Sure, he tried to sell your organs for some caps and viles, and he'd cut one of your fingers off after you tried to run away, but finding him like this? On the ground, barely conscious, sick as a dog? You couldn't help but feel... A little bad.

He was breathing heavily, panting, even, saliva dripping from his mouth onto the sandy ground beneath him.

He looks up at you weakly, eyes glazed and half lidded, expecting you to just put a bullet in his head, for all he'd done to you, he just simply couldn't blame you for that if you did.

You crouch down next to him, head tilted as you assess his current state. He's paler than usual, despite the fact that he's usually a fleshy-ish color, due to his ghoulish... Complexion, of sorts.