"Mhmm. When I sleep, I sleep like a baby," he replies. This time, when Liam reaches the apex of his swing, he digs his heels in. Though Marty meets his back with his hands, he doesn't push. Marty sucks his teeth when Liam mentions the riptide. "I don't like not being able to breathe," he says, uncharacteristically quiet, serious. He enjoys the fighting, that's no secret. Getting hit is just a part of that — when something hits you, hit it back harder, until it stops. But suffocating is different. Flailing, fading. He's not sure he had ever truly felt afraid before the day a shadow almost strangled him to death.

As he listens to Liam speak, he moves his hands to rest on top of his shoulders instead. Dopplegangers. Using your own friends and teammates against you. That seemed to be the theme for this dungeon. He's glad his squad never had to face that, but he's sorry Liam had. It would have been easier for him, Marty thinks, to shatter look-a-likes without it weighing on him. Liam twists on his heels, letting his own weight swing him around and away. "There's always some new fresh bullshit," Marty replies. Fighting friends, the real people, would be harder. They had all been thinking about it, training for it, dreading it.

Someone else might have words of condolence or encouragement. Marty isn't good with words, so instead, he pulls a flask out of his back pocket and holds it up in offering. Perhaps in answer, Liam swings back to meet him. He hooks his ankles behind Marty's legs, and Marty grabs the rope to anchor him. "When one door closes, another opens." It's true, but not at all comforting. He starts to offer the flask, but when snow strikes him in the face, he makes a show of sputtering and shaking it out of his hair, then hiding the flask behind his back.