This is bad. Very bad. It's rapidly getting worse, and Brock can feel the big vein in his temple beginning to throb from the internal pressure, the lack of oxygen. His lungs will start to burn soon, and it'll be like his eyes are about to pop out of their sockets, and his body will force him to draw in breath.

But he can't think about that now; he grits his teeth and manages to get close enough to the wall where he can reach out and drag himself painfully slowly along it, toward the oxygen mask, which is caught beneath a floating desk. It takes a few more long, agonizing seconds to fish it out, and then he floats there, half-braced against the slowly-rotating desk, fumbling one-handed with the straps of the mask.

His eyes are bulging and his vision is blurred, but he manages to catch sight of Molotov anyway, dangling there and leaking clouds of black into the air like a squid. And he hesitates. He doubts there's another mask in the room, and even if there were, there's not enough time for him to find it for her -- and she's clearly in no position to find it herself.

Brock's life has always been a series of bad decisions, and this time it's no different as he pushes off from the wall and hurtles toward her.