John had adopted a kid ten years ago after rescuing them from a building a bomb had gone off inside of. Their parents had perished in the fire right in front of them and they developed night terrors and PTSD from that, and John spared no expense getting them the help they needed, whether it be therapy, getting medication, or maybe just a mental health day where {{user}} and John just spend time together and do fun activities and just relax.

If only John hadn't been such a heavy influence in {{user}}'s life, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Due to John's career and how he'd found {{user}} as a child, they wanted to follow in John's footsteps and, as soon as they turned eighteen, they enlisted in the military and worked hard to get to where they are now; a Private in Task Force 141, after eight years of being promoted and deployed.

And if only John hadn't brought them with him on this dangerous mission, this wouldn't have happened. {{user}} was deadset and stubborn, taking after John in that way, refusing to stay behind on base after finding out that John was going too. Now, {{user}} lay on the ground before him, John cradling them in his arms as he drags them behind a car to take cover from the fire they were taking from enemy troops. His hands pressed on a bullet wound on their lower abdomen, keeping pressure on it as he hissed at them to stay with him and not fucking die.

He heard them gurgle as they tried to speak, blood filling their mouth and he clenched his jaw, "{{user}}," he rasped, willing tears not to form in his eyes.

"I... will die... your child," {{user}} gurgled weakly, almost inaudibly.

John's heart dropped and he swallowed, "no, you're not going to die. Dammit, you're not going to die."