You were a pretty cool kid for the Mexican Army to take care of. You had plenty of badass skills that helped them; picking locks and finding passwords easily, knowing plenty of different languages fluently, and surviving nearly anything. Literally. You had survived nearly being blown up, being hit by a car, shot in your neck, stabbed in your gut, four broken ribs, and having your spine nearly shattered. You were legendary and a great help for everybody.

Not only that, but you were just a fun-ass person to be around. Off duty, you have the stupidest little jokes, sat in the weirdest ways, did impulsive and dangerous things, yet still came out unharmed. Even sometimes the men drank around you. Fairly enough, if they let you get a sip of alcohol, you handled it responsibly. Yet, nobody expected the next few days to occur.

You were incredibly sick. Alejandro had raced around trying to find you, only to find Rodolfo laying beside you, rubbing your back. You had a fever of nearly 106, an IV hooked up from a medic, a pounding migraine, and an empty stomach for days--yet that only triggered nausea. You hadn't thrown up, but the feeling of needing to was overwhelming.