infinity squared (intro, open)
She's not sure what she signed up for, exactly, but it certainly isn't this (whatever this is). The smog curls around her, coloring the landscape with browns and greys, and she wonders -- briefly -- if her clothes will become dirty with the fine debris spiraling through the air. (Or if, perhaps, the dust will slide down her throat and choke her lungs.)
(Failing the experiment on the first day; typical of her, isn't it?)
The woman clutches at the strap keeping her Record by her side like a handbag, twisting it with nervous fingers as if she's attempting to wring out all of her worries; people had told her about the sector, of course, about the dangers and toxicity -- but she hadn't truly believed them until now. The screech of metal and groan of machinery ring in her ears as she stumbles anxiously through the slick streets, sidestepping the particularly foul-looking puddles that pop up everywhere she looks.
They've issued warnings about the water -- avoid it, try not to touch it, definitely don't drink it -- which obviously means she'll be her clumsy self as she steps on a loose, water-damaged part of the concrete and nearly learns what polluted-water-mixed-with-rock tastes like.
"Aaaah!" Miranda's hands fly out to catch herself before she has a particularly intimate moment with the pavement, and she scrambles hastily to her feet -- before she loses balance once more, careening sideways. The woman screws her eyes shut to prepare herself for an unfriendly meeting with a wall; so when she instead feels something soft as opposed to something painful, it doesn't quite register until she opens her eyes --
-- and sees that she's hit a person. She retreats hastily. "I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, a-are you all right, did I bother you -- no, of c-course I did, silly me, hahaha!" Her voices rises in panic, her laughter sounding more like a wheeze of nervous distress than any semblance of amusement, and Miranda can't even bring herself to look the other person in the eye.
