No more mining.

JULY 27, 2154 / 11:32 A.M

It was Sunday, the Holy Day. You spent the entire day in bed, resting and thinking about the Auction House. The Kid visited you after his evening shift with a pint full of cold soup and stale biscuits. It was a humble meal but you gulped it down without a word.

"I tried sneaking something better from the dining hall but that was all they had left."

"It's fine. Thanks. You didn't have to."

Plopping down next to you on the bed he stretches out and clings to your uninjured arm.

"Yeah, but I wanted to. I know you don't keep food in the fridge and I figured you'd be starving. How's the arm?"

"Still hurts. But it'll be fine."

He knows you're lying but doesn't say anything. Instead, the two of you lie there without a word until the Kid carefully breaks the silence.

“So... I asked Jones and the boys at reception about the Auction House.”

"You told them?"

You jerk your arm away and he sits upright.

"I don't understand what the big deal is. I mean, wouldn't you rather know what this place is before you go?

Word traveled fast in the Grey District, "faster than herd of babushkas" as your Russian physician would put it. Even if only a handful of people knew about it, it would spread to the whole plantation in a matter of days.

And it wasn’t as if you were ignoring the flashing red signs. A large part of you knew this was a bad idea. But what else could you do? You were at the end of your already burning rope.