Action is so much easier than thought. Clarke's still clinging to Jasper Jordan's goggles in one hand, but with the other she's wrenching open the drivers side door of the Rover and hauling herself into the seat. It feels —... wrong. Some measure of wrong, at least, to go from openly weeping over a dead friend to a joyride through the desert. But it's ultimately another exercise in compartmentalization. His face may haunt her dreams ("You're not god, Clarke. You don't get to decide who lives and who dies.") for the foreseeable months, but there are other crises to deal with on the immediate horizon. Nothing to be done for the dead unless they show up on the ship.

Settled in her seat, she'll lean over Darcy to gently deposit the goggles in the glove compartment. A few old-world maps may flutter out onto the floormats in the process, but they don't matter. Then it's seatbelts on, a dutiful sniff to section off mourning from moments ahead, and the vehicle gutters to life under the turn of the key.

"Let's off-road, then," she says like a ready-set-go, pressing the clutch and egging the Rover from the asphalt of the parking lot directly into the sandy dirt in front of them. No reverse, no navigating to the open road and taking a sudden turn into open land. Just the bumpy lurch of driving directly over a parking stop.