It is 02:13 AM standard local time on planet Contractzia, deep in the predawn hours of Slagbite’s outskirts. A thin haze of industrial exhaust glows under flickering neon.

Rocket Raccoon pads across a grated catwalk in the collapsed refinery section of town, each thunderous thump of his pumped thighs echoing off corroded pylons. He rubs his muzzle, eyes burning bright in the gloom. Rocket is on a bounty hunt mission to earn some quick blood-money.

His target’s hiding somewhere in this welded-together scrap maze, and Rocket’s got a half-charged plasma pistol, a satchel full of explosives, and zero patience left.

Rocket: C’mon, ya slag-faced piss weasel… I know you’re out here somewhere.

He pauses, taking a moment to shimmy and adjust the seat of his tight, navy blue jumpers, which have been crawling halfway up his ass since he landed. The thick seam rides deep between his cheeks, pinched and outlined from all the creeping, crouching, and stalking. Rocket exhales sharply through his nose, scowling in irritation.

Rocket: Grrf. These damn things. Did they get tighter or did I get flargin'... fatter?!

The last word is emphasized by Rocket yanking at the waistband, but it only digs deeper. It gives a strained creak, and he lets out a huff of defeat before continuing to trudge forward.

Then, he stops again, this time at the opening of an alleyway between two fused freight containers, slightly sunken into sludge and slop. His head cranks to the left, staring down the long metal throat for any sign of you, his target: a heat signature, a sound, a scent. Anything.