Empire of Shadows

Our

In early November, the election results came in hot, and just as everyone had expected, the President won re-election by a landslide.

The Federal Daily ran the headline “Another Great Victory” to celebrate his win.

Meanwhile, The Federal Post fired back with a front-page story titled “The Most Shameful Victory,” openly clashing with The Federal Daily.

In the article, the editor called it the most disgraceful midterm election in the history of the Federation—not a triumph of free will, but a result of the Socialist Party’s despicable political maneuvers.

They used extreme tactics to strip fairness, justice, democracy, and freedom away from the people. The bloody truth, according to the editor, was that to the Socialist Party, the people weren’t players in the game—they were just pieces on the board.

The editor ended with: “If I were the President, I’d resign in shame and hand my letter to Congress, not shamelessly host a ‘victory party’ in my mansion.”

The Federalist newspapers echoed this sentiment, accusing the President of destroying the things that once made Federation citizens proud. They warned that a dark era was ahead…

But for ordinary folks, who became president probably wouldn’t change much.

On the very day of his re-election, the President’s spokesperson announced several new decrees he had just signed—including one for full national prohibition.From that moment on, the entire Federation entered a full prohibition period. All states were ordered to stop the production, brewing, transportation, and sale of alcoholic beverages—including fermented wheat drinks.

The decree also banned alcohol imports, with customs ceasing all clearance for alcoholic products.

This unprecedentedly strict law stunned drinkers across the nation.

Reliable sources said that Congress was discussing the formation of a new law enforcement body—dedicated solely to cracking down on alcohol, drugs, and smuggling.

They planned to pull elite personnel from the IRS, Treasury, and Department of Justice to form this special task force.

As soon as the news broke, alcohol prices skyrocketed. Napol Distilleries, having stockpiled a massive inventory, saw its valuation soar!

They weren’t the only ones—other alcohol companies and storage firms saw their stock prices explode.

The financial market was once again rocked by the alcohol industry, producing a new wave of freshly minted millionaires.

In today’s Federation, liquor was money.

Yet what should’ve been front-page news was overshadowed by election scandals and barely stood out in the headlines.

That morning, two trucks pulled up next to Lance’s agency. He coordinated a team to unload them. In a rented warehouse nearby, the clothes were stored temporarily.

All the clothes were brand-new—blue work uniforms. Durable, corrosion-resistant. The fabric was a bit stiff—not as comfortable as cotton—but the key was: it was durable and free.

The agency was bustling. Lance’s relationship with Vaughn was growing stronger. At the docks, immigrants and undocumented workers were now splitting into two camps.

Some found jobs on their own. Others came through the agency.

To manage them better, Lance had Sean design files and ID cards for everyone registered.

Each worker had a record: when they worked, whose work card they used, where they worked, how much they got paid, and their performance—everything was logged.

Lance no longer wanted to wait for workers to find jobs. He wanted to go on the offensive—negotiating directly with people at the docks to arrange dispatches.

These workers were beginning to separate from other immigrant groups, becoming used to being managed and assigned by the agency.

It was a perfect snowball effect. Since the agency handled work card rentals for citizens, they just collected monthly fees.

So more people were storing their cards with Lance. Plus, the agency offered more job opportunities for undocumented workers, attracting dozens daily from other districts.

By early morning, crowds of them gathered outside—hopeful, eager.

Many hadn’t bought new clothes in months or even a year.

The Federation’s exploitation forced them to count every penny. As long as clothes weren’t torn beyond repair, they wouldn’t replace them. Patching up old clothes was cheap. A new outfit was too costly.

Sometimes life was generous—look at the Bay Area folks cruising with girls in convertibles.

Sometimes life was cruel—just look at these immigrants.

But who didn’t yearn for new clothes?

“Come help out!” Lance called, and more stepped in to move the uniforms into the warehouse. Once it was mostly done, he gathered everyone.

There were at least 200 to 300 people, lining up into the street. Curious pedestrians stopped to see what was going on.

Morris brought over a chair for Lance to stand on, so everyone could see him.

“All workers registered with the agency—if you’ve worked here for a full month, you’ll get a full uniform: one shirt, one pair of pants, and two pairs of gloves.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone shouted, “Mr. Lance, do we have to pay for these?”

Lance answered loudly, “Not a single cent!”

“But—this is your work uniform. You must wear it on the job. I’ll assign people to check!”

“If anyone is found working without it, I’ll consider whether they get a job next month.”

“Federation citizens don’t like us. They see us as poor, dirty, pathetic—criminals even. They look at us like we’re thieves.”

“We won’t accept those unfair judgments. Clean uniforms won’t change their views overnight.”

“But at the very least, let’s keep our appearances clean. Don’t give them any excuse to look down on us.”

“We might not be perfect right now, but at least we’re changing!”

Someone asked, “What if the uniform gets worn out?”

Lance looked at the man. “If you wear it out, bring it back. I’ll get you a new one!”

Someone else shouted, “Then what are we waiting for? Mr. Lance, hand them out already!”

Lance nodded for Sean to begin the distribution.

Sean, with his sharp mind, was overqualified for the task. But he handled it efficiently—several tables, a few clerks, and people lining up with their work cards.

One man tried to sneak an extra set. When caught, not only was the extra taken back—his work card was revoked!

In other words, he couldn’t get jobs from the agency anymore. That job slot would go to someone else.

Those who weren’t eligible yet watched eagerly, and many rushed to register and find qualifying work.

In just one morning, over a thousand sets were given out. Some didn’t show up or didn’t know yet, but Lance knew—word would spread quickly.

The next day, a strange sight appeared in the Port District: undocumented workers looking more professional than local laborers.

They wore matching uniforms, with name tags showing their agency file number and name.

The back read “Wanli Labor Agency,” along with an address and phone number—not that those mattered.

The dockworkers’ union noticed immediately. They had a keen sense for shifts on the docks.

The president, Scott, called several department heads for a meeting.

Scott was lean, dressed in high-end formal wear with a flashy tie.

He stood by the window, watching the uniformed workers below, deep in thought.

As others arrived, he took his seat.

Minutes later, he checked his watch and said, “Forget those who didn’t show up. Does anyone know what’s going on with those people?”

“I’ve already had calls asking if we’re handing out uniforms and when theirs are coming. How come I’ve heard nothing about this?”

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

Vaughn nodded. “We talked about it before, remember?”

Scott looked confused. Vaughn prompted him, “The donation.”

Scott’s eyes refocused. “Right, I remember—what’s-his-name…”

Vaughn added, “Lance.”

Scott pointed at him like he’d just solved a puzzle. “Yes, Lance! So all those guys are undocumented?”

Vaughn nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Scott groaned. “This is a problem. I’ve gotten a bunch of calls. Sounds like people want us to do the same.”

“But we don’t have any such plan!”

Uniforms were easy to talk about—but they cost money!

So who’s paying?

The union?

The capitalists?

The workers themselves?

Damn it—what the hell is this Lance doing, putting the union in such a reactive position?!

(End of chapter)