The pain in my jaw sings, but I ignore it and grip the frantically flailing legs tighter. It takes me, Norbit, Avant, Umpire, and Flatts to carry the deranged woman to a separate cell away from the rest. I hold her legs, clutching her ankles tight against my ribs as the others grip her wriggling upper-body. An arm breaks free. She shoves us around, knocking Norbit over or pushing Flatts to the floor. Her foot breaks free of my hold to kick my head, knocking my ear twice. Umpire can't restrain her knees on his own. Umpire. Huge, rowdy, forceful Ump can't keep her in place. Once we finally fling her into the cell and strap her to the wall in the emergency landing belts, we back up and lock the door, all of us panting. Norbit and Avant cross their arms and leer wearily at her, Norbit massaging his chin she smacked with her elbow. Umpire stares dubiously down at me.

"This is pretty fucked up, Reaper Boss. So what now?" he asks, wrapping his large, dark fingers around the straps of his plate carrier.

"Yeah, Boss," Flatts chimes in, her wild, fiery hair springing from the tight bun behind her head. "This makes 'em stronger, should we start separating those others so they don't pluck their friends' heads clean off their necks?"

I gnaw the inside of my cheek and focus my loathing on the woman struggling to free her chest from the straps. In my peripherals, I catch Murry approach the front of his cell, seemingly fascinated by the woman. He bursts into throaty, condescending laughter. "New plan," I say. "We figure out who the hell is causing this chaos on my ship and when we find the bastards, we strap them to the back of ARC10, and drag their incapacitated asses across the galaxy behind us." I clench my fists and shove my way out of the brig.

Inhuman strength alongside absent reasoning is the last thing I expected. I need a new strategy now. Bee-lining for Knuckles, I don't announce my entrance as I plop down on his workbench and careen into the logistics of the half-baked plan I've had whirling around my mind. This has to work. I know the people so well, the way they tick, the way they jostle from one destination to the next — I can read them easily now. I can translate what each twitch means and why their shifty eyes dart around the room when I enter. I get them. This will work.

When I finish, Knuckles doesn't comment or tell me how inane my attempt at deception is. Instead, he opens a fresh note on his PHALM, bends his fingers, and types into the keypads that appeared in the middle of his hands. I've never seen someone so adept at using the key strokes, so fluidly dancing as his long fingers tap across the valleys of his palm. His words appear in white letters across his forearm. He recites the list of ingredients as they scroll over his skin.

"How certain are you that this mongrel will know anything?"

"Is 'pretty sure' a good answer?"

He scoffs. "Mister O'Deea doesn't strike me as one who would be informed on much of anything, let alone the origins of the nefarious narcotics spreading about the ship. You might be wasting my precious supplies on that tar chip." Without another word, he hoists himself up on thin, shaky legs and commences his rummage around the room.

While waiting, I tap the blue star that returns in pumping pink.

"Hey, you," I say to it, caressing the little icon and resting my hand on my belly simultaneously. It's the first time I've had a chance to check on him since the incident. I'm extremely fortunate my back that took the brunt of the impact.

But what if it had been my front? What if I had been shoved forward and landed on my stomach like I have many times in my past. My blood rushes. I feel hot and nervous and imagine skidding across a rocky terrain on my belly after being thrown into the air from a wayward explosion. I imagine crumbling buildings collapsing on my front, crushing me in the middle and squeezing the lives out of me like pus. Carefully, I run my finger over the spot where a fat scar slices my side. If that blade had been just a little bit lower — I imagine deflating as blood and baby go sliding out of my open wound.

"What's wrong with you? You're quiet and pale." Knuckles isn't looking at me, but he's returned to the table I'm leaning on.

"I got knocked on my back today. Had the wind hit out of me. It's got me thinking."

"Stop it," he scolds, slapping my elbow with the back of his hand, indicating that he doesn't want me leaning on his table anymore. "Don't go down that slippery slope and don't let your over-active imagination run away with you. You'll get nervous and keep coming down here to bother me. I see enough of your harried mug as it is, I can't imagine entertaining it for every hour you concoct a new scenario in which your life ends morbidly."

"Seriously, Knuckles. What do I do? In a few months, I won't be able to hide him and until then, I'm susceptible to all kinds of shit that can maim, burn, crush, stab, slice, poison, choke, and shoot me. How do I protect him?" The worry in my voice erupts. It surprises even me who has rarely given a pause or a prayer for my safety in the history of my own fumblings around the URE. The fact that I'm panicking scares me. It feeds my panic even more.

Is this what it feels like to be Simon?

Knuckles places the full bottle in the middle of the table and steps back. "Simple. Don't be the first to volunteer to dash into all the burning buildings." He crosses his arms and tries to give me his best scolding look when he eyes the brown bottle he just placed between us. His head drops into his open hand and shakes it slowly, moving back and forth in disbelief. "Said the accommodating doctor to the instigator of this idiotic endeavor."

I snatch the bottle up and cork it. The weight is perfect in my hand. As if the movement was one I born doing, I spin it around on my open palm and grab it by the neck, flipping it up in the air, catching it behind my back. I can't help but let the grin appear.

"This is nothing, Knuckles. This is just for fun."

He rolls his eyes and retreats to the other room where I hear him shuffling around his crates again.

I spin the bottle in my hand again and relish in its smooth caress on my calloused palm. I'm mesmerized by the whirling obsidian blur of the black liquid inside. This will work. I know it will. Grabbing the bottle with my full hand mid-spin, I hold it tight and with my other hand, activate my coms.

"Coodi," I say casually, knowing that no one else will hear us slip into informalities on our private channel. "Please bring Mister O'Deea down to the mess hall."

"Yes, Commander." Coodi, never being able to drop the professionalism, practically shouts through the coms.

Walking the passageways with a bottle in my hand, I receive many lustful looks. Many desperate gazes of thirst that blaze through poignant stares at the bottle in my clutches.

Here on ARC10, we have beer. Watered down beer made with half-batches of the synthetic barley and yeast we can spare. Whatever the Junk Juice makers fermented to make the acidic shit is in very limited supply. The bottles we brought were stored and only bits have been dispensed to those who can afford the inflated price. Never in my lifetime did I ever think Junk Juice would be the nectar of the elite.

But here we are.

And here I am with this bottle of black liquid tight in my hand. I throw cautionary looks at those who fidget restlessly as I walk by.

Don't even think about trying to steal this from me. That would be the dumbest thing you'll do all year.

Finally, I arrive at the mess. Long, rectangular, mismatched tables and benches cut across the enormous room like bars in a cell. The space is dark and smells wet as the steam from the kitchens wafts through and coats all the metal tables in warm condensation. It's humid in here — stuffier than some of the worst days in the URE when the fans would break. But this is how our mess will always be. Eat your food and get out. Make room for waves two and three so that everyone can be fed and carry about their business.

I take position behind the serving counter, a long expanse of shiny gray aluminum that reflects my face back to me. It's so similar to the Sink, my heart hurts for just a few seconds. This is going to feel very real for me too. Stacks of cups line the shelves at my knees. Perfect.

Coodi enters with Flatts. Between the two women, O'Deea glides, not even struggling, but staring around him in wonder.

I nod them over to where I'm leaning casually. Grabbing one of the cleaning rags under the counter, I start polishing the glasses and avert my attention away from the incoming party. If only I could hear the griddle sizzling from the door to my right, this would be home. My heart slumps at the thought of the Kitchen Sink stuck in its charred remains in the center of the Earth where no one will be served again.

Murry sits at my makeshift bar, his eyes wide.

"The Risen Christ," he whispers, his mouth slack in awe as his raven eyes bulge and I imagine he's experiencing exactly what I was only seconds ago. This feels so familiar.

"What's it tonight, Murry? Junk?"

He nods and grabs the counter, his fingers testing it like he's still trying to figure out if he's falling into a hallucination. His iris-less gaze catches the glint of white plastic as I place the cup I was drying in front of him. He stares in absolute wonder when I fish out the brown bottle.

The drink sloshes into the cup and stings my nose with its acidic stink. The aroma hits us both. O'Deea leans in, whiffing it as if it's a plate of savory pie. God, I forgot how awful this shit really is. Pure poison. Knuckles has a career in libations if he ever gets tired of working as a medic for the URE.

"So how's the grind, Murry? You and Shawna keeping out of trouble?"

He accepts the cup with such reverence, I half expect him to kneel before it. He grumbles something before taking the drink slowly and letting the black and purple liquid touch his lips. In pure pleasure, his eyes roll back into his head and he sags into his place at the bar, letting out a long, exuberant sigh.

"That's good shit," he says, leaning heavily into the counter.

When he's done, I fill his cup again.

Flatts and Coodi give each other a sideways look that catches my eye.

Don't worry, VIPERs. Reaper Boss knows what she's doing.

"You seem rattled, Murry. Drink up. What's steaming your gasket?"

He takes the cup up again. "You heard about this whole evacuation of the planet shit?"

I shake my head, staring intently at him. "Tell me about it."

As if we weren't already on the ARC and tens of thousands of miles into this journey already, he continues. "The President wants us to leave. To leave the URE. Can you believe it? It's people like me and your dad who established this place. We're the ones who built it with our God damned hands and they're thinking about shipping us out into some dark wasteland? Fuck that. No. I ain't leaving."

This was not news to me. Many people felt this way. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to fart on the pillows."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm going to put my naked ass on all the pillows of the heads of the fucking URE and I'm going to bellow something sour all over and I hope they fucking die of cholera."

Flatts bites her lip, her eyes bulging out and dancing like she's about to choke.

"Hm. Well, maybe that's not the best idea, Murry. I hate going down to Level Nine. Don't make me visit your sorry ass down there."

He throws back another cup.

"This is one of the last bottles of Junk I have here." I hold it up to show him there's only enough left for two, maybe three more shots of the stuff. "I wonder what is going to replace it when it's gone. Have you heard of anything?"

He's about to speak, lost in the sad stare with his black, dilated eyes and then turns them to me. "I'll split it with you. Drink with me, Lorn."

"No, I couldn't."

"I insist. If this is the last of the black gold, I will not drink alone."

There's another glass under the counter. I bring it up and pour a splash of Junk into it. Murry eyes me warily. I can sense the little bit of trust we rebuilt is slowly crumbling. With a great sigh, I fill the glass to the brim and do the same for his.

We lift our glasses and clink them together. Gulping and trying to hold my nose against the pinching stench, I throw back the liquid and grimace as it cascades down my unhappy throat. The fake stuff is almost as rancid as the real goods. "What's this Crust I've been hearing of? It's taking away business from the Sink. Simon wants me to get to the bottom of this."

His dilated eyes wander somewhere over my shoulder. "It's everywhere. But they've cornered the market for it. They sell it in little jellies that you eat with toast."

Coodi and Flatts startle. It was that simple.

"Jellies, huh? Who are "they"?"

"The twins."

"What twins?"

"The twins. They have the jellies."

"Yes, Murry, but who are they? I want to see if we can maybe work together. Maybe get these jellies at the Sink."

"You can scrape it off yourself, you don't need those snotty shits." He leans across the bar and grabs the collar of my green shirt.

Coodi moves to restrain him but I stop her with one lowered stare. Let him finish. We're so close.

"It's everywhere, Lorn. There's no way to get away from it. The Twins only make it better." He slumps to the floor and passes out.

"The Twins?" I murmur to myself as Coodi and Flatts move to pick his carcass off the floor.

"Commander," Flatts asks, putting Murry's arm over her shoulder. "What if he has a bad reaction to mixing Junk and Crust? Should we take him to Med Bay?"

"Don't bother," I wave her off. "It's not real Junk Juice. A friend made a special concoction. It's nothing more than a bottle full of smells and color. Whatever this is, it's his own imagination."

Satisfied, they carry him away.

"Coodi," I say before she exits. "Tomorrow we are going to pull a roster of all twins aboard ARC10."

"Aye-aye, Commander." She smiles before turning to exit.

I take the two glasses and the bottle and dump everything in the sink, watching the black liquid swirl around the drain and have the sudden joy of being back behind the bar swivel away with it. That was fun.

But now, time to figure this shit out.