When the brief moment of painful static cleared behind his eyes, Rocket jumped back up, ready on his feet (as he could be) for the next part of the fight- but it never came. The pot was still on the rock where it had been when they'd both spotted it, but the woman was sprawled behind it, half on her side, silent and still.
What the hell happened- his blood pressure and breath spiked with adrenaline, he moved around the pot and around the awkwardly splayed boots; that's when he noticed the makeshift splint on the chick's ankle. The woman's light-less stare aimed at nothing, Rocket recognized instantly.
She was dead.
"Aw hell-" he huffed, barely above his breath. His chest was tight and uncomfortable, but something old and familiar clicked over in his brain just when he thought it might get painful- right after he closed the woman's eyes.
That familiar feeling was the need to survive. It sufficiently numbed him while he sifted through her things and took everything that was useful- including the stew- and returned to the miserable darkness that was the majority of his life.