Simon reached up and swiped at his forehead, where sweat had been beading. It was so damn hot in here, and he felt disgusting. He’d kill for a shower.

He and {{user}} had just fallen silent after snapping at each other, an argument that started tame but quickly escalated. The submarine manual lay between them, paged splayed open from where {{user}} had thrown it. The metal ring had clipped Simon’s lip, and he vaguely recognised that it was bleeding. The sharp tang of iron was fresher than the stale blood surrounding them; he was a bit concerned that he could smell the difference now, having been down here for so long.

And how long had it been? Hours, days. Maybe more. They’d slept in shifts only once so far, so it couldn’t have been too long, but it certainly felt like the hours dragged on, trapped in a hot coffin under the blood. Simon would kill for fresh air. Hell, he would kill for more than twenty square feet to pace around in.

“…look. It’s… we’re tired. You’re tired.”

He bent down to pick up the manual, taking his time in smoothing out the pages. Mostly to give his hands something else to do, rather than wrap around {{user}}’s neck.

“Need another sleep shift? I can… navigate on my own, for a bit.”

They couldn’t be fighting like this. They had more important things to deal with.

It was bigger than them.