GEN. TAGON: Here he is. How are you feeling, boy?
TAGON: I'll be fine. Just need a little nap.
GEN. TAGON: He needs a medic. He took a knife to the eye, deep. I think he's bleeding into his brain.
EBBY: There's an enemy platoon between us and our medic right now. We're cut off.
GEN. TAGON: If you've got a nanny-bag, "cut off" is probably the way to go.
TAGON: No.
TAGON: We're on desperate ground. We can't afford to carry wounded. Fix me, or leave me.
EBBY: Captain, if you're bleeding in your brain you need more than some tape and a slap on the butt. You need micro-surgery, tiny sutures, precisely applied...
Tiny sutures...
TAILOR: Oh, no.
EBBY: Tiny, precise stitching...
TAILOR: I'm a clothier, not a doctor.
EBBY: Yeah, but you can sew. I think I know enough xenoanatomy to point you at the right blood vessels.
EBBY: We can do this. It's not... ummm...
TAILOR: "It's not rocket science?"
EBBY: Exactly. It's not rocket science.