey!” Rocket prodded the nearest one’s shoulder, reaching up with a gun twice his size. His banded tail swished in annoyance. “Gamora was talking to you. I think she was planning to say, Shut up and get on board before I toss your broken body on instead.”

“Close enough.” Gamora pushed sweat-drenched, deep green locks from her face for the hundredth time. Saving lives is important, she told herself. Saving lives was the mission. Saving lives was what heroes like the Guardians of the Galaxy were all about. There was a reason she’d dedicated herself to the group: Saving lives was a small step toward making amends.

Also?

Saving lives was damn frustrating sometimes.

Especially when she had to do it on a planet like Levet. Even though the air was technically breathable, the swamp fumes were just the right consistency to hover around the head of the average biped. Rocket was lucky. His nose might outperform theirs, but he was also short enough to escape the worst of the smell.

She pointed again at the ship’s open hatch, holding her breath as she spoke. “If you want to kill each other, do it after we drop you at the Kyln.”

“The Kyln?” A DiMavi stuck his head out of the ship. He’d been the first to let himself be cuffed and climb on board, but now he leaned out, his green skin dark in the evening gloom. “No way. Send me to any other prison. Or I’ll take my chances here! Do you know what that place is like?”

“Yes,” Drax said.           

“They’ll eat me alive!”

“Most prisoners are not interested in consuming each other’s flesh.”

“They’ll kill me!”

“They might do that,” Drax admitted.

Gamora nodded her agreement. It was a distinct possibility.

“You don’t understand, I’m really not made for that kind of place, I’m just—”

“An activist,” Gamora finished. “We know. Likely story.”

“Gamora means it is un-likely,” Drax clarified. He was holding onto one of the convicts to prevent them attacking each other, with arms roughly the size of the convict’s torso. Judging from the way Drax’s green skin had veered rapidly toward gray—even his intricate tattoos had lost their red hue—Gamora wasn’t the only one bothered by the fumes.

Rocket waved a dismissive, clawed hand at the DiMavi. “Boohoo. You ain’t the only ‘activist’ here. Get back on board.” 

Gamora turned away from the DiMavi, ignoring the wet squelch of the grass underfoot. She held the cuffs up to the nearer convict’s face. “Do you want to put these on yourself? You have two seconds.”

“—ooo-oooot.”

“Was that Groot?” Rocket’s head shot up and turned south, where Quill and Groot had gone to pick up the last remaining stray criminals. Gamora followed his lead, scrutinizing the landscape. Drab marshland stretched out before them. A hundred feet ahead, the grass gave way to shallow swamp water and willowy trees.

No trace of their teammates.

Gamora raised her hand to her communicator. “Quill?”

His voice crackled. “Star-Lord when we’re on official Guardians business, will you?”

“What’s happening?” Without looking, she tossed another set of cuffs at the grass by the convict’s feet. 

“Don’t know. Groot and I separated. Groot, come in.”

“I am Groot? I … am Groot.”

“A booby trap? Are you kidding me?” Rocket said. “You okay?”

“I am Groot?”

“I don’t care if it’s a tiny one! I’m on my way.”

“Need help?” Gamora said.

He slung his gun over his shoulder. “Nah. Go have fun with these guys. Don’t kill anyone till I’m back to watch.”

With that, he bounded off.

Rocket approached through the sparsely planted trees. He’d gone around to avoid the swamp, but even the regular paths were soggy and squishy. Every step resulted in an unsteady bounce, sending gross mud drops splashing up to cling to his fur. In this gravity, he was light enough that each step practically launched him up into the air—his gun was probably the only thing weighing him down.

“I am Groot?” Groot said, seeing him coming.

“Whaddaya mean, am I okay? Are you okay?”

Groot would be fine—he’d recovered from worse—but he didn’t look it right now. His legs were splintered, the bark rubbed off to reveal fresh, pale wood. His movements wobbled in a way that had nothing to do with the ground underfoot.

Quill approached from the other side. At every step, he had to yank his feet free with a horrendous squelch. “This is so much worse than Earth swamps,” he said, grimacing. The mud was everywhere, from the drenched hem of his long. red trenchcoat to splashes on his pale hair and paler face. 

“I am Groot,” Groot answered Rocket.

“Well, then, don’t go yelling like that.” Rocket crossed his arms and scanned the area. Trees. More trees. Squishy ground. Leafy tree trunk. Hidden tree house. An exploded mine—“Are you kidding? You fell for that?” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for you, man. We just grew you back from a splinter after last time you got blown up. And these traps aren’t even hidden that well! I already spotted four. Two mines around the base. And two camouflaged explosives there, on the tree trunk, pressure-activated. You see ’em? Hey, there’s a snare behind those bushes. That one’s not awful, actually.”

“I am Groot.”

“There ain’t nothing wrong with my priorities!”

Quill shook his head, then looked up at the tree house, masked by the massive yellow leaves furling directly from the tree trunk. “Hey! Anyone alive up there?”

“Get out of here!” a voice called back—low, gruff. “I know you’re after my house!”

“You know about that incoming space debris, right?”

“I said, get out!”

Rocket shrugged. They’d tried their best. “All right. Quill, Groot, let’s go.”

“I am Groot.” Groot didn’t move.

“What? We tried. Let’s bail. They could be having an awesome riot at the ship! We’re gonna miss out!”

Groot shook his head. “I am Groot.” Then, looking up, he said, “I am Groot?”

“What, you’re gonna have a nice conversation?” Rocket said. “He almost blew you up!"        

“Speaking of getting blown up,” Quill said loudly, “that’s about to happen to Levet. Want to save us some trouble and come down? We’re not after your tree, man! It’s a great tree, don’t get me wrong, but we’re a little busy saving the day.”

After a moment, the voice said, “How am I supposed to trust that?”

“Don’t you know us?” Rocket said. “We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy, c’mon.”

“Never heard of you.”

“That hurts,” Quill called up. “We saved the universe a few times. But in your defense, you’ve probably been on Levet a while. Listen, I’m Star-Lord. The Star-Lord? Team leader? I’m kind of a big deal. This is Rocket—tactician, technician, definitely not a genetically modified Earth raccoon.”

“One of a kind,” Rocket added. “Also, I’m not a flarking raccoon. You take that back.”

Quill went on, unperturbed. “At the ship, we have Gamora, the deadliest—I mean, greenest—woman in the galaxy, last of the Zen-Whoberians, definitely not a reformed assassin. And there’s Drax the … Discourager. Hell of a guy—impressively honorable, definitely not someone who would ever go on a murderous, vengeful rampage through the galaxy. Or have a nickname like ‘Destroyer.’ It’s for sure Discourager.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said, sounding dubious.

“What?” Quill peered sideways. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder.” Rocket glared.

“I am Groot,” Groot agreed.

“And then there’s Groot!” Quill continued, projecting a cheerful voice. “You met Groot when you almost blew him up! He’s a living tree, you live inside a tree—I’m sure you’d get along.”

“I am Groot,” Groot said eagerly. “I am Groot?”

“Stop trying to befriend subpar murderous criminals,” Rocket groaned.

Gamora’s voice came in over their earpieces. “We have a Kree ship incoming.”

Quill made a face. “I thought they’d abandoned Levet.”

“Bastards,” Gamora said.

“Bastards.” Quill shook his head. “Why am I not surprised? All right. Groot, get our new friend out of that tree.”

Groot pushed himself to his full height, wavering as he caught his balance on the soggy ground. The branches of his toes dug deep in the mud, squelching with every step toward the tree. He reached up. Snakelike vines twisted around the bark on his arms, shifting and stretching. The process was slow—slower than usual; maybe the mine had damaged him more than he let on—but he’d almost reached the lowest of the leaves. He stepped closer to the trunk, adjusting his weight—

“Careful!” Quill yelled.

Rocket bolted forward on all fours. “Groot, you don’t listen, do you? Booby trap! Left, step left—”

Groot half-turned, both massive arms still raised. His leg shifted.

Rocket was on top of the trap just in time, claws prying into the device, piercing its chip a fraction of a second before the bomb would’ve exploded. He glared up. His tail lashed in agitation. “I warned you, you barked buffoon.”

“I am Groot,” he mumbled.

“You should be.” 

“I am Groot. I am Groot.”

“Don’t get all dramatic. I knew I could deactivate that bomb in time.” Rocket shifted his glare to the tree house above and groped for his blaster. Even if they rescued the guy minus a few limbs, it’d still be a rescue, right?

“Rocket,” Quill said, his voice a warning.

“Don’t you come up here! I have a gun!” the guy yelled.

“Yeah? Wanna compare?” Rocket aimed his weapon up at the tree. Cocked his head, squinted one eye shut.

“Rocket!”

Groot pushed the gun aside, then reached up into the tree with elongated arms. For a few moments, there was just the sound of leaves rustling, branches snapping. A muffled yell. Then Groot pulled his arms back, his long fingers wrapped around a middle-aged Kree wriggling for freedom.

“Are you having fun?” Gamora said sharply over the comms. “That ship is getting too close for comfort.”

“We’re on our way,” Quill said.

“Put me down!” the Kree yelled. “Put me down!”

“I am Groot?” Groot said amiably, shifting him to carry him under one arm.

“You don’t even know how lucky you are to be dealing with Groot instead of the rest of us,” Quill said.

Rocket bared his teeth. “Now let’s go fight some Kree.”