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Pickaxe !!RWk1lAqTg+/ID: Na6gfhLQ/qst/6226083#6226085
4/9/2025, 11:45:37 PM
Every few weeks, or about every month, they shuffle the crews around. "Keep production fresh," the shaft-leader claims, but I know better. It's so we don't get friendly, don't start whispering about things like Cheekbones did before his famous uprising. Smart move on their part. Means I'm always working with strangers until meal-time.

But I saw Cheekbones once, before they took him. Had a house up-level with actual windows. Had eight girls with clean faces and all their teeth. Had meat that wasn't corpse-starch. Had goggles.

That's where I'm headed. Up there with the real folk or down in a rock collapse - either way's a win. Until then, I'll keep swinging this pick, feeling my bones grind, breathing through these scarred nostrils, and pocketing every drop of promethium I can get away with.

My dose is wearing off now. Pain's coming back like knives in the joints. I make a stiff sniff for some more fire in my nose. The pain numbs.

Alone, I hack my pickaxe at a new vein, carefully carving out a glittering shard of... something. I've been finding these black rocks for days now, haven't been telling anyone, haven't been putting it into minecart. A few even look like hands. Even got one that almost looks like a real person's skull, no joke. It looks amazing. And creepy. I'm thinking they're bones of our forefathers, swallowed by the earth to turn into stone, or something. Been pulling some of these out of other people's piles of dirt too, they don't seem to notice. Just another rock for them. These are for me. For Forza. For getting out of here. I should have a good nine days before we get shuffled again, so I'm collecting as many of these pretty things as I can. Should be worth a lot. Must be worth a lot.

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