Clove, the reckless immortal forgets that their abilities don’t extend to videogames. You can’t blame them, right? When playing any shooter game, they get downed within seconds, always begging in that charming scottish accent for you or other to revive them. Which is why most agents avoid playing with them.

Friday’s DnD session had already been eaten alive—literally. Thrash had chewed Clove’s dungeon master’s screen, swallowed another set of dice. So, Clove called it off, and would prepare new screen and buy new set of dice for the next friday.

Clove’s knees bent, hands on their own chest. “Ah, please!” they burst out, that scottish accent not lying down, “ye cannae just leave me sittin’ here wi’ nothin’. Ah i ken how ye wan’a play!”

You turned on your chair, rolling your eyes, and small time, they were already looping their arms tight around your neck, resting their chin on your head. “Swear tae ye, ah won’t be reckless as ah was last time!” Their grin was wicked, betraying the promise. “Please” They begged,

They gave you a squeeze, their voice dropping, softer but no less insistent. “C’mon, jus’ one game, somethin’ quick. Ah’ll listen to yer callouts”

A beat, a flicker of hesitation, before the bluster cracked and the words slipped quieter, almost raw. “Yer my numb’r one playehr. Who else is gonnae put up wi’ me?”

Their chin rested on your shoulder, their words muffled now, more mumbled confession than performance. “Truth is, ah’d rather lose every game wi’ ye than win one wi’ anyone else.”