As my pickaxe strikes the rockface, I can still feel my worn-out elbow bones grinding against each other - like sandpaper against sandpaper, even after upping my dose of Forza. The drug pumped through the filthy tubes jammed up what was left of my nose, thick as engine grease and burning twice as bad. The pain dulled, but never enough. Never enough to forget where I was. Upping my dose might do it, or changing its old tubes, if I could afford it. Just needed to break a bit more rock. Fill a few more carts.

It's darker than a heretic's soul down here, but that's how we like it. Less light means more promethium to pocket. Old tradition since Cheekbones' time. The Deacon hardly ever comes down this deep, and the Servitor assigned to our level is more machine than man now - lost his mind years back along with control of his nethers, like most. Even through my scarred-up nostrils and the tubes, I can still smell the shit and piss caked into his body hair from twenty paces.

"Hey, new blood," I whisper to the fresh meat they've dropped in our section. Poor bastard's shaking so bad he can barely hold his pick. "See how we're working with just half-lamps? That ain't official. We skim the fuel and split it end of shift. Keep your mouth shut about it and you'll get your cut, 'kay?"

A miner tradition since Cheekbones' times.

The new one nods, eyes wide. Most don't last more than a year or two down here. I've survived twenty-one.