Both of them squatted behind the broken-down remains of a box half-filled with apricots. Elani glanced the wrong way and saw a bullet pierce the tough skin around one, knocking the tough nut inside of it loose, leaving both out the other side in a tiny shower of orange goo. Not the best sight to see in the middle of a firefight. The captain fellow was screaming and barking out orders, which were, surprisingly, being followed. She'd expecting this crew to be as a hard to control as a herd of cats, but even the caxeri girl was running forwards and slashing with the best of them, with most of the crew working as one slick, oiled, machine. And here she was, crouching down with nothing to do but think. Elani pulled the strap of her bag from around her shoulders and dumped the thing unceremoniously on the floor, before rummaging around underneath the spare clothes and extra set of silverware, and the six-litre jug of preserving alcohol, to a small wooden box at the very bottom. She pulled it out, and fumbled with the catch. 

Inside were what she liked to call her tools of the trade, vague mementos of the life she used to lead barely a day ago. They held sentimental value, as most things did when you used them for the better part of two decades. Most of it would be useless right now, apart from the bandages and maybe a few of the foreceps, if you threw them. But right now the best thing she could do was keep her head down and clean up the bodies after all the commotion, tend to the dead as best she could, and leave the living to someone more comfortable dealing in bodies.