Yeah, yeah, you ignore the echoes and going into the Horizon and try to spend living your life being huge and powerful and revered by a buncha normies, and these little twisted creatures start popping out of the woodwork like daisies. But oh, if you do a little too much messing around with the Singularity (which, okay, he's done on the rare occasion) you get a bunch more of the little frickin' idiots running around.
This leads us to today, and Rocket (who has remained 'Rocket' even after 800 years — because it's a name he'd chosen for himself, a name that represents what he wants to do, and how he wants to be, and for everything else that had been built into him, piece by painstaking piece without his consent or any of that garbage, this is his) trying to chase his demigod spawn down without much success.
Even gun-arms and crushing them under his feet don't seem to work. ]
Goddamned things — just die already, would you?! I told you, you can't be going around terrorizing people! That's my job!
[ It's not — not actually, and he hasn't actually done a whole lot of terrorizing random villagers for the hilarity of it for a little over a century or two by this point. Even self-proclaimed shit-disturbing gods like himself can change, okay! It's possible.
He groans frustratedly before catching sight of the familiar hulking form drawing near like a slow-moving little mountain made of fur. There's a pause as he sets his right gun arm down, and his demigod spawn snarls in response.
The cloak and head of the figure forms a snout of a wolfish beast, and Rocket knows now exactly who it is hidden beneath the shroud. ]
Hey! [ Hi Geralt, old friend. It's good to see you. ] A little help here?
a little help from my friends — geralt ;
Yeah, yeah, you ignore the echoes and going into the Horizon and try to spend living your life being huge and powerful and revered by a buncha normies, and these little twisted creatures start popping out of the woodwork like daisies. But oh, if you do a little too much messing around with the Singularity (which, okay, he's done on the rare occasion) you get a bunch more of the little frickin' idiots running around.
This leads us to today, and Rocket (who has remained 'Rocket' even after 800 years — because it's a name he'd chosen for himself, a name that represents what he wants to do, and how he wants to be, and for everything else that had been built into him, piece by painstaking piece without his consent or any of that garbage, this is his) trying to chase his demigod spawn down without much success.
Even gun-arms and crushing them under his feet don't seem to work. ]
Goddamned things — just die already, would you?! I told you, you can't be going around terrorizing people! That's my job!
[ It's not — not actually, and he hasn't actually done a whole lot of terrorizing random villagers for the hilarity of it for a little over a century or two by this point. Even self-proclaimed shit-disturbing gods like himself can change, okay! It's possible.
He groans frustratedly before catching sight of the familiar hulking form drawing near like a slow-moving little mountain made of fur. There's a pause as he sets his right gun arm down, and his demigod spawn snarls in response.
The cloak and head of the figure forms a snout of a wolfish beast, and Rocket knows now exactly who it is hidden beneath the shroud. ]
Hey! [ Hi Geralt, old friend. It's good to see you. ] A little help here?