Chapter 115: New Policies, Uniform Clothing, and Passivity

In early November, the election results were announced amid great excitement, and as everyone had expected, the President won re-election by a decisive margin.

The Federal Daily ran a front-page headline reading “Another Great Victory” to celebrate the President’s re-election.

But another major newspaper, the Federal Post, ran its front page with “The Most Shameful Victory,” directly challenging the Federal Daily.

The editor declared this re-election the most shameful midterm election in Federal history—not a triumph of popular will, but a victory of the Social Party’s despicable political tactics.

They used utterly vile methods to snatch fairness, justice, and democratic freedom from the people’s hands, using bloody facts to show that in the Social Party’s eyes, everyone is merely a pawn on the board, not a player beside it.

The editor concluded, “If I were President, I would now write my resignation letter out of shame and submit it to Congress, not shamelessly host a conspiracy victory party in my villa.”

Federal Party newspapers also published similar reports, condemning the President for crushing and discarding into the trash the very things Federal citizens had once been most proud of—the Federation was about to enter a dark era…

But for ordinary people, who became President might not make much difference.

On the very day the President won re-election, the Presidential Press Secretary announced several new decrees signed by the President, including one on total alcohol prohibition.

From this moment on, the Federation entered a state of total alcohol prohibition: all states must cease production, brewing, transportation, and sale of alcoholic beverages, including fermented wheat juice.

The newly enacted prohibition law also explicitly stated that Federal customs would halt approval of alcohol imports—in other words, the Federation would not permit the importation of any alcoholic beverages.

This unprecedentedly harsh decree left alcoholics across all states utterly bewildered.

Meanwhile, reliable rumors spread that Congress was discussing the creation of a new enforcement agency dedicated solely to related inspections.

They planned to draw elite personnel from the Federal Tax Bureau, the Federal Finance Ministry, and the Federal Justice Department to form a new enforcement body specializing in investigations into alcohol, drugs, and smuggling.

As soon as this news broke, prices of all existing alcoholic beverages in the Federation skyrocketed; Napo Brewery, having stockpiled vast quantities of various liquors, saw its market value surge!

Not just them—other distilleries and companies holding large inventories of alcoholic drinks also experienced massive shifts in market value.

The financial markets were shaken once again by the alcohol industry, and countless new millionaires emerged overnight.

For the Federation right now, alcohol was money!

Yet the content that should have dominated headlines was overshadowed by election scandals in public discourse.

In the morning, two trucks arrived beside the office; Lans organized people to unload the clothes, having rented a back-alley warehouse nearby to temporarily store them.

All were brand-new garments: blue work uniforms, durable and corrosion-resistant; the fabric was a bit stiff, not as comfortable as cotton or linen, but the key point was their durability—and they were free!

The office was busy; Lans and Vaughn’s relationship continued to warm, and among the dockside illegal immigrants and migrant groups, a division began to form.

One group consisted of ordinary migrants who found work on their own; the other consisted of migrants referred by the office.

To better manage these people, Lans had Xiao En design an archive and card system: everyone registered here would receive their own file.

Details were meticulously recorded: when they started, which work card they used, where they worked, their wages, and how well they performed.

Lans intended to turn passivity into initiative—not letting workers find jobs themselves, but proactively approaching dockworkers about job assignments.

These people had now separated from other migrant groups and were growing accustomed to being dispatched and managed by the office.

This created a powerful snowball effect: because the office could better assist Federal citizens in renting out work cards, it simply collected monthly fees.

Consequently, more and more people chose to store their work cards with Lans; because Lans offered more job opportunities for illegal immigrants, dozens arrived daily from other districts hoping to secure work here.

Early each morning, the office was already packed with people; the illegal immigrants’ curious eyes shimmered with longing.

Many, since arriving in the Federation—months or even a year ago—had never bought a single new garment.

The Federation’s exploitation and oppression forced them to plan every penny’s use.

As long as their clothes weren’t torn and still wearable, they wouldn’t replace them; mending cost a few cents, but buying a whole new set was beyond their means.

Sometimes life is generous: look at those living in the Bay Area, driving convertibles with beautiful girls along the coastal highway.

Sometimes life is cruel: look at these illegal immigrants.

But who doesn’t long for new clothes?

“Everyone, come help out,” Lans called. Soon more people gathered to assist, carrying the clothes from the trucks to the warehouse. When most were moved, Lans had them assemble.

There were at least two or three hundred people here; the alley spilled onto the street, and passersby curious about the commotion stopped to watch.

Mo Lisi brought a chair for Lans, letting him stand higher so more could see him.

“All workers registered in the office who complete one month of work here will receive one set of clothing: one shirt, one pair of pants, and two pairs of gloves.”

The crowd erupted in gasps; someone shouted loudly, “Mr. Lans, do we have to pay for these clothes?”

Lans shouted back, “You don’t have to pay a single cent!”

“But I must tell you: these are your work uniforms. As long as you work, you must wear them—I will assign people to inspect!”

“If anyone is found not wearing them while working, I will consider whether you qualify for work next month.”

“Federal citizens dislike us. They think we’re poor, lowly, humble, ugly—even thieves and criminals. They look at us as if we’re criminals.”

“We reject these baseless accusations. Perhaps changing into clean, neat clothes won’t instantly reverse their perception of us.”

“But at least we must make ourselves look clean and tidy, denying them any excuse to attack us on appearance.”

“We cannot become perfect overnight, but at least we are changing!”

Someone else shouted, “What if the clothes wear out?”

Lans looked at the speaker. “If you wear them out, bring them back and I’ll have someone replace them for you!”

Someone couldn’t wait: “Mr. Lans, then what are we waiting for? Distribute the clothes now!”

Lans signaled Xiao En to begin registration, then stepped aside.

Xiao En had a sharp mind; handling this was a waste of his talent—just a few tables, a few staff, and workers came with their work cards to collect clothing.

Someone tried to take an extra set and was caught: not only was his set reclaimed, but his work card was revoked!

In other words, he would no longer have access to job opportunities here; his slot would be given to someone else.

Those who didn’t qualify watched longingly, then applied for work cards and sought suitable jobs.

In just one morning, over a thousand sets were distributed; some hadn’t come yet or didn’t know about it, but Lans believed they soon would.

Starting the next day, a strange phenomenon appeared in the port district: the illegal immigrants, at least in dress, looked more formal than the local workers!

They wore uniform outfits, with nameplates on their chests displaying their office file numbers and names.

On the back was printed “Wanli Labor Office,” its address, and phone number—though that didn’t matter much.

The dockworkers’ union immediately noticed this; their sense of smell on the docks was razor-sharp. The president summoned several officers.

The president’s name was Scott, slender, dressed in an upscale suit with a flashy tie.

He arrived first at the meeting room, stood by the window, watching the uniformly dressed workers on the distant docks, deep in thought.

As others arrived, he returned to his seat.

Minutes later, he glanced at his watch and stopped waiting. “Those who haven’t come can wait. Does anyone know what’s going on with those people?”

“Several people have called me asking if we’re implementing uniform workwear and when we’ll issue it—I didn’t know anything about this!”

Vaughn raised his hand. Scott looked at him. “You know?”

Vaughn nodded. “I talked to you about it last time. You forgot?”

Scott blinked, confused. Vaughn reminded him: “Donations.”

His eyes snapped into focus. “Yes, I remember—that…” He lowered his head, frowning as if constipated.

Vaughn prompted again: “Lans.”

He snapped his head up, pointing at Vaughn with sudden clarity. “Yes—Lans! That’s the name. So these people are all illegal immigrants?”

Vaughn nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Scott’s head throbbed. “This is troublesome. Several people called me, clearly hoping we’d do the same.”

“But we have no such plan!”

Uniform workwear sounds easy—but it costs money!

Who pays?

The union?

The capitalists?

Or the workers themselves?

Damn it, what the hell is Lans doing, putting the union on the defensive!