Marsha Loftis

Stellar and her small crew had been monitoring the processing center for weeks. Huddled in their makeshift surveillance van, they watched the high fences and imposing buildings of the facility with an unyielding determination. Their mission was simple in concept: infiltrate the center and rescue the children trapped within its cold, unforgiving walls. But in practice, it was proving to be a labyrinthine puzzle, each piece slipping frustratingly out of reach.

They desperately needed a delivery schedule, a timeline of when the trucks carrying children would arrive at the facility. Yet, despite their meticulous observations, they had discovered that the arrival of the children was entirely random, the vehicles used for transport equally unpredictable. Frustration had settled in, a thick cloud that seemed to obscure any semblance of a rescue plan.

Stellar, her determination unwavering, adjusted the headphones she wore as she peered at the facility through binoculars. Her crew members, each with their own set of skills and experiences, shared her frustration. They knew that the clock was ticking for these innocent children, and every passing day brought them closer to a life of captivity and exploitation.

In a world bound by merciless rules and debts that weighed heavy on their souls, Stellar Harbor’s life had become an unending battle to shield her family from the crushing oppression of the state-run Office of Financial Affairs. In this dystopian society, the vulnerable bore the brunt of suffering.

Parents, shackled by insurmountable debts, were often left with no recourse but to surrender their own flesh and blood to the unforgiving bureaucracy. Children became pawns in the hands of the state, mere assets to be traded until they reached the age of 18. The collectors, ruthless enforcers of the state’s will, wielded the legal authority to seize these children through any means necessary.

Stellar had fought with all her might to resist this fate. She had filed every financial extension document available, sold every valuable possession that she and her now-deceased husband had owned. But it was a never-ending struggle. The debt loomed over her like an unyielding specter, and no matter how tirelessly she toiled, she couldn’t break free from its grip.

Today, the day she had always dreaded, had finally arrived. She stood at her doorstep, facing the collector, a heartless emblem of authority flanked by two stern security guards. Her eight-year-old son, Ethan, clung to her, his tear-stained face a portrait of anguish as he begged not to be taken away. His small voice trembled with fear, and he pleaded with his mother to keep him safe.

Stellar’s heart ached as she was forcibly restrained by one of the guards, while the other guard grabbed Ethan and thrust him into the back of a truck. Powerless and devastated, her world crumbled around her. She couldn’t bear to watch her child being ripped away from her. In that moment, she longed for death. The collector’s cold eyes held no hint of mercy or compassion.

But desperation surged within Stellar, and she shouted her son’s name amidst choked sobs. “Ethan! I’ll find you!” Her promise resounded in the harsh, unforgiving air, a vow made in the face of unbearable pain and loss. She clung to the hope that, someday, somehow, she would be reunited with her beloved son and free him from the clutches of this heartless system.

Matt stood in the cramped kitchen of the diner, tying the food-stained apron around his waist with a heavy heart. He loathed this place: the greasy counter, the sizzling stove, and the ever-present smell of frying oil that seemed to seep into his very soul. This diner, and the crushing debt that came with it, was a painful reminder of a life he had lost.

The diner had been his parents’ dream, and they had poured their hearts and savings into it. But fate had dealt them a cruel hand on the night of their anniversary. A drunk driver, fueled by grief and anger from a cheating girlfriend, had swerved into their lane, snatching their lives away in an instant.

Matt, then just 19, had been left with the wreckage of their dreams. His grief was compounded by the overwhelming burden of debt tied to the diner. It wasn’t just a business; it was his family’s legacy.

He had considered walking away from the diner, abandoning the weight of its debts to pursue a college education. But a single thought held him back – his younger brother, Josh. At 15, Josh was still a minor and legally considered the property of his parents’ estate. If Matt were to abandon the diner, The Office of Financial Affairs, a cold and indifferent bureaucratic entity, could legally tag Josh as a “commodity” and sell him into a form of indentured servitude to pay off his parents’ debts. Josh wouldn’t reach the age of independence for another three long years.

The thought of his younger brother suffering such a fate was unbearable to Matt. He couldn’t let that happen. Responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, and it was a burden he was determined to bear.

As he faced the sizzling grill and the orders that never seemed to end, Matt drew strength from his love for Josh. He had a mission – to protect and provide for his younger brother, to ensure that Josh could one day escape the clutches of the Office of Financial Affairs and build a better life.

With each plate he served and each order he took, Matt’s resolve grew stronger. He might loathe this place, but he would endure it, for Josh’s sake. The diner was a symbol of his sacrifice, a constant reminder that he would do whatever it took to protect his family, even if it meant putting his own dreams on hold.

The door to the administrator’s office bore the stark designation of his title: “Vocational Education Program Administrator.” His job was to oversee the certification process for businesses seeking entry into the controversial child commodity market. These businesses had to adhere strictly to government guidelines dictating the use and benefit from the labor of child commodities.

His office was a testament to the mounting pressure he faced. A dark blue jacket hung on the coat rack, a symbol of the professionalism he once embraced. Today, however, his white shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, a sign of the sleeves-up struggle he found himself in.

The administrator sat behind his desk, his face buried in his hands, fingers pressed against his temples in an attempt to quell the throbbing migraine that had become an unwelcome companion. A stack of VEP applications towered before him, an insurmountable mountain of paperwork that seemed to multiply daily. His once-efficient staff of four now felt like a burden, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of inspections and paperwork required.

The situation had taken a darker turn with the departure of his most experienced and reliable inspector, who had left for maternity leave. Her absence left a void that couldn’t be easily filled. No replacement was in sight, and the remaining inspectors struggled, their work teetering dangerously close to incompetence.

The pressure intensified as the government agency sponsoring the child commodity program breathed down his neck. Their funding was directly tied to the number of VEP applicants certified each year. They demanded an 8 percent increase in productivity compared to the previous year, an expectation that loomed over him like a dark cloud.

He stared at the stack of applications, his fingers drumming nervously on his desk. The temptation to fabricate inspection reports and expedite the process nagged at him. It seemed like the only way to meet the government’s demands and secure the program’s funding. No one would know the truth, or so he hoped.

The administrator’s conscience warred with the choices before him. He had started in this role with the belief that he could make a positive impact on the program, ensuring that child commodities were treated with dignity and care. But now, the weight of bureaucracy, deadlines, and moral compromises bore down upon him. The lines between right and wrong blurred, and he faced a decision that would define his career, and perhaps his soul.

The dimly lit underground chamber served as their sanctuary, a hidden haven for those who dared to challenge the oppressive system. The soft glow of candlelight danced across the faces of Stellar’s fellow child advocates, their expressions a mix of determination and weariness. They had gathered here to strategize, to plan their next move in the unending battle to rescue the commodity children from the clutches of the Retrievers.

Stellar sat at the head of the rough-hewn wooden table, her fingers tracing the deep grooves etched into its surface, a testament to the countless meetings they’d held in secrecy. Around her, the members of the Child Liberation Front gathered, their faces partially concealed by the shadows cast by the flickering candles.

Jace, his eyes alight with a fiery resolve that mirrored Stellar’s own, sat opposite her. His youthful exuberance was both a blessing and a curse. He had been with them for just over a year, but his heart burned with a fervor she could not help but admire. However, that same zeal had nearly cost them dearly during the last rescue operation.
“Jace,” Stellar began, her voice low but filled with the weight of disappointment and concern. “You were too close to being caught today. We can’t afford to make mistakes like that.”

His jaw tightened, and he met her gaze with defiance, but there was a glint of remorse in his eyes. “Stellar, we can’t just stand by and watch those kids suffer. We have to take risks to save them.”

Stellar nodded, acknowledging his point, but the situation was far more complex than he realized. “I understand your frustration, Jace. But we can’t save anyone if we’re all taken into custody. We need to be calculated, precise.”

The murmurs of agreement from the others underscored her words. They were dealing with an enemy far more formidable and relentless than any of them had initially anticipated.

Agnie, the group’s intelligence expert, leaned forward, her sharp eyes scanning the faces of their team. “We’ve been gathering information, but we need to exploit any openings they give us, not rush headlong into danger.”
Jace looked down, chastened, his fingers tracing the scars on his hands, reminders of his own traumatic past within the child commodity system. “I… I just can’t stand the thought of another child suffering like I did.”

Stellar’s heart ached for him, for all of them, scarred by their own experiences. But she couldn’t allow their emotions to cloud their judgment. “None of us can, Jace. That’s why we’re here. But we must be smart, strategic. Lives depend on it.”

As they continued to discuss their plans and tactics, the urgency of their mission weighed heavily on them. They were the voiceless champions of the innocent, the whispered rebellion against a world that saw children as commodities. And in the face of such a relentless adversary, they had no choice but to be patient, calculated, and unwavering in their resolve. The lives of countless children depended on it.

The rain relentlessly drummed against the windshield of the black sedan as the Retriever, known simply as Kane, maneuvered through the city streets. The neon lights of storefronts and street signs flickered in the downpour, casting an eerie glow on the slick pavement. Kane’s face bore the wear of years of chasing runners – a perpetual scowl etched with lines that told stories of exhaustion and frustration.

His mid-thirties seemed to stretch beyond their years, the stress of his job accelerating the aging process. Two ulcers gnawed at his stomach lining, a constant reminder of the moral turmoil he wrestled with daily. He had spent the past decade hunting down runners, those brave or desperate enough to escape the clutches of the oppressive vocational education program.

The badge and gun on his belt granted him authority few questioned. Capturing runners, dead or alive, was his mandate – a quota-driven job that brooked no excuses. And this month, he was lagging behind. The pressure intensified, gnawing at him as he navigated the dimly lit streets.

The tracking device mounted on the dashboard emitted a feeble signal, indicating that the girl runner was somewhere nearby. Kane’s fingers rapped impatiently against the device, frustration evident on his face. He slammed the side of it a few times, as if physical force could coax better performance. A violent shake followed suit, a blend of anger and desperation.

Cursing under his breath, he decided to take a breather and pulled into a small diner’s parking lot. He needed a moment away from the relentless rain and the relentless pursuit. The glow of the diner’s fluorescent sign cut through the darkness, offering a brief sanctuary. Kane stepped out of the car, his black suit quickly soaked.

Inside the diner, the air was heavy with the scent of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee. The bell above the door chimed as he entered, drawing the attention of the waitress behind the counter.

With a practiced smile, Maggie approached the counter, knowing exactly where he would sit. They always chose the first seat. The Retriever settled onto the stool, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against his non-functioning tracking device. He was close to the girl runner, he could feel it. The signal was weak, but he trusted his gut instincts.

“What can I get you?” Maggie inquired, her tone polite yet tinged with weariness. “Toast and coffee,” the Kane replied, his eyes still on the malfunctioning device. Frustration danced across his face as he fiddled with it, wishing for a solution that budget cuts had denied him.

The girl runner was near, almost within his grasp. If not for the relentless cost-cutting measures, he would have had access to the latest equipment, ensuring a swift capture and elimination of this persistent thorn in his side. But bureaucracy and finances had conspired against him, leaving him at a disadvantage.

“You look like you could use a hearty meal,” Maggie remarked, her voice taking on a sympathetic tone. “The boy in the back makes a tasty breakfast platter. Let me serve that up for you.” Her hand came down with a friendly slap on the counter, her attempt to distract him subtly.

“It’s on the house!” Maggie added, her eyes holding a mixture of empathy and cunning. She knew how to manipulate a situation, and this was her chance to help the girl runner evade capture.

The Kane glanced up, a brief hesitation in his features as he considered the offer. Hunger gnawed at him, and he couldn’t deny the allure of a free meal. With a curt nod, he finally relented, “Alright, I’ll take the breakfast platter.”

As Maggie turned to relay the order, her gaze drifted to the diner’s rear entrance, where a quiet couple slipped away unnoticed. The girl runner and her boyfriend had seized the opportunity to escape, their departure concealed by the ruckus of the diner. Maggie’s heart raced with a mix of triumph and relief. She had played her part well.

Minutes later, a hearty breakfast platter was placed in front of the Kane, its aroma enticing. He stared at it for a moment, his mind elsewhere, still grappling with the malfunctioning tracker.

Stellar Harbor

The diner, nestled on the edge of a lonesome highway, became an oasis from the relentless downpour outside. A cozy booth, though weathered and drafty, offered a brief escape and a clear view of the rain-soaked road. In that dimly lit corner, a young couple found refuge, their clothes damp and clinging to their weary frames. Her unruly chestnut curls framed a tired face that rested on his strong shoulders. In the hushed ambiance, she whispered, “I love you.”

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with a lifetime of burdens etched in her eyes and heart, approached their table. She set down two glasses of water and a forlorn-looking, day-old cinnamon bun. Her gaze held a flicker of sympathy as she surveyed the bedraggled travelers. The young man, his face sporting a scruffy beard, offered a weary but thankful nod, though his pockets remained frustratingly empty.

Walking away, the waitress sighed, muttering to herself, “No tip from this table, I suppose.”

John had spent his entire life branded as a commodity, treated as property, until his 18th birthday arrived. That day marked the end of his oppressive tracking device, its malevolent control over his life finally ceasing. Months of anticipation led to this liberating moment when he could feel the device breaking down, leaving behind only a small scar as a haunting reminder of his forced servitude. True freedom lay ahead, a life no longer dictated by the crushing Vocational Education Program that had bound him to involuntary labor. The world stretched out before him, offering choices—travel, higher education, employment—all unfettered by the oppressive past, officially erased from records and sealed by the courts of justice.

John’s gaze shifted from his reflection in the rain-dappled window to the young woman beside him. The drizzle outside began to ease. They couldn’t linger here much longer.

“We need to move,” he said, gently urging the girl out of the booth.

Sarah, her wild chestnut curls defying every attempt to tame them, bore the scars of her turbulent upbringing. Born to a drug-addicted mother, her father remained an anonymous specter among countless men. Her life as a commodity had begun at the tender age of four, ensnared in a ruthless system. If the state’s intervention had come just a few years earlier, she might have found a chance at adoption, a loving home, and a future unmarred by the horrors of her past.

Days spent toiling in sun-scorched fields, harvesting vegetables, and enduring daily rituals were now a memory. She had reached an age where the church elders deemed her no longer useful for their purposes. In a cruel twist of fate, they had snapped her picture, slapped it onto a Commodity Trade show flyer, and labeled her a “reliable, diligent worker.” She had escaped that nightmarish existence, fleeing to be with the only person she could trust—the young man who stood beside her.

Yet, the shadows of her past continued to pursue her. A relentless retriever was closing in. Unlike John, her tracking device still functioned, marking her as a target to those who viewed her solely as a commodity, with no regard for whether she returned dead or alive.