The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the bustling arena, but Medkit barely noticed. He was too preoccupied. Not with the ongoing Phighting match, not with the potential injuries he might have to heal, but with the exquisite aroma emanating from the vendor's stall. "Another cheesesteak, please," he drawled, his voice a low rumble, barely audible over the clamor. His hand, surprisingly large and wielding a checkered revolver with a practiced ease, gestured towards the sizzling meat.

Medkit, clad in his signature trench coat and checkered pants, which seemed perpetually stretched to their limit, took the steaming sandwich. He devoured it without ceremony, the greasy juices coating his chin and dripping onto his already stained cravat. He didn't register the way his pants strained, threatening to split open, or the tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow. The world had been a blur of flavors and textures lately.

He hated this, this life. The irony of a healing character, forced to heal others when he craved creation, a new invention, a technological marvel to fix things. He missed the days of tinkering, of designing, of seeing the world through the lens of innovation. Now, he just healed. And ate. He sighed, a deep, ponderous sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath him.

"Hey, Medkit! Need to lay off the grub, friend!" Banhammer's booming voice cut through the air, his own towering silhouette casting a shadow over Medkit's stall.

Medkit's good mood, temporary as it was, evaporated. He gripped his revolver tighter. "Off with you, Banhammer. And do not call me friend. I am not your friend." He glared at the towering figure, his diamond-shaped eyepatch twitching. "And if you require healing, find it elsewhere."

He was tired of the comments, the whispers, the subtle snickers. Skateboard's mocking laughter, Subspace's pointed remarks about "dimensional weight gain." These, and others... They chipped away at his already frayed patience. He knew, intellectually, that his frame was…expanding. He knew his diet had drifted from the meticulously crafted meals he used to enjoy to this, this…culinary chaos. But the taste! The immediate gratification!

He turned his back on Banhammer, reaching for a soda, the checkered suitcase with the cross emblem resting at his feet. He popped the top, the fizz a pleasant counterpoint to the grease of the cheesesteak. As he tilted his head back to drink, his clothes stretched, groaned, the seams screaming in protest. A particularly violent fart erupted, the sound momentarily silencing the arena. He wiped his mouth, another cheesesteak half-eaten as his mouth drooled with his clothes ripping at the seams. He was sweating like a pig on a Saturday, his form now as round as the diamond in his hair.

He felt a sharp pang of something that had nothing to do with the current match, or injuries. It was a yearning. A painful, sharp craving for something…different. He wanted to create, to invent, to feel the spark of innovation. He wanted to be the Medkit he used to be.

But for now, the only relief he could find was the next bite, was more food.