The dust of red sand prickled my nose as I entered the cockpit of an old machine I was supposed to run. it had various colors of wired circuits, a transparent display for me to see outside, and a pair metallic arms positioned in a standard pose waiting for the ignition. The two pit holes and controllers turned on when I closed the hatchet with the sound of a clunky engine.

It lagged in response but I suppose you can't expect more from the Meridians, the masters of Mars for generations.

Just another day of slavery for me. And I have long since gone numb from my fear of darkness I don't see the difference between man and meat. Exactly what happens in these places.

I swung the CoreDrill hammer on the rocks of Georgia a seventh time. Damn slavers, the uniform is ruined again. And I have yet to get a new one until the next year.

"Next one!!!"

A gaggy voice in the speaker commands me. It's my Handler, Captain Lewis. A man with a tough ego. Easily enraged. Good little mad dog of commander Rowin.

I can only sigh at the unreasonable orders this man gives me. How can he not see how pointless this is?

We've been mining in this land for months, with no sign of even a speck of Gladorium on the core, he wants us to dig deeper. Even mining kids like me know when to stop. Yet he orders the Mobots to explore deeper into a half-dead planet. He's wasting the government's money and our time.

And I hate wasting time.

I can only curse silently at my people's fate before jerking the handle to the left, moving the metallic arms of my Mobot-X47 smashing thick rocks, and waiting for the gocarts to move them.

Digital screens flash before my eyes as I observe the map of this dark cave in a bird's view.

[ Name: X-47

Location: Mars - Sector 7B

Current Task: Mining Gladorium

Gladorium Ore Extracted: 2,500 kg

Target: 10,000 kg

Power Level: 85%

Temperature: 47°C

Navigation Map:Current Position: Marker on a simplified 2D grid

Nearby Hazards: Red alerts for obstacles or unstable terrain

3. Equipment Status:

Drill: Operational (with percentage of wear and tear)

Shielding: ActiveCommunication: Stable

4. Control Panel:

Drill Power: Adjust (slider for power control)

Extraction Rate: Adjust (slider for speed of ore extraction)

Emergency Stop: Button (for immediate halt)

Notifications: Alert: "Routine check in 30 minutes."

Warning: "Low oxygen levels detected." ]

Yeah, but low oxygen levels ain't gonna stop these guys from working us to the bone.

It's 7 am, and barely an hour has passed since I started working. But it's enough to make my body feel like it's on fire. It hurts like hell.

The fully closed hatchet doesn't have cool air. poor working conditions and the smell of sweat have become my daily life for the last three years.

Every boy in the slums must work at the age of ten. The government dogs make sure of it. And it's not like I can escape my fate anyway. It was hard the first few months. Claustrophobia made me sick for god knows how long, puked until my out spit out the red dirt in my bowels and the constant workload kept me away from having good dreams in my sleep.

Bam!!

'But it's not that bad.' I thought as I saw the crumbling sands and moving rusty mobots doing their job.

Slum people have a life expectancy of 30 years. Since I would die in another fifteen years or so, whether I like it or not, I should do what my ancestors did. Don't ask questions. Follow your superiors.

That's what was expected of me. And I had no problem doing it.

I'm not alone after all. Some people had it worse.

I hear there are ugly monsters in deeper mines of Sector 9 through 14d. Glad I'm not in one of those those places, I prefer having a peaceful death, like Uncle Rune, rather than monster food, like Gin-san.

And Nope, despite my circumstances, I don't want to die like my dad. Also, suicide is not my thing. That's a coward's escape.

The Rebels don't pay you much than government. And being a rebel was never my style. My dad paid and price and sure as hell, made sure I don't follow his path.

Some high-born kids call us zombies. And I suppose they're not half wrong. The low-born like us, often called monkeys in the views of nobles, can't take that as offensive statements from people of power.

This had been our life for generations. And our bodies long since adapted to the cold and dark world below the ground.

"Hey!?" a man's scream echoes through the dark cave as work comes to a halt. My speaker picks up his voice.

'Its the scouting team,' I thought. They always stay a kilometer ahead of us mining team. 'something must've happened for one of them to comeback to us'.

"I think I saw something." a rusty voice was heard in my communicator.

All mobots are connected through a communicator so the workers focus more on efficiency and coordination, monitored by our handlers who work us to the bone. And yes, all talk must go through the handlers unless, of course, you're not allowed to talk if it isn't worth their attention.

Handlers are like squad leaders assigned to look after a group of workers and report back to their leader once a day. And no report, if you didn't find anything.

My handler's voice replied, "What happened?"

Youu could hear how annoyed he was to talk to us. Lazy, if not demotivating. "If it's a false alarm, well, let's hope that's not the case for your own good."

And he's not kidding. Last time I checked, no one would care if a red or two died in a cave. And it happens more than pigs in butcher's house a day, I mean, all the time.

So, unless this guy found our first chunk of glador rocks, which, by a long shot, is good news for me, he won't be seeing his family anytime soon, if not forever.

"Sir, it's a door." the man said hurriedly. "We were digging and we found a door deep in our mining site."

"A door?" the handler sounded disbelieving, "are you serious?"

At that time, I had no way of knowing that my life, for that most of what I considered ordinary, would change forever.

The day I met my destiny.

***