"Ow!"
"Don't be a baby." Gamora finished wiping down the wound on Peter's chest and set the red-streaked cloth aside. She picked up a fresh one and soaked it in antiseptic solution. The moment she touched the cloth to the hole in his chest, he squealed in pain.
"Just because you've got no pain receptors," he hissed between his teeth, "doesn't mean the rest of us don't."
"I still have pain receptors," she said. "I just refuse to listen to-will you hold still?"
"I can't help it! It hurts!"
"Serves you right for getting stabbed."
"Oh, so it's my fault? I didn't know the guy had a knife! Or that he'd throw it at me!"
"You should have ducked."
"There wasn't time!"
"At least you'll have another interesting scar to add to your collection."
"Yeah, yeah." He looked away and braced himself as she went in for another pass. "Ow! You're doing that on purpose!"
"Of course I'm doing it on purpose. You don't want it to get infected, do you?"
"I can do this myself, you know! I've been patching myself up since I was a kid!"
"You shouldn't be ashamed to admit you need help."
"This isn't helping! This is torture!"
She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. "You know nothing of torture."
"Okay, you've got me there. I'll be good."
And he was good . . . for a whole minute and a half. Until she got out the needle and sutures and went in to sew him up. He tried to hold still, knowing that one slip would make the whole situation ten times worse, but the moment the needle pierced his skin, he felt like a tiny but powerful cattle prod had touched his flesh and discharged ten thousand volts into his body. "GODDAMMIT!"
She stopped what she was doing and glared at him. "Do I have to put you in restraints?"
"No, I . . . I think you must've hit the nerve or something. Damn, that hurts!"
"We could take you to a hospital and let the professionals do it properly."
"No." The mere mention of the word "hospital" was a deal-breaker. "Please. I'm okay. Just gimme a minute."
"We cannot leave this wound open much longer. I'll try to be more careful."
"Okay." He took a deep breath and braced himself. "I'm ready now."
"Hold still. I mean it." The second time the needle went in, it wasn't as bad. It still hurt, but it was a pain that Peter could manage. He gritted his teeth and tried not to flinch.
"Hey, how's it goin'?" Rocket sauntered in, took a look at the gaping hole in Peter's chest, and hissed between his teeth. "Guy got ya good, didn't he?"
Peter didn't dare reply. He was trying not to breathe too deeply. He wasn't looking, either. Looking was bad.
"Wow, your blood's red too, huh?" Rocket looked at the discarded cloth. "Didn't know that."
"Why?" Gamora asked. "What color did you think it was?"
The raccoon shrugged. "I dunno. Could be anything. Red, or blue, or purple . . . what color's yours? Green?"
"Green-ish. In some lights it looks black. Why?"
"Just wondering."
"Don't distract me. I'm almost finished."She finished the suturing, tied it off, and stuck a sterile dressing over it. "You can breathe now, Peter."
Peter took in a great big gasp of air, then winced when the expansion of his chest pulled at his stitches. "Ow! Guess I'd better not do that again. Thanks, Mora. Looks good. You, um, you do this a lot?"
"I try not to get injured in the first place."
"Yeah, we try, but stuff happens. You think I wanted this to happen?"
"You seem to take unnecessary risks too much of the time," she said. She moved around and started to put the supplies back where they belonged.
"You know," he said, "I was ten or eleven years old before I found out that everyone in the universe didn't have red blood."
"Really?" she said. "And how did you find this out?"
"The hard way."
It's the first time Peter has ever been on a mission gone wrong, and he's finding that he doesn't like it very much.
He isn't there for the shooting; he's just supposed to stay with the ship and keep a lookout for anything dangerous, and then tell Nardo, who's the pilot this time around, to get ready for takeoff.
Only there isn't time to warn anyone when he sees the men come running up the hill. When he sees the way Kraglin is practically carrying Yondu, Peter's heart sinks. He hasn't been on a mission yet where someone died . . . but this day isn't over yet.
"What happened?" Nardo asks, from the pilot's chair.
Yondu raises his head, and Peter is relieved that the Ravager captain isn't dead. "Just get us the hell outta here!"
"Yes, sir." Nardo begins the takeoff procedures, trying to hurry as much as he can.
"Did you get the stuff?"Peter asks.
Yondu gives him a glare as Kraglin lays him down and gently eases his coat off. "No, we didn't get the stuff! We're lucky we got outta there alive! Don't ask dumb questions, just get the first aid kit! I ain't the only one hurt!"
Peter wants to find out what happened, but now is not the time. He brings over the shuttle's first aid kit, about the same size as the lunch box he used to bring to school. Kraglin opens it and takes out the sealant and the antiseptic. He opens Yondu's shirt and reveals a nasty-looking gash that's longer than Peter's hand.
"What's all that blue stuff?" the boy asks, noticing something smeared all around the wound.
"What blue stuff?" The first mate looks down, and then he sees it. "Oh, that's his blood."
"His blood is blue?"
"What color'd you think it was?"
"Red. Mine is red."
"Not every race has red blood. Some are blue, some are kinda purple." He dabs a bit of the antiseptic onto a rag and begins cleaning the blue blood off. Peter looks away, now that he knows what it is.
"You mean you didn't know that blood came in different colors?" Kraglin sounds almost amused. Yondu says nothing; he's awake, Peter checks, he's just not in a talking mood, it seems.
"No. Never been in a firefight before. That what it was, a firefight?"
"Not . . . exactly."
"They still have spears and rocks!" one man says. Peter never does learn his name; he dies on a mission about two months later. He's sporting a wicked collection of bruises and a gash on his head that bleeds red. So Xandarians have red blood too. That makes Peter feel a little better. At least he knows that even if he's hurt, he can still pass for Xandarian.
"Spears and rocks still hurt when ya get hit with 'em," Yondu says. "We underestimated them. Primitive don't mean stupid. We're lucky to be alive. Ow! Watch it with that thing!"
Kraglin is applying the sealant to the wound, and the pointed plastic tip of the applicator slips a little bit. "Sorry."
"What happens if a lot of guys get hurt and need blood?" Peter asks. "Do we have enough different kinds for everyone?"
Yondu doesn't answer. Kraglin says, "We have a few types, but not everything. We encourage the more exotic types to save their own just in case."
"Oh. That sounds like a good idea. Am I considered exotic?"
Yondu laughs. "Kid," he says, "yer one of a kind."
"That does sound like a practical solution," said Gamora. "Each of us draw a few pints of our own blood and save it for emergencies. That way, we know we always have some on hand."
Rocket put his hands up protectively. "Nobody's takin' my blood!"
"Relax," said Peter. "We're just storing it up. I'll do it, if it makes you feel better. You trust me, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I do trust ya. I just don't like the idea of someone takin' part of me for any reason."
"We'll keep it locked up, so it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."
"Where? Here?"
"For starters."
"Uh oh, I don't like the sound of that . . ."
"Is there a problem, friends?" Drax came back to see what was going on.
"We're fine here," said Gamora.
"Hey, Drax," said Peter, "what color is your blood?"
Drax looked at him as if he were slightly insane. "Why do you ask?"
"We had an idea just now, based on something that happened back when I was with the Ravagers. We should save up a pint or two of our own blood, just in case we get hurt and need it."
"That sounds reasonable. Do you anticipate us needing medical attention often?"
"Well, I hope not, but stuff happens," he said. "That's what we were saying before. Can't be too careful. We might be light-years from a hospital with the proper supplies."
"I would hope this never happens. To answer your question, my blood is dark gray. Would you like to see?" He drew one of his knives and held it over his palm.
"No! No, that's okay, Drax, I believe you."
Drax nodded and sheathed the knife.
"So when do we do the Big Suck?" asked Rocket. "Here and now, or later?"
Gamora gave him a strange look. "One patient per day is enough. We can draw the blood another time. Besides, Peter needs to rest and recover."
"Eh, I'm fine," he said, and jumped down from the table. Upon landing, he wobbled and almost fell over. "Or not. Wait a minute, who's flying the ship?"
Everyone looked around. Rocket looked sheepish and said, "I kinda told Groot to watch the autopilot for me. I'll go back and take over."
"Good idea."
"By the way, Groot bleeds a kind of greenish sap. D'you need a sample of that?"
Gamora considered this. "He is a teammate . . . but I am not sure I have the equipment to extract sap. We'll worry about that later."
"Fine. See ya." Rocket went back up front, and Peter took another stab at walking. He hadn't expected to feel so weak; an injury to his torso shouldn't affect his legs.
"Let me help you." Drax held him up and walked with him back to Peter's cabin. "We will call you if we need you."
"Thanks, man. I'll just take a little nap." He closed his eyes and thought of pleasant things, like the smell of Gamora's hair, and the stars at night from his backyard, back on Earth. He hadn't expected to fall asleep right away, but somehow he did.
"You think he's all right?" Rocket asked Gamora, when she joined him in the forward compartment.
"He will be. He will need rest and attention."
"Oh, he loves attention. I just hope somethin' doesn't go wrong."
"Why do you say that?"
"It just seems like, every time we get to someplace good, something bad happens."
"Something bad did happen, today."
"Yeah, but now it's good again. We're due for some bad."
"How do you survive, being such a pessimist?" she asked him.
"I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist. The reality is, life sucks. It sucks all the time. Sometimes it tricks ya into thinkin' it's gonna be okay, and then bam! Sucks again. All the stinkin' time."
"Things do get better," she said. She looked at him and tried to smile, but his words worried her. It had been going too well lately, hadn't it? But was that necessarily a bad sign?
"Yeah, but then they just get worse again. You go on being Little Susie Sunshine if ya want. Me, I'm gonna make sure our insurance is paid up and we're fully stocked on toilet paper."
"Toilet paper?"
"Think about it," he said, and turned back around. She decided to let it go for now.
Peter woke up feeling like his entire body was on fire.
Not literally, of course; he could tell just by looking that he wasn't actually on fire. But he was so hot he might as well be. His head felt fuzzy, too, and his vision didn't seem to want to clear itself. Everything was a blur that seemed a million miles away.
He tried to sit up and couldn't. Not only did it further aggravate the feeling of being on fire, but the wound in his chest erupted with white-hot agony. Had he torn his stitches out? He reached down and removed the bandage Gamora had placed over them yesterday-if it was yesterday. How long had he been asleep?
The flesh was an angry red, hot to the touch, and there was a nasty smell coming from the oozing gash.
"Great," he said, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. "It's infected. I hate when that happens." He replaced the bandage, trying to press hard enough for it to stick but not hard enough to hurt, and tried to think what to do next.
At least he still had the mental clarity to call for help. If he couldn't get up, he'd have to call the others to him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he sat up and reached above his head for the button. It hurt like hell, but he was able to get to it. "Hey, guys, I need some-aah!-some help here, if you don't mind. Maybe a doctor. Possibly a hospital. I mean, this looks really bad, and it feels worse."
He didn't know what else to say, so he left it at that and released the button, leaning back against the pillow and panting like he'd just run a marathon.
"Peter?" It was Gamora. "What's wrong?"
He didn't want to move again, but he'd have to in order to answer her. He reached up again and pressed the button. "I think my little owie's gotten infected. It's all red and there's stuff coming out of it."
"Do you mind?" Rocket interjected. "I'm eatin' here!"
"Well, I'm sorry if my life-threatening emergency is getting in the way of your dinner . . . breakfast? What time is it? What day is it?"
When Gamora answered again, she sounded worried. "You've been out for about twelve hours. Peter, let me come take a look at that. Then I'll decide what we need to do next. Hold on, I'm on my way."
He nodded before realizing that she couldn't see him. He closed his eyes just for a second. When he opened them again, she was there.
"Let me see it," she said, peeling back the covers.
"We haven't even had our first date yet," he said weakly.
"You know what I mean!" She removed the bandage and saw the oozing red flesh beneath. "I don't understand," she said. "This was fine when I treated it yesterday."
"I woke up, and it was like this. I've never had an infection set in so quickly before."
"Before? How often does this happen?"
"Oh . . . once or twice. I would hurt myself doing something stupid that I didn't want Yondu to know about, try to fix it myself, and end up on the critical list. Okay, maybe three times. But no more than that! Last time was . . . six or seven years ago, I think. Stuck myself with a rusty piece of metal, just put a bandage on it, and woke up three days later in the med bay."
It all happens so fast, he doesn't notice until the pain bursts in his leg. At first he thinks he's been shot. But when he looks down, he sees a long, jagged shaft of metal sticking out of his thigh. He must have fallen on it.
Yondu is elsewhere, and won't be meeting up with him for almost an hour, so maybe Peter can fix this himself before the rendezvous so the older man doesn't even have to know. He takes his portable first aid kit out of his bag and opens it. Then he pulls the metal out of his leg.
Boy, that's a lot of blood. Need to stop the bleeding before it gets worse. He finds a roll of gauze and a few cotton pads. Pressing the cotton on the wounds, one on each side, he then winds the gauze around and secures it with flesh-colored tape. There. That should hold it for a while. He rolls his pant leg down and hopes that Yondu doesn't ask about the holes in his pants.
He gets away with it for two days, during which the pain gets too bad to ignore, but he can't admit to having injured himself in such a stupid way. He goes to bed early on the second day, claiming a headache.
His sleep is one nightmare after another, but he can't seem to wake himself up. When he finally drags himself back to the land of the living, he's in the med bay, hooked up to monitors and IVs and all kinds of machines.
"What . . . happened?" he asks, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask on his face.
The medic, Corfla, comes over to him. "You were found in your quarters, burning up with fever. When I examined you, I found this." He rolls back the sheet to reveal the now-properly-bandaged wounds on Peter's thigh. "Care to explain how that happened?"
"Not really."
"We've been giving you antibiotics since you arrived." Corfla always says "we," even though he's the only one here. He likes to pretend that he has a support staff working under him. He tells people that he was a surgeon in a prestigious Xandarian hospital, and though no one believes that kark, no one can disprove it, either. Whether or not it's true, he's a hell of a physician. Peter should have gone to him straight away, instead of screwing this up the way he did.
"Does . . . does Yondu know?"
Corfla chuckles. "Only reason he's not here now is because Kraglin finally persuaded him to go get some sleep. I doubt he actually did. I'll call him if you want."
"No!" Peter cries out.
Corfla looks at him quizzically. "Why not?"
Peter finally confesses what he did, and how stupid he was, and he hopes he doesn't lose his leg. Oh, and please, please, please don't tell Yondu what really happened.
"I'm afraid I have to. He has a right to know."
"But he'll never let me go on a solo mission again! At least let me have some dignity!"
"Let's get you well first. Then we'll worry about your next mission. Have we learned our lesson?"
Peter hangs his head. "Yeah."
"Which is . . .?"
"Don't try to hide injuries, and be sure and clean them out first before bandaging them."
"Good boy." Peter doesn't know how old Corfla is; he's looked exactly the same since Peter arrived nearly twenty years ago. Maybe his race is long-lived. Maybe he's just got one of those faces that never seem to age. Whatever the reason, he's always called Peter "boy," even long after the boy became a man.
So for now, they have a secret. And Peter really has learned his lesson. He never lets a wound get infected again.
"So how did it happen now?" he wondered. "I mean, you were so careful with it. You cleaned it out pretty well, I thought."
"Perhaps not well enough," she said, looking at it more closely. "This would seem to require professional medical attention. We'll set a new course for the nearest hospital. In the meantime, try to get some rest."
"Yeah, I'll do that." But he wasn't sure that he could. He was tired, sure, but every time he shifted the slightest bit, the pain would slam into him again. And the fever had to be pretty high, too.
So this is it, he thought. I'm finally going to die of being stupid. Why didn't I see that the guy had a knife? And why didn't I flarking duck?
At least, he thought bitterly, Yondu would never know about this one.
The arrow hovered at a point directly between the Questrian's eyes.
"Now tell me again," Yondu said patiently, "what you did to my boy."
"He was stealing the Eye of Argon!"
"Which you stole from its rightful owners, if my intel is correct. He was just bringin' it back where it belongs. One more time." The arrow quivered in the air in front of the assassin's horsey face, and the Questrian swallowed nervously. "Did you kill him?"
"Not-not yet."
"What the hell does that mean, not yet?"
"There's a toxin on the blade! Kills most sentient species in twenty-four hours! Please don't kill me!"
Yondu smirked. "Why should I spare yer life? You didn't show Quill no mercy."
"I-I-I have the antidote! In my pack! Third small pocket on the front!"
"Kraglin, reach in and get that fer me, will ya?" Yondu never took his eyes off the Questrian's sniveling face.
Kraglin nodded and retrieved a small glass vial from the pocket. "This it?" he asked, holding it up.
"Yeah! Three drops of that'll counteract the toxin! But you gotta give it to him in the next twelve hours!"
"We'll do that," Yondu said. He turned away as if no longer interested. The Questrian breathed a sigh of relief.
Yondu turned around and let out one short, piercing whistle.
The arrow dipped slightly, punched right through the Questrian's throat, and then returned to Yondu's hand in one motion. Yondu smiled, wiped green blood off the shaft, and tucked it back into its notch on his belt.
Kraglin looked down at the fresh corpse. "That's twice someone's tried to kill that boy. Can't be a coincidence."
"Yeah, maybe I shoulda asked him who he was workin' for," Yondu said regretfully. "Didn't think of it. Oh, well, we'll get 'im when he tries again."
"When he tries again?"
Yondu nodded and tucked the vial of antidote into his front pocket. "Let's go, boys," he called to the other Ravagers who were currently looting the Questrian's belongings. "We got a ship to catch!"
Peter was getting worse.
Gamora mopped his fevered brow with a cool cloth, but it wasn't really helping. The wound was looking worse as well; it was now oozing a thick black pus that smelled horrible.
Groot had taken up the chair at Peter's bedside, and he was crooning a wordless tune that sounded soothing. There was little else he could do right now. They were en route to a hospital on Legar, a small but well-developed world that served as a way station for travelers. Hopefully they could find out what this was and treat it appropriately, since it appeared to be resistant to standard antibiotics.
The intercom came on. "Gotta message comin' through," said Rocket.
"If it's anyone but Nova Prime," Gamora told him, "I'm busy."
"Nope. It's Yondu. Says it's important."
"I'll just bet it is. Fine, put him through."
A moment later, the Centaurian's voice filled the small cabin. "How's my boy?"
"Not good," she said. "He's got a life-threatening infection, and we're trying to get him to a hospital in time."
"Don't bother. I got the cure right here."
"What?"
"Tracked down the bastard who did this to 'im. He said there was a toxin on the blade, and he gave me the antidote. Well, I took it from 'im after I killed 'im, but I got it."
A toxin? Was that possible? "How do you know he wasn't lying to you?"
"Man tends to tell the truth when his life's on the line."
"But you killed him anyway."
"Nobody hurts my boy and lives. That goes for you, too, darlin'; break his heart, and I'll make you regret it."
"You're welcome to try," she said, but she was smiling. There was hope after all. "How far away are you?"
"'Bout an hour. This ship moves fast when I want 'er to."
"We'll wait here for you, and then dock in your hangar bay. I just hope he holds on until then."
"Don't you worry 'bout him, sweetheart. He's been through worse, always pulled through. This time won't be any different. See ya in an hour."
Gamora nodded and went up front to inform the others of the change in plan. She was gone no more than two minutes, but when she returned to Peter's bedside, his fever had gone up again. And all she could do was wait, and hope that Yondu hadn't been double-crossed by a dead man.
"Initiating docking procedures." Rocket didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing, but the ship seemed to be able to dock itself without his help. Maybe it knew it was coming home.
Before they had even come to a full stop, Groot came forward, carrying Peter in his arms like a baby. "I am Groot," he said mournfully.
"He's still alive, ain't he?" Rocket asked.
"I am Groot."
"Well, good. Let's hope this stuff Big Blue has actually works." He popped the hatch, and they went out to find Yondu himself waiting for them.
"Let's get our boy here to the med bay," he said. "I'll take 'im."
"I am Groot!" Groot refused to let go until Rocket rushed to his side.
"It's okay, Groot! He'll be okay! We gotta trust him. Just . . . just let him go, okay?"
Groot looked from Rocket to Yondu, then down at Peter. Reluctantly, he handed the sick man over to his adoptive father, who carried him all the way to the med bay and laid him gently on the bed.
"Three drops," he said. "I don't see a dropper, do you?"
"I'm tryin' not to look too close at things in here," Rocket snapped. "Bring back some bad memories."He climbed up on a counter, out of the way, and sat watching the others work.
Gamora spoke up. "I'll see if I can find a dropper somewhere in here. If that doesn't work . . . we'll try the hospital."
"Hospital can't do nothin' for him now."
"You don't know that. I won't give up on him. No matter what."
"I am Groot," Groot said, holding out a branch. On the end was a bright blue flower. Yondu looked down at it for a moment, and then took it.
"Thanks," he said, almost reluctantly.
"Is there anything I can do?" asked Drax.
"Yeah. Find the damn medicine dropper! Gotta be here somewhere!"
Gamora was already pulling out every drawer she could find and digging through them to find the dropper, but it was no use. Even when Drax started dumping everything on the floor to look through it, it was still an impossible task. Peter would have likened it to a search for a needle in a haystack, if he had been conscious enough to see what was going on.
"We ain't got a lotta time here!" Yondu shouted.
"We are doing the best we can!" Gamora shot back. "Wait, I think I've got it!" She held up the implement in question.
"Well, give it here!" Yondu held out his hand impatiently, and she handed it over to him. Then he had to get the top off the antidote bottle, fit the dropper inside, and suck up three drops.
Now came the really hard part: getting Peter's mouth open wide enough to fit the dropper in.
"I can force his jaws open," said Drax.
Gamora shook her head. "Let me try something a bit more subtle." She bent down and stroked Peter's cheek. His mouth opened slightly, and Yondu stuck the dropper into the opening and squeezed off the three drops.
"Now," he said, "all we gotta do is wait."
The Guardians looked at each other anxiously. Waiting was all they had done so far, and it hadn't helped. In fact, things had just gotten worse.
"Go on, get outta here! I'll stay with 'im. I'll let ya know . . . one way or the other."
They went back to the ship to wait there. Rocket was the first one to speak. "Well? What's happening?"
"Nothing, yet," Gamora told him. "We don't know how long this antidote will take to work . . . if it does work."
"Don't say that!" Rocket cried out in anguish. "He's gonna be okay! He's just gotta be!"
"I am Groot!"
"The blue one is a man of his word," said Drax. "At least where Quill is concerned. We can trust him with our comrade's life."
This seemed to satisfy the others, and they settled down to wait for news. Hopefully good news.
The stuff worked fast; it was less than an hour before Peter woke up. He stared up at the white ceiling of the med bay in confusion. Was this another dream?
When he saw Yondu's face hovering over his, he was even more sure that this had to be a dream. "Okay," he said. "I don't like this dream anymore. I want to wake up now."
"You are awake, boy."
"No . . . I can't be. How did I get here?" He reached down and felt his chest. "What happened? How long have I been asleep?"
"Settle down, boy. I'll explain everythin', but ya gotta rest first. You don't know how close you came to goin' out like a light. If I hadn't tracked that son of a gath down and forced him to hand over the antidote, you'd be dead right now."
"Antidote?"
"Fer the toxin on the blade. Didn't know 'bout that, did ya? An' they were gonna take you to a hospital!" He snorted. "Hospital's where you go ta die! An' yer not dyin' on me any time soon."
"Gotta die of something," Peter said.
"Not if I c'n help it." Yondu laid a hand on the younger man's forehead. "Fever's comin' down now. You'll be fine in a day or two. Yer welcome to stay here 's long 's it takes."
"Thanks, Dad." Peter smiled and lay back against the pillow, which smelled faintly of antiseptic.
"And next time," Yondu said as he made his way to the door, "don't wait fer a life or death emergency to come home. Yer welcome here anytime."
"Good to know. Where are you going?"
"Gotta go let those friends 'a yours know yer awake. Be right back. Don't go back to sleep now!"
"I won't," Peter said, though of course, by the time the others made it to the med bay, he had already drifted off. He looked so peaceful, though, that they didn't want to disturb him.
"See?" Rocket said. "Good follows bad follows good follows bad. It's an endless cycle."
"That is comforting, is it not?" said Drax. "At least when something bad happens, we know something good will follow soon."
"See?" said Gamora. "That's a much better way of looking at it."
"All right, whatever!" the raccoon snapped. "The glass is half-empty; the glass is half-full. Whatever."
"Where is this glass you speak of?" Drax looked around as if it might be on a nearby table. "Glass of what?"
"Never mind! Let's get outta here, Groot. Groot?" Rocket looked around. "Groot! Where'd ya go?"
There couldn't be many places in a room this size that a six-foot tree could hide. Rocket searched and eventually found his best friend staring into a glass-fronted refrigerator in a little nook off the main room.
"I am Groot . . ."
"That must be the blood bank. Wow, lookit all the pretty colors. Red, and blue, and purple, and . . . is that orange?"
"That's Terganite blood," said a voice behind them. "We had one aboard a few years ago. Didn't last long, unfortunately. It's a dangerous life, this."
At the others' curious looks, he chuckled. "Oh, sorry. Should have introduced myself. I'm Corfla Ka'aa, Chief Medical Officer. Well, truth be told, only medical officer. Is there something I can help you with?"
"You really got everyone's blood in here?" Rocket asked. "Everyone on the whole ship?"
"Every last one of them," the medic confirmed. "From the captain-and he's a hard one to get to sit still long enough to get the job done-right down to the newest newbie. One of the first things we do, in fact, after we've noted their burial preferences. Like I said, it's a dangerous life."
"Is Peter . . . all right?" asked Gamora.
"Oh, he's fine. I've gotten him through worse. He won't be ready to leave till tomorrow at the earliest, so make yourselves at home. You're welcome to wait here as long as you stay out of my way, though I warn you, he probably won't do anything more interesting than sleeping. That boy is a champion sleeper. If sleeping were an event in the Galactic Games, he'd take the adamantium medal."
"Know 'im pretty well, do ya?" Rocket asked.
"Oh, yes. Sad to say, but he's been a regular presence here over the years. Terrans are so fragile, you know."
"Did you know he didn't have an appendix?" Gamora inquired.
The medic looked sheepish. "I thought perhaps he'd had it removed at birth. I had noticed . . . abnormalities in his charts, but since I'd never treated a Terran before, I wasn't sure how serious they were. I kept him alive, in any case."
"You got his blood in there?" Rocket asked.
"Of course, though the supply has been depleted. I'll have to take more, but not now, of course. It can wait until he recovers."
"Good luck with that," said Gamora. "As you might have noticed, he's not exactly the most cooperative patient."
"Oh, I know. You should have seen him the first time he came in here. Tiny little thing, so frightened of everything. The trouble started when I went to give him his shots."
The moment Corfla sees the small boy enter the med bay with Yondu, he takes an interest. At first, he mistakes him for Xandarian, an error that becomes quite common over the coming years. Whatever his origins, it's unheard of for a child to be aboard this ship. Unless . . .
"This can't be our little Terran," he says to Yondu.
"Oh, he is. This is Peter. Pete, this is the doc. You do what he tells you, now."
The boy is nervous, uneasy, looking around the room as if he expects something to jump out and bite him.
"Well, why don't you hop up here," Corfla says, patting the edge of the examining table, "and we'll sort you out right now?"
Peter looks up at the table with wide eyes, and he starts backing away slowly. It's clear the boy is terrified, but of what?
"Oh, don't worry. I won't do anything that'll hurt you, except for one small blood sample. But I promise that'll only hurt for a second. Do you need a boost?"
Peter shakes his head. Slowly, resolutely, he climbs up and sits on the edge of the table. His eyes flick from Yondu to Corfla, and back again. His body is stiff with tension; this kid is frightened to death-but of what?
"We'll start with baseline readings. Here, why don't you put this down for a second?" He starts to remove the kid's bag, but Peter holds onto it tightly.
"I'll take that," Yondu says, and slips it off the boy's shoulders. "I'll jes' hold it fer you."
Peter doesn't seem too happy about that, but he sits still while Corfla examines him. His vital signs are approximately equal to that of a Xandarian, which means that treating him should be fairly easy. Corfla finishes the examination, makes some notes, and then steps aside to speak to Yondu.
"This is not a four-year-old," he says. "Unless his species ages at twice the usual rate, I would put his age at eight or nine."
Yondu just shrugs. "Either the guy lied to us, or he don't know how to count."
"At least we don't have to deal with an infant." He steps aside and begins preparing the standard vaccinations. He doesn't know what kind of diseases they have on Terra, or how susceptible the boy is to the ones out here, but better safe than sorry. Outbreaks of preventable diseases are a real problem on a ship this size.
The moment he brings the tray over, with its assortment of needles of various sizes, the boy starts screaming.
"No! No! Get it away! I won't!"
"Now, now." Corfla tries to reassure the boy, but he's not having any of it.
"They don't work! The treatments didn't work! They only made her sicker! Doctors lie! They told me she'd get better, and she didn't!"
"Stop being a baby!" Yondu tries to hold him down, but Corfla intervenes.
"Captain, perhaps you'd like to step outside for a moment."
Yondu's red eyes narrow. "You kickin' me out?"
"No, just asking you to let me confer with my patient in private. Won't take but a minute."
"He's gonna run off the minute you turn yer back."
"Then I won't. I'll call you when I need you, sir."
Yondu doesn't look too happy, but he leaves the room all the same. Once Corfla is alone with his small patient, they can talk.
"So," he begins. "Someone close to you was sick, and the doctors told you she'd get better, but she didn't?"
The boy shakes his head.
"That's very sad. Unfortunately, even doctors aren't omnipotent. We can't fix everything. But we try our best, and do all we can to make it better. I don't think they lied to you; they just wanted to keep hope alive for as long as they could. Was she your mother?"
"Yeah."
"How long ago did she . . . pass?"
"I don't know. What time is it now?"
Oh, Great Sky. No wonder the boy is in such a state. He hasn't had time to grieve yet. "Peter, is it? Peter, I promise you this: whenever you're sick, or hurt, I will do everything in my power to help you, and I'll always be honest with you about everything I do for you. I will never tell you everything will be all right if I know for sure that it won't. But if there's even a slight chance of survival, the merest glimmer of a ghost of a possibility, I will keep that hope alive for as long as possible-while still being honest, of course. Is that good enough for you?"
The boy looks up at him. "Okay."
"All right, then. Now, I've got to give you a series of shots that will protect you from some nasty diseases. I'm afraid they will hurt, but only for a moment. But I can tell you're a tough little fellow, and you can take it. Are you ready?"
"Uh huh."
"All right, then."There are eight altogether, and every time he prepares the next one, Corfla counts down from five before plunging the needle into the boy's arm. Peter, for his part, doesn't make a sound or even flinch. He toughs it out, and when it's all over, Corfla gives him one of the hard sugar treats he had prepared for the four-year-old he was expecting.
Peter calls it a lollipop, and every time he ends up in the med bay, even as an adult, he looks for one. And Corfla is always happy to give him one.
"You really care about him," Gamora said.
"We all do. He's a very charming young man, I'm sure you've noticed. Didn't take long for him to have us all wrapped around his little finger."
Drax looked confused. "This is another metaphor, is it not?"
Rocket rolled his eyes.
"Well, then." Corfla nodded and started rearranging his supplies. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Actually," said Rocket, "there is."
"And what would that be?"
The raccoon was rolling up his sleeve. "We wanna do the blood thing, too. Cause our jobs are dangerous, too, and we can't always get to a hospital right away. Just make it quick, will ya, before I change my mind?"
Corfla smiled enthusiastically and started setting up a work station. Here was something positive to do with his time.
"Just promise me," Rocket continued, his eyes shut firmly, "that you won't draw off extra and sell it on the black market. I don't want no pieces of me that I don't know where they are. My blood stays with me. Got it?"
"Of course."
"Now does seem an opportune time to get this done," Drax admitted. "I will go next."
Gamora looked across the room at Peter, sleeping peacefully in the curtained bed with Groot keeping watch over him, and knew that he was in good hands. Whether their blood was red, or green, or blue, or gray, or even sap, they were one family.