It snowed last night. The moons were covered with a dusty haze, which always meant the same thing: it would snow again this night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

The surface of Kepla was always covered in snow. Draped in white, it wore it like fine furs; it hid away the evergreen forests and swallowed up ruins beneath its pristine, wintery sleeve, and anyone who dared traverse it would soon become another prize in its endless bounty, dead before the hour would pass. From below, it was an endless waste. From above, it was a canvas.

Kell had seen the world from above before, but never so barren as this. From within the cold cockpit of their plane, they could see Kepla span miles and miles into a wintery wasteland. Mountains crumpled the territory borders beyond them, and beyond the ranges were snowfields, long and endless and unbearably cold. But in between all of them, like cracks in mud, were the ravines, the Keplan cities. The afternoon was stretching into the evening and light spilled from the cracks in the earth. The snow would melt as it reached its freezing hands into the ravines, burned away by the heat of the magma within.

They could see the largest of the ravines, Zomir, in the distance, only discernible by the handful of skyscrapers that clambered out of their deep, dark home. Life existed only within the ravines of Kepla. The surface was inhospitable, save for the few that stubbornly kept their age-old homes and endured the endless battle of winter. Kell was one of those people, a surface-dweller that ignored the biting cold, but others were not so steadfast. They eagerly dove into the ravines when the sun died, creating cities that stacked upon themselves and tore into the ground, feeding off the magma that pockmarked the crust.

Kell soared over a mountain range, dipping the nose of their plane deep into the valley. The wingtips ghosted along the snowcaps and drew clouds of snow from the ground. No one lived here in the mountains. They could see ruins as they flew, beautiful in their antiquity, but never any signs of life. Every part of them itched to explore those ruins just as they loved to do closer to home. The solitude of the surface was something Kell found to be a blessing; they belonged here, where the snow muted sound and the moons glimmered white.

Beyond the mountains and not too far from Zomir, past all the old homes and ruins, Kell spotted a thin line of black among the blanket of snow. The tarmac stretched onward, reached towards a few hangars scattered around the end, and it was dusted in a new layer of snow that had been hastily swept at. A figure waved eagerly from the edge, and as Kell spotted them, they smiled. It was Cyri, and by the looks of it, he was excited to see them returning. He lifted a flare gun into the sky with their left hand. It fluttered into the air before exploding in a blast of light, illuminating the dark sky. That was the signal to turn on their radio to a closed frequency. They fiddled with the dial until the murmuring radio sputtered with static, earning a jump and a wince from them.

"You're good! Not too far away now," the voice on the radio declared after a moment's wait, as Cyri had gone to the little house they could barely call an observation deck. The sudden speaking startled Kell, too loud for their liking. They slammed their hand toward the side dashboard until the volume quieted. "Gun it kid!"

The radio paused. "Carefully, I mean! Gun it carefully!"

Kell sighed, a chuckle following right behind. As always, he was cautious to implore Kell to be safe. They knew he was anxious about their recklessness -- which, mind you, was far too overexaggerated when it came from Cyri's mouth. They were always safe as they flew. In fact, they'd been at this for years, as soon as they got a license to fly. Besides, a few bumps here and there made for good learning opportunities.

They leaned back as they flew, one hand still carefully wrapped around the steering wheel while the other blindly felt for the pile of boxes and bags stuffed behind their chair. ATTN: MARVI PATELLO, it had written on the sides, COURTESY OF CYRI MALLINEK. They rubbed their thumb over the scrawled letter, and the ink smeared off and stained their gloves. It went right on their clothes as they rubbed it off on their pant leg and turned back to the wheel. An ache dug into their chest; how long had it been since they last flew? Since they last did a cargo run? Cyri was adamant that they be more careful, and that meant a grounding deserving of a child, not them. They used to fly all the time as Cyri grew older, before...

Their gaze searched the sky for the empty void where the sun once sat, now nothing more than a blackened, barren circle. They squinted as they studied the pale white halo tracing the corona. Distant was the black dwarf sun, but its presence was still a comfort, still a reminder.

It was routine by this point, and a semi-sweet memory of before they were barred from flying. They had traveled to the Pasri ravine to the south and came back loaded up with a shipment of whatever it was that Cyri's client ordered. This time, they thought -- hoped -- it was little more than his normal requests: fine fabrics from Pasri, pearls from the fossils underneath the great glacier seas. Something simple and easy to transport, and even easier to get through customs once they traveled off-planet for the final leg of the trip. But Marvi Patello was never one for being simple; they could distinctly remember the few deliveries they had made for them years ago and just how much of a headache they were. Nonetheless, it wasn't their business. All that mattered to them was enjoying the airtime and the paycheck that came afterward.

They settled in their chair and readjusted their mask, letting the cold, filtered air cool the coiling nerve in their stomach as they skirted beneath the clouds. They were over Zomir now, not far from the hangar. The length of the ravine sprawled beneath them. Groaning a complaint as it weaved through the air, the plane dodged rolls of sharp turbulence that threatened to tear the sheet metal off the side of the body and shred the wings to pieces. Kell leaned forward, tugging at a lever until the blue-painted aileron on the wings tilted up, pulling cold air through and nudging the plane down. The nose bowed downward ever so slightly, but Kell's stomach plunged far lower. It was an old plane, they knew -- it had seen a few rough flights and survived a war -- so it had proven itself trustworthy. They believed in that... somewhat. It was merely the landings that made them antsy.

But if they could make this -- if they could land the plane as smooth as silk -- they'd earn Cyri's trust. Maybe they'd even be allowed to fly more. They'd waltz off of the wing and wear their pride on their sleeve. The future would be bright.

Another odd bump broke Kell out of their focus. They glanced up, the sun directly in front of them. Blinking in the starlight, they sharpened their mind, focusing once more.

Closer and closer the inky black tarmac grew within their field of vision, contrasting the pristine snow. They could see Cyri at the end more clearly now by the edge of the hangar, waving them on with sparkling flares, piercing the darkness of the sky with blazing red lights. Reaching down, they grabbed the lever by their feet and tugged at it. From beneath their soles, they could feel the hatch below open and the landing gear slowly roll out from their homes.

The murmuring on the radio prattled on as the landing gear moved. Kell had tuned it out after finishing their chatter with Cyri, but it was woefully annoying now. They had no reason to listen to it anyways; there was no other hangar for miles, and besides -- Cyri was right in front of them.

But that did not stop the shudder that crawled up their spine when they heard a voice on the radio, screeching out from beneath the static.

"... listen ... you need ... listen ... the gear ... Kell ... hurry!"

The thrum of the radio static wrenched a dull ache from their head. Headaches were nothing foreign to Kell -- a few rough landings and concussions had made them worse -- but now? When they were in the middle of something so serious, something that could change their future? They groaned, beating their wrist against the side of their head until the sound of their name on the radio froze them still.

They could not recognize that voice on the radio, but for a moment, they listened and desperately tried to pin it to a face. It was familiar. It was urgent, calling out to them like their life depended on it. They forced themself to focus once more. Not now, not now, not now.

Kell reached out, gloved hand fumbling for the dial, only for it to slip past their fingers when another thud of turbulence rocked the plane. The plane was forced up, quicker than they could hold steady, and the landing gear lurched to a stop. Kell felt it click beneath their feet, jammed only halfway down. Not now! Not now!

"Now! Now!" The voice on the radio shouted. They scowled at it.

The lower windows of the cockpit gave them just enough of a glimpse at the landing gear and more than enough of a look at the distance between them and the ground. It was inching ever closer; the belly of the plane could brush against the tips of the evergreens if they dared to dip any lower. Panicked, Kell wrapped their hand around the lever and pulled once, then twice -- they pulled the nose of the plane up, then tried again. The wind screeched through the plane in a terrible cacophony; it whipped against the wings and tilted them back and forth.

Down below, the flares looked more like eyes than they did beams of light, and the tarmac was an open maw stretched out to swallow them whole. Those blinding eyes watched Kell struggle with an ambivalent sort of humor, an audience Kell did not want, and it was growing closer, wider, smiling at them until they couldn't look at it anymore.

They were going to crash -- they were going to die! They only just started!

They pressed their eyes shut with the force of their migraine blaring right behind them and rammed their torso down as their hands tugged uselessly at the lever. They envisioned the landing gear jammed in place by rust and grime; they didn't have a chance to clean it before they left, they remembered, so they frantically imagined their hands cleaning it away, rubbing layers of age off of it until the metal shined in pristine condition. They begged it to work --

Open! Please! I need you to open all the way!

Until -- clack! -- the lever clicked into position with a resounding jolt. Kell was tossed back into their seat and made a desperate leap for the wheel; they reared up, dragging the tail of the plane down. But they were still coming in too hot; the wheels bounced against the tarmac, sending boxes flying into the air behind them. The hangar before them grew closer, closer, waiting open-mouthed for them to crash inside.