Author: marshal

Janet’s voice trembled with desperation as she pleaded for more time, her eyes filled with tears as she clutched her daughter, Emily, tightly in her arms. “Please, just a little more time,” she begged, her voice cracking with sorrow. “I promise, we’ll have the money. Just wait until tomorrow!”

But the guard remained unmoved, his expression cold and unyielding. He reached for Emily, his grip firm as he began to pull the frightened child from her mother’s embrace. Janet’s heart ached as she clung to her daughter, her voice a desperate plea. “My husband will be home tomorrow! Please, just give us one more day!”

The collector, a man who had grown callous to the pleas of parents over the years, merely smirked in response. Every day, he heard the same excuses, the same promises of payment tomorrow. To him, it was all just noise, a part of the job he had grown accustomed to.

“We’ll have the money tomorrow, I swear,” Janet continued to cry, her words falling on deaf ears. The collector didn’t care about the reasons why parents couldn’t pay their debts. His job was simple—collect child commodities, regardless of the heartbreak and devastation it caused.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he interrupted Janet’s pleas. “It’s out of my hands,” he said coldly. “Call your local VEP office. They’ll give you instructions on how to get your daughter back.”

Emily, her eyes filled with fear and confusion, was forcibly torn from her mother’s arms. She was thrown into the back of the truck with the other children, her cries echoing the heartbreak of countless others who had been torn from their families. As the truck pulled away, Janet was left standing there, her world shattered, her pleas unanswered, and her daughter gone.

Stellar sat in the worn-out recliner, the soft hum of the radio filling the room. Freeman’s voice, loud and defiant, resonated through the airwaves, a source of inspiration for those who fought against the child commodity program. His words were a reminder that there was still hope, even in the darkest of times.

As she listened intently, Jace entered the room, a sense of urgency in his eyes. He had information about a new rescue mission, a 16-year-old girl named Sarah who was in desperate need of their help. She had been at the diner with her boyfriend, John, who had recently turned 18 and was now free from the clutches of the child commodity program.

Stellar nodded as she listened to the details of the situation. Sarah’s escape had been a stroke of luck, but they couldn’t afford to waste any time. The Commodity Trade Center was hosting an event, making it difficult for the retrievers to track individual children with all the tracking devices blaring. It was the perfect opportunity to rescue Sarah.

A sense of determination filled Stellar as she considered the task at hand. She despised the churches that often played a role in the child commodity program, and she knew exactly which one Jace was referring to.

“Okay,” Stellar replied firmly. “Get the group together for a meeting in half an hour. We’ll discuss a plan of action.”

Jace nodded and quickly left the room, his steps filled with purpose. Stellar knew that their team was a force to be reckoned with, and together, they would do whatever it took to rescue Sarah and countless others like her.

As she waited for the meeting to begin, Stellar couldn’t help but think of the children they had saved and the ones they had yet to rescue. Freeman’s voice continued to fill the room, a reminder that their fight was far from over. But with unwavering determination and a shared mission, they were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

In the heart of the city, where shadows clung to every corner, a lone radio station flickered to life. Its name was a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness—Voice of the Innocent: Empowerment Radio. Its creator and host, a man who went by the name Freeman, had become a legend in his own right.

Freeman’s voice was loud and boisterous, a stark contrast to the muted cries of the child commodities. Through the airwaves, he shared their stories, their struggles, and their dreams. He gave them a voice, a platform to be heard when the world had turned a deaf ear to their suffering.

But Freeman was more than just a radio host. He was a rebel, a fearless advocate for change. He demanded government reform, rallying listeners from all walks of life to join his cause. His words were a rallying cry, a call to action for those who still believed in the possibility of a better world.

Hidden in an abandoned warehouse, Freeman operated in the shadows, always one step ahead of the authorities who sought to silence him. He was an unstoppable thorn in the side of the government and corporate leaders who profited from the child commodity program. The price on his head was high, but he was willing to risk it all for the sake of the innocent.

As Freeman continued to broadcast his message of hope and resistance, his words resonated with those who had long been oppressed. The movement he had sparked was growing, and the government’s grip on power was beginning to loosen.

In the darkness of the abandoned warehouse, Freeman stood as a symbol of defiance, a beacon of hope for the child commodities and all those who believed in justice. His voice, once drowned out by the cries of the oppressed, had become a force to be reckoned with, a testament to the power of one man’s unwavering determination to make a difference.

Stellar sat at the head of the table, the dimly lit room filled with her dedicated team. Their last mission to rescue a young commodity had been surprisingly successful, almost too easy. She knew they couldn’t let their guard down, not in this perilous world where danger lurked around every corner.

She cleared her throat and addressed her team, gratitude and pride evident in her voice. “I want to thank each and every one of you for your hard work on our last mission. We operated like a well-oiled machine, and because of that, the boy is now safe at the Safehouse.”

Nods of agreement and appreciation rippled through the room. Their team was a tightly knit group, bound by a shared mission to rescue children from the clutches of the child commodity program.

Stellar continued, her expression growing more serious. “But let’s not forget that our success came at a high price. We can’t afford to become complacent. The Retriever is relentless, and we’re always one step away from disaster.”

She couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease about the ease with which they had accomplished their last mission. It was as if the stars had aligned in their favor, but she knew that such luck was rare in their line of work.

The boy they had rescued was now in the Safehouse, where his tracker device would be removed, and he would be given an education until he was old enough to enter society without worry. It was a bittersweet victory, knowing that they had saved one child but countless others remained trapped.

Stellar’s thoughts turned to the parents of the boy, or rather, what remained of them. One was dead, and the other languished in the state penitentiary. In a cruel twist of fate, those without assets, such as children, often ended up in debtors’ prisons, a grim reminder of the unforgiving system they lived in.

As the team discussed their next steps, Stellar couldn’t shake the feeling that their work was far from over. The shadows of success loomed large, a reminder that in this world, victory came at a steep cost, and the fight to save these children was a battle that never truly ended.

The big city loomed ahead, a sprawling maze of towering buildings and crowded streets. John and Sarah had been on the run for a week now, their desperate journey taking them from one place to another in a relentless pursuit of safety. Their latest destination was the heart of the city, a place where they hoped to find refuge, even if only for a short while.

As they approached, the city greeted them with a cacophony of sounds and a dazzling array of billboards. Everywhere they looked, the advertisements mentioned the Commodity Trade Center’s current event. It seemed that these events were happening all around the country, jumping from one city to another with calculated precision. It was a sinister strategy, ensuring that child commodities would be equally dispersed, like pawns in a dark and twisted game.

John and Sarah, weary and hungry, entered the Commodity Trade Center with a heavy heart. Their intentions were simple—they were looking for free food, a meal that would sustain them for another day on the run. But they couldn’t block out the haunting images that surrounded them.

Glass enclosures lined the walls, each containing a child commodity. Their eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and resignation, met John and Sarah’s gaze as they passed by. Some of these children would be sold into a hell they could never imagine, their lives forever altered by the heartless system that treated them as mere assets.

John couldn’t help but shudder as he remembered the life they had escaped. Both of them had been child commodities of a church, their days filled with endless chores that included gardening, cleaning, learning scripture, and, depending on the season, enduring the unimaginable. Pastor Keith had been the puppeteer of their torment, a man who hid behind a facade of righteousness while committing unspeakable acts.

Now, as they walked through the Commodity Trade Center, John and Sarah felt a deep sense of guilt and helplessness. They were free, but so many others were still trapped in this nightmarish world. The city, with its towering buildings and blaring billboards, was a place of shadows and secrets, where the line between right and wrong had been blurred beyond recognition.

But they couldn’t stay here for long. The Retriever was still on their trail, and time was running out.

The Bargain Bin was a chilling corner of the Commodity Trade Center, tucked away from the polished veneer of the main exhibit. Here, the children were far from the eye-catching display pieces. They were the throw-a-ways, the forgotten, the physically and mentally imperfect.

One of them was a girl who had suffered an accident at a textile plant, leaving her disfigured and scarred. The authorities had permitted her to keep a teddy bear for comfort as she sat on a cold bench, waiting for whatever fate awaited her.

The bargain bins held children bundled together, their individual worth diminished by their perceived imperfections. Instead of being sold separately, they were destined for a range of grim fates—organ farming, drug testing, and jobs considered too hazardous for the adult population.

Day after day, the bargain bin children received an endless stream of onlookers. Wooden benches surrounded by a glass enclosure offered them no place to hide. They were physically and mentally broken commodities, waiting for the end of the day and the undisclosed horrors that would follow. The curious gawked and pointed at their misfortune, treating them like mere objects of fascination.

Behind closed doors, potential buyers negotiated among themselves, haggling over the price of these children’s lives as if they were nothing more than commodities to be traded.

Child welfare advocates took to the streets, their voices raised in protest. They proclaimed that the government treated wounded animals more humanely than these commodity children. It was a stark and sobering truth—the government had maintained a blind eye to the suffering of these children, turning a deaf ear to the cries for help. Money played a significant role in ensuring that legislation to save these children was never passed.

In the heart of this chilling reality, the girl with the teddy bear sat silently, her disfigurement a stark reminder of a world that had lost its humanity. She, like so many others, was trapped in a system that valued profit over compassion, where children were reduced to mere objects of trade, and their voices were silenced by the deafening clatter of commerce.

Exceptional grades had earned him an internship as a state-processor for the Commodity Trade Convention Center. At 19 years old, he was both excited and nervous. His mother had insisted that he wear the suit she had bought him on his first day of work, and it hung awkwardly on his frame, making him feel self-conscious.

As he stood there in his ill-fitting suit, he watched as the Armed Security Guards escorted a dozen tired, cold, and hungry children into the holding room. His hands were shaky as he held the tag scanner, a device that would confirm each child’s name and number. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease and guilt as he went through the motions, marking these young lives for their initial sale price.

He couldn’t look the new commodities in the eyes. Each child was a walking testament to a system that had reduced them to mere assets, and he was now a cog in that dehumanizing machine.

Meanwhile, the Nurse, with over 40 years of experience in her profession, cut a striking figure. She wore a starched navy blue uniform and a white pinafore apron, her gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, adorned with an old faded nursing cap. Her eyes, though weary from years of service, still held a glint of compassion.

She scrutinized each commodity’s health and verified their age. Her experienced hands gently examined them, seeking out any signs of physical distress or illness. She reviewed the suggested commodity classification of each child to ensure accuracy, and she wasn’t afraid to make adjustments when necessary.

Children marked as physically broken, possible trouble-makers, or those who were panic-stricken were given sedatives under her watchful eye. It was a grim process, but she had learned to steel herself against the tide of emotions that threatened to engulf her. With a sense of duty that ran deep, she made sure these young souls were prepared, in whatever way possible, for their uncertain future.

As the children were escorted by the guards to the convention center floor and placed in viewing cells, the Nurse couldn’t help but wonder how the world had come to this. She had dedicated her life to healing and caring for others, yet here she was, complicit in a system that treated children like commodities to be bought and sold. But for now, all she could do was fulfill her role as the Nurse and hope for a better future for those who deserved so much more.

The Commodity Trade Convention Center was a place of grim business, hidden behind the facade of a sterile and orderly environment. Neatly dressed in standard commodity t-shirts and shorts, children from various Vocational Education Programs filed in, their faces marked with a blend of apprehension and resignation. Their outfits were uniform, but their individual stories were far from it.

A stern State Processor stood at the entrance, verifying each child’s legitimate working tag number with a practiced eye. Categorized by age and reliability rating, the children were placed in viewing cells like commodities on display, ready to be traded and sold to the highest bidder.

The convention center’s doors opened at 8 am for private viewing, where potential buyers and certified businesses could assess the goods. Public access, where anyone with an interest could enter, began at 10 am. It was a chilling marketplace where children were reduced to mere assets to be assessed and bartered.

Posters on the walls carried a stark disclosure: the commodity tag button on each child should glow green, not yellow. Yellow indicated that the commodity was within six months of turning 18, making them ineligible for sale or trade status. The system had a cold and merciless way of categorizing these young lives.

Amid this dehumanizing atmosphere, the Dock Foreman was a man who had accepted a thankless role to be closer to his own family and ailing mother. Married with a wife and three children, he knew that the job required him to push his emotions aside and maintain a stiff jaw.

With clipboard in hand, he counted the children as they were brought in, verifying tag numbers against the shipping order. His job was to ensure that the transaction went smoothly, to oversee the transition of these young lives from one form of captivity to another.

Meanwhile, the smelly truck driver, who had delivered the children to this place, smiled with a hint of satisfaction. Holding his hand out for payment, he reveled in the profits that would soon come his way. It was a world where morality had been sacrificed for financial gain, a world that viewed children not as dreams to be nurtured but as commodities to be traded.

Stellar and her team had been so close. They had tracked the boy for ten grueling days, each moment fraught with tension and uncertainty. But they were running out of time, and the stakes had never been higher.

The boy had been clever, evading the Retriever’s grasp with remarkable skill and determination. Stellar had seen the spark of hope in his eyes, the glimmer of a chance for freedom. He was just a child, but he had dared to defy a heartless system that treated children like commodities.

Their plan had been meticulous. They had timed their approach carefully, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and rescue the boy. But then, the unthinkable happened—a spotter stumbled across the boy’s hiding place and sent his location to the Retriever.

Stellar’s heart sank as she watched the drama unfold on the surveillance feed. The boy now crouched beneath the underpass, his young face contorted with fear and desperation. He begged for his life, for a chance to see his mother, for a shred of mercy in a merciless world.
But Stellar knew they couldn’t risk revealing themselves in front of the cameras. The consequences would be dire, not just for them but for all the children they were trying to save. It was a painful decision, but it was one they had to make.

As the Retriever pulled the trigger, ending the boy’s run, Stellar turned away, tears stinging her eyes. It was a bitter defeat, another life lost to a system that seemed impossible to defeat. Spotters had become an obstacle that was increasingly difficult to circumvent, and each failure took a toll on Stellar and her team.

They walked away from the scene, their hearts heavy with the weight of their mission. They knew that they couldn’t save them all, but they would keep trying. They would keep fighting for a world where children were not commodities, where hope was not a fleeting spark, but a flame that could burn bright and free.

In the bustling heart of the city, nestled among the towering skyscrapers and neon signs, stood the “Cup of Commodity” coffee shop. Sponsored by major industry giants, it was a haven for those seeking refuge from the relentless pace of life. With its cozy atmosphere, it offered an array of aromatic beverages and freshly baked pastries, creating a warm and inviting environment for families and friends to gather.

But this coffee shop had a dark secret hidden behind its facade of cheerfulness. It was more than just a place to grab a latte or a muffin. It was a hub for a twisted pastime that had gripped the city’s residents: betting on the lives of young runners who attempted to evade capture.

The Tracker Board, mounted on the back wall behind the pastry bar, ranked the top 20 Runners. Large flat-screen televisions, strategically placed around the room, looped the most recent runner updates. People huddled around tables, eyes glued to the screens, as the drama of these young lives played out in real time. Bets were placed at any cash register, but identification was required—a chilling reminder of the stakes involved.

On this particular day, the coffee shop was abuzz with anticipation. You could hear a pin drop as everyone’s eyes were fixed on the television screens. It was a remarkable run—the freckle-faced 14-year-old commodity had evaded capture for 12 days, a feat almost unheard of in this chilling sport.

The boy, fueled by youthful naivety and a sense of invincibility, had taunted the Retrievers with clues to his hiding places, convinced he could outwit them all. For a moment, it had all been fun and games.

But in a world where profit trumped morality, even innocence had a price. An anonymous spotter, motivated by financial gain, had sent a photo pinpointing the boy’s exact location to the Retriever.

The local television station played the clip several times, the boy’s terrified face broadcast for all to see. Beneath the grim underpass, crouched in the dirt, the boy begged for his life. Tears streamed down his face as he pleaded, “Wait! Please! Can I see my mom? Can I talk to her?”

Annoyed with this particular Runner’s desperation, the Retriever smiled coldly and pulled the trigger.

The “Cup of Commodity” coffee shop erupted into a paradoxical celebration and displeasure. Money exchanged hands, bets won and lost, as this tragic Runner soared to the all-time favorite list. The boy’s mother would receive a small cash award from the “Cup of Commodity” for her son’s efforts, a macabre compensation for the loss of a child who had been just another pawn in the twisted game they called entertainment.