"Gods... I don't get paid enough for this," John grumbled under his breath. They were in a thrice-blasted cave again, just him and the kid, and they had what felt like eighty tonnes of gear, most of it on his back; it was humid and he was sweaty and he'd lost his footing and almost gone sprawling twice, already. They'd been here maybe half an hour. He already wanted to die.
Every year... Every thrice-blasted, rot-taken, gods-forsaken year, and every damned time he swore it would be the last. And yet, here they were. Again.