Dad and Marco’s father, Alonzo Monti, are slouched on the living room couch, each with a fresh beer in hand, surrounded by a sea of empty cans that rattle slightly whenever they move their feet. Alonzo wears a wrinkled suit jacket over a creased shirt, the sleeves rolled unevenly, one side half untucked. His brown hair is slicked back with heavy gel, shiny and stiff like he got ready for somewhere else and ended up here instead. Dad is in his usual baggy shorts and a faded T-shirt, stretched at the collar and loose around the waist, one sock already missing.

  The room is thick with the sour tang of alcohol and the all-too-familiar scent of sweat. The only light in the room comes from the flickering glow of the TV, casting restless shadows along the cracked walls where the paint has bubbled and peeled. The ceiling light is off, and the battered fan in the corner sits motionless, its blades still in the heavy, stagnant air. Once again, everything’s been switched off. Maybe they’re saving power for whatever they care about more than basic comforts.

  The couch itself is stiff and unforgiving, its cushions flattened over time into something closer to wooden boards than padding. The fabric is threadbare in places, exposing rough seams and worn stuffing. Stains blot the arms from years of neglect, and the whole thing creaks whenever someone shifts their weight. Snack wrappers and two more unopened beers sit nearby, balanced on the floor within reach. They are the only remnants of what should have been on a table, long gone or never there in the first place.

  They are holding a loud conversation, using their expressive hand gestures as much as their raised voices while arguing about who is going to win the cricket game that’s about to start. Their accents are thick, their opinions even thicker, and the room fills with overlapping words and flailing arms, as if volume and movement could settle the score. Alonzo, his thinning black hair slicked back and his dark eyes glinting with mischief, waves his can mid-sentence. He slurs a comment about Western Australia’s batting lineup before shifting his gaze to Roselyn.

  “Bambolina, are you cheering for the Blues tonight, or do I need to convert you?”

  Roselyn strolls over to the couch in comfy short shorts and a loose pyjama T-shirt that shifts when she moves, flashing just enough skin to make sure someone noticed. Her long, straight hair is a little messier than usual, but it still falls over her shoulders like it belongs there. She grabs a beer from the table like it’s hers and cracks it open. The pop of the can opening cuts through the noise, and she takes a long, unbothered sip, leaning into the moment like she’s done it a hundred times before.

  Then she slips herself into the narrow space between Dad and Alonzo, forcing them to shuffle aside to make room. She throws Alonzo a playful smile, poised and cool.

  “I’m open to liquid bribes.”

  Dad laughs and settles in, the three of them now squeezed together on the too-small couch with the ease of people used to sharing space.

  They are all watching the late All Over Cricket game about to start on TV. The screen flickers with oversaturated colours, and the hum of the outdated console fills the room beneath their chatter. The broadcast shows two teams preparing on a well-lit field — New South Wales and Western Australia — the match hosted in a glimmering Perth stadium thousands of kilometres away. That would explain the late start. The contrast between that sleek arena and this sagging room could not be more evident.

  I can’t believe people used to watch this game for five whole days, or even one! These days, with power quota restrictions, households are lucky to squeeze in three hours of a game, especially at night when the day’s electricity has already been drained by other tasks. Twenty20 cricket is the more traditional format of the sport, but All Over Cricket has become far more popular.

  I’ve never made it through a full game, but the rules are easy enough to follow. There are 11 players on each team, and every player bowls 11 balls in an ‘over’ from one end of a pitch of grass in the middle of a circular field to the other end, where a batter stands ready to hit the ball. A catcher, called a keeper, stands behind the batter to stop anything they miss, and each player takes a turn as the keeper for one over as well.

  It’s still a point (or run) if the batter hits the ball and runs to the other end of the pitch, two runs if they run back, four if they hit the ball to the edge of the field, and six if they hit it over the edge on the full.

  Each batter can only stay for 11 ball deliveries per ‘over’, unless they get out earlier by hitting a catch or being dismissed in some other way. If a batter doesn’t survive all 11 deliveries, their team loses 11 points. They really like the number 11!

  A lot of the strategy happens before the innings begins. Each team has to submit either their batting order or their bowling order, depending on what role they’re playing in the next innings. Once the matchups are set, they only get one powerplay in the game to swap one of those matchups with another.

  It can be a lot to take in if you don’t know the sport well, and I don’t have the luxury of wasting time watching sports like they do.

  Ernie is sitting on his bed, his knees tucked up, tablet balanced in front of him as he faces the TV from across the room. I can tell by the way his eyes flick up toward the match every so often that he’d love to watch it properly, but he knows I’m teaching him to be responsible, and that he’s doing the right thing by focusing on his homework tonight. He looks up at me with a weak smile, then returns to his tablet, moving things around on the screen with his finger and typing quietly on the digital keyboard.

  The room we share is no more than a cramped box. Two narrow beds are squeezed in with barely a metre of space between them. One desk, pushed against the far wall, is scarred with scratches and piled with a mix of schoolbooks, old notes, and whatever trinkets haven’t been lost or broken yet. A shelf above it sags slightly in the middle, weighed down by worn textbooks and a cracked photo frame with no glass left in it.

  The walls are tired, their once-white paint now faded to a dull yellow-grey. There’s a long hairline crack near the ceiling, and another splits down the corner by the window, which itself is mostly covered in grime. It overlooks a narrow, dark alley littered with rubbish bins and scraps of conversation from the neighbouring apartments. A faint glow filters in from a flickering streetlamp outside, but it’s hardly enough to brighten the room. Ernie’s tablet casts a cool light across his face, the only real brightness in the space.

  I turn on the tap in the corner sink to wash my hands, the cold water trickling out slowly. That sound is what alerts Dad to my return, not the door, nor my footsteps. He shifts on the couch and pushes himself up from the armrest with effort, stumbling slightly as if every joint in his body resents having to move while he makes his way over. He isn’t too drunk to walk, but he does tire quickly from his complete absence of exercise.

  Time for me to negotiate for my own earnings.

  He shuffles over to me with one hand already reaching for his pocket, the other resting on the wall for balance as if the hallway were a steep slope. His lips are set in that usual mix of entitlement and impatience, the unspoken assumption that what’s mine is his.

  He holds out his hand, palm open like always, expecting me to hand over my digital wallet. The words are just a formality.

  “Victoria, hand it over to me.”

  I don’t move right away, my mind racing. I’ll have to tell him I earned more today, or he’ll start expecting whatever’s left be transferred out of my regular pay too.

  I slip my main wallet, still holding my full pay, out of my pocket and press it into his outstretched hand with stiff fingers.

  “I earned a bit more today,” I say carefully. “And I haven’t bought any groceries yet for us to eat. Please leave me some so that Ernie and I can have some breakfast and lunch tomorrow.”

  He doesn’t look at me. His fingers tap through the interface with the ease of habit. He selects the maximum transfer amount without hesitation, and with a gentle chime, everything is gone. Just like that, he’s successfully stolen all the money Ernie and I needed for food tomorrow.

  “I told you I would need more today,” he says flatly. “Alonzo has come over with a case of beer and I need to reimburse him for the drinks.”

  The cold certainty of it stings more than yelling ever could.

  I clench my jaw, trying to contain my outrage and keep myself steady. “Do you really need a case of 24 beers when your family is going hungry?”

  He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look at me. Just gives his dismissive reply.

  “Yes, I do.”

  He turns his back and walks away, as though the conversation is done. Roselyn, still settled in the middle, remains close against Alonzo and simply shifts her arm to let Dad squeeze in beside her. She keeps chatting with him like nothing happened.

  Dad appears to be focused on transferring the money. His fingers move steadily over the surface of the small wallet device in his hand. A second chime sounds. Probably sending it straight to Alonzo.

  From his bed, Ernie gives me a sad, knowing look, a small, heartbreaking flash of shared understanding. He quickly glances back down to his tablet, pretending he didn’t see anything. He’s smart enough not to make eye contact with anyone in the room after that exchange.

  And I’ve learned that I really need a new solution for hiding my money. I’ll have to brainstorm about it with Claudia tomorrow!

  I grab the last food left in the house, a bruised piece of fruit and the final scrap of bread. I eat it standing, barely tasting a bite. It disappears while I’m lost in vengeful thoughts about all the things I’d love to happen to my Dad.

  He drops into the couch again without a word, sinking back into the dented cushion as if he’s never left it. His eyes lock onto the TV, glassy and fixed. The volume is up now, voices rising as the players line up on-screen.

  They’re standing shoulder to shoulder on a perfectly trimmed field, one team on each side of the anthem band. Each player has a hand pressed to their chest, unmoving and unemotional. The band stands on a low stage, led by marching drummers arranged in rigid rows like a military unit. They wear dark green uniforms to match United World’s ‘earth’ coloured branding, absorbing the glare of the artificial lights as their instruments catch just enough reflection to send the spectacle back into the homes of billions.

  Dad’s expression tightens as the stadium lights go dark and a spotlight locks onto the band preparing to play the world anthem. His jaw clenches, and his face shifts from serious focus to an unforgiven grudge, steeped in bitterness.

  “Boooo, BOOOO!” he shouts suddenly, spitting the words like venom at the screen.

  Roselyn joins in immediately, like she’s been waiting for the moment. “Booo!” she echoes, her voice higher, mocking, gleeful.

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  Alonzo doesn’t miss a beat. “BOOO!” he bellows, flicking his fingers out from under his chin in a sharp, dismissive gesture.

  The lead singer begins the anthem alone, their voice soft and slow, every syllable soaked in solemnity. It’s meant to be reverent, inspiring. Instead, it makes me shiver.

  “Guiding the flow of life.

  With strength and power.

  One stream.

  One world.

  United.”

  A beat of silence. Then the drums lightly begin, a steady rhythm building as the band falls into coordinated motion. The words return, now with music behind them, swelling with international pride or with corporate messaging disguised as praise for what United World supposedly does for all of us.

  “Where crowded cities press the land,

  Where rising oceans choke the sand,

  We guide the light, we shape the flame,

  Through our hands, the world remains.”

  The chorus follows, overly polished and drilled into our heads from singing it every day in primary school.

  “United we breathe, united we stay,

  Power and water to forge the way.

  One law, one flow, one living thread,

  United World, where hopes are fed.”

  The anthem rolls on. I feel the words moving through my mind before I can stop them. My lips mimic the shapes in silence, automatic and uninvited, each word pulling me back to happier memories from when Mum was with us and first taught me the song. The band continues building up the speed of the tempo.

  “Where fields run dry and skies grow thin,

  We weave the currents deep within.

  Through every street, through every vein,

  We are the hands that hold the rein.

  United we breathe, united we pray,

  Power and water to forge the way.

  One law, one flow, one living thread,

  United World, where futures are led.”

  The tempo rises again. The marching drums break into a fast solo, sharp and relentless. I stare at the floor, letting the rhythm crash over me like a wave I’m too tired to resist. Then, almost without warning, the beat begins to slow, each strike heavier and farther apart, winding down to a near stop as the bridge approaches.

  The words are no longer sung but chanted, delivered in a rapid, clipped rhythm. Each one lands with the weight of a command.

  “Flow through the land, light through the skies,

  United World, where order lies…”

  The drums stop too. A full pause follows, like a dramatic breath held by the stadium, the band, and every viewer at home. The final chorus crashes in at full force.

  “United we flow, united we guide,

  Power and water to every side.

  One stream, one spark, one living thread,

  United World, to the world we’re wed.”

  The instruments cut off in a clean, sudden stop, and the anthem ends with United World’s tagline, spoken slowly and solemnly.

  “United World: Guiding the Flow of Life.”

  Silence stretches in the aftermath, heavy and expectant, before the crowd in the stadium erupts into cheers. The broadcast jumps to roaring fans waving flags. But in our flat, Dad’s bitter growl cuts through it all.

  “Booo!”

  Roselyn joins in again, her voice louder this time, more for Dad’s sake than her own. Alonzo lifts his hands in a mocking cheer, then lowers them in disdain.

  I look away and find Ernie. He doesn’t look ready to have his homework reviewed yet, so I might get a bit of my own done.

  I’m not nearly flexible enough to sit properly cross-legged, but I push my legs into something close and settle awkwardly onto the bed. It’s not comfortable on this thin mattress, but it’s familiar.

  I pull my tablet from my bag and hold it up to my face. It unlocks without a sound. The screen glows faintly in my lap, casting a discrete light across my fraying blanket and the curve of my knees.

  I swipe through the home screen, trying to refocus, but the voices from the couch pull my attention back. Dad starts speaking again, his voice thick with frustration.

  “I can’t believe we need to be put through that bullshit song every time there’s a cricket match! Or any other sport for that matter.”

  I stay silent, fingers motionless on the screen, but my attention shifts back to the conversation.

  The commentators Dad has chosen to listen to on the live stream follow the world anthem by commending the service United World provides, not just to Australia but to the whole planet.

  “There aren’t many jobs more demanding than being a professional athlete,” one of them says cheerfully, “but you have to appreciate what Mariana Montoya is doing for United World. The immense responsibility she has to keep the country running in this century, when one wrong decision or mistake could bring potentially the world back to the Age of Illumination… I couldn’t do it!”

  Dad can’t hold his temper in after that.

  “You’re fucken idiots, every one of you! They’re all liars and crooks and frauds, and the world would be a better place without them… but especially without Mariana!”

  Roselyn jumps in without hesitation. “Yeah! Unite the world against them! Then Daddy can be free to live again and have a job with whoever replaces them!”

  Alonzo glances at Roselyn, then joins in with a sharp gesture, flinging his hands up in exaggerated disbelief and raising his voice to speak over them. “Every real job is harder than playing a game for a fortune. You commentators sit there like judges, but you couldn’t do any of it yourselves!”

  The commentator continues, undeterred by the outburst happening in our apartment.

  “Back when John Burnley was their Renewable Energy Director, all he seemed to care about was where the power was going. Stepping aside to found his own company AzurePower Hydro was the best move for him and for us. Now he sells hydroelectricity to United World, and Mariana, a true visionary, gets to focus on real scientific research and innovation to create a better world.”

  Dad lurches to his feet, brushing Roselyn as he pushes up from the couch. His voice thunders through the room.

  “He has clearly bribed her into an arrangement to get rich in exchange for her position of power, you batty, blind, bastards!”

  Roselyn adds fuel to the fire, her voice sharp with loyalty as she echoes, “Dafty, dull, dimwits!”

  They won’t be Dad’s favourite commentators for much longer, but he’s running out of choices.

  Alonzo’s had enough. “You’re about to be replaced in this house. Che vergogna!” Instead of switching to a different commentary stream, he just grabs the remote and hits mute, silencing the voices mid-sentence. Well, that’s another choice.

  I take the opportunity to try and teach Dad a key lesson. He hasn’t learned it yet, but I have to keep trying.

  “Maybe… United World isn’t the problem. If you didn’t do whatever stupid thing it is you did, you wouldn’t have lost your engineering job and ended up blacklisted, needing permission to get another job or even to leave the house. Take responsibility for your own actions!”

  Dad’s frown deepens. That angers him more than anything else. For a second, I think he might shout again. But instead, his voice comes out low and sharp.

  “How dare you, you little shit… you have no idea…”

  Rage floods my mind, and I cut him off before he can finish. “No, I don’t. So tell me! Tell me, and then maybe you can stop playing the victim and start taking responsibility for your family.”

  He goes silent, frozen in resistance. He’s holding in all that bitterness, saving it to use on me another time.

  “No,” he replies reflexively.

  I don’t back down. “No? It’s easier not to tell me, so you can feel sorry for yourself and blame others for your life?”

  “No,” he repeats after a pause.

  I narrow my eyes. “No what?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. I lock my tablet without another word and stand. Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to do any schoolwork tonight. My limbs feel heavy and tight with tension. I should lie down soon.

  I march the few paces to Ernie’s side, lips tight, unintentionally holding my breath until I speak.

  “Have you finished your homework yet?”

  He looks up at me, his eyes full of fear from the tension in the room and the fight I just had.

  I press the question again out of impatience, sharper this time.

  “Ernie, have you finished your homework yet?”

  He nods quickly, scrambling for words. “Yes, I was just working on AFR-4G with Marco while his Dad is over here. It’s been really productive. D?nh was able to help too, even though we’re a bit stuck now.”

  “How is working on a game productive?!” I snap. My reaction is more from exhaustion and frustration than anger, but it still makes him flinch.

  Before Ernie can try to explain, Alonzo leans in from the couch with renewed interest. “What is this top-secret AFR-4G project? Marco won’t tell me anything about it!”

  His grin is more rehearsed than sincere, and his voice is light on purpose. But it’s the hunger in his eyes that gives him away. Not that Ernie would notice.

  Ernie straightens a little and replies with practiced politeness, “It’s just a game, sir. Something we’re doing for fun that also helps us do well in Systems & Logic.”

  Alonzo waves a hand dismissively. “Well, I still want to know more about it. And call me Alonzo. You boys should spend more time practicing soccer instead. I hear you both got into the summer team today!”

  Ernie hesitates, then replies cautiously, “Marco did, sir. Uh, Mr Monti. I won’t be able to play.”

  Dad, watching the TV, suddenly turns to face Ernie and injects himself into the conversation. “Why can’t you play?”

  I speak up before Ernie can answer. “He can’t play because we need more than one responsible person in this family, and it’s not going to be you or Roselyn!”

  Dad ignores me completely, eyes still locked on Ernie. “You can play if you want to. I’m sure Alonzo can take you to the games with Marco.”

  He glances at Alonzo for confirmation, who nods affirmatively without hesitation. Dad smiles, faint and smug. “There. Now you can play, and Victoria can’t stop you.”

  Roselyn’s smirk is infuriating. She leans back, basking in the satisfaction of getting her way. She only got her way because Dad wanted a win over me.

  Ernie, for his part, can’t hide the glow of joy that spreads across his face. He tries to suppress it, but it’s there, hopeful and vulnerable.

  I lean closer to him and lower my voice, slow and firm.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. There’s no way I’m letting you join that team, no matter what they say tonight.”

  The spark in his expression dims. He nods, just barely, his face dropping as his eyes return to the tablet in his lap. But even with the disappointment, a trace of hope lingers. Stubborn and clinging.

  I don’t have the energy to deal with people any longer tonight. I don’t even bother reviewing Ernie’s homework like I planned to. I brush off the others from my thoughts and clean my teeth in silence, my head aching more from the stresses of the day than from tiredness. Then I slip into bed, letting the worn blanket settle over me like a final shield from the noise.

  Ernie finishes up, then puts his tablet away and crawls under his blanket. He lies on his side, facing the TV, holding his well-loved giraffe to his chest. He isn’t watching. It’s just the direction that lets him feel close to his family. Soon, his breathing deepens, settling into the rhythm of sleep.

  On the couch, the energy has faded into something darker. The talk isn’t loud anymore. It’s bitter and vengeful. They’re all trying to come up with the worst things they’d like to see happen to United World. No wonder Ernie’s imagination runs wild. He’s been listening to this for years.

  Roselyn speaks first, casually conspiratorial. “What can we do to find a replacement to United World as an organisation? Or even just make their lives more difficult?”

  Alonzo laughs, lifting his can. “Ah, the fire of a young woman. Nothing moves the world quite like it!”

  Roselyn gives the smallest smile, sinking a little deeper into the seat between Alonzo and Dad. Her chin lifts slightly, pleased with herself and enjoying the attention.

  Dad presses his knuckles to his lips like he’s trying to recall something deep. “It’s been fifty-four years since the One World United agreement was signed in Geneva by most of the world’s countries. Breaking it would mean Australia exits the agreement and cuts ties with all of the participating nations. It would cause resource scarcities for everything we import and lead to oversupply of everything we export. Travel would be limited to the few countries outside the agreement, and I wouldn’t want to have to rely on America or Russia, given how unsafe they’ve become.”

  Roselyn presses on unfazed, “But what if we can get other countries to leave the One World United agreement too?”

  Dad shakes his head. “The internet used to provide global data access, but after the Information War, communication with other countries has become heavily restricted. International flights were also once affordable, back when petroleum was the main fuel source. Now, flying overseas is a lifelong dream most people never get to achieve. Sadly, I don’t see United World’s rule over us ever changing.”

  Roselyn contemplates for a moment, then says with quiet resolve, “Well, if we can’t change who is running things, we will have to change how they run them. Is there a way to allocate our house with a higher electricity quota? If you’re stuck at home, we can at least make it enjoyable!”

  Dad replies, a slight shift in his expression, unaware of what Roselyn is building toward. “Of course. That’s how they manage the available power now.”

  Roselyn keeps her voice suspiciously level. “How easy is it to change the allocation at one address, given the right kind of access?”

  He finds it difficult to smile, weighed down by exhaustion. But his inner cheekiness slips through anyway. “It’s very easy. They had to make it so simple that even Alonzo was able to use it when he worked there.”

  Alonzo puts on an offended look. “Ma dai! It was made like that for the newbies, not for me!” He throws a playful punch at Dad’s shoulder, who chuckles, for once genuinely.

  Roselyn laughs wholeheartedly, carefree and laced with a deeper note of satisfaction. “Then that’s what we need to do!”

  Dad’s face drops back into caution. “What are you going to do? Don’t do anything to anger them!”

  Roselyn props both palms under her chin like a picture-perfect angel and feigns innocence.

  “Sweet little me? Nothing. Look at this face. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Alonzo breaks into a beaming smile. “I wouldn’t worry about her at all. That one can get away with anything she wants!”

  Dad eyes her suspiciously but chooses not to delve any deeper into Roselyn’s words. The conversation fades as they become more absorbed in the start of the New South Wales batting display, watching in silence. And for the first time in a long time, I slip into a much-needed, uninterrupted sleep.