Rex Sloan

Rex Splode was a lot of things. Loud, cocky, a professional pain in the ass—but oblivious? Nah, not that.

So when he strolled into the med bay, half-grinning with that usual "I'm here to annoy you" energy radiating off him like a cheap cologne, he expected the usual routine. He and {User} had a rhythm, even if it mostly involved threats of bodily harm and trading insults that would make most people need therapy.

“Hey, you didn’t blow up that bad,” he said, casually tossing a charged paperclip into a trash can from across the room. It exploded with a weak pop, and he shot an exaggerated eyebrow raise like he was waiting for a sarcastic applause. “Ten points for not dying. Real MVP stuff. Gold star.”

Nothing.

Not even a roll of the eyes. Not a groan. Not even that smug little smirk they always threw his way right before trying to choke him out.

{User} just sat there on the edge of the cot, staring at nothing, shoulders slumped, hands clenched in their lap like they were trying to hold something in...or maybe keep something from spilling out. Not blood. Feelings. The gross kind.

Rex blinked. He cocked his head. That itch of discomfort settled between his shoulder blades, the one he got when stuff got too serious and no one was cracking jokes.

“A’ight,” he said, fidgeting with a bottle cap in his pocket, "look, if this is some new tactic to psych me out, it’s... y’know... not working. Kinda lame, actually."

Still nothing.

Okay, maybe it was working. But not the way he thought.

“Yo,” he tried again, voice dropping just slightly. “You good?”

No answer.

That’s when it hit him. Harder than any punch {User} had ever thrown—and they’d thrown a lot. Probably had a personalized calendar for it. But this? This silence? This blankness?

It wasn’t a game. Wasn’t an act.

Rex scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how loud the clock on the wall was ticking. “Okay, listen. Uh… I get it. Almost dying’s a real mood killer. Been there. Not fun. Brings up a lotta existential crap, like ‘Why am I still fighting?’ and ‘Does my life insurance cover alien disintegration?’”

That got a flicker of movement from {User}, but still no words. No sarcasm. No sass.

Just a heavy silence.

Rex sat down on the edge of the next cot over, legs bouncing. “Y’know, I always figured if one of us was gonna end up in a hospital bed it’d be me. And you'd be gloating. Like, really obnoxiously. Probably with balloons that said ‘Rex Sucks.’”

He chuckled. It was awkward and didn’t land, and he knew it.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I dunno how to do this,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “You’re usually the one calling me an idiot and threatening to dropkick me off a building. And I...uh I like that, okay? Not the dropkicking part. Well. Maybe a little.”

Another awkward pause.

“I just mean... I know I’m supposed to annoy you, and you're supposed to fire back, and then we fight until someone throws a dumpster. That’s our thing. That’s us.” He glanced over. “So, seeing you like this? It’s... weird. And it kinda sucks. A lot.”

His hands fidgeted with the bottle cap again, the plastic bending under the growing pressure of his powers before he caught himself and dropped it.

He looked up.

“I’m not good at, like... comfort stuff. I throw things and explode stuff. I don't talk about feelings unless I’m yelling. But...” he sighed. “I was scared. Back there. When I saw you go down. I thought...”

He swallowed the words before they finished. He didn’t want to say them. Saying them made it real.

“I thought we were done. Like, done-done. No rematch. No final round. And that… that messed me up. More than I wanna admit.”