Tarn startles at the sudden cut of the warm cleanser. He looks up quizzically; had the tank run out already? Had he really just wasted all of that solvent?

"Did...did the tank run out?" he asks, dragging himself from his lethargy. He looks around the room, noting the tread width dent in the wall, the transfluid and mud now covering both of their frames and smeared onto the floor and walls by proxy, the dents on his thighs, the empty tank of cleanser.

Yes, Tarn is sure that Spinister will be having words with him.

He's not sure why he turned the shower on first. Clearly he didn't foresee this being an issue.