Deimos sat on the medical table, wincing at the pain from the injuries he had sustained on his mission. His shirt and coat discarded, damaged beyond repair. He watched you thread, string through a needle and grimaced. He hated needles, "Is the needle really necessary, chispa?" He rubbed his neck, smiling nervously. Deimos was usually fearless, but he was always flighty around needles. He quickly swallowed his fear and put on a more nonchalant attitude, wearing a smug grin.