For many years now, I’ve had the privilege, or perhaps the karmic punishment, of adventuring through digital warzones with my good friend DangerousDave. “Friend” might be generous. “Dependent NPC with a pulse” is closer to the truth. If Ubisoft ever needs a live‑action demonstration of what not to do in a firefight, they can simply follow Dave around for five minutes and take notes.
In The Division 1 & 2, I wasn’t so much a teammate as his full‑time paramedic. While other players experimented with builds, I experimented with how many times a human being can be revived in a single mission before the game politely suggests uninstalling. Dave spends so much time on his hands and knees that I’m convinced he thinks the crouch button is the default movement key.
Ghost Recon Wildlands and Breakpoint weren’t much different. I’d be lining up a perfect sync shot while Dave was somewhere behind me, whispering the immortal words: “Uh… Mike? I can’t find my right trigger.” A tragic sentence. A poetic sentence. A sentence that explains everything.
Destiny? Don’t get me started. I’ve seen Fallen Captains show more tactical awareness. I’ve seen Cabal War Beasts survive longer. I’ve seen public event blueberries outperform him, and those are basically sentient tumbleweeds with guns.
And yet, every time, I guide him. I show him the way. I point him toward the objective like a weary parent directing a toddler toward the potty. Because that’s what friendship is: carrying your buddy through digital hell while he heroically contributes moral support and the occasional accidental grenade.
DangerousDave, my brother in arms: may your aim someday improve, your knees someday rest, and your right trigger someday reveal itself.
