if you want some not-pain maybe some of blue team fucking around on S deck lol i feel like theyd get up to Shenanigans
Thanks for the prompt! This got away from me but I hope I did them justice. Infinity shenanigans my beloved.
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A small crowd was beginning to gather when Fred walked up to his side and paused at the scene in front of them. Marines were whispering and stepping forward to hand Kelly even more of their dessert rations as Linda stay still as stone. Some of the Fireteams were watching now, meals ignored at the sight of the legendary Blue Team doing whatever the hell this was.
"How much did she bet?"
"You don't want to know." John says flatly, but Fred can see the amusement in his face.
"How long have they been at it?"
"5 minutes."
"So should I come back in 12 hours?"
"Negative. I gave them a 20 minute window."
They watch as Linda is slowly covered with more and more objects. Sitting cross legged on the cafeteria table in Spartan Town, she'd be the picture of zen if not for the commpads, foodtrays, and snack cakes balanced on every stable surface. Kelly climbs the table behind her to continue the tower coming from her head and the table creaks underneath their weight.
Silence falls as all chatter stops in anticipation.
"Thought things on S-Deck were built for Spartans." Kelly murmurs through gritted teeth. Linda does not respond, and has not reacted to anything going on around her.
"They are, Spartan. When used for their intended use." Captain Lasky says from the entrance. Commander Palmer is standing to his right with her eyebrow raised.
"Chief. Mind telling me what's going on here?" The captain walks closer and the crowd wavers. Spartan IVs try to seem like they're eating instead of hanging on every word and some of the less bright marines are hanging around to watch.
"Sir. This is a team building exercise. As well as a morale booster. Spartans Kelly and Linda are demonstrating a level of trust and balance we hope to impart in the IVs, sir."
Lasky blinks. Palmer's eyebrow raises higher. Fred shifts on his feet next to him and Kelly keeps stacking pudding cups on Linda's head.
"Well, if that's all then. Carry on, Chief."
"Thank you sir."
"I have to ask, does that work on Hood?"
"Depends on how recently one of us has destroyed our Mjolnir, sir."
Fred huffs beside him, but Lasky cracks a smile and waves them off.
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Here’s a snippet from a really goofy wip that helped me out a writing block. You really can just draw inspiration from anywhere.
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2525 UNSC General Purpose Emergency Ration MRE Review Taste Test
Posted by John2511MREInfo - 1,363,548,684 views - June 5, 2558
The newest video starts with the camera focused on a small metal tin stamped with the UNSC logo. It’s an unassuming thing and the camera focuses on it as edits jump to show the sides and bottom where the key rested waiting for the trooper to open it. There’s some old yellowed tape across the top that covers part of the label.
“Today we have a second generation food ration that replaced the original 2515 version with it’s more compact, longer lasting design with a slightly higher caloric value.” A deep voice rumbles. It sounds rough and a bit stilted, and there’s the faint sound of a woman’s voice in the background.
Massive pale hands cradle the can in front of the camera as the voice continues to speak and the host turns the container in his hands. The tin is dwarfed by them, but the real eye catcher is the scarring up his hands and along his arms. Fine lines and warped scar tissue cover huge patches of skin, the coloration showing both old and new scarring overlapping in marbled knots of flesh.
“Now this generation of emergency rations was first produced in 2525, just like the one I got here, and it replaced the tropic and arctic survival rations for the UNSC until the next generation was developed and released in 2531.”
He turns the ration as he speaks and flips it for the camera. His hands make the meal kit look like a child’s toy but he continues his speech with an almost practiced ease.
“The general purpose rations are used by all branches to sustain an individual in survival situations, including escape and evasion under all environmental conditions.” He hefts the can in one hand and speaks to a person offscreen, “I wish we had gotten these when they came out but when we were on -------------- then we got even older stuff, guess it was easier for them to get their hands on. ---- almost got sick from one of the 2490s we had after bootcamp. Wouldn’t stop complaining about it.”
He pauses and then rotates the tin again, closer to the camera this time.
“Always check the seals and look for damage. You don’t want anything rancid. Ruins your day.”
He turns it over again and hums before setting it down.
“Now this type of ration comes with the key on the bottom and a p38 can opener attached to the lid. Let’s see what we got.”
The tiny can opener seems even smaller in his grip as he flips the tin and cuts open the flimsy metal with quick sawing motions. It’s a smooth movement that lends itself to years of practice. The first puncture breaks the seal and the camera mic picks up the release of air.
“Nice hiss.”
---
“Tell us how it is.” The woman’s voice is back, and there’s an undercurrent of glee in it.
“Oh, right.” The voice is muffled by the food in their mouth. There’s a pause as the figure swallows and an imperceptible shiver goes through their massive frame. “I’ve had worse.”
“And?”
“It’s awful. The smell alone would have a marine running. Remember when we--” the audio cuts out for a few seconds. Time ticks by on the bar at the bottom of the video and he sets the tiny spoon down on the tray in silence before gesturing in the direction of the unseen speaker. “--and the smell of plasma on Brute hide was worse with the ruptured coolant spill, didn’t know those things could smell worse. Even with the filters.”
“Uh huh. And why are you doing this again?”
“Sharing my knowledge. Finally getting a hobby. Besides, you’re always bothering me to eat more.”
Palmer gets a haircut (small description of scars)
Square Lasky
The Ferrets traumatize the IVs
The adventures of Jorts
Hacksaw Squad meets Fireteam Crimson
1. Palmer gets a haircut
Clippers buzzed next to her head and she unclenched her jaw as auburn clumps fell to the floor.
They had numbed her for the stitches despite her protests. The nurse leveled a flat look at her before continuing putting in neat rows of stitches. Her scalp itched at the tugging sensation and she balled her fists.
Stupid. A stupid mistake. It wasn't even a big deal, but head wounds bleed and need to be kept clean.
Now she was going to walk around with a sign on the side of her head telling the world how she fucked up.
The nurse finished up and pat her shoulder. A mirror was placed in her hands and she saw her tired face staring back at her. Tilting the mirror, her eyes traced the raw pink slice that ran from just behind her temple past her ear and down the back of her skull.
It was an angry thing, uneven and vivid, but better than it had been hours before. Apparently a screaming, blood covered demon was enough to scare the Covies into a corner. Still her armor had been a mess and the techs had seemed skittish as they helped her out of her kit.
The face looking back at her was blank. She raised an eye and felt a slight tug. Turning again she looked at the scar and the shaved stripe. The nurse who had done the stitches had offered to even her hair out and she had numbly agreed.
Sarah Palmer was not vain. She hadn't put much thought into her hair. Now the back and side of her head were exposed to the cool air and the remaining strands were tied back away from the fresh wound.
It was...something. Different.
She sat quietly through the instructions on how to keep it clean and when to come back, chewing over this new thing. She had plenty of scars, the blamite round in her left shoulder, hardlight blade on her right bicep, bullet wounds and plasma rounds having left their marks on her. She'd been born into this war and it had made her its own.
She sits there and looks. Makes faces and bares her teeth.
Huh.
This might be something.
2. Square Captain, our Captain
"Am I really square looking?" Captain Lasky asks, voice carrying from his bathroom to where Palmer and Roland were talking in his quarters.
They share a look and mouth some words before he sticks his head, face dropping from the lack of an answer.
"Your silence is deafening."
"Tom, did someone hurt your feelings, cuz I can kill them for you."
"What the Commander is trying to say is we like you and will defend your squareness."
"So you do think I'm square!" He rubs at his jaw as his brow furrows. Palmer sighs and rolls her eyes, looking to Roland as she shrugs before walking over and slinging an arm around Lasky.
"We love our square little captain." She squeezes him to her side. "Little goody two shoes Lasky with his morals and his square little head."
"Gee thanks Sarah, I can feel the love and support." He says squished against her side. "Also, I'm not short, you're a Spartan, they gave you height in the war."
"Our tiny baby Captain square head." She says pressing a kiss to his temple.
"Am I really that square?"
"Would you like me to tell you the math, sir?"
"I would!"
"We know, Sarah and no thanks, Roland, don't give her any more ammo."
"Square, square man."
"Roland, pull up the footage from g-AAH"
"Roland delete that footage! I thought there weren't any backups?"
"No can do, Spartan. It's saved in a hundred different places and you need the captain's code to make me delete it."
3. The Ferrets
"So you know how we got kicked out of group therapy because we were scaring the IVs?"
"You weren't 'kicked out', it was suggested that you three see another doctor in a more private setting."
"That's kicking us out, Mom."
“They said we needed someone to help us with our ‘unique needs and life experiences’ and that we needed to ‘stop making the IVs cry’ when we were just participating!“
"Anyways, we have a new psych and they seem cool, they were talking us through the paperwork and what we wanted."
"How was that?"
"Well we said we think we might still be legally dead so we'll get back to them."
4. The Adventures of Jorts Part ?
"Hey Roland, where's Jorts?" Captain Lasky asks and Roland deliberates on sharing the news about the ship’s newest cat.
"I'll tell you, but you can't get mad."
"Roland."
"She's in Blue Team's quarters, has been for a few days."
"Why would that make me mad?"
"Because shehadkittensunderMasterChief'sbed." Roland spits out quickly, hands clasped in front of him and a sheepish look on his avatar's face.
"Kittens? She was pregnant? Why didn't you-"
"Captain, I don't make a habit of reading the cats' biosigns. You cannot blame me for this."
At that, the captain scratches his nose and his mouth turns up a little at the corners.
"Are they there right now?"
"Yes, captain. I believe it's feeding time."
"I have time." He mutters to himself as he looks at the clock before turning to Roland. "Time for a break. Do you have pictures?"
"Of course I do! They were even talking about letting me name one!"
5. Hacksaw Squad meets (our) Fireteam Crimson
The Spartan Commander is mouthing off to your squad leader over comms, but you couldn't care less right now because three Elites twice your size are circling you and the two other marines trapped in a Forerunner base.
Red blurs replace them and two of the aliens fall dead while your eyes adjust and watch as Spartans take down the third. They nod at you and you move as a unit to rescue the other half of your squad.
They're a sight to take in as they rush hunters and punch Elites, bodily moving in between you and the attackers most of the time. One of them breaks radio silence when your squad splits up and falls in behind the two leading the attack.
They also sound panicked as they bark at the other one about where the rest of the squad is and the other responds in an equally aggressive manner. You don't have much time to think because there are drop pods incoming and too many voices chattering on the comms.
Your squad regroups on the Spartans and you clear the tower. The Spartan with the jetpack jumps off to circle around the back and check for any stragglers while the one with the horned helmet seems to take a headcount.
Phantoms surround you as your ride takes too long to get there. The Spartans, Fireteam Crimson it seems, are herding you to cover and furiously trying to keep you alive. You haven't lost a squadmate since they appeared and you are grateful for them, if a bit put off by their demeanor. Climbing on the pelican for evac you hear one speak out of their helmet’s radio while the other nudges them tiredly.
"We saved our boys."
-
Thanks for reading! Jorts is based off of the ship cats from @/kat-w-writes fic Iron and Gold. Most of the other stuff is in collaboration with Bellygunnr and Shitty17!
Partially inspired by @bellygunnr ’s fic and descriptions of the atrium on the Infinity, have a bunch of words that came from me listening to Black Pear Tree on repeat for a week.
It got sad and also somehow turned into 1500 words. This is between Canon halo 4 and 5 before the Argent Moon mission and Something has happened Offscreen, that may be revealed later. Very early in the au timeline.
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The stars visible through the atrium window of the UNSC Infinity look nothing like the ones that shone above Reach.
The constellations are wrong and the branching arm of the Milky Way lights up the sky in warm hues. Reach was different. Clear skies and a deep ocean of space as the backdrop for pinpricks of light sparkling through the rich tapestry of blue-black.
Reach had mountain ranges and wind and so much greenery. Here there was no wind, just cycled air, mimicking the feeling of a breeze on his naked face. The bench beneath him creaked under his weight as he leaned back and took in the view. Stars overhead and greenery around him, yes, but the cold gray walls that enveloped the space reminded him where he was. Another ship, another steel coffin. The Infinity was massive. The lead ship of her class and called the culmination of human achievement. John had hesitantly begun to think of her as home. But that didn’t change the lessons he had learned again and again. Spartans didn’t win in space. Equipment could fail.
The unfamiliar constellations winked at him, distant and cold. He wondered if the stars above Reach would fade from his mind like the stars he saw as a child had. John couldn’t remember much from before the coin toss, and he had told himself that was fine.
There was the mission, and the next one. He had his orders and would follow them and complete his missions his own way before marching back into cryo and waiting for the next time they needed him. He’d face down the cold, claustrophobic embrace and dreamless darkness.
Mendez had pushed him to lead his Spartans to victory. He was fine to keep moving. Insurrectionists, Covenant, Flood, Forerunners, Banished. There was always a new threat, never a moment’s rest and he needed to be ready. John was a Spartan and team leader.
He was the first to try the armor, first to jump into battle, and now he’s always last. Out of place and out of time, years and people gone that he could never get back. His own teammates were almost strangers.
He was an aging spartan, a relic compared to the new blood. They may be undisciplined and cocky, but soon they’d have to do.
Too many fast thaws and hard landings. Ceramic bones didn’t stop joint pain. A huff escapes him as he comes back to himself, incredibly aware of the bench beneath him digging into tired muscle and aching bones.
He’s slowed enough that introspection caught up. John has tried to shove it all back down, but this isn’t an enemy he can beat.
It’s him. His body and mind catching up and taking stock. Apparently constant repression of trauma and loss does not lead anywhere good. He’s listless and agitated when they don’t let him go on missions and after the altercation, he’s shipbound.
Some days he wants to scream and break things, and other times he wants it all to stop.
Most days, he just wants the familiar back. Even when he knew deep down it was bad, he knew how to get through it. He has to beat this somehow. It’s hurting his team and making him lose control and confidence.
So he sits in the memorial park and hopes that he can breathe and ground himself. John lists the names he can remember in his head, feels the earth under his feet, and imagines the cycled air is a breeze and not recycled air from a pump keeping them all alive in this metal coffin.
He wonders if his therapist would call what he’s doing processing or moping. Their next session is still a few days away, and he isn’t cleared to use the gyms yet. Roland is kind enough to check on him during his nightly patrols when he can’t sleep, but the atrium is his space. Even Blue Team knows to let him be when he comes here. Kelly will still be nearby, planning her runs so she can keep an eye on him without smothering him.
He’s about to leave when he hears quiet cursing and rustling branches off in the distance.
As he stands he spots two gardeners struggling with a large sapling, and he heads over without really thinking about it.
“Move it, Harris, but be careful of the root cluster! I swear if--” They stop as they notice him approaching. Harris still has their back to him, but is quick to set the tree down in the freshly dug hole and turn and salute, for some reason.
“Harris, what the hell are you doing?” Harris has left them with all of the tree’s weight as it tips back towards them.
“What’s it look like, Murphy? I’m saluting! You never know who’s on a ship this big, gotta show respect.” Harris spits over his shoulder, before realizing he’s left Murphy wrestling with the weight of the tree.
John watches him turn and jump to help Murphy, and moves closer as they both attempt to move the sapling.
“Need help?” He asks, voice rough and quiet. The gardeners pause, and share a look before answering at the same time.
“Sure!”
“No, we’ve got it, sir.”
Harris and Murphy scowl at each other, but before it goes any further, John reaches over and lifts the sapling.
He straightens it with ease, before lowering it slowly into place. They scramble out of the way to secure it and fill in the gaps with soil. He breathes in the scent of growth and damp earth and relaxes slightly. It’s a little overwhelming without the filters from the armor. Once again he’s struck by all the green, and the new growth he has clutched in his grip. Its bark is thin and young, but digs into his palm all the same.
“What kind is it?” John asks them as they finish filling the hole and set up a support stake near the sapling. He’d been on so many planets and seen so many trees, they all blurred together, but this one was sticking out. Old memories blur like static on a corrupted message with flashes of afterimages burned into his brain.
“It’s one of those cedars from Reach, bit like Earth’s trees, but hardier.” Harris answers as he dusts himself off and Murphy collects their gear. “Got several different species from Reach.”
He points towards a copse of trees near where the path forked. Harris hasn’t noticed that John froze at the mention of Reach, but Murphy had. They had finished gathering the gear, and walked up to grab Harris before he started again.
“Thanks for your help, Uh--” Murphy hesitates.
“John.” He chokes out. He’s still staring at the tree. His hands still touching the bark.
“Thank you, John. Harris and me will be on our way. Take all the time you need, sir.” They drag Harris away by the elbow. Harris shoots one more confused look over his shoulder and waves before they both disappear around the bend.
John inhales and holds it for a moment. He traces the bark, eyes falling on the patterns of the bark and the faded augmentation scars. Reaching up, he touches the fragile young leaves with unsteady hands. New growth from a dead planet. A swell of complicated emotion rises in his gut and he huffs a breath through his nose.
Growth and change. He was sick of those words being thrown at him. Progress slipped from his grasp and felt no closer to leaving this prison of a ship than when he started. Confined to the Infinity and pacing his newest cage left him both claustrophobic and exposed. No missions meant no armor, and his access to hangars and other access points was restricted so he couldn’t even watch his marines come and go on missions.
Blue Team had stopped accepting missions in some twisted sense of solidarity. They weren’t under the same orders, the same punishment. Of course not, they didn’t --, he didn’t mean--
They didn’t put themselves in the infirmary. He did.
John pulls his hands away before he damages the sapling. He’s shaking and his heart is pounding in his ears.
It’s a small thing, probably only a few years old, so it never saw Reach itself. Never stood near the tree where Blue Team stood and Sam carved their mark.
They had been so young.
And then decades later, they returned with one missing. A new mark carved into the glassed wasteland that was once their home.
Will you trust me now? Will you follow me?
He had asked them that, and then he almost killed them all. Working himself to death and dragging them down with him.
How could he ask them to follow him now?
John couldn’t. Maybe Master Chief could, but he hadn’t been seen in weeks.
John sat next to one of the last living remnants of his home and looked up at unfamiliar stars.
Commander Palmer had invited him to observe the Spartan-IVs in War Games at 0600 hours. The rumors around the Master Chief staying aboard the Infinity and training the newest generation of Spartans had spread like wildfire, and he had the idea that it was on purpose.
A memory from a time not too long ago, for him, at least, played in his head
Folks need heroes, Chief.
He'd recovered from most of his wounds and exhaustion following his near constant sprint of missions to stop the Covenant, the Flood, and then the Didact.
Cleared for light duty, he was back in his armor and standing on the raised platform over the simulation environment. There were various maps, but today's exercises seemed to take place in a warehouse with different levels, choke points, and no clear sightlines. It’s close enough that it brings back memories of the warehouse near Voi.
Commander Palmer greeted him with a nod and motioned to her datapad with today's roster.
"Fireteams Crimson, Ivy, and Majestic are facing off in against Domino in a new simulation. Project Cartographer has been keeping it under wraps, but say it's necessary. "
"Is it more Promethean sims?”
"I'm not sure."
From their perch they can't see the beginning of the firefight, but they can hear it and see the aftermath. Something is hitting the Fireteams hard and fast and scattering them.
"Ivy needs to tighten up their formation and Majestic needs to cut the chatter."
A humanoid blur jumps high in the air in a familiar arc that has his guts clenching and vision narrowing.
The thing is misshapen and unbalanced. A grotesque twisted creature of bloated flesh. A sick mimicry of what it used to be, who it used to be.
He's breathing hard and he can hear someone trying to talk to him over TEAMCOM. He knows logically he should listen and respond, but he's been frozen for 3.4 seconds and the Flood is onboard the Infinity.
The parasite is in his home, near his people.
He turns and runs, leaping over the railing and following his HUD to an ammo cache meant for the simulation soldiers.
AR on his back and shotgun in his hand should calm him down. He has his weapons and his mission, but all he feels is a wave of dread drowning him. Not again. He can't do this alone.
He has to move. Maybe if he stops it here and shuts down this sector it won't spread. His family is onb-
His team. His marines. He needs help and he needs back up but he wants them a million miles away from this. He opens TEAMCOM to quickly explain what's happening and what he needs. His HUD winks green; responses from Blue Team, even Riddles in his newly repaired armor. He didn't hear any of their responses over the blood rushing to his head and heart pounding in his ears.
A blur in his periphery has him spin and shoot. The thing goes down in a heap, but he knows it'll get up if he doesn't destroy the body. He has to. Needs to buy as much time as he can.
As he makes his way over to the corpse he's hit by another coming around a blind corner. He yells as they go down and he claws and tears at the Flood. New pain from reopened wounds and bruises on top of bruises helps the panic shift into pained anger.
A loud siren sounds and the Flood jolts to a stop. He takes advantage of the distraction and puts the second one down.
Shotgun lost in the fight, he scrabbles to get weak legs under him. Pulling the AR from his back he's confronted with a new enemy. It turns and runs. He chases it, knowing he needs to keep his eyes on it before it escapes or transforms into a new form.
He runs it down at a dead sprint, gun forgotten, and tackles the creature to the ground. Feedback from the former Spartan's shields glow as he lands on top of it and aims to break the corpse into something unusable. The thing is writhing and clawing at him.
I'msorryI'msorryimsorry
What?
A moment's hesitation is all there is before he's hit with a spray of bullets and rolls off the Flood to take cover, Cursing at the lost chance and his empty hands he only takes a few steps before a blue blur grabs his arm.
Kelly. Good.
He's not alone.
Terrible, because she's here and in danger.
He can't lose anyone else.
She's not letting go of his arm. Why? Why hasn't that terrible noise stopped?
Why is his team here, standing flat footed while there's an infection onboard?
Why is Fred helping the enemy of the ground?
"We need to move. There's no time. We can't let it spread."
why, why, why?
"John."
"We can save the ship if we stop the infection here. The flood, it takes them and everything they know. We can't let it escape." His throat is dry and his voice is hoarse and cracked.
He feels so small under the gaze of their visors. Palmer rounds the corner with more Spartans and John doesn't feel relieved. Why?
A greenlight in his HUD. Secure Channel. The most secure, the most familiar. He answers and let's the static wash over him.
"John. " Her voice washes over him. She's safe. She can communicate with him. He relaxes in Kelly's grip just enough that the others lower their guns. When did they have them raised?
"John, you are onboard the UNSC Infinity, it is 0615. You are safe. Blue Team responded to your call. You are on the portside simulation room of the war games simulation map on the Spartan Deck, it is October 10, 2558. You are safe. I am currently in the shipnet. Your vitals are slowly stabilizing but you have strained a ligament in your leg and bruised your ribs. again. "
"Cortana, I-" he swallows before whispering even though he knows she's the only one on the channel "it wasn't real?"
"It was real to you, John. Your family is here for you."
He's grateful that Kelly is already holding his arm when he collapses.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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bangs pots and pans together! I am writing I promise! Have a snippet!
You smile at John and begin the session by asking how he’s doing.
He rattles off his schedule, lists the meetings he’s allowed to tell you about and how he completed the homework he assigned himself.
You ask him how the journal he’s started keeping is going.
He admits it helps him keep track of days and not blur time together between his duties.
He coughs and admits it helps him keep track of conversations and names and other social minutia that he’s so unaccustomed to dealing with. That was C-.
It wasn’t something he had much experience doing.
The tension that had been draining from his shoulders was back in full force at his slip up. It was like a steel trap shut. John looked like he had traveled back to the first session and had just sat down across from you.
You reach over to your desk, awkwardly twisted in your seat, to grab a ball sitting near your cup of pens and the picture of your cat. You hear John exhale as soon as your eyes are off of him.
You hold it up in front of him and ask if he remembers your second session together.
He’s still tense, but he nods as his mouth thins into what you have discovered is his approximation of a pout.
Mmm, something about Chief that I've bern kicking around you might find useful for something writing wise is the fact that the fluid used in cryosleep appereantly tastes something like cough syrup. I am sure if John ever by chance caught something minor- on shore leave maybe- the association there with treatment would not be fun.
As it turns out, I can’t write right now, so i hope some stream of consciousness is okay--
chief isnt going to avoid the cough medicine because it reminds him of cryo, because he doesn’t realize he can say no to it, or there might be alternatives. the Marines helping him dont quite have the cryo flavor association hardwired in their brains like chief does, and they dont know about his hangups, so they cant be his buffer like normal, either.
i think he’d resent the medicine a little bit, even if he doesn’t realize it. it may knock him back to the Autumn or the Dawn or any other time he was freshly thawed. the synthetic, syrupy taste may be covered up by cherries or grape, but he rather hopes not, considering he’s never had either of those fruits before.
i feel like he’d have dreams about it afterward. how good do you think the chief’s immune system is? i don’t think he’s got a very good one. i dont know why, though. so he’s laid up in bed with a cold turned sour and taking staggered doses of cough medicine that makes him babble about the Freezer every now and again.
i dont know. thats a lot of words to say that he’d unfortunately keep tanking it despite the associations! also he’d try to keep doing things despite being ill!
