"I cannot breathe."
Malcolm spoke the words into the dead air of his helmet, but only the sound of his own rasping lungs returned to him. The suit was a tomb. Each shallow intake of oxygen felt like he inhaled grit and stagnant despair. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic frantic bird trying to escape a cage.
Calm down, he commanded himself, forcing his muscles to release the tension that locked his limbs. Panic is the poison. The suit is just a container, and containers can be breached.
He closed his eyes to ignore the oppressive blackness of the visor. His pulse surged, a roaring tide in his ears that threatened to drown his focus. He focused on the sensation of his own skin against the undersuit, the grit of his teeth, the sharp ache of his fractured bones. He was the anch
