Unlike the majority of the vehicle’s occupants Samdihier Zeintler was thoroughly enjoying himself. A half-full bottle of spirits clutched in one hand he pressed up against the back of the driver’s seat through the open rearview window, his chin alarmingly close to the hard metal edge, letting out raucous hoots each and every time Zak put the truck’s suspension to the test. Spilling a little of his drink, Sam (as his friends called him) tapped Zak on the shoulder, pointing out a particularly nasty specimen that stretched across the middle portions of the highway. A gouge that spanned nearly a third of the path’s available space and sunk at least a foot into the earth.
“Ooh, nice air Lance-me-Zak, Sabrina’s right you ought’a be a stunt driver. We must’ve cleared a meter or so at least, and still moving! Now put the metal to the pedal, er I mean, the petal to the medal and hit that’n o’er there!” He challenged, indicating the oncoming maw that threatened to destroy whatever intact springs remained. He gave the rest of the squad a massive wink and snapped his fingers, wrapping the mist around his digits before letting it fall away, floating like invisible paper on the breeze until they wrapped securely around the axles and shocks. A slight deviation from his typical magic, but effective, nonetheless. Instead of absorbing bullets it’d absorb the impact, or at least that was the theory. On the off-chance Zak actually took up his challenge and floored it straight into the oncoming pothole the barriers would absorb the worst of the impact and disperse it harmlessly, sparring the truck if not the passengers from a serious jarring. As much as Sam would’ve enjoyed hiking the remaining miles to their destination, the others would not be so willing to shrug it off. Pulling back from his precarious position Sam stood up straight, so that he could watch over the top of the truck’s rusted cover, banging his bottle on the roof.
“Ten, nine, eight, whoops!” His jubilant countdown ended abruptly when the bottle shattered sending shards of glass flying everywhere and leaving his hand a drenched and bloody mess. He wiped the lacerations on his grey smock, which was now dripping from strong alcohol, smearing the light fabric with blood. He winced, even in his less than sober state the light injury throbbed. “Shit, piss, hey, uh, hey Sorin.” He sank against the back of the cab, glancing back at his dark-skinned comrade, sitting stoically in the truck’s bed. “Could I ask a massive favor from you? Cause I seem to have gotten glass and whisky, and here’s the crazy part right, its inside my hand. I ain’t no Galahad but I’m pretty sure that’s not where those two substances are supposed to be, and would’ja know it, the damn thing hurts worse’n Ray’s handshakes, kinda stings too. Reminds me of that peppery stuff Asa likes, but y’know it hurts here instead of here… Anyway, would you do me a solid and patch it up? I’d really appreciate it.”