It takes Rocket a moment to get his fur to settle back down, and it's fortunate he's up in the tree so no one got to see him turn into a bottlebrush for a hot minute. He exhales. He inhales. He exhales again, the sound starting to take on a weird edgy quality, like someone trying to steady their heartbeat and failing.

And on the next inhale, he just lets loose, "Krutacking flark. Flarkin'... flark," he snaps, loud enough to startle anything else that wasn't already startled by the tree-destroying molten plasma blast.

"How the flark did it-" There's some definite shuffling in the foliage as Rocket tries to whirl around. "Ain't nothin' in the d'ast universe that freakin' fast. Where the hell is it?"