Seven checked the fuel tank of her motorbike a final time. She sniffed it, carefully, sensuously up and down the welded tank, there were no odors. The metal casing was still unblemished. The caution and care with which she ran her fingers over the riveted steel tank was perhaps in excess, but to cross the Plains of Fire, there must be no vapors, no leaks, no fraying of the insulators.
She looked at the other girl whom she had laid out under the scraggly black tree trunk that they had stopped beside. The other girl, Blue, had been sleeping for three days now.
Seven flung the wrench she had been holding at Blue, it missed and made a hollow sound as the burnt-out tree deflected it to the ashen ground.

"Feh," Seven muttered. On the one hand, she wished that Blue would wake up, so that she would stop needing to be dragged everywhere, yet on the other hand, Seven was glad to be spared that horrid bratty chatter.

Seven stood, wiping the dust of her hands onto the dark grey fatigues that she wore.
She tapped the back tire of her motorbike with the toe of her black leather boot.
Wasn't a bad bike, wasn't a good one either, but it'd get them across the Plains of Fire, or it'd die trying.
She smiled at the cleverness of her own thoughts.
Walking over to where Blue lie next to the fallen wrench, Seven picked up the tool from the hardened earth and sat down beside Blue with a whump.
She looked down at Blue, the knot on the girl's head was still an angry purple color.

Almost blue, seven mused.

The rope-burn was still ringed around her neck, and Seven reached down and pulled a clump of Blue's nice brown hair away from it, so that it would not tear at the scabbing.
Seven fingered Blue's hair for a moment, running her hands through it and sorting out the knots, then, she felt her own ratty hair and snorted.
She stuck her two index fingers in Blue's mouth and played with the comatose girl's lips, giving her various mock facial expressions.

Aww, she was so sad...
Smiling like a fool!
How wide will it stretch?
Catching ash-flakes on your tongue.

After having her fill of fun, seven wiped her fingers off on her fatigues again, mildly hoping that they had tasted terribly like motor oil.
She stared up at the angry grey sky, black smoke and ash churning together into great black clouds of ash that marched in solemn procession on a slow train to the north. When a breeze blew, it were as if Vulcan were blowing on the earth from his godly forge. The plains of Fire were close.

"Oh, rot," Seven said, wishing that Blue would wake up already so that they could cross the Plains of Fire.