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Exhaustion deep in his bones. A pounding in his head. Jon raises the pickaxe, ignoring the screaming of his arms, and brings it down against the ice. But his swing is too weak and barely makes a dent.
He sighs and wipes his brow, leaning heavily against the wall. He turns his head and spots Kolos a few metres away, still going strong with his own pickaxe as he mines out dilithium. Jon sighs to himself. He’s not built for this—not the way the Klingon prisoners are. This constant, gruelling work.
His mouth is dry. He smacks his lips, trying to produce more saliva to last him until the next mealtime, which never seems to be consistent in timing, nor is it ever very long.
He sees movement out of the corner of his eye but barely manages to turn around before the pain hits. He cries out, arching back, as the shock courses through him.
“Who said you could rest?” bellows the guard.
Jon grits his teeth and leans heavily against the wall, pickaxe hanging from his grasp. He glares at the guard, who only looks at him down his nose in turn.
“Well? Get a move on!”
Jon hoists his pickaxe over his shoulder. He can feel the eyes of both the guard and Kolos drilling into his back as he hobbles away.