For the rest of the night, as the hours pass with incredible tedium, my mind drifts between Dean, the contract, early training, and what new things I'm going to do to keep my ass out of jail. I check my PAHLM for the time.

I wipe a little drop of beer off my device. I flex my fingers with the soft leather bands that hold the thin, pliable screen to my palm. The light-blue hologram flashes to life, hovering above the pads of my fingertips and projecting the time.

It's already 2209. Only another fifty-one minutes until closing. Thank the Heap.

What I'd hoped would be a peaceful night had turned into a complicated shit-show punctuated with random bits of encouragement from men and women coming in from Topside. While I love participating in battle stories, fighting tips, and general combat conversation, it never steers that direction when I need it to the most.

"Babies are wonderful . . . Why don't you have one and see?" one of the warm bodies at the bar slurs. Dried blood bridges his scars still. If I didn't know he has literally just walked off the earth and back into the URE after a full week being Topside, I probably would slug him right now.

"Ditto that, kid. What my drunk friend here is trying to say is he'd knock you up if he could, but the HHP don't want none of his boys. So he just wanks them away with no thought of society or honor." He chuckles like punches. "Making a new citizen would definitely be an honor with you."

The stench of their sweat mixes with the acidity of the Junk Juice. The alcohol chips away their words. But I don't let any of it in. Conversations like this crop up regularly. As an expert bartender, I can listen without hearing, respond without interrupting, and even fake many levels of enthusiasm without flinching. Normally, it doesn't bother me as much as it does tonight. The breeding extravaganza has goaded me. I blame the scrapyard lard Warren.

The two guys banter on about being vermin. They joke that both of their wives were angels and were probably happier in Heaven so they didn't have to sleep with the likes of either slob.

Husbands.

Wives.

Such strange talk.

None of it exists down here. Not unless it was already done in the Before Days.

The old men and women talk using old words that came from their old world, and I have only context clues to tell me what they mean. They say those were the glory days, right before it was all shot to hell.

The last drunk swings his way out of the metal sliding doors. I hear Simon in the kitchen, throwing water over the griddles as the steam screams through the kitchen doors into the emptying bar. I wipe down the counters, stack the glasses, and lock the liquor in the safe. Nearly finished with the close-out procedures, I settle in for the last bit. Simon slides a plate of fries toward me.

Oh, Sweet Heap, these are delectable. I promise to never do a single bad thing again for the rest of my life if it means these hand-cut morsels will never be kept from me for so long again. That must be the true torture of prison—no fries.

I eat them silently as I cash-out on my PAHLM and find some modicum of normalcy in this nightly routine. My concentration is interrupted by the hushed, rapid beeping of an incoming message.

[Incoming Message: DFREYER]

SORRY ABOUT TONIGHT--GLAD TO SEE YOU SURVIVED LOCKUP #5

I exhale hard, a fry wedged between my lips.

"Got any plans for the night?" Simon asks from inside the kitchen beyond the swinging doors.

Would it be so bad if I just went and got it over with? On my time?

"Maybe." I take my dish to the sink in the kitchen. "I'm still trying to figure out if the plan is a good one or not."

Simon beholds me with a slight lift of his chin while his hands are elbow-deep in dirty dishwater. He knows my dilemma. He knows my heart.

I scowl at the suds in the sink. Fucking Saguro.

"Well, if you see Dean . . ." he drifts off, smirking into the sink. "Tell him 'good luck' for me."

"Ew, no. Nevermind."