Sleep, sleep, sleep.

Nigh on seven hundred and thirty days inside of a supermax in Wakefield, spending twenty-three of the day's hours inside a damnably tiny cage should have yielded [i]some[/i] sort of sleep. If anything, it had produced a sleep debt; Captain Bishop had been a b[i]uuu[/i]sy boy - oh yes, he had - what with the escapes, the riots, and one fine English morning (shortly after tea, shortly before Jammie Dodgers) coming to within a hair's breadth of beheading Warden Janwari. To Jon's chagrin, HM Prison Wakefield's just-so-close-to-[i]astute[/i] armed security retainers had battered the door to pieces and shattered his left hand, along with the ceremonial - yet ever so battle ready - saber that the former Intelligence Officer had been keen on since he had first met Janwari.

He held a record, you know. Prestige followed that young posh boy from Northampton wherever he went; a Victoria Cross tucked away into a shoe box somewhere, hours of footage from Wakefield CCTV used to train hostage negotiators and supermax facility guards alike on handling the [i]impossible scenario[/i]. That is to say, to clarify - when a genuine mad man has taken control of - or escaped from the confines of - your prison.

Even [i]more[/i] prestigious (or perhaps bordering on a silly gag) was Bishop's final escape from HM Prison Wakefield: in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, some big bald northern bloke had informed Captain Bishop that he was to be remanded to the custody of the [i]United Nations Extraterrestrial Investigation and Policing Unit[/i] - or UNXIPU. Oonzi Poo. [i]What a delight[/i], he had decided - Wakefield and Janwari had become so dreadful [i]boring[/i]. There was nothing worse than being a bore, in Bishop's universe.

"Let the bloody nutter whinge about little green men with the rest of the mad hatters, 'eh?" the northerner had remarked to a colleague on the long walk down Wakefield's main corridor. "Fuckin' Looney Tunes, the lot of 'em."

During his supervised transport, by appearing aloof and uninterested, Jon had silently observed several conversations that revealed the global opinion of UNXIPU - that being, of course, that they were all nuttier than a bleeding Dundee cake. Bishop was unconcerned; if these blokes had any notion of the coming storm, perhaps he could help them sort out a way to avoid complete and utter annihilation.

In ode to his decision to perform great work with UNXIPU, the Captain decided to repay his sleep debt on the lengthy Libyan Chinook ride. Despite the buffeting of crosswinds and the general rachety [i]shake[/i] of thirty thousand unstable parts in motion possessing of a strong desire to murder you, Jon was to all the world a piece of furniture. He slept seated sideways across the bench, a harness underneath his knees and his arms wrapped about his legs, head jammed against his legs. He remained motionless for an incredible amount of time, becoming animate only upon their arrival.

After the Chinook had landed, the Captain abruptly rolled backwards onto his hips and bucked up onto his feet in the aisle - nearly losing his balance and upending onto the cold, steel floor, before grasping two harnesses, one in each hand, and righting himself.

"We've arrived," he declared in wonder to the strangers around him. "How wonderful!"

Bishop marched haphazardly alongside his new companions, taking in the dusty airstrip outside with bright, fidgeting eyes; he twitched here and there, never quite [i]still[/i], always in motion, a none-too-small glint of utter lunacy behind intelligent, probing eyes.