Plutonian

The wagon's tires squeal softly, a haunting sound in the deadly quiet of the tunnel. My body, hunched and curled, seeks refuge from the blistering cold, arms wrapped tightly around my legs.

A sudden swerve, a rocky bump, and the metal wall slams into my back. A jolt of white-hot pain shoots down my spine, forcing a gasp. My eyes squeeze shut, but the darkness behind them offers no escape from the affliction.

I hate working in the south. These endless tunnels, growing colder as we near the mines, are a constant reminder of our bleak existence. Raw materials, they call them. Our job, they say. My hands are numb, frostbitten, yet no protection is offered. Weakness here is a death sentence, especially for us.

My gaze wanders along the dull grey walls, seeking a distraction, anything to pull my mind from the tumultuous hours ahead. Nothing. Just uneven stone, menacing spikes, seen a hundred times before, a hundred times to come. A shiver, born of fear, not cold, traces its way up my spine.

Mira, a few years older, glows faintly in the blue light, an apparition of calm. She chose this path, this slavery. I wonder if she regrets it now. Her eyes are closed, thin lips trembling, yet she exudes an unsettling tranquility. Unaffected, it seems. Unlike the boy.

The young boy. He shouldn't be here, shouldn't be working overtime. His face, blue with cold, threatens to give way. I pray for him, then realize the futility. There is no point. There is only the cold, the wagon's sway, and the endless tunnel leading to a city I pray we reach soon.