Chapter Text
lay down the head on the floor
it cracks so bare on the way
lay like a flood spills away
way as a wall stains
-
and i'll be watching as you waste
through the ground
--
Phil's absentminded gaze stays fixed on the submarine's only window. Despite the fact he can see nothing outside, as not a single beam of sunlight could ever filter its way down this far, he still finds himself staring intensely as though he could force something to appear through sheer willpower. As much as he's pretending to be nonchalant about the whole situation, he's been feeling queasy ever since he was put into the vessel.
"Arriving at -600 feet."
Her voice comes through the speaker above him, muffled by layers of static, only worsening as they drift apart. Phil clenches his fists, but says nothing; instead rising to his feet and beginning to pace. He searches the Lung for... maybe the third time, looking for anything, anything at all that might aid him--but the search is futile, bringing up the same results the last two searches have. He doesn't want to tear off the wall panels and risk being crushed or flooded, either. So... he's stuck here. Not that there was any point in escaping now; he can't swim, after all.
Frankly, he'd much rather have gotten a bullet to the skull. He believes would be more deserving of such a punishment, but dying in the middle of an ocean made of real, copper-scented blood? This is like a personal torture chamber for him. He'd always had a fear of the ocean, but this is ten times worse.
"...I'm sorry," he blurts.
The silence weighs heavy, long enough for him to wonder if she even heard him. He opens his mouth, about to repeat himself, but then her voice finally comes through the speaker.
"What?"
"I'm sorry. I'm apologizing, don't make me say it again. I... I didn't know the camera was radioactive, or whatever. I didn't mean to blast anybody with radiation, and if he's hurt or dead I'm sorry. It's been a rough month..."
...
"The last few years have been rough on all of us, convict. You've got two murders on your record already, you don't need to add a third."
"I- I didn't kill him! You know that! Sure, I killed the officer, but I never would've--" He leans his head back in exasperation, wishing he'd at least been provided with a decent chair if nothing else. "I'm just... tired. And I would like to go home."
"There isn't a home anymore."
Phil goes quiet. He knows she's right; even if they were to drag him up and let him out, nobody would ever see him the same again. Hell, frankly, no one has seen him in a positive light in a long time. The incident only made things worse.
"...When we pull you back up, I'll make sure you get fed."
"Thanks." »I guess.«
"Arriving at -1000 feet."
He sighs, the guilt still gnawing at the chew toy that is his heart. He slides back into his seat, leaning back to the best of his ability against the uncomfortable chair. But then, while he's zoning out, the sub lurches, a loud creaking noise rips through the air. He feels lighter, her voice comes through briefly--a swear, possibly--and--although it's not as fast as Earth gravity would've been, especially with the weight of the blood--he's plummeting fast.
...
...
»Ow.«
That's his first thought when he somehow comes to again. He blinks; his ears ringing like an angry neighbor at your doorbell, and what little vision he has in the dim light is only processing enough light to see the oxygen meter blinking pitifully above him. For a faint moment, it reminds him of a time long forgotten; a vague memory of the lights that once dotted the sky.
He winces, finally registering the headache throbbing at the back of his skull, feeling like he's both being stabbed with hundreds of little needles and being lit aflame simultaneously. With a groan, he rolls onto his side and pushes himself to his feet, limping over to the wall in a pitiful attempt to stabilize his trembling body. He takes notice of the depth meter, reading at... -2,000 feet. It's a wonder he's not dead. Cartoon logic.
What even happened? Did the chain line disconnect? Didn't they reinforce that stupid chain more than the lung itself? Or... maybe that was the other way around. Not that it really matters.
He staggers over to the other end of the submarine, where he vaguely recalls a medical kit during his second item search. Maybe he can find a fucking painkiller or something. He doesn't remember exactly what was in the bag earlier, though.
He lifts up a floor tile, but it's not there. He could've sworn it was...
Ah. There it is. Under the other floor tile. How could he be so misled.
He tugs the bag out from its hiding spot, only having noticed it because of the hint of non-rusty-red in the floor. They'd done a lot more reinforcing to the outside than the inside, although perhaps it's for the best.
He's able to open it, albeit in an inefficient and awkward manner, with his left hand; his right hand being preoccupied keeping his head upright. He pulls his right hand down, and--oh, yeah, that's a lot of blood. Okay. Let's put that back.
He pops open a bottle of rubbing alcohol and dabs some bandages into the bottle, holding the bottle between his legs where he's sitting so it doesn't tip over. Then, after applying it to where he assumes the injury is based on the stinging pain, he starts to wrap the bandages around his head; cursing under his breath, but ultimately grateful to be as bald as an egg so he doesn't have to worry about hair getting in the way.
Once he's all done, he drags his legs across the floor, still weakened from the fall, re-seating himself in the chair and letting it spin him slowly for a moment as he begins to properly regain his bearings. He wipes the blood on his hand onto his tunic, then reaches out to wrap trembling fingers around the lever right in front of him. He pushes it forward.
The sub makes a pitiful whirring noise, but doesn't move.
He groans again and thumps his head down against the console, slamming his fist into the siding. He was told how to get the backup engine running, wasn't he? But it's all foggy. Stupid...
Phil lays there until he doesn't feel like total crap, then stands up and stumbles over to the computer on the side of the ship, beginning to type with unsteady fingers.
>manuel
>help manuel
>help
>/help
>enjins
>how do i spell enhine
>fuck
>fuck you
>fsjqlmsmdndiwolibhwwefhjblsefvjbkhfdcsgiugvdsfiuhpacwdnjdweewfvljnjwadcuovhhiupwceqiopkwkwwecriuowfve vvvbbbbbbbbbbbnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
He frustratedly allows his head to fall down once more, this time against the keyboard. He sits back upright after only a few seconds, though, trying again: slowly, this time.
>engine
>backup engine
>backuo engine restart
>where the fuck do I find a manual in this stupid fucking ship
>hrvfbtg
He hits the keyboard once again, as if to blame it for everything. What's even the point of putting a computer in here if he can't figure out how to use it? He turns his attention back to the front of the sub, deciding to try and logic his way out of this. Cars used to have engines in the front, right? So maybe it's in the front somewhere...
He closely examines the front console, fiddling with the panels and controls. He even figures out how to pry open the console, using one of the loose flooring tiles as leverage, but has no luck.
Phil ends up spending far longer than he'd like to admit pacing around the ship, tearing apart whatever he deems to be "safe enough"; which mostly consists of him knocking on the metal and checking the hollow-ness based on the sound, and whether or not there are any other concerning noises coming from there. Either the ship collapses in on itself in a fraction of a second and he dies or he eventually finds what he's looking for, and, if he can be honest, neither option sounds undesirable right now.
Eventually, whether it be by fortune or misfortune, he finds a crumpled manual underneath the computer's keyboard--which he had to rip the keyboard out from the desk to find, then flicks it open far too enthusiastically for a guy with a manual.
After flipping through pages with the speed and efficiency of a child parkouring over and around furniture to give their dad's phone back because he's getting a phone call, Phil finally processes that he's been looking at it upside down his entire time, and it is not, in fact, in another language. He blinks. Is he stupid? No. He could read so much better than the other kids growing up! And he's pretty sure most of the adults his age don't even know how to read! There's no way!
Still, Phil angrily flips the page over and checks the first page, hoping for a chapter list. To his utmost delight--this is such a strange thing to be happy about--there is, and he immediately flips to the page regarding the engines and repair.
Before he knows it, he's on his stomach, squirming his way through the claustrophobic crawlspace to get to the engine with a flashlight between his teeth. He clumsily reaches for the lever, and misses it a few times before being able to successfully flick it. The light turns on, and the sub begins to rumble; ominous, yet comforting in the pitch blackness of the blocean.
...Blocean? Blocean. He's going to call it a blocean. It makes it sound less serious than it is, and he's pretty sure he's going to be sick.
Oh, great. Now he's thinking about it again.
In a feeble attempt to distract his mind, Phil scrambles out of what could easily double as a coffin and collapses into the drivers' seat (well, the only seat). Upon pushing the lever, with as little grace as possible, the sub begins to tread onward; shaking loosely as it creeps along the ocean floor.