She curves the edges of her own mouth up in what she hopes is an encouraging way and as the water rises exhales most of the air from her lungs. It's easier to swim below the surface if she's less buoyant.

This ocean doesn't taste of home. No one who couldn't breathe water would really be able to appreciate the difference. Still, she can work the muscles that went unused in most Rebel space to let it roll down her throat and pump it through her gills, out through the openings in her sides. It feels strange, a little uncomfortable, but it will pass. Ibtisam reorients herself underwater, the fins on her lower legs flaring and fluttering.

Out here it's brighter than inside the blacked-out sub. Much of the life out here glows, whether or not it's stationary. Swimmers alone or in schools curve and dart around at some distance. Faded diffuse glows are spaced oddly in the depths below, and there is a faint, ever-moving shimmer in the water's surface above. It is dark, but lively about it.

"I hope we'll be able to salvage the sub," she transmits. A lingering fear that someone could listen in aside, she likes the 'telepathy'. It's clear in a way Rebel comm systems aren't. Like those there is no sense about where other speakers are, which she knows throws some people.