The medic glared at the young three-cee before him. It happened to every single feckin' one of them - they got the first few mako shots, and mistook themselves for gods. Reaching for the tweezers, he told the boy, "Hold still," and started probing for the bullet. "You know, you're supposed to dodge these," he said to his reluctant patient, "not catch the fuckers."
"Gotcha, sarge," the boy said weakly. "Ow!"
"Got it," he said, pulling out the slug. "Now, gimme a moment to stitch this." He looked down at the cut, which had already stopped bleeding, and appeared to be healing over. "Or maybe not."
The kid was watching with surprise. "Wow. Never seen that happen before."
The medic gave the kid an appraising look. Dark hair spiking up in all directions, and a probably irrepressible grin. "It's a good sign," he told the boy. "Means you're definitely gonna make two-cee, probably first class."
"Cool!" The kid was grinning like a maniac.
The sergeant cuffed him around the ears. "You gotta survive first, hotshot. Good thing I got that bullet outa you. You'd healed over it, you woulda wound up with an abcess, probably lost the arm. Dodge the fucking bullet next time, Fair. You may not have a medic in range."