[ Can't see properly? That could be the head wound or the Ingress, and there's no telling which, let alone which is more worrying. He valiantly squashes any internal urge to panic, 'cause that sure seems unhelpful right now, and focuses instead on keeps his hands firmly on her waist as she straightens up, lest she lose her balance again. ]

That kind of thing seems to be going around. [ Is that comforting? No? Well. Okay. He tried. ] One of our docs will be able to sort you out, alright?

[ He hopes. God, he hopes. ]

As for "where" and "how", the short version is "space, technically, not counting our current planned-but-not-like-this pit stop" and "crazy science that I've spent six months trying to figure out with little success," respectively.

[ If that, y'know, tells her anything about the grimness of the situation. He owes her a much, much more thorough explanation than that, but it's going to have to wait until she isn't actively bleeding and half blind, trying to navigate rocky terrain in $500 stilettos. And speaking of that, as he watches an artfully pointed heel wedge between two rocks... ]

Honey, either the Louboutins have to go or I'm gonna have to carry you. Pick your poison.

[ He knows both options might be hateful under normal circumstances, but these aren't normal circumstances. ]