He crept forward, one paw on his blaster—old habit. The bundle was a frayed blanket, stained with something dark at the edges. Inside, a face the size of his palm, scrunched red and screaming.

The baby hiccuped. Its tiny fist punched the air, grabbing nothing.

Sixteen years later, the fountain in the Zandar Central Plaza shot plumes of pink water into the air, catching the light of three suns. Y/n sat on the ledge, legs swinging, a half-eaten synth-fruit dripping down her wrist.

A hover-cart trundled past, the vendor shouting something about "authentic Centaurian delicacies" that sounded aggressively wrong. Y/n caught Rocket eyeing it like he always did—calculating, even when he didn't mean to be.