The scent of smoke still lingers on Khan's clothes, cuts and burns still mar the thinner skin of his face and hands; the Vengeance's landing had been anything but graceful, hulking corpse of ship plowing into the city, and she had done no favors for her captain.

Still, he is alive. Alive, and on a Starfleet vessel that is completely unfamiliar to him.

There's a tightness to Khan's shoulders as he scans the room, wariness plain on his face. The approach of another man immediately draws his gaze, and his eyes linger on the bony spurs that erupt from the man's forearms. Not human, but not a species he's familiar with, either. The man's clothes are anything but Starfleet issue - a refugee, perhaps? Starfleet does like to flaunt their rightenousness, their 'humanitarian' efforts.

His chin raises, just slightly. "Where am I?" His voice is hoarse, but as sharp as cut glass.