Blackstone Code-Chapter 458: I Heard a Joke

In a bright room, Preyton lay on the bed watching a brand-new TV. He had to admit, the Federation truly was the most livable country in the world.
It was a nation of ethnic integration. On the streets, you could see every race you believed existed, and no one was denied breath because of their skin color.
It was a harmless joke—after all, this was a land of freedom, fairness, and justice; such things simply didn’t happen here.
Preyton had once lived in Gephra, where conditions were far worse. The arrogance of Gephrans made them look down on every other ethnicity.
They gave offensive nicknames to non-Gephrans, and if you took offense, they would glare arrogantly and say in an irritating tone, “Can’t you tell it’s just a joke?”
If you stayed angry, they’d lash out with insults about “uncultured, inferior lower races who will never understand the humor of the elite,” until you either broke down or punched one and got sent to jail.
If you withstood their mockery, they would start calling you by
nickname + name,
eventually dropping your real name entirely—usually with a cruel nickname.
But here, there was no discrimination. Everyone was equal. You could flip off the well-dressed gentlemen and ladies without consequence. You could even curse the governor or president loudly when neighbors came home, and no military police would show up to hang you in the town square.
With advanced technology and a more tolerant society, as long as you had enough money, this place was practically heaven.
Preyton thought about heading to the countryside. The paperwork system there was lax, and no one monitored it closely.
He could easily, by some means, slip his birth certificate into a small town’s records and become a Federation citizen.
His secret account had enough money to last a lifetime here. It was time to say goodbye to the past.
He took a bite of his hot dog, the rich cheese and sauces wrapped around the sausage making him want another bite.
The TV was airing news related to Nagaryll. It ed that thanks to the president’s efforts, the Nagaryll Joint Development Company had hired about thirty-five thousand workers, sending them in batches to help the Nagaryll people escape poverty and hunger.
The president also promised to open more international trade channels, establishing partnerships with more countries so Federation products could sell worldwide.
People on TV cheered and danced, as if overnight the Federation’s economic problems had been solved. The president’s approval ratings kept climbing.
Preyton watched with a mix of envy and cynicism. To him, the Federation and its people were a contradiction—pitiful in that most spent their lives serving capitalists and helping exploit themselves.
From birth, nearly ninety-nine percent had their fates sealed, never to change.
Yet they were fortunate because status and class were not as starkly defined as in Gephra.
In Gephra, certain classes enjoyed privileges inaccessible to commoners, who weren’t even allowed to use items with special symbols reserved for nobles.
But here, as long as people had money, they could enter most places frequented by the wealthy and politicians, enjoying the luxuries of the elite.
A contradiction, but enviable.
Footsteps approached outside. Preyton set his hot dog on the bedside table and slid a hand under the nearby pillow, gripping a handgun.
In the Federation, money could buy anything—including an unmarked gun.
The cold, heavy weight gave him a sense of security. The door opened.
A young woman in simple clothes entered, carrying a paper bag. She placed it by the bed and started changing.
She didn’t avoid the man on the bed, nor did she fully close the window. She slipped off her coat, changed into a tube top, then a modest blouse—required for her supermarket job.
Since moving in together, her life had gradually normalized.
For reasons unknown to her, her stepfather had backed down before Preyton. They rented a nice house nearby, leaving her dark past behind to start anew.
Some boys had come looking for her once, but Preyton drove them off. She then took him to a local dealer of contraband where they got a gun and bullets for protection.
Now she worked at a supermarket.
From 1:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m., the seven-hour shift paid little, but it was enough.
Getting back on the right path was a blessing from God. She asked for nothing more.
“There’s some food in the bag. I might be late tonight. We need to restock shelves, everyone has to help,” she explained.
In tough economic times, some
voluntary
work wasn’t mandatory in the Federation, but companies had the right to fire or lay off employees.
So when the supermarket needed help, everyone pitched in willingly—without extra pay.
Preyton nodded. After she tidied up, she bent down and kissed his forehead.
At first, Preyton found this odd—back in Gephra, forehead kisses were blessings from elders or heads of families, symbols of dominance and submission. He didn’t see himself as subordinate.
But now, he was getting used to it.
After she left, Preyton focused back on the TV. The Federation’s vast channels were a blessing. Even someone like him could lie in bed or on the couch forever, as long as there was TV and a phone.
“Rotten country. People have lost the will to strive and only settle for comfort,” he sneered, switching channels to begin his usual trivial entertainment.
After over an hour, his body told him it was time to use the restroom. As he got up, he instinctively glanced toward the window and froze.
Across the street, a black commercial van was parked with heavily tinted windows.
Before coming to the Federation, Preyton had heard a joke: “Here, you can always tell who’s a policeman, federal agent, special agent, or tax investigator—even if they hide their identities.”
He thought it was a joke until living here showed him otherwise.
Policemen always talked with their hands on their holsters—a habit from work that carried into their personal lives.
Federal agents wore dark suits, nearly identical in brand and cut, acting reserved but really exuding a special kind of arrogance, feeling superior because of their jobs.
Special agents avoided direct contact and followed rigid plans so strict they often gave themselves away.
Tax investigators… if you ignore their knocks, they’d first intimidate you, then break down your door and windows, warning they’d take forceful measures if you didn’t comply.
It was easy to tell these people apart.
The black van across the street was unmistakably a federal agent’s vehicle. Under Federation law, non-government special vehicles were prohibited from having tinted windows or reflective decorations.
This rule ensured that law enforcement officers could clearly see inside during operations—whether someone was armed or had their weapon raised.
So when a dark-glassed van pulled up on the street, Preyton knew instantly it was coming for him.
He paused briefly, then casually grabbed his gun from the bed, took a quick bathroom break, and strode out the door, pointing toward the van across the road.
In an instant, agents appeared—hidden behind bushes, in the tall grass, even in the attic across the street—aiming weapons at Preyton. Any sudden move from him would trigger their shots.