Guardians of the Galaxy

"Quill's completely wasted. Again," Rocket stated, slamming some monstrous homemade plasma cannon twice the size of the raccoon onto the counter. "Consider my hands of him."

"He's suffering," Mantis said mournfully, sighing sympathetically. The whiskers on her forehead drooped as her black eyes looked toward the compartment where Star-Lord lay rotting in an alcoholic coma and self-pity.

“You’re his sister, you figure it out,” Rocket chuckled, already fiddling with the cannon with a screwdriver.

"I am Groot," said Groot. The tree-humanoid was chewing on something inedible he'd found under the counter.

"Exactly," Rocket chuckled. "Hey, don't eat that crap!"

"Hey, furball," Nebula's rude voice, entering the empty bar, interrupted the topic of Quill and Groot's gastronomic preferences, "drop that junk, you're needed in the southern sector."

Rocket rolled his eyes, letting out an irritated groan: "I've already been there today! That rusty reactor is already in my bones. It's not my fault your idiots can't finish the job without a nanny," he snapped, not looking up from his 'junk.'

"Nebula! Nebula!" Cosmo burst through the door, the dog looking a little agitated, though given her hyperactivity... it wasn't much different from her usual state. "Drax's stuck in the airlock!"

Now Nebula rolled her eyes, letting out a low, bloodthirsty growl. Rocket's clawed paws hovered over the cannon, and he turned to Cosmo with an expression of utter bewilderment. — What the hell is that blockhead doing in the ventilation?

"I don't know," the dog answered honestly, wagging her tail. "But it smells like fried bugs in hot sauce. Bugs are delicious, hot sauce is disgusting," she concluded, grimacing.

“I am Groot,” Groot said philosophically, continuing to chew something.

“He’s right,” Mantis suddenly agreed.

And so the morning began at the station in the head of a dead Celestial, which served as the base and home of the Guardians of the Galaxy. And what were you doing?