[ Philip -- the flickering image of Philip -- slams an empty bottle of whiskey down on the counter. If razors and scissors stopped being a thing, then this would definitely be him. Too much beard, too much hair, and too little sleep. Sewing kit probably couldn't hurt those tatters either, but with the transparent flicker it's hard to tell. ]

Would you listen to me for one bloody second? I had tunnels not even a third the size of those corridors, I had dynamite at every corner, you heard the basement collapse, and I still thought I could feel that thing snapping at my heels, I'm telling you, it's not going to work!

[ Another ghost moves, only a silhouette, a broken image. Words crackling like static, and whatever was said, or whoever said it, they didn't make it into this projection. The only clear sound is Philip's incredulous laughter, and the click of a another bottle being uncapped, and all but emptied already, gulp by gulp.

Half the argument plays on. Static. Words. Static. ]

I know that, y-- no, I know they can, they probably-- yes, but that doesn't matter, and you know it, and do you seriously need me to start going over every single time you thought--

[ There's a long pause. An utterly silent pause, without movement. A broken record, stuck on an instant. One second. Two seconds. Three s-- The ghosts flicker, and start moving again.

Philip's voice is calmer now, and he walks around, to the other side of the counter. Shaking his head he slumps down into a chair. ]

Look. I wasn't saying I'm not going, and I'm not saying we've got a bucket of better options to pick from. I'm only saying that it's going to get the lot of us killed, so if you want to p--

[ The ghosts flicker and disappear. For just one second there's nothing. In the next the scene stats playing again, on repeat. ]