As the weather cooled, life became more bearable for the overweight, sparing them from sweating under the scorching sun.
Johnny, his face pale, sat in the consultation room of a pharmacy doctor’s office, handing over a prescription.
The doctor glanced at it briefly before looking at Johnny’s arms. “Mind if I take a look?”
Johnny shook his head. “Of course not, as long as you give me the medicine.”
The doctor examined Johnny’s fractured arms. The bones were healing well. The radius, being a bone prone to fractures, often broke under forceful impacts, but its recovery wasn’t usually prolonged—even in someone of Johnny’s age.
Functionally, the fractures didn’t interfere much with daily life anymore. Johnny’s grip strength had returned, though the pain he described was peculiar. He reported sudden, excruciating bursts of pain, despite an otherwise normal recovery.
The hospital had recently faced some challenges and refused to provide him with painkillers. Instead, his attending physician referred him to this pharmacy.
“While I’m not sure why you’re in pain, if you need the medication, I can prescribe it,” the doctor said.
“You know how to use it?”
Johnny nodded repeatedly. The doctor wrote the prescription and handed it over. A glance at the price made Johnny exclaim, “This is over a dollar more per dose than at the hospital!”
The doctor wasn’t surprised. “If you buy it here, it’s not covered under the insurance subsidy. You can either pay me directly, and I’ll give you the medicine, or go back to the hospital for a cheaper price.”
Remembering the hospital’s refusal, Johnny reluctantly paid.
The doctor handed him a few pills and briefly explained the dosage instructions. As Johnny left, the doctor shook his head slightly. He knew the painkillers were somewhat addictive, but he didn’t dwell on it.
In fact, most doctors across the Federation didn’t see addiction as their problem. Their focus was on alleviating patient suffering while boosting pharmaceutical sales for profits. They were still considered angels, weren’t they?
As for addiction? That was someone else’s concern.
Johnny felt an overwhelming sense of relief after taking the painkillers, though he couldn’t explain why. His arms rarely hurt—maybe 1% of the time—but the sudden, intense pain made it unbearable.
“Probably because they haven’t fully healed yet,” he reassured himself.
Stepping out of the pharmacy, the sunlight fell on his pale, unhealthy skin. Behind his dazed expression was a deep unease about the city and a fear of what lay ahead.
Lance, passing by, thought he saw Johnny for a moment, but by the time he turned to look again, he was too far away. Even if it had been Johnny, Lance wouldn’t have stopped.
Lance had just finished a call with Vaughn, arranging a meeting. The ever-generous Vaughn agreed readily.
They met at a café outside the docks, not far from the Dockworkers’ Union and Lance’s labor agency.
“My colleagues asked me to thank you,” Vaughn began. “They loved the coffee you sent.”
Lance couldn’t tell if he was being sincere, but he didn’t care much either. “You can take more with you today. I noticed they have donuts here. Perhaps your colleagues would enjoy those with their coffee.”
After they were seated and had their coffee, Lance shared his current plans. “I’m setting up a clothing factory and need skilled workers. I’m not familiar with that sector—you know, the docks don’t have such labor.”
The docks primarily employed heavy laborers with little to no technical skills.
Vaughn joked, “The Federal Warden probably knows more skilled sewers than I do!”
It took Lance a moment to catch on. “Very funny.”
Embarrassed, Vaughn quickly changed the subject. “I can’t help with this, but I can introduce you to someone from the Labor Union.”
The Labor Union (LU), famous for its slogan “Workers Unite,” was a monumental force in Federation politics and industry. Composed entirely of skilled laborers, the LU wielded immense influence across light and heavy industries alike.
In many sectors, particularly heavy industry, the LU was indispensable. A factory without skilled workers couldn’t operate. If the LU decided to sanction a factory, a mass strike by skilled workers would immediately bring production to a halt.
Only capitalists willing to risk total losses by cutting ties with the LU and forgoing skilled labor could resist their influence.
For heavy industries, this was nearly impossible. Operating without skilled labor was so inefficient that owners would rather shut down the factory entirely.
In this period, the LU and trade unions were at the height of their power, even influencing presidential elections.
As the Dockworkers’ Union Vice President, Vaughn naturally had strong ties with the LU, given their shared goals and frequent collaborations.
Vaughn began jotting down contact information, but Lance stopped him. “If you’re not too busy, we could go there together.”
After a moment’s thought, Vaughn agreed. Currently, there were no significant conflicts between dockworkers and capitalists. Most tensions were with illegal immigrants, so Vaughn was free to leave.
Before heading out, Lance called over the server. “Deliver 12 coffees and 12 donuts to this address… The rest is a tip.” He handed over $5, enough to cover the cost with about 70–80 cents left as a tip.
What puzzled Lance was the server’s hesitation to leave. Instead, they stared at Vaughn.
Awkward, Vaughn cleared his throat. “I’m full today.”
The server finally left.
Lance shot him a questioning look, but Vaughn avoided explaining the last time Lance had left, and he had used leftover tips to order a double-decker burger. “Sometimes I grab lunch here,” Vaughn said weakly. “Our mealtimes aren’t fixed.”
It was a decent excuse, and Lance didn’t press further. They soon left for their meeting.
On the way, Lance asked casually, “Vaughn, do you know who reported us?”
“I mean no offense. I’d just like to talk to them. We’re all workers—we should be brothers, not enemies.”
“Maybe I can convince them, which would also save you a lot of trouble.”
Lance had asked Elvin to investigate, but Elvin lacked connections among native workers, as his network mostly consisted of immigrants and illegal workers. Since native workers and immigrants rarely mingled, Elvin had hit a dead end.
Vaughn hesitated. Lance continued, “Lately, I’ve been thinking. Politicians have deliberately stoked divisions to fuel the anti-immigration wave.”
“We believe every worker is inherently good and innocent. We shouldn’t let capitalists and politicians manipulate us. I’ll do my best to convince them.”
“You know I’m a Federation citizen. When it matters, I’ll stand with the Federation.”
The mention of being a “Federation citizen” seemed to sway Vaughn. Finally, he relented. “The list is in my office. I’ll get it for you when we return.”
“Thanks!” Lance said with a smile.
The Labor Union’s industrial branch was located on the other side of town. By the time they arrived, it was late afternoon, but fortunately, the office hadn’t closed.
Vaughn, well-acquainted with the staff, led Lance to an office marked Textile Workers Liaison Office. Beneath the sign was the name Debbie Jones—clearly a woman.
“Come in!” a female voice called.
Vaughn glanced at Lance before opening the door and gesturing for him to enter first.
The office was modest but well-furnished. Behind the desk sat Debbie, appearing to be in her mid-thirties. She wore her hair in a headband and a polka-dot puff-sleeve dress.
Her golden-brown hair and professional attire gave her an air far removed from a typical laborer, much like Vaughn.
It was ironic, Lance thought. Those representing the working class often seemed least like workers themselves. But who cared? The less she resembled a laborer, the easier it might be to negotiate with her.
Debbie smiled warmly as Vaughn entered, even standing to greet him—a clear sign of respect.
“How can I help you, Vice President Vaughn?”
Vaughn laughed heartily and shook her hand. “That title sounds too grand for me. I wouldn’t dare accept it.”
Their banter suggested a longstanding familiarity, though Lance couldn’t quite grasp the dynamic.
Vaughn introduced Lance. “My friend and fellow worker, Lance. He runs a labor agency that helps people find jobs.”
Debbie’s eyes lit up, and she eagerly shook Lance’s hand. For those serving the working class, someone providing employment opportunities was always welcome.
“Call me Debbie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lance.”