Ugoth slapped a child. The sound echoed in the factory. The child's pained face, shocked and hurt, stirred something fierce in Baylon.

The child, nicknamed “Little Obo,” returned to work, holding back tears.

Baylon leaned toward Ijoma, his jaw set. "Ijoma, we need to act,” Baylon said, is voice, a low whisper over the loom's clatter.

“When?”

“Now?”

“Do what?”

“Strike, like Okamen says to.”

“Are we ready?”

When Ugoth turned away, Baylon and Ijoma slipped from their workstations. They passed through the children, whispering “Strike.” They headed for a dim corner, away from prying eyes. The room's rhythmic clatter and steam hisses set a tense stage for their whispered strategy.

Some of the workers followed. Among them, a teary-eyed Little Obo. Ijoma's voice, usually bright, was now hushed. "We can't endure this forever," she whispered, scanning for eavesdroppers.

Ijoma spoke with urgency, "We can't live like this." Her eyes scanned the area, alert.

Baylon faced the young, weary group. "We're not just tools," he said.

A small girl, her hands scarred by labor, clutched her shawl. "What if we get caught?" she asked in a hushed tone.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A boy, his gaze lowered, said, “My family needs to eat.”

Baylon, understanding the stakes, stepped forward. "We can create a better life," he said. “For your family too.”

Ijoma said, "Imagine a day free from these machines.”

Hope replaced the usual resignation on the children's faces.

In the dim factory light, Baylon said, "They starve and strike us!"

The children, young and older, listened. Baylon's words wrapped them in solidarity.

"We're not alone," Baylon said, sweeping his gaze over them. "Together, we're stronger than this place."

“So we should strike them back,” Ijoma said.

The children exchanged silent glances, torn between fear and hope. Across the factory, Ugoth, unaware, marched through in the dusty air.

Little Obo stepped forward. His face turned red. “Strike!” he screamed.

“Strike!” Baylon shouted.

Other children took up the chorus. “Strike! Strike Strike!”

They marched toward the factory doors. Others watched from their looms. Some stood and joined them.

Their footsteps echoed, a rhythmic symbol of rebellion. Their chants for freedom rose above the machinery, which slowly fell silent.

#

Children's voices, typically drowned by machinery, now echoed clear and defiant. The usually disciplined floor turned chaotic as the young rebels made their stand.

Ugoth stepped between them and the factory’s doors, blocking their path to freedom was blocked. "Stop!" he bellowed.

Workers, Adanmaz among them, formerly engrossed in their tasks, paused, astonished and uncertain at this spectacle. The monotony was broken.

“Strike! Strike! Strike!” The children chanted. Baylon took Little Obo’s left hand, Ijoma Obo’s right. More and more children joined them, turning the procession to a flood.

Ugoth appeared less formidable amidst the mass of bodies. “Stop!” His efforts to suppress the uprising were drowned by the children's steadfast cries.

Witnessing Ugoth's faltering authority, the concept of resistance, once remote, now seemed possible.

One by one, more workers joined the children. Their hesitant steps became confident as they united. The factory, once a place of silent compliance, now resounded with their voices, a chorus of freedom challenging the regime.

Workers surged past Ugoth, faces alight with empowerment. The factory doors swung open.

Outside, under a sky signaling change. The sun shone bright on the work yard beyond.