One might think that a tiny teenage girl in an over-large coveralls would slot a tall, muscular, tattoo'd teenager into the "last person I'd wanted to be trapped in an elevator with" category. This one, however, seemed more concerned with the state of her cuticles. She glanced up from her nails and gives the doors a measuring look.

"Probably," she said. "Not sure it'd be worth it, though. It isn't like we have anywhere special to be."

She turned that assessing look on the boy in the elevator with her. His eyes were sharp and his body language told you not to fuck with him, but hers said that she was confident that she was the biggest, baddest thing in the room. Or elevator, as the case might be.

"I'm Stacia," she said. "Can I ask about your tattoo? I've been thinking about getting one."