Untold

Prison Number 1

Rocket had always taken a great pride in his criminal history, he had been arrested more times than he could count and had always gotten a kick out of the adrenaline rush he received after outrunning the authorities, but he made sure never to overlook the boasting rights he received after leading what was now twenty-three prison escapes.

The Guardians had only witnessed the Kyln escape which was unfortunately, thanks to their new 'goody two-shoes' reputation after having defeated Ronan, was most likely the last of his prison breaks. However, that never stopped him from utilizing his bragging rights to the best of his ability.

The majority of his arrests had been due to his reputation of a trigger-happy bounty hunter, only a few tracking back to his actual escapes in question. That was one thing he loved about the ability to travel intergalactically, very rarely was the law enforcement able to carry jurisdiction outside their own quadrant.

He had been recaptured by certain prisons and those who had a reason to hunt the furry bounty hunter down, which was a lot seeing as though his love for explosives had created quite the reputation for the ringtail. And, although he tree man had spent the majority of Rocket's short life of sentience with him, Groot still had only managed to witness a small number of those arrests.

In fact, all of the Guardians had heard many a story during one of their group outings to the local pub, he had never passed up the opportunity to boast his abilities to his friends, he loved to see the amused expressions on their faces when expressing his tales (although there was always the chance of exaggeration when it came to getting Quill to give him the wide eyed and guffawed look.)

However, with every story he told with that trademark toothy grin of his lining his lips and a bottle of some burning liquid in hand, there was one prison that he never dared to mention. One that no one had dared to ask about.

Prison number one.

Dark.

Cold.

Pain.

There few other words to describe the place. Well there were many words actually. One could wright entire books on what hell actually looked like from the inside, and he was sure one of those damned white-coats had, but those were the only few ways to describe the experiences the creature had been forced to endure when one has only just gained sentience.

Dark.

The blinding lights that reflected off of the white walls and white coats and reflected off of the blood that stained his fur and hurt his sensitive eyes didn't keep the word from becoming more prominent than ever.

He was never told what was being done to him, never told what would happen this time when they traced that sold scalpel down his back or chest or took those black and red wires that were strung into those damned holes in his shoulder plates that ran electricity and pain and cold and burning through his entire being.

He wasn't a being.

He wasn't a he.

It

Subject

That was what they called him.

Subject 89P13

A thing

A string of numbers

Something for them to torment and hurt and keep in the dark as they bring more blood pooling to the surface, shaving off the fur and shoving his head and arms and legs full of metal and more wires and pain and cold.