Ever since you were little, you've been told to avoid the Bureau. 'It's dangerous', your parents said, speaking of the Bureau in the same breath as they would drugs, knife crime and unprotected sex. As you were told, the Bureau is like a casino but even worse, as in the Bureau you don't just gamble with money, you gamble with the very gifts god gave you, which itself is a sin.
The message has been reinforced at school too. In your Humanities class, you studied the effect the Bureau's unethical practices have had on less developed countries, where poor people have traded everything they have, everything they are, just in exchange for the money to put food on the table. Many gave away decades of life to the Bureau for basic medical treatment, and entire swathes of sub-saharan Africa have been rendered prematurely aged - the inhabitants trapped in an endless cycle of poverty - too poor to buy back their health and youth, too old and infirm to work.
In fact, the Bureau has been so demonised that, as your father pushes open the door and you step inside, you half-expect the rows of tellers to be occupied by Ursula from the Little Mermaid, signing contracts in blood and snatching away people's voices with their tentacles.
Instead, it just looks like a bank. There is a calm, professional air of business as the tellers attend to the customers, occasionally conversing quietly, pushing across slips of paper to be signed (in ink) or small mounds of coins. There is a queue of customers waiting to be served, to which you both join the end of. Next to the queue stands an electronic sign listed various attributes and a number next to each one illuminated in either red or green. The red numbers are minuses, the greens positive. Every now and then, the numbers refresh and change slightly. Dad takes a glance at the numbers and scratches his chin.
"Hmm, the markets are looking very unsettled today. Dexterity is down almost 4.5%, although Sense-of-humour is doing well," he mutters to himself.
Yeah, your parents had been totally against the Bureau, emphasis on had. That all changed a few months ago on your mother's birthday when your dad traded in a whole lot of money to buy your mom a neat stack of Beauty. Overnight your mum had become the most drop-dead gorgeous stunner on the school run, and the Bureau had transformed from a place of ill-repute to merely a place of transaction. "When you think about it, it's the most charitable thing you can do, giving of yourself" you father had said sagely. "Why, there are people out there who never had the benefit of your birth, who weren't born strong or quick or clever. Who are you to say that they don't deserve the same opportunities as others? To give to the Bureau is to help others, and that's the Christian thing to do."
Your parents have never been consistent in their rules, though the turn-around on that one had almost given you whiplash.
With nerves growing in your stomach, the queue shuffles forward. You're sure you don't want to be here. Dad gives you a pat on the shoulder. "Don't look so concerned, boy, there's nothing to be worried about here."
"But what if I mess up. My friend at school says people can lose legs in here, or come out without any faces. I've even heard Jessica's uncle ended up... bankrupt," you utter in hushed tones. "They say that there was so little left when they were done with him, they took him away in a flask."
"Total nonsense," dad tuts. "The Bureau is heavily regulated, they can't just drain somebody dry just because they fall behind on payments. Besides, as long as you are using it responsibly, there is no risk, no risk at all! Only trade in what you won't miss and only withdraw as much as you can afford. Live within your means, as I've always told you to do, and the Bureau will be good to you."
You mean like you did with mom's present? you think. Ever since her birthday, we've been eating beans on toast and ramen noodles, and the hole in the roof still hasn't been fixed. Neither of them would ever let on but you suspect that your parents are in pretty bad financial straights.
'Till number 7 please'. The next in the queue moves to the teller that sits beneath the illuminated number 7. He is an old man, crooked and bent, and moves with agonizing creaks of his arthritic knees, yet he wears the jeans, hoodie and sneakers of a much younger man. The teller and him talk through the glass panel until the customer is instructed to place his left hand in a slot in the front of the desk and enter his pin.
Slowly the man keys in his pin number with the swollen, gouty fingers of his right hand and presses enter. There is no dramatic flash of light or fanfare as the transaction completes, only the subtle silvering and shedding of his hair, the creak as his osteopenic spine bends a little more. You suspect he has deposited about six months. He peers closer with fading eyesight at the teller counting out a dozen or so crisp, bank notes before collecting them with trembling hands and stuffing them into his pockets.
Dad is watching him with a rather nervous look on his face. "There are of course those who do not manage the services provided by the Bureau very well," he concedes. "Not through any fault of the Bureau of course the Bureau can't force anybody to do anything. They're usually just people with pre-existing problems, be it gambling or drugs. People who lack the self-control or intelligence to avoid loans they have no chance of repaying, or just don't have the work-ethic to maintain a job with which to keep up repayments."
"But I just have a paper-round, how do I repay anything?"
Dad grins. "Repayments are only for loans. This is the first time you've set up an account, so you're free to trade in what you don't want and buy outright the things you do."
'Till number 5 please'. It is your turn. You step up to the counter. "Good morning, welcome to the Bureau. How can we help you today?"
"I would like to set up a child's account for my son here linked to my own," dad says. "I'm here to teach him about saving for his future."
The teller nods. "Righto, sir, if you'd just like to enter your pin." Dad taps in a number. "And then if he'd just like to place his hand into the machine..."
A little slot opens in the front of the desk, revealing what looks to be a hand-scanner. Nervously, you place your hand upon it. It is warm and seems to adhere to the skin of your palm as a laser light washes back and forth over it. "
"Excellent, that's just taking a scan now and should have his account set up in a few minutes," the teller says. "Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
Dad nods. "As a matter of fact there is. Would it be possible to-"
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