She's lucky not to have been hit by anything, and knows it; there's a reason every military in the damn galaxy short of the Krogan mandates helmets while at work. Except, apparently, this one— damned medieval horseshit that it was.

Not for the first time, Shepard quietly resolves to get some damned reforms put in place, just as soon as she can get these people to give her a proper command.

"I'm fine," She says, as the clouds die the slow death, and if she emerges from them with her hair the color of clay, well... it'll wash out. Still, when she wipes at her mouth, a stripe of wet red comes away under her nose, and she looks at it with annoyance, "Grab me the uh... The juice, would you?"

She'd almost said glucose ration, but had had a moment of annoyed disjuncture when picturing the waterskin full of what had been sold to her as the beginnings of wine. Really it was just boiled fruit juice, concentrated and sickly-sweet; once it was fermented, maybe it'd be alright booze, but for her purposes the stuff was invaluable. It took a lot of calories to operate as a field biotic, and she was no exception.

"Here, let me see," Shepard refocused, crouching down in front of the whimpering, barely-conscious kid; tired could wait, headache could wait, biotic metabolism... all of it could wait. The job wasn't done. But when she saw the damage, she grimaced, "That looks like it hurts like hell. Good news is, you're gonna live. We'll see what we can do. You using that scarf for anything?"

The mother shook her head, still wide-eyed and shocked by the events of the day, but gave over the length of fabric without protest when Shepard held her hand out for it.

Lifting her head, she called out to Garrus, "Compound fracture! We need to brace it, and move."