’I’m not going to no summit’, says Wasp, as his guiding mountainy man pulls on his crampons.
‘You go on’

Wasp’s mountainy man, known as Tinka, looks at him oddly vacant, sucking air from a plastic mask and iron tank, pausing to say,

‘You standing on a king of our world’s mountains and you aint going to try a summit run?’

Wasp nods, ’Wasn’t a goal of my trip Tinka’.

Tinka looks at him.

‘You know why I’m known as Wasp Tinka? You didn’t know my dad did you?’

Tinka nods and stands up and looks afar, pointing to a pathway to follow. Wasp climbs on to cracking snow and starts to go up into clouds of mist and frost.
Tinka follows.

An alarm signals on air tanks as Wasp stops and points, moving out of sight. Tinka stops too and holds Wasps nylon chord, huddling into a mountain crack for grip.
Waiting. Waiting in cold mist. His mind agitating.

But as his mind jumps from worry to worry, Wasp shouts from rolling mist. Tinka follows his command and pulls blindly at nylon chord. A body drags up snow as Tinka hauls in nylon loop upon nylon loop. Wind swats away mist and Tinka has a vision of Wasp lifting a rigid, cold, old, long ago dying body to his back. Its arms stand out amongst such a backdrop, bands of black and gold surround all limbs, an old mountain climbing outfit looking as a flying wasp would look, black and gold rings craving adoration as it warns of ominous stings.

Wasp flops to comforting snow
‘Tinka, say Hi to my Dad’, Wasp says grinning, his Dad’s body still on his back, finally. "you can call him Wasp Snr’.