You'd think that your first moments, days, maybe even weeks of consciousness, real intellectual conciousness, would be without personality. How can you be yourself if you don't know yourself, right? Wrong. Well, at least, in this case.
The experiment was male. He stood at 4'0 and weighed precisely 55.7 lbs. He did not come of his own free will, he never asked for any of it. He would never have real choice. Everything that was his head, that was his heart, was programmed. He went under the knife with not much more than instinct, but woke with pain and personality. The doctor called him Rocket.
The first few weeks were hard, not just for him, but for us. To all that we imagined he'd be grateful for, he responded negatively. I tried to be kind to him, to form a bond, but I was partly responsible for making him this way, which meant that I would never be his friend.
Rocket became reclusive, rejecting himself, more than anything. The doctor had finally had enough. I tried to reason with him,
"It's different this time. He will remember this pain."
But, he cared not for the feelings of what he saw as his greatest failure. He wanted Rocket to be friendly, outgoing, helpful-many things that Rocket was not. So, Rocket had to change.
The second procedure took place without my help. If I was to help anyone, it would not be the doctor. I could hear the whimpers and moans through the thin walls of our manor, but I would do nothing that night or any night that followed, to help poor Rocket. I was never his friend.
The doctor was never satisfied with his creation. Rocket was never enough. He could open him and close him and mold and dismember, but Rocket was never perfection. The doctor went mad seeking perfection and I did nothing, but hide myself away and drown in my guilt.
On a night when the howling wind covered the grotesque noise of the late nights in our manor, I could bear my own silence no longer.
The doctor hadn't began, which meant it was time for the end. It didn't take much, just a scalpel to end it all. He went still so quickly, his eyes closed to gently, his blood spilled so slowly and I never felt a thing. Rocket watched me without a word as I washed the blood from my hands. As I dried, I turned to find him fully dressed and standing in the doorway.
"Take Groot with you when you go and promise me you'll look after him. He's physically capable, but he needs your brains."
He only nodded before he walked away from me for the last time. In that gesture, I knew that I'd never be his friend.
But, I wasn't his enemy either.