Mica listened intently as the details of their plan were rattled off in quick, efficient fashion. She stood up a little straighter as she was addressed, then gave a quick, courteous nod before taking off at a brisk pace. She half-ran back down to the sick bay to lay hands on her grab-bag, which she wore on her back, and her small but efficient mid-range mag-gun, which she strapped to the outside of her left thigh. She had never needed to use it, and hoped she never would. She was a capable hand-to-hand fighter, since she had spent most of her life scraping by in dingy spaceports, so she wouldn't hesitate to slug someone if the situation called for it. But using a mag-gun to punch a hole in someone's body with a hunk of metal was a deeply unpleasant concept to someone whose life was dedicated to healing. She knew all too well how even a small projectile could cause irreparable damage. Alas, the captain insisted that she be armed whenever she set foot off the ship, and Mica certainly wasn't going to question her authority.<br/><br/>Thus equipped, she dashed back up to the helm, the whole trip taking her less than two minutes. Once there, she stood straight-backed, awaiting instructions.