Empathy Feed

“Please sir, I take CommonWealth!”

The indigent held out his card reader at a man dressed in a sharp-looking three-piece suit rushing by. Most people walked past him.

He used to call out “spare change,” but there wasn’t any to spare anymore. The phrase was as extinct as paper bills. Now, he had the standard issue: a pale-gray vest, a chipped card reader tethered to his wrist by a rubberized cord, and a lanyard that read “Unbanked Associate – Verified.”

No one carried cash anymore. It wasn’t just inconvenient—it was suspicious. Street vendors had QR plates; even buskers had wearable readers. The government called it financial transparency. The companies called it progress.
And the biggest of them all—CommonWealth—called it compassion.

The indigent’s name was Eli, though no one called him that anymore. His CommonWealth ID read Participant 47-A-09-23. Once, he’d been a line cook. That was before the diner went digital—before the retinal scanners, before identity-linked payroll.

Now he lived beneath the overpass in Compassion Court, a row of government-approved tents, each with a QR code printed on the nylon. Every tent came with a solar charger, a daily meal credit, and—new this year—a body cam.

CommonWealth said the cameras were for “user protection.” In their ads, clean-cut narrators explained that these devices kept Associates safe from “predatory donors” and “false claims.”

After a “leak” of some footage that went wild on YouTube, Corporate got the bright idea that maybe their users could get more funds if people knew their stories—put a human face on the homeless, show the world just how compassionate they really were. Give ’til it hurts.

They monetized and sold ad revenue that never made it back into the pockets of the people who made all that money to begin with. After all, someone had to maintain the servers.

They called the program “RealChange.”

Every Associate’s daily footage was uploaded, filtered, and packaged for the CommonWealth+ streaming service. Each clip was titled like a sermon: “Second Chances,” “One Good Day,” “The Gift of Giving.” Viewers could comment, share, and, of course, donate.

The most popular streams were featured in the Top Ten Acts of Kindness section. CommonWealth issued congratulatory press releases about “record engagement” and “unprecedented compassion metrics.”

Eli’s camera blinked red as he sat on the corner of 8th and Alvarado, eating a protein bar stamped with the company logo. CommonWealth claimed it had everything a growing body needed to live another day. He winced at the taste—like styrofoam with a perfume of industrial cleaner. Somewhere, thousands of viewers were watching him live. They could tip him with a single tap. Most didn’t.

Every time a donation came through, the app played a soft chime, like the sound of a child’s laughter. Viewers loved that part. It felt wholesome. Human.

Eli never heard the chime. When he did on that rare occasion, it felt like being mocked.

Soon, RealChange wasn’t enough. Viewers wanted something raw—something that felt real. CommonWealth’s analytics called it “authentic engagement.” What it really meant was cruelty that could be consumed between commercials.

In the forums that sprang up around the streams, users placed bets on which Associate would last the winter, who would break down on camera first, whose tent would be raided next. Others paid for “exclusive feeds,” where the content wasn’t filtered through the company’s public app. These were called Undercurrent Streams—unofficial, but everyone in the tower knew where they came from. The data leaked upward, and the revenue flowed back to CommonWealth through shell advertisers and “community outreach partners.”

Eli finished the bar and threw the wrapper to join the countless other pieces of refuse that littered the Court. He wiped his dirty hands on his dirtier pants and began to look for Jon. Jon wasn’t exactly a friend, but he was close enough.

He spied him by a barrel turned makeshift firepit. He walked over to get warm and say hello.

Jon stood over the barrel, palms hovering above the thin tongues of fire licking through damp cardboard. His vest hung open, half-zipped, the company logo already peeling from the chest. The little red light of his body cam blinked in rhythm with the flames.

“Morning, Eli,” he said without looking up. “They cut the power again last night. Said the grid was at capacity. Guess kindness doesn’t cover electricity.”

Eli rubbed his hands together, grateful for the heat even as the smoke stung his eyes. “Any food drops today?”

Jon laughed once—a dry, broken thing. “Just those bars again. ‘Now with twice the nutrients,’ the message said. Tastes the same though.”

They stood in silence a while, watching the others shuffle through the camp. Every movement caught on dozens of blinking cameras. A woman sobbing quietly in her tent. A man arguing with himself beside the charging station. Somewhere above, a drone hummed, recording it all for the RealChange highlight reels.

Eli nodded toward the device on Jon’s vest. “You ever wonder who’s watching us?”

Jon smirked. “Don’t need to wonder. Got a message yesterday from some viewer. Said he likes my grit. Asked if I’d do a ‘challenge’ for five bucks.”

“What kind of challenge?”

“Didn’t say. Doesn’t matter. I blocked him.” Jon looked away. “Next morning I get an alert from CommonWealth: ‘Congratulations! You’ve been selected for a Spotlight Opportunity.’ You think that’s coincidence?”

Eli felt a weight in his chest. “What happens in those?”

Jon’s eyes flicked toward the far end of the camp, where a tall tent stood fenced off with yellow tape and solar panels. “They film you,” he said quietly. “All night. Ask questions about your ‘journey.’ Maybe you cry. Maybe you don’t. Doesn’t matter. The editors will fix it.”

Eli tried to laugh but couldn’t. The fire popped, throwing sparks against the dark concrete. The cameras captured that too—perfect lighting, perfect pathos.

“Think they’ll ever let us out?” he asked.

Jon shrugged. “Why would they? We’re their content.”

“Come on,” Eli said. “Let’s go to work.”

They bundled up and made for their usual corner.

They passed a particularly seedy alley crowded with onlookers, phones raised, shouting and catcalling three of their “colleagues” caught in the throes of humiliation. They were a writhing spectacle of limbs and flesh.  There were calls for more Associates to join in. They walked quickly away so as not to get pulled into the spectacle. More and more, the streams had become a venue of entertainment for the darkest corners of their audience—forcing others to live out fantasies they never could.

Underground fighting rings had begun to spring up too. Boxing was still around, sure, but boxing never reached these highs of brutality. And if a fighter died? All the better. If both did, ratings and views shot through the roof.

Eli sadly shook his head. Anything for views.

He often wondered what he would do—how desperate he would get—for a huge payday. He tried not to dwell on it.

They were almost at their corner when a group of kids bearing their cellphones decided to approach them.

The kids couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Hoodies, backpacks, the glow of their phones lighting their faces. They were laughing, already streaming.

“Yo, check it out—live content!” one of them said. His camera focused on Jon. “Say something for the feed, old man!”

Jon turned away. The red light on his chest blinked faster, picking up movement, data, attention.

“C’mon, don’t be shy. You’re famous, right? You’re on CommonWealth!” The boy mimed holding out a reader. “How’s that compassion paying out?”

Eli stepped between them. “Leave him alone.”

The laughter spiked. The chat icons on their screens rolled like a waterfall.

“Whoa, we got a hero!” another said. “Let’s see if the viewers like that.”

Something whistled past Eli’s ear—a thrown drink can, half full. Then another. The kids kept filming, narrating, tagging. #RealChangeLive. #CompassionCourt. The comments poured in faster than the insults.

“You hungry old man?” The probable ringleader spat out, “I bet those protein bars get old fast.  Eat this and we’ll leave you alone.”  He reached into a nearby trashcan and pulled out an empty beer bottle and shoved it at Jon.

Jon stared at the bottle.
For a second, he didn’t seem to understand what the kid meant. Then he saw the phones, the eager faces, the way they were all waiting for him to do something—anything—for the camera.

He reached out slowly, took the bottle by the neck, and looked at it as though it were something delicate and rare. Then he looked back at the boys.

“You want me to beg?” he asked. His voice was calm, almost tired. “That’s what you’re after, right? A little bit of theater before dinner?”

The boys laughed. The lenses caught every twitch of his face.

Jon set the bottle down carefully on the ground and turned away.  Blink and you would have missed it.  One of the gang tackled him while the other two held Eli back.  Jon struggled but the knee in his back made it a futile struggle.

“Let him go!” Eli pleaded. 

The ringleader held the bottle to his face, taunting.  Jon clenched his jaw tight, eyes closed, desperately trying to squirm away.  He pinched Jon’s nose shut, and soon gasping for breath Jon’s mouth flew open.  It was too much.  The neck of the bottle found itself down his throat and his jaw forced down on it.

Eli could hear the sickening crunch.  His face grew wet as he tried to look away. 

The boys laughed. The lenses caught every twitch of his face.

Then a sound—a dull, final kind of sound—and everything went still.

When the boys ran, they were still filming. Eli knelt beside what they left behind, shaking, the glow of his body cam painting everything in red.

Jon wheezed, once, twice, then moved no more.

By morning the clip was trending.
CommonWealth+ Presents: “Courage in the Face of Despair.”
A soft piano score, the company’s logo pulsing faintly behind the image of a fallen Associate. The caption read: “Every story matters.”

Donations doubled overnight. The CEO released a statement about “the fragility and beauty of human resilience.” The ad revenue was record-breaking.

Eli saw red.

“You want a show?!” He screamed at no one, “I’ll give you something you’ll never forget!”

Eli saw red.
“You want a show?!” he shouted at the blank sky, at the hovering drones, at the thousands of invisible eyes behind them. “I’ll give you something you’ll never forget!”

The drones pivoted toward him, lenses irising open. Notifications lit up across the city. Live Event in Progress.

He climbed the rail that edged the overpass. The wind tore at his vest. Below him, the traffic pulsed like a vein of light. His camera blinked, steady, unblinking.

He looked straight into the lens. “Please, sir,” he whispered. “I take CommonWealth.”

Then he stepped forward.

The feed cut to black.

By sunrise, the video had more views than any other in company history. CommonWealth+ Presents: “Empathy Feed: A Legacy of Hope.” The footage was edited, slowed, scored with a rising choir. The final frame froze on his face, eyes lifted, the logo shining faintly in the corner.

The statement went out within the hour:

We mourn the loss of two brave Associates whose stories touched millions.
Their legacy will live on through the new CommonWealth Foundation for Human Connection.
Because every act of kindness deserves to be remembered.

The campaign shattered every record. Donations surged. Viewership tripled. The boardroom applauded. Bonuses were approved.

Within three days the memories of Eli and Jon were long forgotten.

And far below the tower, in the gray dawn over Compassion Court, the empty tents hummed as their cameras synced, ready to capture the next story.