I suppress my smile as pieces of a new, personal mission fall into place. My brisk stride back to the Sink clears my head.

The mood surge doesn't last long.

What I forgot about from the day after the incident on Level 7 all those years ago, was how long they talked about the girl with her swinging tits. I remember the conversations about her and her lover's burning red gashes and black eyes. During my shift, I do my best to ignore the bombardment.

"Who's the lucky guy, Lorn?"

I don't want their questions. I want them to shut their mouths and drink their beer. I want to hold my guns and dare them to say another word.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

I'm trapped in a cage. They poke and gawk at the freak behind the bar. My hands shake as I pour the Junk.

"How was Freyer? I hear he's hung like the main gun on a tank."

My bubbling shame and simmering rage roil under the surface.

"Did they use the rod on the other kid? Was it worth it?"

"Shut up," I growl, the bottle of Junk Juice tight in my hand. "Or your next shot is going up your ass."

They avert their gazes. No one says a word. The rest of the shift is spent in tense silence. Good.

***

I've spent the last three hours immersed in the mission pages. I might not be able to read new information with the same relaxed enthusiasm as Dean the bookworm super-nerd, but I have at least mastered the art of cramming.

Sitting in my room, lacing my boots, pulling my arms through my cleanest gray utilities, and tucking the papers under my arm, I prepare for battle.

I tiptoe out, careful not to wake Simon or the other neighbors who share our common room.

The journey passes like the slow crawl of corrosion. Each level I traverse sends more jitters straight to my gut. By the time I finally make it to Level 6, I'm humming from the inside out.

I'm nearly there, I'm practically in the room, throwing my papers at Hayomo and explaining where she can shove them. I'm imagining the rage in Dean with his clenched fists and rounded shoulders.

The scene manifests clearer and brighter until I turn the next corner.

Dean leans against the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. He stares at the floor as if he were watching the most troubling events happening right through it.

He blocks the way. I can't avoid this confrontation.

"How did I know I'd meet you here?" he asks.

He straightens to his full height, creating a massive barrier between me and the first checkpoint on Level 6.

He knows I can take him. He doesn't need to puff himself up for me.

"Do you mind? I've got somewhere to be."

"So what I asked meant nothing?" His voice is sharp.

I register that there is more than the affectionate intensity I normally find. It's a look I'm too familiar with in Dean, but I have only seen it on battlefields.

"There's really nothing you can do to stop me, Freyer. I was invited here, just as you were."

"You're carrying our child now, Nika. That changes things."

"That's not confirmed yet," I shriek more loudly than intended. "It's been twenty-four hours, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that fast." Our argument is childish. It would probably be inappropriate to stick out my tongue at him or flick him off.

"You know as well as I do the Coats have their one-hundred percent success rate. There's no chance you somehow are the exception." He raises an eyebrow, daring me to argue the fact.

I bite my tongue. One of those fertility cocktails they shot up my ass-cheek must have been their special sauce—their secret ingredient. When they select broodmares from the remaining gene pool, they do it carefully enough to ensure their triumphant number.

"You can't stop me from being at this meeting," I spit back.

Dean's pause is long. "Nika." He breathes heavily, his shoulders and chest heaving. "Please. That's my child too . . . and I . . . I can't protect you both if—"

"Who says I want or need your protection? Who told you to save me, because it sure as hell wasn't me. You know I can take care of myself. I have never needed anyone to save me before. It's usually me swooping in to rescue everyone's ass around this wasteland anyway."

With that, I attempt to push him out of my way, but his body is a stone wall.

"I don't want to go to Simon, but I will."

I stare at him incredulously. "Do it. I dare you. Watch him try to stop me because he'll know I'm right. Not to mention, you'd be violating top-secret information which includes hefty jail time and dismissal. And trust me, you do not want jail time."

"Do you really expect me to be afraid of prison? Especially when I'm trying to protect you from yourself?"

How dare he. Protecting me from myself?

He thinks I'm still crazy.

I'll show him crazy.

Summoning my strength from the flat of my boots to the pads of my fingers, I pull in every ounce of ability I've ever possessed. If Dean won't move, I'll make him move with my bare hands.

I push him. I grab his jacket and pull. I ram my whole body against him. We are smashed together. My face is pressed against his chest as I struggle to throw him to the ground.

He doesn't budge.

I'm not weak. Dean's a mountain.

I grunt and twist my fingers around the material of his jacket, trying to pry him from his spot, but he's fighting back, too, using his strength against me. He stumbles back slightly.

My method is ineffective. We're accomplishing nothing but becoming permanent fixtures with my hands on his chest, his hands on my arms, both of our legs planted firmly to the ground, and our teeth gritting with the force of our effort.

My fingers and mind, of their own volition, fling me back to the night under the lab lights.

I remember him over me, his hands around my arms. I remember the his skin scorching mine.

Bile rises. I fight my urge to let go. Everything tells me to back away—this is a monster. Run. Don't let him touch you again.

But he's blocking what I want.

We maintain our positions, simmering in a strange new heat that's flashing between us. It's palpable. If I'm not mistaken, the steam rising around us is from our bodies. My rational part tells me to go with it, lean against him and touch his chest and see what happens. Just like it used to.

But my irrational part, the psycho in the back of the tank, takes one look at this whole mess and whispers in my ear, "Keep running."

I ram him again, but his arms find my shoulders, holding me in place.

"Just let me through! You can't stop me."

"You'll thank me when you're not dead." He picks me up by the waist and hoists me over his shoulder in one fluid movement.

I can't be held accountable for what happens next.

Dean should know better than to try a stunt like this. His little display of strength puts me in a rage so black and fathomless, I lose track of reality.

"Put me the fuck down now!"

He ignores my screams. I must be repeating it a thousand times a minute because my voice croaks. I thrash around, trying to aim for the best angle to kick his face in.

I want to be able to knock out his teeth with my hardest blow. I hope I break his nose again. It was an accident the first few times, but, now, he deserves it for being such a genuine asshole.

His vice-like grip on my body tightens, but even he is struggling with me.

The few people who are out this late stare, covering their mouths with their hands and snickering without shame. They look, they point, and some of them even laugh out loud and follow us.

When I realize we are in the lower levels of the URE, I squirm violently to release an arm and grasp an exposed pipe. My fingers brush up against cold pipes, hot pipes, exposed wires, and metal grates when I finally grab a large faucet as he continues down the corridor.

Dean halts when he realizes I've stuck to something. When I assume he's going to yank my grasp free and continue, he puts his hands on my hips. He pushes me against the wall. My head bangs on the pipes.

Our struggle dies when both our eyes go wide on impact.

The force of his anger sucks back into his body. Gentle hands return to touch my face and hairline. He moves back while I slump down the wall in mock defeat.

Dean has never been able to grow a single aggressive bone in his body. I know this was an accident, but there's too much turmoil from my rolling hatred to acknowledge his remorse.

"Please, Nika." His words are loaded with so much emotion, I can hardly understand what he's asking for.

The crowd around us stops and stares, their collected breath held tightly in their lungs.

From the outside, I can see how it looks—enormous, tough militia brute hovering over petite brunette with her hand massaging the sore spot on the back of her head. They're probably wondering which one of them is going to be obligated to step in and pull him off when the situation escalates into a messy brawl. No one wants to volunteer for that.

The thought is ridiculous. Dean doesn't hit on purpose. He's a huge puppy completely unaware that he's knocking over furniture and breaking valuables whenever he walks into a room. He would never be violent toward me out of anger. We've sparred of a few times. I've always won.

"Please, Nika." His words are tender as he kneels in front of me, pulling my hand away to check the forming bump himself. When he realizes it's nothing serious, he pleads. "I will do anything, anything, if you'll promise me you won't go. You can't do this."

Watch me.

I weld my lips shut. His sweetness has no sway with my heart right now. I was not raised a soldier to die a civilian. I was not nurtured with a weapon in one hand just to toss it aside when the impulse to fight is fiercely kicking inside me. There is no chance in hell I'm going to back down now.

I slip out from under his arms. Without a word, I slice through the crowd.