Finish your shift.

July 22, 2154 / Later that Day

"Gale!"

Huh?

From your right side, you hear an all too familiar sound. One that's usually either dripping in sarcasm or fluffed in whimsy humor. Only now it was masked in fear, concern, and maybe a pinch of sadness? The kid was alright. He cared about you. Perhaps a bit too much. And he had an awful habit of jumping to conclusions at times. All the time actually.

"Gale! Dear God, are you o.k? What happened? Is he hurt? Of course, he's hurt! Shit, that's one angry scar. Is it infected? He won't die will he?"

"Are you his son?"

"What?"

Another voice. A German accent. Thick. Thick and hoarse. More so than yours. A smoker's voice. Dr. Kutz only recently quit his narcs when his G.C couldn't keep up his pack-a-day routine.

Dr. Kutz

"Are you his son? I need family to sign release."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course. Here. Is Gale going to be o.k?"

There's a long silence then soft whispers. That's not good. Dr. Kutz wouldn't say much about your injury but from the sound of it or lack thereof, you could lightheartedly say your future in the tunnels didn't look too bright.

"Gale hang in there. You're going to make it through."

You feel the kid's trembling hand touch the top of your ashen head, so you peer over at him and give him a reassuring nod.

"Kid, I'm not dying. It's another sprain. A scar at best- cough-"

Then suddenly, you fall into a coughing spell. Your body heaves against the constant spasm and in turn, your shoulder starts burning up again despite whatever **** Doc put you on. Soma by the feel of it. The kid starts tearing up, picturing the worst-case scenario no doubt.

As you settle down, you hear Kutz rustle through some papers. A couple of creaky file cabinets here and loud slamming of files there, he comes back mumbling in his German tongue. It was a tune you've grown used to for the past hour, almost like a lullaby.

"Ahem. For the most part, harmless injury. Head hit by rocks. Needed a bandage and cleaning. Had a concussion but not bad. Knees also cut. Minor injury, no need to treat. Body has many old scars. Good muscle. Make skin thick and tough. Very Strong. Very good. But shoulder... It dislocated, uh how you say, tendon snaps. Muscles around it, no good. He can use again, maybe, in few months. But nothing too... hmm..."

"Strenuous?"

"Yes! Good. No lifting, pulling shoulders. Nothing strenuous."

"So my job."

"Hm? Repeat, please."

You slowly pry yourself from the stiff board of a mattress. The Kid nearly knocks over his stool, trying to help you but you wave him off with your good arm. You stifle the moan that crawls up your throat. Although you can no longer feel the pain, you can feel your cramped joints fighting against your **** movements. And the sudden rush of blood that now flows towards your banged-up head doesn't feel great either. Again, you clear your throat and spit the phlegm into the wash bin next to you.

Fucking hate soma. Makes the throat dry too.

You swivel and crack your neck.

"My job. You're saying I can't work at the mines anymore."

You stare at him and his tired, muddy blue eyes stare back. Like you, he too is about the same age. Same graying hair and stache. Same pale complexion, you from spending your daylight in the deepest coal mines and him from being cooped in his small, 4x4 office treating patients day in and day out. Both former dads, and widowers incidentally. So as fellow fathers you knew, as weird as it sounded, that he could give it to you straight. No bullshit.

"We have good past Gael. You are hardworking man. But I can not let you work mines again. Next injury, you can lose arm."

"Then I'll lose my job. And if that happens I'll starve, and get kicked out of the complex I live in now. Then who knows, I'd probably lose my arm anyway paying off scraps at the Flesh Market."

"Gael, don't say stuff like that. I'd never let you wander the streets homeless. You could stay with me."

The Kid's not thinking. A cripple that can't use his arm is useless at a coal factory. And I wouldn't land a job elsewhere either if word gets out I quit cause of it. And as a coal packer Kip earns less than I do. Splitting that would starve both of us. I could stay with Doc for a few days but unlike me, he's still got kids. Raising them on his own must be a handful. I can't be a burden to either of 'em.

And before the Kid could argue further, you remember the lump in your back pocket. With your good arm, you fish it out and unfold it. The two of them lean over and stare intently at the crumpled piece of parchment. In unison, they mutter.

"Auction House?"