[ It doesn't even look like the undershirts he's used to, so Jim remains totally clueless, for now. ]

Sorry for not hopping up, [ is wry. Leaping to his feet to catch her isn't on the table for him at the moment, precariously trying to pull his shirt back on over obviously damaged ribs, among other things. The room smells faintly like antiseptic tape and his bandages are all pristine, suggesting he may have just changed them. ]

The station's been in flux for several weeks now, [ he says, carefully finishing the task of pulling the shirt on without tweaking anything. ] Improper cascade to low-power mode, then forced red-alert mode, all while the Orbiters were absent. Now they're back and it's returned to its apparently natural state of terminal whimsy.

[ Shirt: on. Success, Jim exhales and tugs it down, the silver triangular badge affixed on his chest appearing to be purely decorative. (It's not, but barely. It's dog tags, for lack of a better description, the old Starfleet ones that stuck to whatever they were held to. He wears it all the time.) ]

They just wake you up?