The Sidekick.

une

                          I bounce my leg nervously, tapping my fingers on my thigh as I wait outside the main office. I had been here for a while now, but it was my own fault for showing up so early in the evening.

                        My personal file lay on my lap. I flipped through it one more time hoping it was typed to perfection. I needed this job more than anything else. My eyes skimming the pages, I catch one mistake, an extra space on the third page, second paragraph. I groan loudly, knowing even this small error could get me stuck with a factory job, just like everyone else. This was my shot at the normal life I had always wanted.

                      The door to the office slides open, an electronic voice welcoming me into the white room. The back wall is a clear glass, not a smudged fingerprint on it. A large thick grey desk sat in the middle of the office. Behind it, a black armchair, empty. The room felt empty, but most Ostten rooms felt that way. Ostten codes ruled that we must have as little as possible. Why clutter the city with useless junk? This made everything feel hollow.

                     "Sit, please." The voice says, monotone. "Mr. Orion will be here to see you soon."

                     I take a seat in a faded red chair, the old leather wearing out from countless clients. I look at the walls to study them. A small wooden table stands up next to the left white wall. A plant pot and magazines set on top. With a closer look, I see there are all magazines featuring articles on the company. Above the dark table hangs a large portrait of who I assume is Mr. Orion. The back of the painting is a deep black, giving off an eerie feeling.

                    I turn away from the overpowering portrait and back to the desk ahead of me. A plaque on the front read his full name, Rufus Orion. Writing implements are held in a black cup. Everything is lined up perfectly, not one bold color in the room. I was relieved to have chosen a black skirt and white blouse rather than a brighter color that would stand out. Though an unemployed complex dweller was supposed to wear their parents' colors.

                   "Evening Ms. Windser, how are you?" In walks the older man from the painting. He had barely any hair on his round head. His eyes were a thick chocolate color. Stress was hidden in the creases of his skin. He held some weight but looked healthy apart from his tired eyes.

                   "Fine, Sir. You may call me Sandrine if you please." I speak softly, shifting in the chair when he takes a seat in his own across from me.

                   "Right." nods Mr. Orion.

                   "I have my file for you." I hold it up on my lap so he can see the manilla folder.

                  "Let me have look then." He takes it from me, opening it up and spreading the papers neatly across the desk. "Marge, may I have the usual." Mr. Orion calls out to no one in particular.

                  "Yes, sir." The electronic voice responds overhead, now giving it the name of Marge.

                  "Anything for you, Sandrine?" He looks up from the papers to me, waiting for me to speak.

                 "No, thank you." I smiled, shaking my head.

                 "What a pretty name, Sandrine." Orion compliments me suddenly, rolling my name off his tongue.

                 "Thank you, Sir. My parents chose it for me."I grin, folding my hands in my lap carefully.

                 "Oh, how lucky for you. Nowadays, parents barely even name their children, always The Government." He sighs, and I nod in agreement.