Something has gone wrong. Actually, lots of somethings have gone wrong. My body is riddled with gunshot wounds, I'm lost, I am being pursued by an alligator that—in the spirit of all men being brothers—I resolutely refuse to shoot, and all I have to show for it is a heaving rucksack of forceps and exotic jams. Or nondescript fluids in jars, anyway. I prefer to think of them as jams.
But those are trifles, nothings, mere bagatelles compared to my most pressing issue: Every bone in my body has been shattered by gunfire. It is unfathomable that my $500,000 suit of heavy armour has somehow not crushed what remains of me into a puddle of inert goo. It is entirely predictable that the antibiotics I keep popping when I hit the 'medicine' key aren't helping at all.
