The room is almost as painfully white as the rest of the hospital, though one wall is actually a large window, looking out over the city - the undamaged part of it, thankfully. Another wall is taken up with a blue and white holodisplay, which gives a constant stream of vital signs, tracking far more than just pulse and blood pressure.

There's only one bed in the room.

Jim almost looks like he's just sleeping. His eyes are closed, his face slack in unconsciousness, his breathing slow and steady. But there's a faint white glow in the space around his head, coming from a small flat machine that sits along the edge of the pillow. Two silver devices sit on either side of his torso, projecting a yellow field that seems to focus on his back. And apparently even in the twenty-third century, IV lines are still the way to go, as one hand is hooked up to clear plastic tubing, slowly dripping medication of some kind into his system.

All things considered, he doesn't actually look that bad. There's no blood, no scars, though he does have some odd mottled bruising that looks like it's trying to fade to green.

Spock stands back, allowing Hunter to take it all in at his own pace, respectful of the human's emotions.