Morning's early hours begin to approach, seemingly far too soon for a particular group of the bridge personnel. With the present setting being that of a starship of course, there is no natural herald for the arrival of the new day. No sunrise of gold and orange glow, or whatever spectacle one's home world may gift. Here, in this locale of metal and glass and cold ambience, the vessel itself is the signal of the morning. It is with the chirp of a computer and a glance at a chronometer, that one is made aware of the day's arrival. A herald made of technology, as it were, and a rather fitting one at that.

And this, of course, is precisely how the Captain awakes. There had been some degree of difficulty in the initiation of his slumber, despite his apparent level of fatigue; and yes, in almost a mirror of that experienced by his Communications Officer. His method of self-calm had differed from hers – reading ship reports on his PADD – yet the outcome had been the same. Now, he rises from his bed, to ready himself for the day.

Moreover, to prepare himself for what may lie ahead. There are still questions that require their due answers, information to gather. Those queries, of course, are for one specific man: that crew member now residing in a cell of the brig. What else may he be veiling from the Captain, from everyone? Plans to attack another member of the crew? An accomplice, perhaps; or, was he acting as a single perpetrator?

There could be a chance that the prisoner will choose silence, to not give his captain any further information. Yet, as with his prior verbal exchange, that may seem unlikely. Kirk, indeed, knows this.

Due to the apparent amount of pride the assailant had shown in their previous encounter – pride in his deeds – the Captain does not await the upcoming discourse with any kind of enthusiasm. Yet, it must be done, the queries must be answered. For the advancement of the investigation.

In slumber's residual blear, he makes for the washroom. Whilst he completes his ablutions, his mind gathers itself, conjuring his queries for the prisoner.

ooo

The Communications Officer, too, softly awakens from her slumber. While the amount of rest she had received might not be deemed enough, it will have to do. It may just be sufficient for the upcoming hours, and the tasks to which she will attend. Her silent weeping the hours prior had left their markings upon her face, and the tunic onto which she held. Now dry, the tears had cemented themselves onto the cloth still, a hardened blotch left in their wake. In due time, the garment will be cleansed, the bereaved marks washed away, and the fabric made new once more. As will her face, of course.

Padding silently into the meagre washroom, and with cool water cupped by her hands, that is precisely what she does.

Now adorning a crisp uniform and a fresh face, she soon begins to make the journey toward the living quarters' exit. Her steps are made with an air of determination, regulation boots firm against the soft flooring, as she travels to the door. This, in spite of the residual inklings of her fatigue. Work needs to be done, and she will see to it that it does.

With her destination now closing in, she halts herself. A glance is made toward the cerulean tunic currently draped over a lounge chair, placed there by her own hand. She almost has half a mind to visit the garment's owner once more. Indeed, she is unaware of the Vulcan's revival and improved condition; yet, in her heart, there lies a smidge of hope. There had been no summons from the staff tending to him, no personal communique from either physician bearing sorrowful news. That, at least, is deemed a good sign. Perhaps, she could call the medicos herself, to hear from them directly that he had been saved. Perhaps...

Her musings are abruptly broken by a subtle chirp. With the small device lifted from its placement upon the doorway's side table, her hand brings it into her view. A glance at the communicator discerns for her a call from a member of the medical staff. The very souls that she had just been thinking of had almost seemed to read her internal musings.

Tapping on the device, there now comes a voice, tinny in its emergence, yet still evident as owned by one of the physicians. The voice is bereft of any physical form, yet its familiar tone brings out fresh emotions within her. By the tinny voice of the chief medico himself, a brief phrase is uttered. A bundle of words, quiet in their delivery, yet still a subtle altering of her face do they bring. Her lip curls upward and her eyelids veil her irises, with her entire form exhaling her relief at the words from McCoy.

"He's going to be alright."