The pot scraped against the concrete every time Elias shifted it closer to the fire.
Construct Stability had made the iron pot permanent enough to become a burden. It sat on the basement floor with heat stains and stubborn weight, drawing a thin stream from his core while the broth inside it thickened over a fire made from chair legs, paper, and whatever dry trash the refugees had saved.
Two Federation protein bars had become gray paste in rainwater. Elias had asked for anything with starch and received a heel of hard bread, a handful of cracked grain, and one bruised root shaved so thin the pieces looked like paper. The ingredients made a thin broth, barely enough to quiet six empty stomachs.
The refugees ate like the paste was roast meat.
