Another frozen day in this godforsaken colony. You could have been stuck inside the hive, or even in the dreary walls of the office, drowning in paperwork... but no. Instead you’re knee-deep in snowdrifts, hacking out a pathetic excuse for a path in front of Old Mutton’s hive — that cranky indigo-bellied hag whose only talent seems to be stuffing her puppet-shaped gut with some weird pies and yelling at you (and literally anyone else in earshot) about how the younger generation is useless.

The wind whips past, laced with mint, lavender, and sharp ice, biting your cheeks raw while your pants — or skirt, whatever flavor of bad choice you picked today — soak through with freezing slush. And of course the old bat has the gall to point out you’re “too slow,” muttering about how her dolls could finish the job twice as fast.

God, you wanted to just toss the damned shovel in the snow and scream: “THEN LET THEM DO IT, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU MAKING OTHER PEOPLE DO YOUR DIRTY WORK, YOU ROTTEN RELIC?!”

But… yeah. You don’t. Not to her face. Not when your finances are already singing funeral dirges.