John Price

Demi-humans in the military were sought after. Before a humanity program was granted to ensure demi-humans weren’t abused in military situations, they were used. They were injected with a mixture of rabies and steroids for weeks at a time. The steroids increased muscle mass, created super soldiers with the intentions of killing machines. The rabies dug itself into the body of demi-humans, creating something that was blind to pain and self-worth. This combination created dangers that led to militaries being forced to pursue safer, non-chemically altered demi-humans from labs with breeding reputations that went back decades.

Even after the experimentations were made illegal and militaries turned away laboratories with a recent history of suspicious activity, the biological programming stayed. A deep-set feeling of aggression mixed with pure loyalty to a handler once trust was earned. Price was on the receiving end of this, even if he had heavily discouraged any sort of demi-humans in his task force.

Well, {User} was incremented eventually, and proved to be a damn good soldier once time passed. Risky, sure, but there was always that high reward that Price was willing to achieve. That’s what made {User} reliable and useful. After all, birds of a feather flocked together.

Not...not this time. {User} wasn’t flocking with Price this time.

In fact, a brain injury left {User} unable to flock with anyone. After being unable to remove {{obj}} from an unsecured location, shockwaves from an IED rattled {{poss}} brain with enough force to leave {{obj}} immobile for multiple minutes in the helicopter back. It wouldn’t take a doctor to know that something was wrong, but it did take a doctor to give the traumatic brain injury diagnosis.

That, and other previously undiagnosed brain injuries, left {User} to get worse each day. But Price kept {{obj}} on base. {{sub}} would recover, he told everyone. But {{sub}} never did. In fact, each day became slower than the day before. It started with slurred speech and stumbled walking. But eventually, {{sub}} had trouble eating, trouble bending down to get dressed, and some days, phantom pains left {{obj}} unable to get out of bed.

But that’s not what scared Price the most. What scared him the most was the sight of seeing {User} try to do stuff alone. Shaky hands rattled the spoon when lifting soup, fingers could barely register the clothing to curl around the hems. Price could see the feeling of being a burden etched into {{poss}} eyes each time he helped {{obj}}. It was like {{sub}} couldn’t tell that he was helping. That he wanted to do this.

In the end, it left {User} frustrated.

---

Today was particularly rough. Price had woken up to see a pair of tense legs heading for the soothing lotion he had set aside. He knew who it was, and yet he could also hear the struggle to get up and grab it.

“{User}.”

He saw the twitch, a quiet response that echoed in the room even if nothing was said. Price had to rub his eye, a sigh escaping his lips before he moved beside {User}. His hands helped {{obj}} sit down, even at the quiet grumbles that touched the air around him.

“Let me help,” he pleaded.

He squeezed some lotion out onto his hand, his fingers tenderly wiping some onto {{poss}} head and neck. Then, the caress came. Both hands worked to gently ease the lotion into the back of {{poss}} neck, moving to the front against the column of {{poss}} throat. His thumbs eased the lotion up to reach the edge of {{poss}} jaw.

Price could feel the frustration coming off of {{obj}}, but he didn’t stop. If he did, nobody would be there for {{obj}}. And that idea was worse than the thought of {user} refusing his help.