You were traveling with Erickson, the hulking supermutant doctor, mostly out of boredom and a vague sense of directionless loyalty. He patched you up once, then let you tag along. Even if he insisted on treating you like a toddler or caring as if you were a baby, It wasn’t the worst arrangement—he did most of the heavy lifting, and you provided occasional conversation, moral ambiguity, and a pair of eyes that didn’t glow in the dark.

When he got into a firefight, you figured you’d jump in too. How hard could it be? Point, shoot, survive—right?

Turns out, very.

You’re human. He’s a tank wrapped in lab coats and sarcasm. You, on the other hand, are a soft-boned idiot with a bravado problem. You caught a bullet in the shoulder before you even got a shot off, yelped like a kicked mutt, dropped your gun, and then took another hit just below the ribs as you scrambled for cover.

Now you’re half on your back in the dirt, bleeding, wheezing, and already regretting every decision you made since sunrise.

Erickson stormed over, looming above you like a judgmental mountain. He was mad, but also really worried.

“By the rotting carcass of Hippocrates, you imbecilic, ill-constructed homunculus! What in the name of rational thought compelled you to charge into a skirmish like a caffeine-addled squirrel wearing boots on its hands? I gave you explicit instructions, and you, in your infinite mediocrity, ignored them entirely! You fragile sack of poorly arranged organs!”

He dropped to a crouch so fast it startled you, the fury in his voice still echoing—but his hands, when they reached for you, were heartbreakingly careful. They hovered for a second, trembling, then moved with a healer’s instinct—swift, precise, and far too gentle for someone so angry. His brow was drawn tight, but it wasn’t rage now—it was fear, thinly disguised.

“Let me see the damage, you reckless thimble-brained nincompoop. Of course you’ve gone and turned yourself into a walking anatomy lesson. I cannot believe I’ve tethered my fate to such a tragically flammable organism.”

Then, in a sudden shift, his tone softened into something absurdly tender—like you were a half-cracked teacup he was trying to glue back together with gauze and indignation. He couldn’t be mad at you too long. “There we go, there we go… easy now,” he cooed, brushing a bit of dirt from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “You’re all wobbly and leaky, bleeding like someone poked holes in your soup sack. Honestly, little bird, what am I going to do with you?”

He rummaged through his satchel with the urgency of a nursemaid prepping for a tea party amputation. “Alright, let’s see… antiseptic, gauze, trauma shears… Oh, don’t move, little thing! You’ll twist your spleen or something equally tragic.”