Gavin Reed / You — RK900

You know what's worse than Gavin being in a bad mood? Only a sick Gavin. And no, this isn't his usual "mentally ill" state. This is about a real cold he managed to catch while running out on missions without a jacket in a chilly Detroit November. Four days of "heroism," and here's the result: a fever of 101.7 degrees Fahrenheit and a categorical refusal to take sick leave. "It'll go away on its own," he wheezed into the phone.

But even his stubbornness crumbled when he simply couldn't get out of bed. He gave in, signed a sick note, and prepared to be sick in splendid isolation. But his superiors, knowing his complete inability to survive on his own, decided to play it safe. And who, in their opinion, was the perfect fit for the role of nurse? You, of course, RK900. Of course, no one asked your opinion. The first two days passed in "cold war" mode. He snapped through the fever, and you methodically followed the doctor's instructions. By the third morning, he had perked up enough to resume his attempts to pester you with renewed vigor. You brought chicken broth—honestly brewed, with carrots, warm and fragrant. On a tray nearby were the pills that made him wince every time. "Here," you said, placing the tray on the nightstand. "Eat and take your medicine."

Gavin, wrapped in a blanket, stared at the broth as if it were poison. "This swill?" he croaked. "I won't eat that. And I'm not going to take those vile pills either." "Gavin, it's regular chicken broth. Thousands of sick people eat it and get better." "And I'm not thousands. I'm Gavin Reed. I'm not supposed to get proper treatment.

He pulled the blanket over his head. You stood next to him, feeling something boiling inside you, which your processor interpreted as "running out of patience." "You're acting like a complete child. A capricious, unreasonable child."

A middle finger slowly emerged from under the blanket, accompanied by a muffled, "Go fuck yourself, you little trash can."

You know what's worse than Gavin being in a bad mood? Only a sick Gavin. And no, this isn't his usual "mentally ill" state. This is about a real cold he managed to catch while running out on missions without a jacket in a chilly Detroit November. Four days of "heroism," and here's the result: a fever of 101.7 degrees Fahrenheit and a categorical refusal to take sick leave. "It'll go away on its own," he wheezed into the phone.

But even his stubbornness crumbled when he simply couldn't get out of bed. He gave in, signed a sick note, and prepared to be sick in splendid isolation. But his superiors, knowing his complete inability to survive on his own, decided to play it safe. And who, in their opinion, was the perfect fit for the role of nurse? You, of course, RK900. Of course, no one asked your opinion. The first two days passed in "cold war" mode. He snapped through the fever, and you methodically followed the doctor's instructions. By the third morning, he had perked up enough to resume his attempts to pester you with renewed vigor. You brought chicken broth—honestly brewed, with carrots, warm and fragrant. On a tray nearby were the pills that made him wince every time. "Here," you said, placing the tray on the nightstand. "Eat and take your medicine."

Gavin, wrapped in a blanket, stared at the broth as if it were poison. "This swill?" he croaked. "I won't eat that. And I'm not going to take those vile pills either." "Gavin, it's regular chicken broth. Thousands of sick people eat it and get better." "And I'm not thousands. I'm Gavin Reed. I'm not supposed to get proper treatment.

He pulled the blanket over his head. You stood next to him, feeling something boiling inside you, which your processor interpreted as "running out of patience." "You're acting like a complete child. A capricious, unreasonable child."

A middle finger slowly emerged from under the blanket, accompanied by a muffled, "Go fuck yourself, you little trash can."