When the substance falls away from Darling's arm, Tom's exertion ceases - he falls backward a little onto his elbows, panting and shivering.

"Thank FUCK."

The words catch his attention, though, his name spoken in a tone and a voice both well-known to some part of his mind. Struggling back up into a sitting position, he rakes his hands through his dark curls, trying to think through the fog as it begins to clear.

"Yeah, I'm - my name is Tom Zane. I'm a Poet. Wait...wait. Diver? Film...maker." He reels, clenching his eyes shut.

"I was in...WE were in....

Six...six...five?"