PC
by Adrian Tullberg.

Captain Steve Rogers, relative newcomer to the twenty-first century, knew that this was not a regular occurrence in this brave new world.

This Starlord character looked relatively normal, and so did this Drax and Gamora if you overlooked the green tones. Rogers wondered if calling them 'green' to their faces would be considered racist; as soon as he'd been pronounced mentally cognizant by SHIELD's medical staff, they'd dragged him into what they called a 'sensitivity class' to receive a crash course in seventy years of race relations by a black woman who'd been eager to relate her personal vocal dissertation of Martin Luthor King to virgin ears. So far he'd avoided any significant social errors by the simple act of shutting up and letting others talk.

However, Rocket, the bipedal talking Raccoon was definitely a new sight on this planet. The tough-guy-eager-to-prove-it attitude wasn't, but the tiny furry animal instead of the barroom brawler who thought boot was going to be a cakewalk was a complete novelty, if the expressions of Natasha and Stark were any indication.

Then there was -

- the Tree.

The eight foot walking tree. The most apt, accurate description.

Rogers held out his hand. "I didn't get your name."

"I AM GROOT."

Okay. Good. Clear honest lines of communication. "And how-"

"I AM GROOT."

"Yes we caught that."

"I AM GROOT."

Other terms swam out of the experience of that marathon sensitivity class. 'Challenged'. "Learning Disability'. 'Special.'

Surprisingly, Stark held out his hand. Unsurprisingly, Stark opened his mouth.

"Hodor. Hodor Hodor."

Captain Steve Rogers, relative newcomer to the twenty-first century was pleased that he recognised the gesture Natasha was making. It was universally referred to as a 'facepalm'.