It was quiet in sickbay when the doors opened. The redhead still had her hair in a ponytail, face smudged a bit. She braced her left hand against the door frame. Accompanying her was the scent of smoke and of burned flesh. Staggering in a bit more, every step was a task and she was sweating by the time she made it to a spot she could sit. For the moment, she simply breathed and tried not to think about the pain in her leg. At least her wrist wasn’t that bad, though she cradled it under her breasts, trying to keep it protected.

“Doc, you around,” she called out, her voice a little shakey, a little strained.

Martel, the idiot.