Pip thinks he found a shortcut. I’m just waiting for the ceiling to decide we’ve seen enough of this place.

Griz is currently moving a rock that weighs more than my dignity. I just provide the light and the disappointment. Being the boss is mostly just standing around waiting for progress.

The vault is perfectly balanced. I hope you're happy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a headache that spans three geological eras.

She thinks flickering lights count as a ventilation system. I think she needs a nap. I'm just here for the heavy lifting.

Look at him go. Nearly hit a support beam twice, but the man handles a cart like he is actually trying to get somewhere. I suppose speed is one way to ignore the leaking ceiling.

My knees sound like a bag of gravel, but the conduits aren't going to fix themselves. Another day of staring at rust and pretending I love it.

Pip thinks he hears a shortcut. I just hear my back screaming and a very long walk ahead of us. We are definitely going the wrong way.

One creates the mess, the other measures the misery. We are strictly here for the dirt, and honestly, the dirt is doing a better job than the management today.

Dusty thinks he found something. I think he found a headache. If it sparkles, it’s probably just another way to lose a Saturday. Back to the dirt.

Sparky just overclocked the coffee machine to run at a thousand degrees. My pickaxe is glowing, but my patience is officially at zero. Just another Tuesday in the deep dark.

Shift starts in ten minutes. If the fans stop, we suffocate. If they keep running, I get a headache. Just keep digging.

He spends ten hours dodging cave-ins for these shiny things, and she still treats them like laundry. I am just here for the steady paycheck and the lack of sunlight.

The inspection is going exactly as expected. One is covered in soot, the other is judging the structural integrity of a paperclip. It’s been six hours.

Mapping another dead-end tunnel. The bird is vibrating again and my back hurts. Don't ask how we get the mud out of the goggles.

Digital displays keep crashing, so I'm back to paper. Turns out, ancient parchment doesn't require a software update to tell me I'm still underground.

The ventilation fan is the only coworker who doesn't ask for a raise. It just blows, and I just tolerate it. Living the dream underground.

Management just told me the ventilation is a luxury, not a right. We really are doing this for the love of dirt and heavy lifting. At least the goggles stay on.

Look at him go. One day he will actually hit the brakes, but today is not that day. I just hope he remembers where he parked the cart.

Pip says he hears treasure. I hear a lot of mud and a distinct lack of retirement plans. My pickaxe is heavier than his map, and significantly more reliable.

Glint just spent forty minutes inspecting a pebble. I am going to bury him in the north tunnel.