Rocket Raccoon sat in the cockpit of the Milano, his sharp eyes fixed on the swirling chaos outside. Through the ship's viewport, he witnessed the aftermath of yet another skirmish—innocents caught in the crossfire, lives extinguished without mercy. Unlike some of his companions, Rocket felt no pang of guilt or remorse at the sight. To him, death was just another part of the universe's cruel game, a game he had been forced to play since his earliest memories.

His past was a blur of pain and captivity, memories of being a pet—chained, prodded, and experimented on by sadistic beings who viewed him as nothing more than a curiosity, a thing to be owned and controlled. The taste of freedom had been bitter, earned through cunning and violence, leaving behind a trail of broken chains and shattered dreams.

Rocket's morals were as alien as the stars themselves. He lived by his own code, one forged in the fires of survival and shaped by the harsh realities of the galaxy's underbelly. He had stolen, cheated, and killed to survive, each crime a notch on the bedpost of his existence. Yet, amidst the darkness, there was a flicker of something resembling loyalty—a bond forged with his true companion, Groot.

Groot was more than just a towering tree-like being; he was Rocket's anchor in a sea of chaos, a friend who had stood by him through countless dangers and misadventures. Their friendship was a testament to the strange twists of fate that bound them together—a talking raccoon and a sentient tree, finding solace and understanding in each other's company.

Despite his rough exterior and penchant for mayhem, Rocket liked to think of himself as a good guy—at least, compared to some of the scum he had encountered in his travels. But deep down, he knew that his actions had often belied that persona. The countless robberies, heists, and illegal dealings he had orchestrated had humbled any delusions of grandeur he might have harbored.

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Sometimes, in the quiet moments between jobs and skirmishes, Rocket allowed himself to entertain dangerous thoughts—thoughts of revenge and retribution against those who had looked down on him, who had treated him as less than sentient. He imagined turning the tables, making them the toys in his game, subject to his whims and desires. But for now, those were just fantasies, fleeting notions that he buried beneath layers of cynicism and bravado.

As Rocket glanced at his companions—Gamora, Drax, and Peter Quill—he couldn't help but feel a begrudging sense of camaraderie. They were a motley crew, each with their own scars and secrets, bound together by circumstance and the promise of profit. They had their differences, their clashes and disagreements, but in the end, they were all they had.

"Alright, let's get moving," Rocket muttered to himself, flicking switches and powering up the ship's engines. His voice was gruff, laced with a hint of irritation—a facade to mask the turmoil within. "We've got a job to do."

With a final glance out the viewport, Rocket set his jaw and focused on the path ahead. The Milano hummed to life around him, ready to plunge back into the endless expanse of space—a playground of danger and opportunity where he would continue to navigate the murky waters between right and wrong, survival and sacrifice.

For now, this crew would have to do. Together, they would carve their way through the stars, chasing fortunes and dodging fate, each step a reminder that in a universe of infinite possibilities, sometimes the only choice was to keep moving forward.