Sleep, when it comes, comes in fits and snatches. Even in a secure room. Even on a bed. Even with a sidearm on the table. There's a voice that should be there and isn't, a warmth that he used to press back against and can't. Nothing but him in his head and him in his bed and he's never felt like less of a person than when he's trying to count sheep and all he can count is lives he couldn't save.

Half an hour here, an hour there and- well- after remembering the firefight that cost him the suit and Delta he never gets any more sleep anyway. Rolls out. Suits up. Swings around for a perimeter walk after locking up behind him. does a personal inventory of supplies. Of men. of intel as they have it.

Not much. No aerial support, no ground support other than the rough infantry- a few jeeps with turrets but no tanks. No Phyliss.

He's worked with less and come out on top.

Hours left till the morning drill and he Drops by Kimball (getting a handgun to the face for picking the lock which he kind of earned) to let her know he's going scouting for a bit.

Wash- he considers bringing along. Remembers the room, the eyes, the everything before he just slips on by on his own. He could use the eyes- but he needs a to give the time to sleep and process. It's been a lot for both of them.