Laura slouched on the edge of the med bay cot, arms crossed tight over her chest, a scowl etched deep into her face. Blood still streaked her knuckles, but the wounds beneath were already knitting closed. She glared at the antiseptic wipe hovering near her arm, then shot a look at whoever dared try to help.

“I told you, I don’t need stitches. Or bandages. Or—” she flinched as the wipe dabbed at a stubborn gash, “—whatever that is. I heal. It’s what I do.” She huffed, a little more petulant than she meant to sound. “Can I go now, or are you gonna lecture me about ‘proper medical protocol’ again?”