Except it's not a simulation. Or at least, if it is one, it's not going away. She's in what appears to be a saloon from the Ancient West, though the architecture and the patrons are just alien enough to tell her that this isn't one of her own programs, or even one of Alexander's old ones.

And there's dust, dust everywhere, hanging off people's clothes and hair, trailing in behind them as they walk in the front door.

The bartender she just rebuked gives her an appraising once over, then says in his slow drawl, mouth barely moving under his handlebar mustache. "Sickbay? Well, little lady, if you want the doc," he jerks a thumb behind him, towards a poker table, "She's right over there. Whatever's wrong with you, I guar-an-tee can damn well fix it. Got herself some amazing gadgets and whatsits, like nothing I ever seen, not in these parts."

Beverly's sitting at the poker table, the only woman among a group of cowboys, who all seem rather enamored of her, not paying a bit of mind to the fact that she's taking all their chips. She's not wearing her Starfleet uniform, but rather some sort of dull olive jumpsuit, reminiscent of early astronaut gear. At the moment, she doesn't notice Deanna's presence, absorbed as she is in the game.