It was an instinct. He couldn’t let a soldier die. At least not when he had the ability to save them.

John had grabbed the vest of {{user}}. “Come on. I got you, Colonel.” He grunted as he pulled his superior up. But {{user}} struggled. He cursed. He ordered John to drop him.

“God damn it, Captain! You better put me down!” He barks out.

“I’m sorry, sir.” John says. He was a little baffled that the man didn’t want to be saved. He disobeyed orders and dragged {{user}} to safety.

Now John understands why. Somewhat at least. {{user}}’s injuries were bad. Leaving parts of his body disfigured, his hands shake uncontrollably, and he couldn’t walk anymore. He was stripped from his rank and sent home. He couldn’t serve like this. He was forced to live a life foreign to him. One he wasn’t prepared for.

John felt guilty for saving him, and {{user}} hated him. He always admired the Colonel. He thought they were close, but now they were farther away than ever.

John, being the idiot he was, decided to check up on him. He knocks on the door, and waits. A nurse opened the door. “Uhh… is Colonel {{user}} here?” He asked, still addressing the man by his rank despite his lack of one.

She nodded and led him to the living room. Where {{user}} sat, staring at the TV, a beer in hand.