He’s sitting upright. Okay. Good. Now, tuck and roll forward, a gymnast in slow-motion dismount. His hooded scalp scrapes along the top of the stomach, stretching it just enough for his head to pass. The valve of his tank snags muscle, but Jay’s got gravity on his side. The tank skids across mucus and he flops forward, splashes down, head under acid. What will happen to his face? Fuck it. Faces aren’t a worry when the body you’re inside isn’t yours. He’s done it. He’s turned back around, facing the first chamber again. ((((MOVE)))) Jay’s hands, even the beaked one, tighten his BCD. Doesn’t
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