Chapter 37: A New Beginning
It seemed there had been a shift in the political game at the upper echelons of the Federation. On live television, the President finally issued a direct response to the Empire's accusations against the Federation:
"The Federation has never condoned any discrimination against immigrants from the Empire, whether they arrived legally or not!"
Previously, the Federation President had avoided responding to these accusations. But this time, he declared that such claims were baseless rumors. Even if isolated incidents existed, they were not political campaigns or events. The Federation, he emphasized, was a highly open, free, tolerant, and inclusive nation, a place welcoming to all peace-loving people from around the world.
As for the Empire’s unilateral threat of military action, the President stated firmly that the Federation would not engage with such immoral tactics. However, if the Empire dared to invade Federation territory, they would respond with a fierce counterattack.
The President's impassioned speech, delivered from the podium with fist raised for emphasis, was met with waves of cheers from a densely packed crowd. Television screens echoed with endless streams of political rhetoric, painting a picture of the Federation on the brink of becoming the happiest nation on Earth.
After finishing his cigarette, Lance turned off the cabinet-mounted TV and started his car to head back to the house.
Alberto hadn’t reclaimed the car, though it was worth no more than two hundred dollars. By all rights, taking it back would have been fair and legal, but he let Lance keep it. In return, Alberto considered it a small price to pay for a favor—a trade that was well worth it.
Back at the house, Lance’s companions were sitting in the living room in deep discussion. When he walked in, they all stood up.
Rather than taking the chair reserved for him, Lance sat cross-legged on the floor with the others, showing no intention of distancing himself, despite being the one who rented the house and solved their survival issues. His decision not to sit on the chair was simple but impactful—sometimes, touching gestures are easy to make, yet they resonate for a lifetime.
"What are you discussing?" he asked, glancing at Ethan, who was sitting by the door. "In the car, there are two packs of cigarettes, a few bottles of alcohol, and some snacks. Go grab them for me."
Ethan broke into a wide grin, his yellowed teeth showing as he chuckled.
Dinner consisted of plain greens mixed with beans and coarse grains—soybeans, kidney beans, chickpeas, and other cheap legumes. These were typically sold as livestock feed but were edible for humans and far more affordable. Many impoverished families relied on such meals to fill their stomachs.
Learning that dinner had been greens and beans, Lance frowned. "Didn’t I tell you to make sure everyone ate better?"
He directed the question at Mello, who had been given funds to manage their living expenses. Mello, a bit older and more grounded than the others, handled household affairs reliably but now looked sheepish.
"If we eat bread or anything better, we’ll go through a lot. Since we’re not working right now, there’s no need to eat so well."
It was a simple, honest reason. Lance patted Mello’s shoulder, understanding his intent. With twenty or so young adults in their late teens and early twenties, an unrestricted meal could easily consume forty or fifty pounds of food—or more.
Even with basic food, a single meal could cost two or three dollars, or up to five. Multiply that by three meals a day, and they’d be spending seven to ten dollars daily. Who could sustain such costs?
A three-hundred-dollar monthly food budget was outrageous, especially when they had no income and were burning through reserves. Mello wanted to save money, opting for the cheapest, most filling option. Even Ethan, who usually had a hearty appetite, found himself full after eating less than two pounds of greens and beans.
"Don’t worry about work. On my way back, I saw the news. Things will recover soon," Lance assured them.
He didn’t elaborate, but he believed his prediction was accurate. For the President, the best response to the Emperor’s provocations was to invoke the "threat of an Imperial invasion," plunging the country into a state of readiness. This would activate presidential privileges and virtually guarantee his re-election.
The real question wasn’t whether the President could secure another term—he likely could—but what costs he would be willing to incur to make it happen. The unrest in Jingang City was just one small piece of this larger political struggle. The economic engine was stalling, and soon, the forces of capital would step in to broker a compromise. With their coordination, political factions would reach an agreement, and the President would secure his re-election.
But for people at the bottom, this high-stakes game was invisible. They only saw the President declaring the Federation’s greatness, which filled them with misplaced excitement and cheers. They had no understanding of why their lives were so chaotic or why a better life always seemed out of reach. ℝ𝐀Ν𝖔ʙΕŜ
Ethan returned with the supplies, and the group gathered in a circle, placing cigarettes, alcohol, and food within arm’s reach. Lance had brought plenty of fried chicken—a much cheaper option than beef or lamb, thanks to large-scale mechanized livestock farming.
One dollar could buy three pieces of fragrant, crispy fried chicken. Who could resist that? Paired with other foods high in sugar and fat, their happiness soared.
As they smoked, drank, and chatted, Mello asked a question. "Once all this... commotion settles down, should we go back to working at the docks?"
The others turned to Lance. In this small group, he had become their de facto leader.
"How much can you earn working a job?" Lance asked.
The group remained silent. After covering living expenses and enduring exploitation from bosses, saving three to five dollars a month was the most they could hope for.
They all understood that regular jobs weren’t a solution, but they didn’t know what else they could do.
Lance lit a cigarette, and Mello immediately struck a match to light it for him. The sharp hiss of the match added a faint, gunpowder-like tang to the room.
"I used to work at Johnny’s bakery," Lance began, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "Even if he didn’t short my pay, I’d only make fifteen dollars a month."
"But the gangs and police took at least thirty dollars from him each month."
"There are dozens of shops on that street. Even if others aren’t paying as much—maybe twenty, or even just ten dollars—it all adds up to a fortune."
"Of course, I’m just giving an example. I’m not saying we should do this. It’s dirty work, doesn’t pay much, and makes you a target. When things go wrong, the ones collecting money are the first to be abandoned."
"What I’m saying is, there are many ways to make money—and big money. Don’t fixate on a job’s meager wages. Look at the Federation’s capitalist tycoons and political dynasties. How many of them worked their way up?"
Mello looked puzzled, as did the others. "Then what should we do?"
"Start a company?" Mello scratched his head. "But I thought you need a permanent residency card or citizenship to register one. Are you planning to have someone register it for you?"
Lance shook his head. "My identity will be updated soon. I’ll register it myself. You’ll all be my employees."
He smiled confidently. "I already know what we’re going to do, and I can promise this: if you follow me and work hard, every one of you will afford a house and a car."
"But before that, you need to prepare yourselves. Making more money means taking on greater risks—mentally and physically. Get ready for that."
"Then join me in facing the storm of this new era!"