EXT, DAY. On the deck of the CHIEFTAIN all is uncharacteristically quiet and still. With the huge vessel still locked in ice, the majority of the crew is belowdecks. BLAINE finds NUNI in the WHEELHOUSE. NUNI’s leaned back on his creaky stool, stump of his leg propped up on the console, looking out at the sheet of ice that used to be an ocean.
BLAINE: I’m going to need at least another fifteen feet on that aft radar. Maybe twenty. We need divers down on the ice in rotation. The minute it’s thin enough to cut out, they’re going to have to free the rudder and the —
NUNI: Good morning.
BLAINE: … Really? We’re doing this? Right now?
NUNI is silent. Eventually he looks back at BLAINE.
BLAINE: Okay. Okay, you know what, fine. (He drags up another stool; its legs screech on the floor in protest.) Go ahead. You want to get right into crew interpersonal dynamics when we have five days of food left at most and can’t hail another vessel for love or money, we’ll do that. You want to talk, we can talk. Let’s go.
NUNI: (Eyebrow.) “Interpersonal dynamics?”
BLAINE: (Uncomfortable.) You know what I mean.
NUNI: We fucked.
There’s a long silence.
BLAINE: Okay. I’m sorry. You knew I was going to go back to her. You had to know. Come on, Nuni. You know how it is. Yeah, it’s fucked up and weird and the minute it gets to be common knowledge there’s probably going to be a mutiny and you deserve better.
NUNI: I can get you twenty-five feet on the aft radar.
BLAINE: … Thanks.
NUNI: You’re welcome.