Ameira was sitting at her desk, contemplating.

I have lived on this battle-scarred planet for twenty years. And what have done to help it? Nothing. No family, they died. No friends, but I never liked them. No future, but is there one for any of us? Her co-worker, Cleo, walked into her office and flicked her on the head.

"Wake up, dead eyes. Sullivan wants that cat show report, on the computer, not chiselled onto your soul."

"Fine." she spat.

"Woah, no need to be touchy." She mercifully left, before another one of Cleo's three neurons in a trench coat had an idea. Ameira pulled up the information on the show and started to type.

After Ameira finished for the day, she walked to the elevator, pressed the down button, and waited for it. When it arrived, she stepped in and headed for the ground level. The doors opened and she left, nearly tripping over a woman on the ground, seemingly repairing something under the floor.

"Hey, watch your step, bitch!"

"Sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

"Of course you weren't!"

She moved out into the streets, waiting for a taxi. The Port's lights were dimming, heralding the arrival of the night cycle. A taxi finally pulled up.

"West Side, 196 Detem Street, please."

"Gotcha."

She gazed out the window as the buildings rolled past.

There was a recruitment demonstration for females between 18 and 45, for becoming a TEAR. Some commander had brought back enough supplies to make a story out of it. Ameira watched as he preened himself under the camera, like some sort of celebrity peacock. She harboured thoughts of becoming one, but never really pursued it.

The taxi pulled up at her house and she paid the driver, walking up the driveway, despite having no car. It was a very small house, but still a house, nonetheless. It was what she could afford the rent for comfortably. At least on her salary alone. Ameira just wasn't good with social interactions and had fumbled an embarrassing number of dates. It wasn't like males were common anymore anyway, even after all this time. A Port approved artificial nutrient dense meal was something she could cook though. Well, at least pouring it into a bowl and microwaving it. It still counted as preparing a meal.

It's the thought that counts, right?

After indulging in another ersatz chocolate pudding, Ameira crawled into bed after a disturbingly short shower.

Water rationing must be tightening again.

There was always just barely enough to go round, and if there was a shortage, it hit hard.

I really do wish there was enough to go round for everyone.