GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY: ROCKET RACCOON & GROOT STEAL THE GALAXY! Page 28

  Una-Ren, aka “Pama Harnon,” was equally feted as a hero, and continues to serve the Kree Stellar Empire as a top-class espionage agent. She was personally responsible for escalating three Kree-Skrull wars.

  War Brotherhood Commander Droook spent seventeen years steering his megadestroyer fleet out of the distant fringe-world asteroid belt where Groot had, whimsically, deposited them. By the time he returned to the Badoon homeworld, there had been thirteen regime changes. Droook, as I understand it, still yearns for a Raccoonoid pelt to decorate the wall of his War Brotherhood wardroom.

  Centurion Grekan Yaer returned to Xandar, and later married Centurion Clawdi. Between them, they produced six little prospective Corpsmen. Yaer served four more terms before he was promoted to Nova Prime, a post he held illustriously for nine Earth years. One of the reasons that the Worldmind chose Yaer for the prime position was the positive work he had done in forging closer ties with the Shi’ar.

  Corpsmen Starkross and Valis both rose swiftly to the rank of Centurion.

  Sub-Praetor Arach of the Shi’ar Imperial Guard served her empire devotedly until her death in combat, when she was unfortunate enough to find herself occupying the position of the hyphen in a Kree-Skrull war.

  Guardsmen Warstar 34 and Dragoon continue to serve at the pleasure of the Shi’ar Imperator.

  Guardsman Ebon achieved the high rank of Sub-Praetor toward the end of her career. This promotion was due in part to her strong collaborative work with the Xandarian Grekan Yaer. Affirmative exercises were established between the Guard and the Nova Corps, thanks to the friendship between Yaer and Ebon. Because of them, the Shi’ar Empire and the Xandarians moved forward in a new intent of mutual cooperation.

  Pip the Troll still minds his bric-a-brac shop on Adjufar.

  Sledly Rarnak quit his job with Timely Inc., claiming that he no longer had a “head for business.” As all Skrulls do eventually, he felt it was time for a change, and he is now a modestly successful zunk farmer.

  Using his legal nouse, Blint Wivvers took Timely Inc. to tribunal and won eighty-six trillion units in damages for “unexpected death in the workplace.” He now runs his own burgeoning legal practice on Alpha C: Withers, Jimmini, Kerfarple & Associates.

  Following said legal battle, Odus Hanxchamp became Junior Associate Under Supervisor in the 4006th-floor mail room.

  Arnok Gruntgrill became Senior Vice -tik!- Executive President (Special Projects). He continues to annoy his secretary, Mrs. Mantlestreek.

  Xorb Xorbux left Timely Inc. and went into private security work. His position as head of Corporate Security (Special Projects) was filled by an individual called Brango.

  The Templeships of the Universal Church of Truth ended up (again, through Groot’s omnipotent whimsy), perched on the event horizon of a black hole in Ultra Mega Sixty-Eight. It took them forty years to escape the gravity well. During that time, they went through eight matriarchs. One of them was Zania Orbal, aka “Allandra Meramati.”

  Cardinal Navorth, both before and after his escape from the Ultra Mega Sixty-Eight black hole, continues to be a total and utter bastard.

  Roamer returned to Galador, renewed his vows, and now serves the Galaxy as a protector and avenger.

  Gamora went on the run for six months, fleeing the vengeful agents of her disgruntled Negative Zone employer. Eventually, she decided to confront Annihilus to explain exactly why she had failed to deliver the Recorder to him and why he should get over it. This explanation involved her sinking both her swords down Annihilus’s gullet. And thus she saved the Universe (again). But that is another record. Not this one. She continues to serve valiantly as Guardian of the Galaxy.

  And you, gentle reader. You are part of this narrative, too. I have been checking in on you from time to time. Very glad work is going so well for you, and the new haircut really suits you. Let me tell you, I really laughed at that picture of a cat you posted on Facebook! How’s your uncle? Is he doing okay now? Let’s Snapchat!

  Rocket and Groot? They’re off the radar, under the wire. I look for them, but they’re never there. True outlaws, I suppose. The only place I ever see them is on watch lists: Badoon, Shi’ar, Kree, Xandarian…

  IN my mind, though, I can still picture them.

  I remember our parting. Rocket reaches out a disconcertingly human-like hand. I shake it. I shudder, despite myself.

  He doesn’t seem to notice. He bounds up the landing ramp, and Groot follows him.

  “Let’s go, prowl cruiser!” I hear Rocket cry.

  “Away from jeopardy again, pals?” the automatic voice replies.

  “No, this time toward beverages. I need a non-scalding beverage like you wouldn’t believe!”

  “I am Groot!”

  “Yeah, better still! Take us to the nearest Timothy!”

  “Timothys locked on!” cries the automatic voice. “This vehicle says, let’s make like an unfeasibly large gun and shoot!”

  They depart in a gravimetric swirl.

  The last thing I record is a disconcertingly human like-hand waving farewell to me from the prowl cruiser’s cockpit window. Then the craft is airborne and gone.

  It reassures me to know that they are out there somewhere. The Galaxy is a safer place while they are.

  {end record}

  Special Preview

  SPIDER-MAN: KRAVEN’S LAST HUNT

  BY NEIL KLEID

  Adapted from the graphic novel

  by J.M. DeMatteis and Mike Zeck

  PROLOGUE

  The hunter lifted his rifle from its case. He turned it in his hands and tested its weight. Running a palm along the stock and tightening the barrel in his grip, the hunter rested cool metal against his strong, calloused fingers, then lovingly placed the weapon on a nearby table with a reverence equivalent to mother and child. The rifle, a modified Remington, was one of a kind: handcrafted for the hunter alone, built atop the bones of a classic Model 700. Its case was a coffin, lined with velvet and burnished with copper. It lay open and resting in the heart of his lair.

  Sergei padded from the room, which was situated at the center of his compound—a private sanctuary containing an accumulated lifetime of artifacts and memories. He walked deliberately, placing weight on his toes like a jungle cat, moving silently through his modest quarters and away from the casket and the waiting rifle. Waiting to be used, waiting for the inevitable end of the affair.

  But not just yet.

  Dressed in a cobalt robe barely cinched at the waist, Sergei moved to the rear of his townhouse, back where not even aides or servants dared tread. Here, in a secluded inner sanctum draped in exotic finery and littered with stuffed trophies—former adversaries dragged across land or sea in nets or cages, or draped over his shoulders, or ridden between his legs. Each had failed to best Sergei in his element, to defeat the hunter in his prime. He’d faced them all, from proud Lion to mighty Elephant; terrible Tiger to sleek Jaguar. They’d bared claw and tooth, roared and pounced, and Sergei took them one by one, claiming skin and bones for his own. Every animal. Every beast. The hunter had proved victorious against them all.

  All but one.

  Sergei drew the curtains, shutting out light, and shrugged aside his robe. Bare and alone, dressed only in hunter’s skin, he circled the room and nodded to his enemies. His gaze landed on the midnight-blue of a fierce panther, jaws opened in a silent snarl. He padded past the looming figure of a mighty ape, arms raised as if to strike, but gave the imposing figure no notice. Arriving at a table in the back where waited an array of po-tions and candles hastily arranged on a small, silver tray, he moved through preparations with little fanfare, distracted as he was by plans and memories. Sergei lit incense, thin purple smoke rising from wicks to filter through the room, and swallowed several po-tions, the mixed herbs within serving to enhance his state of mind.

  He turned back to the animals, stepped into the circle of beasts against which he’d proved his mettle and gained honor, and dropped to all fours. Sergei moved
along the floor—the hunter no more, now adopting the ways and instincts of the Beast, using the limbs provided to propel himself along…to crawl. The herbs and drugs altered his per-ception, turned aside the hunter-as-man and allowed him to become the hunter-as-beast—though as he stalked imaginary prey, crawling beneath Elephant and Rhino, Sergei knew he was much more than that.

  I am Kraven, he thought—the name echoing around his skull, across the room, off each trophy and every wall. I am Kraven, and I am the Beast. He twisted it into a mantra, wore it for a crown as he pounced toward the panther, barely visible as the purple fog en-veloped its frame of blue and black. Sergei landed opposite the panther, opening his own mouth and growling in return. Then he cast his enemy aside, tossing the panther into a collection of ornate shields and carefully stacked spears. The taxidermic prize and deadly weapons fell to the ground, scattering in a heap.

  Sergei turned—no, crawled away and stalked another foe: an ape, tall and proud, rising up to cast a shadow across the hunter’s naked form. Sergei rose to meet the furred behemoth, lifting his arms to match the simian’s own, and drove his palm into the under-side of the ape’s jaw, knocking head from body with a short, powerful blow and a primal, bloodcurdling scream of rage. The hunter reached out, grabbed the ape’s body, and lifted it above his head, sinewy muscles flexed taut and firm from rage and exertion.

  Sergei smiled, cold and dangerous through gritted teeth. My mind is rage and glo-ry, he thought. My heart: fire and pride. I am Kraven. My body is grace and power.

  Bellowing like Elephant, rearing back with both arms, Sergei slammed the stuffed ape to the ground, shattering it and sending pieces out across the room, among the rest of the watching creatures. Breathing heavily, skin slick from sweat and smoke, he stumbled to the curtain and tore it aside, stopping only to retrieve his robe. The smoke filtered from the room, free to make its way into the rest of the lair, following the hunter as he strode down the hall toward the front of the compound.

  Sergei paid the escaping smoke no mind, lost in thought and the mission at hand.

  I am Kraven, the Beast, he lectured himself, but also Kravinoff, the man.

  Securing the robe around his body, pulling arms back through the sleeves, Sergei cast the Beast aside—as he had the rifle—and walked on the flats of his feet, pushing through solid oaken doors to the thin warmth of the library. Surrounded by dog-eared books and faded maps, Sergei poured another drink—not a mind-altering potion this time, but a pleasant African red, aged to perfection in earthenware casks and laced with hints of poppy and lion’s blood by master vintners. He decanted the wine into a heavy silver goblet, a remnant of a life he’d barely known, carried by his parents from Russia years before. He let the wine breathe, casting a gaze around the room at the goblet’s cous-ins: items and heirlooms passed from Kravinoff to Kravinoff down through the years into his own undeserving, calloused hands.

  “I am Kravinoff,” he repeated aloud, to anyone who might be listening, man or beast. Kravinoff, Sergei knew, was a man—an old man, though few would believe it. Years had passed—long, hard, often fruitless years since he’d traveled overseas as a child, coming with his parents to this land of sheep and prey. He had been nothing more than a cub, a mewling pup riding the seas with his mother and wet nurse, traveling to the shores of a land without honor or dignity.

  To look upon Sergei—his powerful form, his weathered face and jet-black hair—the average person might see a man of forty or younger. But the truth lay within the po-tions and herbs that Sergei imbibed. These herbs turned him from man to beast—from hunter to predator—but they also allowed him to retain youth, agility, stamina, and strength. In truth, Sergei Kravinoff had stalked the Earth for nearly a century.

  And he had learned much, Sergei thought as he idly swirled the wine within his goblet. This land was not alone in its lack of honor. There had been no more room in Russia for such things: for aristocrats or culture. For honor or human dignity. Once the Cossacks came, once man became prey, hunted by other men who were nothing more than beasts in human skin…once they came for Sergei’s family and fortune, it became necessary to seek new fortune in a new world that fattened, frightened men named Amer-ica.

  But what the Kravinoffs lost, everything his parents had been forced to leave be-hind in their beautiful homeland—honor, dignity, pride—all of those things were bred in Sergei’s bones long before the Trotskys and Lenins dragged Mother Russia into the pit. He carried them alone, inside his skin and within his cells, for the entire world seemed to have followed Russia’s sad example. Where can one find dignity today? Sergei wondered. He stood at the desk in the center of his study, lapping at the wine and allowing the blood-red liquid to dribble down his chin and onto his wide, muscled chest. Honor, he asked himself, where is such a quality now?

  He reached across the desk to a small intercom and jabbed a flat button with a thick, insistent finger. A bookshelf slid aside, its volumes no more than clever facsimiles, and a pair of nondescript doors parted to reveal a dimly lit chapel lined with rows of ceremonial candles. Sergei walked around the desk—placing weight back on his toes again, unconsciously returning to an animal’s pace—and carried the goblet into the chapel. The doors slid closed behind.

  I am Kravinoff, he thought once more, and were my father alive…were my mother alive…they would look upon this frightened, wounded animal called civilization without recognition, and with great fear. Sergei nodded to himself and drank deeply, wine splashing over his chin. He absentmindedly wiped it away on the back of his hand and moved farther into the soft glow of candlelight, shadows lengthening on the walls and windows to either side.

  With great fear, Sergei thought. And great disgust.

  He moved slowly to the center of the chapel, past rows of chairs and the dulled, prismatic colors of exquisitely designed stained-glass windows set into deeply niched walls. Finally, he returned to the coffin, waiting and resting on a platform before a larger window and a handful of silver candlesticks shaded to either side by lush, verdant floral arrangements imported from Madagascar, Moscow, and the Middle East. Sergei ascended the short staircase leading to the coffin and cast a brief glance at the modified Remington he’d laid on a nearby table. He set the goblet aside, resting it on the lip of the open coffin, and placed his hands to either side, staring up at the unlit candlesticks and impassive, decorative window beyond.

  I am the man, he reflected. I am the Beast.

  I am Kraven. The Hunter.

  The hunter had found dignity in this world, but not in cities. No, the hunter had found it in jungles. He had seen honor not in the civilized, those who existed in a society that claimed to be honorable, but in the primal—in those who knew no law but that of tooth and fang, of kill or be killed. And as the hunter, he had found morality, found meaning—not in culture or arts, or in anything a supposedly civilized society created in an effort to prove itself better than animals. No, Kraven had found meaning in the hunt. And he had given his life to it.

  But Time, like all good predators, had finally caught up with the hunter. And soon, there could be no escape from its cage of flesh. Herbs, roots, potions—they could keep him alive, yes, as they had long beyond Sergei’s allotted time. But no potion could rejuvenate the hunter’s dying spirit, and no herb would heal his heart, corrupted as it was by the weight of a corrupted age.

  I was a child, Sergei thought, no more than a cub in his mother’s jaws, carried along from one jungle to another. And in many ways, he believed, Sergei still was. But the meaning of the hunt had begun to fade, and the hunter’s failures weighed upon his soul. His eyes ticked away from the window to the side table, where lay the rifle.

  I will die soon, Sergei thought. I must die soon.

  He turned back toward the open casket and carefully ran his hand inside, caress-ing the velvet and what lay within. Sergei’s jaw set. He thought of Russia and his mother, of all the wrongs he had endured since coming to America. His fist clenched, grasping the object ins
ide the coffin, and fingers entwined with the face of his enemy. With the skin of the Beast.

  Slowly, Kraven lifted his hand and pulled a garment from the coffin—crimson and blue, emblazoned with the eight-legged sign of the Beast. He raised Spider-Man’s costume to his face and traced the mask’s wide, white eyes with a thick, coarse finger. Tears ran, unbidden, from the corners of Kraven’s own eyes as he contemplated the task before him and studied his prey. He stared deep into the unseeing eyes of the Spider. He prepared for the hunt.

  I will die soon, Kraven said to himself, using the mantra for focus like the steady beat of a jungle drum, echoing his earlier thoughts with fearful symmetry. I must die soon. He tightened his grip on the Spider’s mask.

  But not yet.