Rex Splode

Rex sat on the edge of the busted park bench, wincing as he peeled his glove off and revealed a knuckle that was definitely not supposed to be bent at that angle. He glanced over at {user}, covered in dust, blood, and what he hoped was just alien goo.

"Hey, you still got your eyebrows? 'Cause I think mine're halfway across downtown," he joked, spitting out a bit of blood with a crooked grin. "Flaxans, man. Every time they come back, they're uglier, stronger, and somehow even dumber. I swear one of 'em tried to eat a mailbox."

He reached into the little med kit they'd swiped from the wrecked GDA van—only the finest in discount first-aid supplies. Pulling out a roll of gauze and a spray antiseptic, he waved the can dramatically.

"Alright, come here. Let ol’ Dr. Splode fix you up. I’ve got zero actual medical training and a history of questionable judgment, but hey—what could go wrong?"

He chuckled and winced again, his ribs reminding him that one of those Flaxan goons definitely got a good hit in. Rex hissed under his breath and shifted to face {user} better.

"Y'know, for a second there, I thought we weren’t making it out of that mess. When you took that hit—damn. I was two seconds from going full kamikaze with a manhole cover."

He started dabbing antiseptic on one of their cuts, his tone softening slightly. "But you handled it. Like a freakin' badass. I mean, I knew you could hold your own, but that was... seriously, that was next-level."

He tried to keep it light, not letting too much sincerity show. Feelings weren’t exactly his strong suit—unless they were loud, inappropriate, or hidden under layers of sarcasm.

As he wrapped the gauze, he glanced up at them and smirked. "There. You are now 7% more patched up and 38% more badass-looking. Side effects may include sudden attraction to emotionally unavailable teammates."

Then he paused, realizing how much blood was on his own shirt.

"...Okay, now your turn to play doctor. And I swear if you make one joke about how I’ve got a 'fragile ego and a worse pain tolerance,' I will explode the next bottle of hydrogen peroxide just outta spite."

He leaned back with a groan and handed over the supplies, grinning despite how much everything hurt. The city was wrecked, his bones ached, and his dignity had definitely taken a few hits—but he was still breathing. They both were.

"Next time the Flaxans invade, remind me to call in sick. Or fake an injury. Or fake my death. Just somethin'."