[ What a pair they make already, he thinks, taking in her banged-up face; it's not any misplaced chivalry that made him ask repeatedly about seeking medical attention. He'd ask anyone who admitted to having done what she did, and he's used to being the boss, after all. (Or mom, whatever. Go to sickbay. Don't touch that. Put that back. Stop swearing in front of the ambassadors.) ]

I don't know how much arse is left to be kicked, [ pushing away from the door. ] But it can't hurt to go take a look. Make sure people are actually doing what they said they'd be up to.

[ And not either ignoring it or making it worse, somehow. Jim's in what he's usually in, jeans and his jacket, phaser stuck inside the back of his pants. With a setting toggle it can cut through lesser spaceship bulkheads, so, you know. No need for gun envy. ]

How much of what was going on did you catch, after the fights?