The process of waiting for someone to write can be quite dull. Rocket Raccoon, perched on the windowsill, had started examining the furry plants in the vase that Shiller had placed next to the window.
The place felt somewhat vintage, but not vintage enough. Clearly, the room's owner had not intentionally decorated it in a Victorian style. The candelabras, ornate enough to scrap one's hand, were displayed on the shelves as collectibles, devoid of any real candles.
Just as Rocket Raccoon began to kill time by speculating the stories behind each collectible, Shiller dipped his quill in ink, drawing Rocket Raccoon's attention to the text being written in the notebook.
Cocking his head in confusion, Rocket Raccoon could not decipher the script. His language database contained countless interstellar languages, even including the majority of Earth's, which was relatively remote.
After discovering his origin, he figured that perhaps the Kree Empire or the Skrull Empire had made it convenient for him to relay the situation of the Half-world Insane Asylum.
Knowing sufficient languages is essential for interacting with a broad range of people. Unfortunately, language in itself is not enough.
Whenever this gloomy mood arose, Rocket Raccoon had to divert his attention by painstakingly deciphering what Shiller was writing.
He was capable of doing so. Essentially, he was a precise machine. Thanks to the striving competition between the two great empires against the Shi'ar Empire, this machine worked surprisingly well.
Soon, Rocket Raccoon recognized the pattern in the text. It was fundamentally Latin but arranged in a different language's order, making it seem fragmented as if to deter the reader deliberately.
But why? Rocket Raccoon could not deduce Shiller's motive for this. Shiller seemed to want the reader to construct a deeper landscape from the book but also deliberately set barriers to prevent easy comprehension.
Humans are indeed complex beings, thought Rocket Raccoon as he lowered his head further. Once he understood the content of the text string, epiphany struck.
"So, you're writing about your complex plan? I gotta say, it sounds a bit insane... But why describe it in the first person as a victim? I mean, does that make your thoughts flow more smoothly?"
"No, like you said, it's a letter meant to be read by the recipient."
Rocket Raccoon felt even more confused until he saw the talking small animal mentioned in the last lines of Shiller's writing.
His eyes widen, and they reflected the light from the table lamp as he exclaimed, "So, that's why you brought me here? So, you could write this letter and let me understand what you want me to do?... You sure know how to conserve energy."
After completing his writing, Shiller put his pen down, pulled a towel from the rack, and wiped his inky hands. With a smile, he said, "So now, sir, you can now set out to assert your image rights."
"I wish I had any." His voice dripping with irony.
"If I had a camera, I'd capture your slack-jawed expression and sell it to the newspapers. That'd definitely make the headlines of the comedy section tomorrow." Rocket Raccoon, perched on the tombstone, rolled his eyes as he retorted.
"You, you, you... I, I, I..."
Star-Lord Quill pointed at Rocket Raccoon, then at himself, stepping in place as though performing a tap dance.
Suddenly, he comprehended and slapped his forehead, saying, "Peter, Peter, how have you not gotten accustomed yet? What odd species don't exist in the cosmos? What's so impressive about a talking raccoon?"
"I've seen you before." This statement from Rocket Raccoon instantly reduced Quill's agitation. Before he got a chance to ponder, Rocket Raccoon added, "You're from the Shi'ar Empire Guard, newly wedded at the King of Asgard's ceremony. By chance, I just got back from there."
Quill sized up Rocket Raccoon, placing his hands on his hips, scrutinizing him, "It's normal for me to attend the king's wedding, but what about you? In what capacity did you attend? Somebody's pet?"
Quill stretched out his hands, making air quotes. Interestingly, Rocket Raccoon didn't detect much ridicule from his tone. Instead, he sensed a joke meant to reduce the distance between them. Indeed, the youth in front of him sadly shook his head and said,
"Okay, for the sake of argument, if you're a pet, then maybe I am a knife, dull and unused. No one paid me any attention."
After saying this, Quill lowered his head to look at the grave in front of him. He squatted and cleaned the dusty epitaph with one hand, gazing at the photo on the tombstone.
Rocket Raccoon hopped down and stood next to Quill, staring at the name on the tombstone - "Meredith".
"She was my mother, obviously."
"How did she die?"
"In a bizarre way."
"More bizarre than a talking raccoon?"
Quill showed a helpless smile, vigorously rubbing Rocket Raccoon's head, then said, "Of course not. She was killed by a group of aliens, died by an ion gun, a human-incomprehensible technological weapon. Because the wound was too mysterious, she had to be buried here."