[b]12 July, 1951
0200 hours
Operation: Morningstar - York Base[/b]

James lay still in the oppressive gloom, his bunk a slab of rock beneath him. The stifling nature of the underground air, feeling always like the heated hand of a revenant clamping over his lips, was only disturbed by the indistinct murmur of voices in the adjacent room. His eyes began to drift shut, the globes crying out with relief as they were sheathed within the pleasant darkness of his lids, hot and soothing to his sandpaper eyes. The sound of the voices lulled him, almost enough to forget the precariousness of the situation, and the dark began to embrace him, closing around him as sleep claimed him...

At the last second, a gasp and the violence of sudden movement woke him, and with fluidity born of practice his hand flickered to the knife he left by his side. He lay still for a brief moment, evaluating the threat, mind flickering through possible scenarios, his pulse racing and his eyes stirring against his will behind closed lids, before he realised it was only the nightly torments of some other soldier. With a soft sigh, he unwillingly abandoned the prospect of sleep, the chance for much-needed rest having been robbed from him. He kept his eyes shut as he heard the soft tread of boots heading toward the softly murmuring voices at the edge of his awareness. It was Frankie, then...

Gritting his teeth, he turned onto his back, ignoring the mild pain from a minor wound on his leg. The pumping of his blood had set the damn thing aching again, and all of a sudden he felt restless - this place, suppressive in the stillness of the air and the thin patina of uncertainty lacing the air after the catastrophic battle, suddenly made him feel chained and restrained, the thick air seeming a constant irritation, an extra weight to bear. Seeking something to alleviate the inevitable boredom of his insomnia, he tuned in to the chatter, discerning Frankie's voice just as she broke into the conversation. She was an odd one, Frankie. Seemingly confident and determined, but always with the barest hint of need or desperation for something, though what that may be eluded James for now. 

With a sigh, he swung himself out of bed and stood, wincing slightly as weight fell on his leg. He needed to move, to shake off this lethargy that he felt was being forced on him, despite the late hour - even if only to allow himself to sleep in a short while, once his mind was less active. Rest was important, on an operation like this.

He found himself speaking from behind Frankie, softly, his voice still a little rough and sleepy and not prepared yet for any strength or much authority - uncharacteristic, for him.

"That's all well and good, but it is a somewhat intangible lead - no offence. We need to recuperate and re-evaluate, before strategising."