"Oof, crab shanked you. You gotta watch your ankles, my man." Erin's coming out of the Tommy Bahama with a new load of pillaged laces - shoelaces, strings from shirts and dresses, the whole nine yards. Does she need to keep braiding her shitty rope? No. Will she? Yes. The new guy looks vaguely familiar but if you held a gun to Erin's head she couldn't figure it out (her memories of Star Trek are fuzzy and mostly confined to TNG).

Fortunately, she keeps medical supplies on hand. Erin yeets the materials in her hands off to the side and starts digging out bandages and disinfectant. "Lemme at it, bleeding out would be just the most shit day, I think."