Carl Sagan and Stephen King are stuck in Deep-Sea Exploration Pod Failure and forced to have a deep conversation.

"The probability of our simultaneous presence in this particular, abyssal catastrophe must be astronomically low, Stephen," Sagan began, his voice calm despite the circumstances.

King chuckled, a dry, rattling sound, "Low, Carl? Honey, this ain't probability, this is cosmic irony, the kind that births nightmares."

"Nightmares, perhaps, are merely patterns our brains impose on random events, a desperate attempt to find meaning where none exists," Sagan countered, ever the scientist.

"Meaning's overrated," King rasped, "It's the fear, the primal dread, that fuels the best stories, the truest terrors lurking in the human heart."

Sagan gazed out the viewport, the inky blackness pressing in. "But even in this void, billions of stars are burning, each a sun with potential for life, for beauty."

King shivered. "Beauty? Down here, beauty's just the anglerfish luring you in for supper, a pretty face on oblivion."

"Yet, even oblivion is part of the universe, a necessary stage in the grand cycle of creation and destruction," Sagan insisted, his voice filled with a quiet awe.

"Cycle shmycle," King scoffed, "Sounds like a fancy way of saying we're all just heading for the monster under the bed eventually."

Sagan sighed, a wisp of condensation forming on the glass. "Perhaps, but even as we face that monster, we have the capacity to understand it, to name it, to diminish its power."

"Diminish it, huh? Well, good luck with that, Carl. I'll be over here, scribbling notes for my next bestseller: *Deep-Sea Doomed*," King finished with a morbid grin.