Chapter 1: Prelude to Dystopia

"Today, the details of Project TalVir have finally been released after an intense debate at the World Government Conference..."

The news host's voice droned on as I toyed with the remaining pieces of vegetables on my plate.

"Peas are for eating, not putting around. I thought you were over your little obsession with golf already."

My older sister's disapproving tone overrode the TV, despite a wall and the dozen or so meters of space between us. I always wondered how she could tell what I was doing. It goes beyond having eyes in the back of her head; more like eyes in the walls and ceiling.

I stopped pushing around the little green balls I had on my plate and took off one of my socks in preparation for my ultimate technique: the old "hide the peas in my socks and throw it in a corner" strategy. So far, it has a one hundred percent success rate, and surprisingly my sister's intuition hasn't caught on yet.

The sock hit the wall with a dull thud. Later on, I would pick it up when she wasn't around and dump the little green menaces in the trash. With that, the mission would be a rousing success.

My sister walked into the room from the kitchen with a scrutinous eye leveled on the plain white dish before me.

"Done awfully quick, are we? Then go get cleaned up, you have homework to do, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am, on it."

We've been living together ever since I was born, my sister and I. I say my sister, but she's actually my half-sister; we have the same mother, but not the same father.

I'm told my father ran off before my mother was even aware of me. Months later, she died, not too long after my delivery due to complications from childbirth and extreme mental stress. Because of that, my only immediate family was my sister, who raised me in my mother's stead for the past eleven years.

When she isn't sternly watching over my performance in school, she's off at work, paying the bills, cooking, or cleaning the apartment we live in. There isn't a moment I don't see her on the move; the perfect workaholic.

I was always confused as to why she hasn't gotten married yet, as she's prettier than most of the women I saw in the neighborhood and far more competent than any of the school teachers I know. Ms. Sirius, one of our neighbors, would always praise her common sense and skills whenever they talked. However... she can be a bit brash, especially with those of the opposite gender. Ms. Sirius told me once that she nearly decked a guy who only asked for her phone number. To this day, I haven't been able to figure out why she hates men so much. I asked her once about it, about why she doesn't want to date or marry, and she merely snorted.

"Married? To a man? What for? I have enough to deal with already, let alone a renegade like that muddling the place."

"Mr. Blake said that you're a feminist, you're nearly thirty-one now without getting married."

"Mr. Blake can stuff one up his ass. He's only sore I turned him down the Christmas before last."

As if in retaliation against my seemingly innocent inquiry, she relentlessly pushed piles and piles of homemade printouts on me for the rest of that week. Needless to say, I never asked again. I'd probably die before I ever found out.

-

"Marcus, get the mail for me, I'm busy on the phone."

"Yes ma'am."

I made my way down to the lobby at the bottom floor of the apartment building where the post boxes are. The building is a small place, with no more than eight or so apartments total. For the rent, it's well kept, though the hallways are spartan, and especially eerie at night. The floorboards underneath the tiling squeaked mercilessly, making trips out at night excruciatingly awkward. The worst of it was right outside Ms. Sirius' room, and it always made me feel bad for her when someone walked by. She mustn't get any sleep.

The lobby came into view as I turned the corner from our wing of the apartment. The boxes are all lined up together in a row in the wall at the building's lobby. Box 102 was ours, meaning floor one, room 2. I stuck the box key in and turned, just as always.

"Hey there, young'un, getting the mail are ya?"

I turned to see Ms. Sirius hobbling her way over to me. She's a short old lady, with the tightest bun of wispy grey hair, glasses translucent with use and age, with a white t-shirt and sweat pants. The thin wrinkles on her face curved as her mouth opened into a toothy smile.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Sirius."

She patted me on the head before turning to box 101.

"I hear the government is going to send out some sort of notices in the mail, was wonderin' if mine came yet."

She paused for a moment with the mailbox half ajar, her eyes turned up to the ceiling.

"What was it for again? Another one of those guvernment programs that never amount to nuthin', I'm sure."

I was somewhat confused, and it apparently showed because she cackled in her husky voice after turning to see my reaction.

"It's nothing for your little head to worry about boy. When the time comes, your sister will deal with it. Hmm, guess it's not here yet."

Ms. Sirius breathed a heavy sigh at the empty receptacle.

"When you're my age, days just always end up the same. Guess my old bones aren't worth nuthin' to those guvernment suits, heh? I'll tell you, boy, if they knew me when I was in my prime, they'd be lining up for a chance at me. I'd charge a dollar per look!"

She tousled my head again, before turning to leave.

"I'll leave you to your business now Marcus, tell your sister I said hi."

I watched her hunched back grow smaller and smaller as she walked down the hallway to her apartment. Turning back to the post box, I reached in and grabbed the bundle of letters inside.

-

"I told you that I already finished the budget for this quarter, you're just not looking in the right place for them."

These were the words that greeted me on my return from the post box. My sister seemed to be grasping at straws with whoever she was on the phone with. It's usually men, especially incompetent ones when she gets this way; her usual cool, collected demeanor shifts to a deeply furrowed brow, the already thin lips purse into a nearly imperceptible slit. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be anywhere in the immediate vicinity because, oddly enough, I find a number of objects lying around on the floor after these sessions. No doubt they fell victim to her frustrations, and I probably would too if I was convenient.

"They're on the table."

I silently mouthed to her. She waved a quivering hand in dismissal. I had no doubt she was holding back the urge to hurl me into the nearest wall.

"That's the one from last quarter, I'm talking about this quarter..."

Her voice trailed off to a low roar as I closed the door to my room. Situations like the one right now call for holing myself up. If I didn't, I'd either fall victim to the aforementioned fastball pitch, or an hour-long rant on the inadequacies of society -specifically men- after she hung up the phone.

"Sometimes I wonder why she even took me in, instead of dropping me off at an orphanage."

I mused while I laid back on my bed, and prepared myself with my phone and a leftover bag of chips for the long wait. It's a wonder she ever took me in, considering I am a boy. I suppose familial obligations are that important to her?