Marsha Loftis

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.

The truck rumbled to a halt, its engine growling in the echoing silence of the processing center. The children, their faces etched with fear and confusion, felt the weight of the unknown future closing in on them. The driver, a man hardened by indifference, stepped out of the cab, his gaze never lingering on the cargo he transported.

Guards, dressed in uniforms that seemed more like battle gear than anything else, surrounded the truck. They moved with military precision, their faces devoid of emotion. With stern orders and no room for dissent, they ushered the children out of the truck, forming a grim procession toward the processing center’s entrance.

Katy, just 14 years old, found herself among the group. Only a day ago, she had been attending high school, her biggest concern the upcoming math test. Now, her life had taken a nightmarish turn, and her world had been upended.
Her father’s voice echoed in her head, a final desperate plea before he succumbed to his illness. “Play the game, look for opportunity, escape if you can. If you can’t escape, survive.”

Those words were etched into Katy’s soul, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness. She clung to them as she shuffled along with the other children, past the watchful guards and into the facility. The first stop was a medical exam, where they were prodded, probed, and measured, their futures determined by a cold set of criteria.

The dreaded commodity rating would decide their usability within the program. Katy couldn’t help but shiver, her heart pounding in her chest as the doctors examined her. She couldn’t afford to be deemed unfit for work.

After the medical examination, it was the insertion of tracking devices. Katy felt the sting as the device was implanted beneath her skin, a constant reminder of the surveillance that would follow her every move.

Next came the shower, a brief reprieve from the filth and fear that clung to her. Clean clothes were provided, although they felt like costumes in this grim theater of life.
The guards were unyielding, their orders curt and unwavering. The children were sorted and processed like cattle, with no regard for their dreams or their pasts.

Katy couldn’t forget her father’s voice, urging her to play the game. As she stepped out of the processing center, the Commodity Trade Center loomed in the distance, a foreboding fortress where their fates would be auctioned to the highest bidder.

With each step, Katy carried her father’s words like a torch, a glimmer of hope in a world where survival was the only game worth playing.

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.