Two
Fuck. It's just all steel around me, thick, riveted steel. I feel like the last passenger on some long-forgotten vessel from the nineteenth century. Caressing the matte black surface next to my face gives some relief: it's warm to the touch and my fingers find a faint pattern to trace. I might just like it here. A warm, dark, steel womb.
But then I remember why I'm here: the exhaust vent. No limbs means manually maintaining relative pressure, or, in my case: express elevator to hell. No wonder it’s dark, warm and cramped here. I make an effort to regain my composure. Where’s that vent again? And do I actually need to reset it? Perhaps I already did, and if I didn’t – will it actually matter?
I have requested – more than once – that they apply a bit of elasticity to time events related to overall pressure. I could, in theory, just ignore this situation and get on with my life. Reset the vent or not, toil around in this miserable pit or relax on the sundeck with a daiquiri in hand. Either way, the danger of unconstrained time spill would be negligible.
As I turn to leave, I see mortar coming out from between the bricks, dusting the floor with a thin layer of white. Then the world implodes.