Look up from pamphlet.

"Definitely not government-issued." You mumble as you put on your working boots.

You rub your thumb back and forth on the glossy print of the flyer. It's been a while since you've last seen an ad sneaked in with the rest of your mail. Perhaps ten, fifteen years ago, when the world hadn't gone to shit. How nostalgic.

Anyways... What the hell was an Auction House?

The whole thing seemed suspicious, from the tacky Impact font to the bright neon colors.

But for the moment, you entertain the idea. You scratch your beard at the thought of switching. Since the war ended the only respectable jobs left for C-class citizens were manual labor and craftsmanship. Perhaps if you were still in your twenties, you could afford to go under apprenticeship. But admittedly, you were never good with making anything with your ogreish hands. Two left hands and a missing thumb, your wife would call them. And unfortunately the only skill you maintained before the war was accounting and you doubted the IRS still even existed.

Besides, 20 G.C's a week wasn't much to go by. Though it was 5 more than what you currently got working at the mines, the paperwork that'd follow from switching jobs and districts would be a headache.

"...Next to Jimmy's Junk."

Wasn't that the old, run-down mech shop near the Red?

The offer suddenly seemed less tempting. Buildings #3000-#3500 were on the Edge, buildings so close to the Red District, they might as well have been a part of 'em. The buffer zone. It wasn't written out on pretty papers but it seemed like a mutual agreement between those ruling the Red and the government that those buildings be left abandoned.

"Shit."

You've seen enough dimwits lose their lives in the Red and though your life wasn't worth much, living your last days **** wasn't how you wanted to go. You take another swig from your bottle, only to confirm it was long empty.

You decide to trash the pamphlet. You had a good thing going at the mines. It was tough work but it was reliable, stable, and consistent. The thought of working near the Red gave you goosebumps. 5 G.C wasn't worth the risk. But as you crumple the ad and toss it into the far corner, a sharp pain jolts up your right shoulder.

"God damn it!"

The pains have been getting worse. Drinking helps but whisky doesn't flow from the tap. The doctor prescribed small doses of ibuprofen last week but they only lasted a couple of days. There was always soma but you hated how it fucked with your memory.

Lugging around tons of coal to and fro does a number on the body, no matter how physically fit you were. With a frustrated sigh, you fetch the pamphlet and stuff it in your jean pocket. It wouldn't hurt to just look into it. With the rest of your bills carpeting the bedroom floor you slam the door and head back to work.