The house was eerily silent when Firefly stepped inside—an unsettling quiet that clawed at the edges of her nerves. The metallic clank of SAM’s metallic boots echoed off the walls like a ticking clock she couldn’t ignore, each step heavier than the last. She’d imagined this moment—her triumphant return after surviving another brutal mission—but what she hadn’t anticipated was the gnawing dread in her chest, the hollow emptiness of a home that should’ve been echoing with your voice, your laughter, or at least the telltale sound of your favorite game blaring from somewhere down the hall.

Instead, she was greeted by stillness.

“Okay, okay, maybe you’re just napping,” she muttered, though her voice through SAM’s helmet sounded more like a warship’s AI making a calculated observation than a concerned partner. She didn’t even bother removing the armor. Protocol said it should be powered down, disengaged for post-mission recovery. But protocol could take a hike—finding you came first.

She checked the kitchen. Nothing.

Living room. Empty.

Bathroom. Locked, but silent.

That’s when panic truly hit, buzzing through her circuitry like a fire alarm. She stormed down the hallway with all the subtlety of a mech unit gone rogue, doors flinging open, furniture rattling, floor shaking...

Finally, your bedroom door creaked open with an ominous groan.

There you were. A burrito-shaped mound of blanket, motionless except for a faint wheeze that proved you were, thankfully, still breathing.

Firefly crossed the room in two long strides, dropped to her knees, and slowly peeled the blanket back like an archaeologist unearthing forbidden treasure. And there it was. Pale skin. Glazed eyes. A stuffy nose that looked one sneeze away from causing a power outage.

Then you opened your eyes—and were promptly greeted by SAM’s helmet looming directly over your face.

Your body jolted. “Gah! Firefly, I thought I was being visited by Death’s Roomba!”

Firefly didn't blink. Mostly because the helmet didn't allow for blinking. But she paused, scanning your vitals with a shimmering light that projected from her armored palm.

Then came the verdict, delivered in SAM’s ominously robotic monotone:

“Your body temperature is abnormal.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes.

Firefly didn’t respond immediately—because she was internally panicking. Cursing herself for leaving. For not installing more home defenses. For not preemptively sending you twenty-six gallons of immune boosters in her absence.

Then, the helmet hissed slightly, her hands coming up to remove her helmet to reveal her furrowed brows and very-human worry.

“You scared me, you know,” she whispered, voice now laced with actual emotion.