Override

“Buy your Personal Plus card today! Fzzzzt -- get more, for less!”

A large grin works its way onto my face as I dig out the discarded advertisement tablet, or Tad, from the slimy dumpster. To think, someone threw away a piece of machinery like this, and still operational.

Wasteful, ungrateful rich people, I think cheerfully. Their trash, my treasure.

The small screen has spiderweb cracks and smudges of who-knows-what, but it continues to spew out the media’s constant burble. A true jackpot.

“Sale, sale, sale! At Cole’s Liftcar Shop, you can-- ffzzzt-- today...”

The hidden speakers sound partially broken, but I figure that Toby can easily fix it. The tablet seems to be in pretty good shape, actually. A new screen, rewired speakers, and it’ll be good as new for the black market.

I pull my torso out of the filthy dumpster, wrinkling my nose as a cloud of flies whirls about my face at my movement. Wiping my hands on my already repulsive jeans, I search for my brother in the darkness of the alley.

A lot of teenagers like the alleyways dotted throughout the city, because they’re usually devoid of cameras. Sure, the alleys may not be in the most tasteful conditions, but tiny, dark roads are great for illegal activities. Drug sales, hooking up, dumpster diving, you name it. We figure, we all get the Chip in our heads when we become adults anyway, and after that we won’t want to do the illegal stuff anymore.

Why not have fun while we can?

I finally spot Toby’s slim figure hunched over a plastic bag he had heaved from one of the dumpsters, pawing through the potential money-making material. I roll the stiffness out of my shoulders and pad towards him, shivering as the autumn breeze cuts through my thin hoodie.

He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, the vivid green of his infrared goggles cutting through the shadows. His hair has gotten shaggy, and the cowlick on the back of his skull is as wild as ever, dark brown locks sticking up in every direction. In his grimy hands is Dad’s army-style rucksack, which Toby brings everywhere with him for collecting.

“Show me,” Toby says as he stands up, straightening a few inches taller than me. He pushes his goggles to rest on his forehead, tousling his messy hair even more. He puts out an expectant hand, the rough calluses from his laborious work in the factory smeared with unidentified gunk.

I place it the small machine on his palm and lean back, giddy for his reaction. Toby snaps on his goggles, twisting a knob on the magnification setting. He turns the tablet over slowly and observes as it stutters out another broken advertisement.

“Feeling blue? Try our new --fzzzt-- cobalt beads, exfoliating -- ffzzt-- your healthy skin...”

“It’s a Tad. I think it’s mostly functional too,” I burst out.

Toby shoots me an amused look, his lips quirking into that sideways, single-dimpled grin he always does. His one gold earring glints in the dim light.

“I know what a Tad is, Sarah. We’re not that poor.”

I laugh sheepishly, then brush my blonde bangs out of my eyes. Toby knows everything there is to know about mechanics. I’m just excited.

“I know. Can you fix the speakers? I know we have an extra screen in the shop.”

Toby adjusts the knob on his goggles, focusing intently on the miniscule speaker holes dotting the tablet’s edges. He flicks one corner with his fingernail, listens to the staticky response, and fiddles with the volume settings. After a moment, he nods decisively.

“I think it’s definitely fixable. Of course, I won’t know for sure until I open her up. But there’s hope.”

Toby pulls up his goggles again and flashes me a grin as he drops the still-burbling Tad into his rucksack. His teeth shine from his dirty cheeks, and his blue eyes glint with playfulness.

He looks just like Dad.

I blink rapidly, as if I can flush the dark memories out from behind my eyelids. I don’t want to think about our father right now. I want to think about Toby, how happy he is, and how we’ll get a solid meal each day this week. I want to be happy with him.

I don’t want to think about the War. I don’t want to think about why Toby carries an army rucksack everywhere he goes. I don’t want to think about how Dad died.

I don’t want to think about how maybe, someday, Toby could meet the same fate.

After all, wars are all too common in the world we know today.

I struggle to force a small smile back at Toby, which I’m sure comes out more like a grimace. My good mood has thoroughly deflated.

“What did you find?” I say quickly, changing the subject. I’m unable to meet his bright eyes.

Toby quirks one dark eyebrow at my unenthusiastic response, but soon turns around and gestures to the pile he had been sifting through before.

“There’s some weird stuff in here. Like, an illegal artist or something was cleaned out.”

“Huh,” I say as I crouch down to observe the items.

There’s a cluster of broken paintbrushes, many of them snapped clean in half, lying beside a crumpled sketchbook and some oozing bottles of paint. There’s a notebook, and one strange spray can of stuff I’ve never seen before.

I glance back at Toby, who has been hovering behind me. I realize now that gunk on his hands is actually black and blue paint, and it coats his fingernails. He seems tense, now, and I’m not sure why. He rubs his arms over his wrinkled military jacket, shivering slightly in the cool wind.

I grimace at the sight of his jacket. I’ve always hated the thing. Toby’s dress is a constant reminder of the War. I’ve always wished he wouldn’t tote around Dad’s old things like that, but he wears them like a tribute to the fallen. He doesn’t want to forget, like I wish I could.

Like the world does.

“I’m, uh...” Toby looks around, eyes darting around until they settle on an untouched dumpster farther down in the alley, towards the main road.

“I’m going to go check out that can over there.”

He nudges the sketchbook, then the notebook with the toe of his combat boot.

“You should look through those. The art is cool. And... the poems are especially interesting.”

“Poems?” I ask, but he’s already turned around and walking briskly away, his bag clutched tightly in his hands. A melancholy tune reaches my ears as Toby begins to whistle.

My mind is whirring as I grab the sketchbook and straighten out the first page. Art, poems, and any other form of creative expression have been illegal since the War. The Guardians fear that it encourages rebellion, and I suppose that in history, it’s sort of true. People have always loved art, though, so some of the older generation persist in it. And that leads to consequences.

The first drawing is of some wrinkled hands, and they start gray at the wrist, but slowly merge into vibrant colors when it reaches the fingertips. The hands are reaching for a bird flying in the sky.

I haven’t seen a bird in a long, long time.

A sense of longing and awe at the color and...freedom in the work bubbles up inside me. I want to reach for flying creatures in the sky. I want to see brilliant colors and relish in them.

Instead, I move on.

The second drawing shows a person, a young man, arching his back as he snaps the ropes that had held his wrists and ankles. There are clawed, sinister hands reaching for him, to pull him back, and shred him to pieces. Despite the danger he is in, the man is wildly determined, and I know that he will not go down without a fight.

He looks a little like Toby.

A sick sensation gathers in my stomach. I can imagine this being my brother the day he snaps, the day they draft him into another War...

I shake my head, snapping my eyes shut against the dark thoughts. There is no reason for me to be thinking this. Toby would never fight the Guardians. We may do illegal work, but we do it to survive, not out of spite. The Guardians are good. The Chip makes everything better. It controls our bad desires, it gives us satisfaction. It makes us happy.

Right?

Unreasonable fear fills my chest, and I snatch the notebook and flip to the first poem I see. My eyes scan the page and lock onto the last lines, horror clawing at my heart.

Youth will be our advantage as we

Override the system.

Broken world, hear our screams.

We will fix ourselves.

“Toby?” I call out instinctively, fear causing my voice to rise in pitch.

I drop the notebook like it’s on fire and kick it away, accidentally touching the unknown can lying on the ground as I do. It rolls, and I see the label reads “Spray Paint”.

No.

I’m on my feet and dashing toward the main road, dread filling my bones with concrete. My breathing is harsh in my ears as my feet pound the filthy asphalt. The flies swarm around my face and bounce off my nose.

Toby would never... He can’t...

But as I skid to a stop right along the camera line, I realize with a jolt that shakes me to my core...

He did.

Toby is standing in the middle of the main street, in full view of the hundreds of Guardian cameras that patrol the public walkways. His infrared goggles are pushed up his forehead again, his wild hair fanning out from it like some sort of halo. His blue eyes are blazing with defiance, and in his black-smeared hand, I see a can of spray paint.

And on the street before him, Toby had created his own art.

In red spray paint, my brother’s messy scrawl bears the words,

Obedient, no more. Break your bonds. Fix yourself.

Override the system.

Toby throws his arms back and stares down the Guardian cams that float in on drones, daring anyone and everyone watching to join his cause.

Then the Guardians arrive, and I realize that I’m screaming. Toby’s turning to me, his cobalt eyes hard and determined, but still as full of love as they’ve always been, his blackened fingertips reaching for my own. And I can’t seem to leave the shadows of the alley that have served as my home for as long as I can think of as they take aim at my brother and then a bullet is cracking his goggles and Dad’s rucksack is falling to the ground...

And the Tad tumbles to the crimson-stained street with its cracked screen and faulty speakers...

And Toby’s crying out as Dad’s jacket is ripped by the savage attacks of our so-called Guardians and his wild hair refuses to be tamed, swept up by the soon-to-be winter breeze...

And now my knees are hitting the cold earth, the unresponsive cameras are watching me as my world spins out of control, wildly, mercilessly, endlessly...

And the Tad starts to play.

“Never lose your voice again, with our --fzzzttut--”

“Words are priceless, so --fzzzzt-- why at our extraordinary --fzzzzt--”

“Talk to us, here at 1800 -ffzzzttt--

“Breathe--”

“Listen--”

“Feeling blue?”

“Fzzzzz--”

***

A few days later, a young girl with bright red hair is dumpster diving for the black market. As she pulls open a trash bag, she finds a can of spray paint, a notebook, and a cracked pair of infrared goggles. A small smile turns up on her face as she turns over the small head-strap, worn with use.

She puts them on.