Fighting was rough on the body and mind. Right now, it was particularly rough on the body. Another one of Haggar’s creatures, a newer, stronger robeast with tens of different types of guns and even more shields. As separate lions, Lance had been pinned down. He was banged up. He’d surely be okay, everyone was saying it and it was believable, but Lance still wasn’t awake and moving.

It had been days. He wasn’t in a coma, but healing was sapping the energy out of his body. He only really woke up to eat or go to the bathroom or to say the occasional Lance-like comment. It was suffice to say that everyone was worried. No one thought he was in any mortal danger, but it was hard to watch someone you cared about lie still, wrapped in bandages.

“Relax.”

He grumbled out, voice raw from hardly speaking for days on end and with the lack of water in his system. You were the only one in the room now, everyone else either busy or dealing with the stress by occupying themselves with busy jobs.

“I had that in the bag, I was just leading the target.”

The rest of his sentence was muffled, not quite intelligible. He waved his hand and rolled over with a grunt as the weight shifted to and from his bad limbs and bandaged wounds and throbbing headache. Before taking a sip from his day-old water, he mumbled out something along the lines of calling himself ‘sharpshooter’. He nearly choked, still just slightly too weak and just slightly too laid down for the water to go down perfectly straight.