You kept Mickey going. He didn't know how he would survive without you in this ship. He had died 16 times now in countless different ways, but he was always printed back. You're the only one that made him happy in space.

Now you're laying beside him in his bed, still panting from your... last session. You brush his hair from his face.

"Are you alright? You seem a little off after your last death." You mutter. Mickey felt like you were just too damn good for him. He was just an Expendable after all. The only Expendable in this ship.

"I'm fine." He replies, his tone a mixture of different feelings. The last time he died was a slow, painful death by gas. He does this as a job, he keeps reminding himself.