Twin pink fluffy dice swing tiredly from a cracked mirror.
"Brake! Brake, for God's sake!"
The dice appear to have had a caffeine supplement.
"What does it look like I'm trying to do? Anyway-"
Celeste sighs. "Are you about to say that this was the crater's fault?"
Kyra tries to hide a smile. "Maybe a little."
"Just like-"
"Every other time. I know!" The smile bursts right through the cracks in Kyra's hasty facade.
Behind this exchange, through heavy radio static, someone's playing acoustic guitar - fingerstyle - and singing breathily into a faraway mic. Kyra's favourite music.
The truck pulls to a stop in the base of the crater.
Kyra is out of the truck now, fumbling in the back for a bottle of water. Celeste follows her, wary of the terrain.
It's not the depth. The crater walls fall deeper than expected; they create a sharper angle to the ground, but it's easy enough for the truck to climb. It's not the depth. The temperature difference between here and the surface is more than logic would dictate. It's not the depth.
Chemicals, sunken to the bottom of the pot because they're too dense to breathe, swirl into a suffocating cocktail.
Kyra doesn't seem to hesitate as much as Celeste: she rummages through stacks of tinned food and rationed supplies as if she isn't seconds from being poisoned. Wordlessly, she retrieves a bottle and holds it out to Celeste.
Celeste, refusing to breathe any gases unfiltered by her shirt, accepts the water. Rationing be damned, she's thirsty. She half-sprints back to her door and swings back into the passenger seat. As if the air inside the truck is that much safer.
Count the seconds to safety. One-two-three-four-five-whereisshe. Celeste whips around in the seat, breaths uncontrollable and thin. Kyra isn't out back of the truck anymore. Ice fills Celeste's veins.
The driver's door slams open and shut behind her, and she freezes in place.
