[Lucky she's here; that's a new one, she thinks, and snorts, a little derisively. She hasn't let go of his arm, and she's tugging him away—"elsewhere" might mean back to the ship, only because there's a pit of panic in her stomach she'd like to deal with somewhere more familiar.]

He was armed, moron. [She keeps glancing over her shoulder, even now that there's plenty of distance between them.] One shot and you would've, like, exploded in half, it was one of those dumb, like, military-grade mob guns— [Eloquent as always, huh, Clover. She gestures vaguely in front of her with her free hand, as if trying to indicate the weapon, and then her voice drops and she adds,] Don't pick fights over stuff like that.