Took a while to get used to the carrion smell, but work was scarce and honest work scarcer. The clan was growing – good for protection, hard on food resources. At thirty credits per, light thievery and freelance bot repair wasn’t enough, so Mica went to The Factory.
Some workers chatted, but Mica was naturally reticent, more so since Canan’s casual words had sent their parents to The Camp.
A scream rent the air. “I know what this is! Who it is…”
A tattooed arm hit the ground.
Mica kept stuffing ground meat into membrane-thin sleeves, glad the clan were vegetarians.