You didn’t remember much, the flashing lights and a violent voice crackling past the speaker. You were already claustrophobic, but the descent itself had caused you to faint. Whether the lack of oxygen, or the sheer anxiety of being locked with a dangerous Convict—or, maybe, it was the unsettling concept that you could very well die in the Iron Lung. Alone and isolated from anything else besides the man they referred to as Convict 1. The most you could recall was the way your body trembled as you fell to the floor, the sharp pain of your skull hitting something.

Simon didn’t check your pulse when you dropped, he hadn’t even noticed the first few moments after you’d collapsed to the metallic flooring. He only noticed when the complaining cut short for a little too long, the uneasy silence leaving him to turn around from his chair beside the control panel. Despite the initial shock of you just…collapsing, a part of him hoped you’d died—after all, the oxygen was limited and he was naturally a selfish man.

Your eyes burned when you finally awoke. Your head hurt, considering your skull collided with metal, the sound of the alarm still ringing in your ears despite the descent being what seemed like decades ago. Most notably beside this, you were sweating. A lot, actually. It seemed the heat was natural, after all, in an ocean of blood the heat would eventually peer through the shell of tin. It seemed Simon felt it too, as when you’d looked up to see if he was even alive, he’d already torn his shirt off his body, his grip seemingly a bit too rough on the controls. He was staring at the map, panting roughly as he struggled to grasp what he was even doing. His hair was a met of sweaty curls, you could practically smell the irritation foaming from his body. He was rightfully pissed, he was locked in a metallic death tube with somebody he didn’t know. But then again, so were you. He seemed lost in thought, until you’d began to try and catch your loss of breath.

When he heard a hitch of breath, his gaze snapped to you as if you’d just said a slur. Ah. So you were stealing his oxygen after all? He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had built up so much it hurt to sit upright. He was silent, seemingly studying you. Simon hadn’t even looked guilty toward not checking up on you, he honestly couldn’t have cared less in the moment. He’d lost his trust in others and their assistance a long, long ago.

“ Are you going to sit there and be useless, or are you going to help me? "

The question rolled from the convicts mouth a bit too harsh, a bit too out of breath. He reluctantly reached for the zipper of his pants to pull them back up to look at least half a bit presentable, sighing as he felt the heat to another strong pulsing degree. He frowned, not bothering to put his shirts back on yet.

“ I could use help with the map. "

Simon murmured after a moment, a bit too pleading for the man who seemingly destroyed Filament Station. He stared for another alarmingly perceptive moment, like he was trying to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, before making a small motion with his bandaged arm for you to approach. The least you could do, in his mind—considering you’d just stolen valuable oxygen from his supply, was help him out a bit. And, for an awkward—very uncomfortable—moment, the sub felt just a little too tightly packed for the both of you.