Even after leaving the newspaper office, Quill and Rocket Raccoon were still stunned by the state of this world. Their long interstellar travels had made them well-traveled, and though they had seen plenty of disasters, most of them had been crude and straightforward.
Either a home planet's orbit shifted and wiped out its biosphere, or a sun erupted and destroyed a civilization. Natural disasters in the universe were far more common than man-made ones. It was hard to imagine a species being directly transformed into another form of life while still maintaining its original social order.
It was not entirely surprise, but more a sigh at something bizarre—the so-called "absurdity had its own kind of beauty."
The two walked along the tree-lined road beside the newspaper office toward New York Central Park. They were not planning to go back and investigate; they simply intended to cut through the park, return to the city, and look for other possible clues.
But then Rocket Raccoon's gaze fell on Quill's arm. He had to lean forward and smack Quill's face with his paw. "Did you notice? You've scratched your arm sixteen times in three minutes. If you're trying to remind me of what happened to you that night with this little gesture, then I can only tell you this: congratulations, you succeeded. I feel like throwing up now."
"Quit it." Quill thought the raccoon was merely trying to liven things up with another topic. He tightened his backpack straps, turned to look at the sunset on the horizon, and continued, "Since we probably won't find a way out of here anytime soon, we may need to find a long-term base. Preferably somewhere with security measures, so you can lock me up when I go crazy."
"I'm not joking." Rocket Raccoon raised his voice.