With blood-red letters painted all crooked without any real sense of artistic finesse, "The Kitchen Sink" welcomes me home. The PAHLM scanner beeps merrily to greet me. The two massive steel doors smoothly slide away as if they were expecting me.

Hands on hips, I stand at the entrance of the canteen and bask in the busted, blinking fluorescence.

Someone belches from a table in the corner.

"It's good to be home," I say to the sparse crowd at small metal tables crowded by mismatched stools. No one responds.

The air reeks with body odor. The floors hold rust like teeth hold plaque. The patrons toss stink-eye around like it's pseudo-sugar candy on Christmas.

After spending two weeks in the brig, the Kitchen Sink is paradise. All that time in close quarters with three other twitchy offenders and no private shower is enough to ensure my best behavior for months. My bar, my beautiful bar, is waiting for me. I pull myself up, swivel around, and slide right into place. The perfect fit.

Janika Lorn—compliant citizen of the United Regions of Earth, illustrious and responsible decision-making Captain of Earth's Militia, bartender beyond the scope of normal skill—reporting for duty.

Fingers flex, ready for someone—anyone—to order the first drink of my triumphant return.

When the doors slide open to announce the arrival of my first visitor of the night, the world returns to grim stupidity. That didn't last long.

With a clink, drag, clink, drag, clink, drag, my least favorite person in the URE sidles up to the bar. Warren, gray and gnarled like twisted pipe, slams his fist on the bar and snarls. It's a sound he makes so frequently, I attribute it to part of his working vocabulary.

This figures. I haven't even been out four hours this time before I have to see this jaundiced kumquat again. I'm serving the first drink of my new freedom to Warren Freaking Freyer.

I pour him a beer.

When the cool amber liquid runs down my fingers, I shove it into his fat hand.

The number of beers I've poured for him is probably far greater than the number of words we've actually spoken to each other. We've sat in this tense, half-drunk silence with averted gazes every single day as if it were as normal as needle-nose pliers in a back pocket.

It was nice to have a break. Too bad I had to be thrown in prison to get it.

Part of me wonders which of these two is the worse punishment. While I'm weighing the sides, he clears his throat.

"Nika . . ." he begins.

Good Lady Almighty, I hate it when he calls me that—when he acts like we're close. Just this word alone, coming from his bulbous lips, makes me want to strangle him with my dirty dry-rag.

"I haven't even been out for more than five hours. Can't this wait?"

"That's my son's contract yer lollygaggin' with." He points a crooked finger at me.

"I don't want to hear it." I select a glass to dry. My patience with this specific topic had already reached its boiling point. It's one of the many reasons why my loathing for Warren goes beyond human. It's a superpower.

Like a surprise beam of light in the darkness, the kitchen's saloon doors swing open. I breathe a sigh of relief when Simon emerges and wipes his hands on a grease-splattered apron.

"You're back." He reaches over the bar to grab my wrist and pull me toward him.

Leaning down, I let my dad take my head in his hands to plant a kiss on top.

"Christ, Nika. I don't want to receive anymore missives about you landing in jail after disobeying direct orders. It's like reliving your GenEd years all over again."

I wave him off.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. When I was twenty-six, I wasn't the cleanest kid in the congregation. By your age, I was already broke, crashing landing from couch to couch, and desperately finding any means to get in a kitchen."

"Memory Lane already? This must be a record." When I watch his thin lips quirk and pale blue eyes glaze over, I realize I've already lost him to the memories. "Hey Dad, remember when I was sixteen, and basically living at the gym to prep for my militia qualifiers, you loved to remind me how you'd be sneaking off, stealing your dad's 'Stang, and impressing all your lurid love interests?"

He chuckles as the image drags him deeper into nostalgia.

"Or how about when I was twenty-one and filling out the Human Hope Project forms, you were there, detailing your boyfriend's . . . " The words thicken and clog my throat as the images of that night surface.

My legs and hips are sore from sitting in the same position for hours without moving. My fingers are buried in my long hair cascading in a dark brown curtain around the despair I'm pathetically trying to hide. The forms are open on the tablet. The flashing red warning reminds me they're due in two hours. The pungent stink of Simon's coffee wafts around the room from his seat behind me. It's close to dawn. The agony of pressing "send" quickens my heartbeat. Sweat gathers at the back of my neck. Simon sips from his mug. My hand hovers. I just can't do it. But I have to. It's the law.

"At twenty-six, we couldn't be in more alternate universes, could we, Kiddo?" Simon must have come back from his journey into the past to witness my unconscious trudge through mine.

The world is in my hands, he used to say. In reality, the URE hopes I make it to thirty, or however long it takes for me to produce more citizens for them. With my penchant for finding trouble on the Topside and my unrelenting disgust for the procreation mandate, my future looks pretty bleak. The most I can expect is more jail time. Lots and lots and lots of it. But this is life here in the United Regions of Earth. Ever since the Invaders destroyed the world, this is the life we can expect underground.

Simon comes around the bar and holds me in a one-armed hug. His left-handed four-fingered grip tugs me. I lean into his shoulder and rest my heavy head against his bald one. He plants another kiss on my temple. "It's good to have you home again, Kiddo. I missed you."

"Thanks, Dad."

Despite being the same height and fostering the same penchant for trouble, when I look down at his freckled, light skin against my brown, I'm reminded of how unalike we are.

"Maybe if I'd have known you'd cause me so much trouble, I would've left you where I found you," he jokes.

"You'd have died of boredom years ago."

He returns to that cloudy, far-off look, reminiscing about the day the Invaders hit. "I'll never forget it. I'm running to the entrance of the URE, two admittance slips and no one to take down with me after my boyfriend left without me. And there you were, buried in the rubble of a destroyed house. I picked you up because I'm a chump and thought, yeah, grab the loud, squalling creature. This is a good idea. She won't eventually cause anxiety-induced premature aging or years of indigestion at all."

Warren slams his mug against the bartop, knocking us out of our reunion.

The other patrons of the Sink glower in our direction. When they get their fill, they return to their low-hum conversations dribbling over their plates.

"Lorn," Warren grumbles while leaning forward on the counter ledge. "You better tell her to quit messin' around and fulfill the contract."

Simon rolls his eyes. "Oh for fuck's sake, Freyer, she just got back."

"You're on the Warnin' List already."

I open my mouth, hot and fresh with a snarky comeback, but it dies on my tongue as the subject of my crisis strides into the bar.

Dean ducks through the entrance. "How did I know I'd find you here?" he asks the fat man on the tiny stool.

Warren shoves away from the bar to face his son. "What the hell does that mean, boy?"

"Dad, let's go. I'm sure Nika appreciates the welcome wagon . . ." He tilts his head at me.

I point two fingers at my temple and pull the trigger.

"But she's got to work."

"She's doing a shit job." Warren thrusts the empty mug in my direction.

With his large hands and long fingers, Dean pushes the mug away from his father and sticks it in the sink. His hazel eyes meet mine as he ushers his inebriated sack-of-scraps father off my bar.

I extend my hand to him, PAHLM up. He places the little device strapped to his left hand directly over mine. We wait for the signal—the little indicator confirming his bill is paid.

Warren attempts to rise on his one wobbly leg and buzzing iron prosthetic while his son rushes to stabilize the older man.

On their exit, Warren reverses. "Yer on the Warnin' List. They'll get ya with the rod if ya don't fulfill yer end of the contract soon. The both a yuh." The last bit is pointed toward his child, the one who stands at least a foot above him.

The noise in the room dies down, and all heads turn toward the door.

Great. I love being the topic of gossip for the grown patrons around here.

After a quick exhale, Dean finds my gaze one last time. "Welcome back, Nika."

When they finally disappear and the Kitchen Sink returns to its normal clatter, Simon shuffles to the rear of the bar.

"You know," he says, focusing on the counter. "As much as it kills me to think of you rutting with that redneck's spawn—and no offense to Dean because you know I love the kid almost more than you—he's got a point. You saw what they did to that girl on Level Seven when she refused to be with her contracted partner."

I do remember. It's one image I could never forget.

The memory of the Human Hope Project technicians in their maroon lab coats sweeping down on some poor, red-headed girl from her lover's bed blazes in my mind. I remember her arms thrashing wildly and her legs kicking behind her. I remember her burying her bare toes into the metal grated floor to stop their movement toward the HHP's lab on Level 2. I remember the starchy-white sheet slipping from her waist, twisting around her ankle, and exposing her sweaty, naked flesh to the whole level.

I was fifteen and remember wishing I could cover the flaring red handprints on her freckled thighs. I remember a slick sheen of moisture covered her entire body as if she had been standing in the middle of a mist. The other side of the hall could hear the screams of her lover as they gave her the rod.

I also remember I would never love anyone if it meant that much trouble.

She was not with her approved, contracted partner.

These contracts, these binding agreements with people you had no choice in selecting, these vile arrangements, they bring a violent sickness to my gut whenever I think of them. The thought that at some point between now and thirty, I'll have been coerced to procreate—to lie down and think about my government while I allow my body to be filled against my will.

"Do your God-damned duty, Lorn. It's unpatriotic." A rumbling, anonymous voice carries over the din of regular Sink noises to slap me right in the heart.

"Mind your own business," Simon shouts.

When I scan the dining area, I notice a handful of pregnant women smattering the regular disgruntled crowd. They don't look happy, and they don't look miserable. If anything, they are looking at me with true disgust. They rest their hands on their bellies. "This is what loyalty looks like, traitor." The unspoken message is clear.

It makes me want to punch every member of the all-powerful geek-brigade-made-law-enforcing branch of our government.

Simon heads for the kitchen. He appears as defeated as I feel. We both wish there was something that could be done.

"At least it's Dean," he's says, as he has time and time again. As if one more time will drive the point home. As if that makes it any better.

I cringe at the thought.

Sure, Dean is quite the specimen. Just because I have no desire to be part of this mess doesn't mean I haven't noticed his wide chest and distinguished face peppered with scars. At some point I may have found those scars complemented his heavy chin and hooked, broken nose.

Of course, some people might find these qualities appealing. I know he's received dozens of accolades for his skill, his ability, and his strength. I'm immensely aware of how he's ascended the ranks of the militia as fast as I have. I even know there is a little space between his chest and arms where I can fit perfectly like a stiff drink in an empty hand.

"It's worse because it's Dean." I lean against the bar.

Before heading into the kitchen, Simon pauses at the saloon doors. "Just think about it. You used to think you'd be happy about this."

I don't want to think about that.

Sighing, I turn and pick up another rag and mug to start my nightly routine. I'm so devoted to my conflicting thoughts about my best friend, I don't even notice the next customer who arrives at the bar and occupies the stool in front of me until she clears her throat.

I acknowledge her with a gentle nod and continue polishing the mug Warren had just wiped his villainous mouth over.

Odd. I've never seen this woman before.

"What'll it be?" I mutter.

"You, Captain." The granular voice pushes through each syllable as if she were chipping rust off an old building. "We want you."