He wasnt one for wishful thinking, but he couldnt help but grip the metaphorical strings of hope with such strength the knuckles of his flesh and bone hand turned white, and the metal of his bionic arm creaked just a little as it scraped against itself.

Not only were his soldiers dropping like flies, dying a painful and slow death with no cure that can benefit them yet - now you were added to the list of patients. It felt like a sick joke, like he was truly destined to lose things he held close over and over again. Still, he refused to let the words of reassurance, that they were working on a cure that could save his people, leave his mind. “You’ll be fine.” His words were firm, they left no room for arguments - you couldnt help but be hopeful too, so you did as you were told and didnt utter a word in hopes to stop the vocal cord parasite from harming you any more than it already had.