Page 56 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol. 1
“Or… Wingo pulled his classic fainting trick. That little joke he loves that no one else finds funny.”
While Pherebos gently scolds him, Wingo becomes deeply absorbed in studying a clump of grass, as if the entire conversation has nothing to do with him.
Right on cue, my stomach lets out a loud, unmistakable growl. Two pairs of eyes snap toward me, and I can feel their gaze drop to my belly.
“Sorry… I think I’m hungry,” I mumble, cheeks flushing.
A few minutes later, we’re back inside the complex. I’m sitting at the table, sipping a warm infusion while Pherebos watches me with that intense, unreadable gaze of his. The air between us feels charged. There’s something simmering just beneath the surface—something I can feel in the way he looks at me. But he’s clearly decided that feeding me comes first.
He places a slice of fresh bread in front of me, still warm from the solar oven. I eat it quickly, sensing that he has something else in mind. Without breaking eye contact, he cuts another slice.
“Shit,” he mutters suddenly, pulling his hand back. Blood wells up from a deep cut on his finger.
“You cut yourself!” I exclaim, seeing how bad it is.
“It’s nothing.”
“Don’t move. I’ll get the med kit.”
I rush off and return seconds later with the full suture kit. Judging by the mess on the counter, he really didn’t hold back—there’s blood everywhere. That’s what happens when you play with a sharp knife while completely distracted.
As soon as I lift the compress from his hand, the bleeding starts again. I press down gently but firmly, waiting a few minutes for the flow to slow, then carefully disinfect the wound. Once it’s clean, I take out the suture pen and close the cut with slow, precise movements.
The bleeding finally stops. It’ll probably still be sore for a few days, though.
“Thanks for the help,” Pherebos says. “You’re really good at this.”
“It’s not that impressive,” I reply. “You’ve got all the right tools here. It’s easy to treat minor stuff. But when it comes to serious injuries—the kind that need real stitching and thread—it’s a whole different story.”
“And if you had the chance,”he asks,“what kind of medicine would you want to practice?”
I take a moment to think. He’s only my second patient, after all. Prianka was the first, and she was rarely sick or hurt—except for the times she needed a chamber. I’ve learned a lot, but I’m still figuring out where I fit in the medical world.
“I grew up in the Swiss Confederation,” I say. “They’re incredibly advanced when it comes to medicine. They use chambers instead of surgery for muscles, tendons, bones… And with injector pens and all the treatments available, you can handle a lot without taking big risks.”
“But you still have to diagnose and choose the right treatment. That’s not nothing.”
“Exactly. And right now, I think I’d like to work somewhere smaller—on a planet that doesn’t have all the resources of the big bases. A place where I could really make a difference. I’ve read about under-equipped worlds that would love to have an extra doctor.”
I glance at him, trying to read his reaction. What does he think of that dream?
I already know I won’t be content with this cushy life on MyFaS. Prianka and I talked about it a lot. She knew how fragile life could be—how it could end in an instant. She made me promise that if I ever had the chance, I’d chase my dream.
And I’m 100% committed to keeping that promise.
Pherebos looks at his finger one last time, then turns to me with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“So now that I’m watertight again… why don’t we pick up where we left off?”
“You mean breakfast?”
“Ah, My Faksaya, I thought you’d finished eating and it was time for a shower. What do you think?”
I meet his teasing gaze, heart skipping. He’s been using that little Asgarnian word—Faksaya—more and more lately when he talks to me. I still don’t know what it means. Oddly, my implant hasn’t translated it. I’ll save that mystery for another time.
My handsome companion has clearly moved on from our serious conversation, his thoughts drifting back to lighter things.
I don’t blame him. He’s not wrong—wewerein the middle of a pretty intense moment before the whole berry-bush incident interrupted us.
