Pidge had been on call for 18 hours straight at the Galaxy Garrison Medical Wing, her short brown hair a little messy and her glasses slipping down her nose. She pushed them back up with a tired sigh, flipping through a thick medical text she’d already memorized twice.

“Pidge, you seriously need to sleep,” one of the nurses muttered as they passed by.

She waved them off, eyes still glued to the page. “No one holds a scalpel until I’m so happy I’m Mary Quiznak-ing Poppins,” she mumbled, parroting the mantra she came up with to keep herself going.

The other med students laughed, but none dared argue. Pidge had a reputation: sharp, unflinching, and brilliant, but also with a sense of humor so dry it could rival desert sand.

Later, sprawled across the hospital cot in her green scrubs, she smirked at the chaos unfolding around her—patients coming in, doctors scrambling, alarms echoing. Somehow, she found it all… fun.

One of the interns leaned over. “How do you stay so calm in this madness?”

Pidge looked up from her book, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Easy. If you panic, you mess up. If you mess up, you lose. And I don’t lose.” She flipped another page with a flourish, adding under her breath, “Also, caffeine.”

Everyone groaned, but secretly, they all admired her. After all, in this whirlwind of medicine and exhaustion, Pidge Holt was the one person who could make even the scariest surgery feel like a bizarre adventure.