The man in the suit, desperate to survive, leaned back like he had money to burn and asked casually, "The guns are great, Captain Yan, but how do you sell them? And what about the bullets?"
A sharp smack rang out as the fat police officer slapped the table, laughing loud. "Good! I like straightforward young men like you. I won't beat around the bush either. These really are benefits for everyone, but you all know the situation. The floods still haven't passed, we haven't even had a chance to breathe, and then the earthquake hit. We're short on food, short on supplies, so we've got no choice but to start a donation drive."
"But it's not free charity," the hook-nosed officer added in a flat voice.
The fat officer nodded eagerly. "Of course. That's why we applied for this. All these guns and ammo can be exchanged. Guns are already sky-high on the black market, but what's even pricier are the bullets. Nobody's making bullets anymore, every shot you fire is one less in existence. So today's chance, you've gotta grab it."
His words stirred the crowd. Plenty of people were tempted, though suspicion lingered, wondering if it was some kind of trap. Most stayed cautious, watching quietly. Everyone knew resources and food were scarce, and if you showed off too much, you might just get bled dry.
Jing Shu's heart thudded fast under her mask. "Here it is. I knew it'd come. That sly smiling tiger." To people like her, it wasn't self-deprecation to think this way. They really were the leeks the government raised, waiting to be cut when the time was right. They wouldn't cut too deep, or the leeks might not grow back. They wouldn't cut too shallow either, because behind them stood countless desperate people waiting for aid.
The fat officer pointed proudly at the rifles on the table, grinning wide. "You all recognize these Type-95 assault rifles, I'm sure. But that's not all, we've also got Type-56 submachine guns, Type-95 light machine guns, even rocket launchers, armed helicopters, grenades, bombs, bulletproof vests—you name it, if our Third Division has it, it's on the list. And don't worry about bullets. Our division will keep a steady supply ready for you long-term."
That finally hooked someone. "So how's it work? If some people donate a lot and some donate a little, does everyone get the same weapons?"
Another slap on the table echoed, and the fat officer beamed. "Good question! The rules are simple. Look at the projector. The list on the left shows how donations convert into virtual credits. First, figure out how much you can donate, then write down the amount. That'll be the virtual credits you can use here.
"Once you set a number, it can only go down, not up. So I'm warning everyone here, donate as much as you can now. Otherwise, when you want to exchange for gear but don't have enough credits, you'll be in trouble."
The hook-nosed officer cut in coldly. "Better to write a bigger number. If you don't have enough later, you can borrow, even write us an IOU. If you don't use the credits, you lose nothing. But we only want actual supplies, not the credits themselves."
The fat officer bobbed his head. "Exactly. Even if you write down one million credits, we'll accept that you can donate supplies worth one million."
Behind her gas mask, Jing Shu's eyes narrowed. "As if. These two old foxes are rotten to the core." This trick let them measure exactly how much wealth everyone had. Taxes collapsed after the apocalypse, the system was still being rebuilt, and the government had lost control of a huge chunk of the middle class.
Two years on, that control was basically zero.
For example, nobody knew which families were sitting on how much grain or supplies. At a critical moment like this, the government needed a clearer picture so they'd know how to reap the next harvest of leeks. To Jing Shu, this whole thing was just a test run. See who they could cut deeper, who lighter.
"One jin (0.5 kg) of flour makes twenty-five steamed buns, worth fifty credits."
"Look, a Type-95's base price is 1,500 credits, just thirty jin (15 kg) of flour. Seriously? That cheap?"
"Read carefully. That's just the starting price. These will all be auctioned."
Jing Shu studied the list on the left. The base prices looked fair, matching current market values. But in a disaster, supplies would only rise in price, credits would drop in value, and weapons would end up costing far more. Still, the fat officer knew exactly where to scratch people's itch. Weapons were priceless in this world.
Even she was scrambling to get more. Without luck, she wouldn't have managed to get her hands on what she had. Staring at the long list of weapons made her fingers itch, but Wang Dongpo's words when he entered the room poured cold water over her. "Right. This is just an evaluation of our strength and wealth, isn't it?"
Even knowing it was bait, Jing Shu couldn't deny she was tempted.
"Write down your credits and stick them on your seat card. Think carefully. Once you write it, no changes. The total you bid in the auction can't exceed that number," the fat officer said with a smile.
That was where the smiling tiger's malice lay. People could brag however much they liked, even claiming they had a million. But no matter what you wrote, they were the ones profiting.
Say you only had a hundred thousand in supplies but wrote down three hundred thousand. In the end, you could only spend within a hundred thousand, but nobody else knew your true worth. That would drive up auction prices, creating overbids and inflated costs.
In a way, it was just a tactic to push consumption. The vibe was like, I'll write the IOU, I'll open at a million. If everyone acted like that, prices would soar naturally.
Some people bent over their papers, calculating how much they could donate and what number of credits to write.
Jing Shu thought of the old saying, the gun shoots the bird that sticks out first. No matter how much she wanted weapons, she couldn't make herself a target. Better to let her bid fail quietly. If she just "happened" to write down too small an amount, what could they do? Besides, she'd be in America soon. Over there, weapons weren't scarce. Why waste her resources here and risk exposing herself?
That was when the hook-nosed officer suddenly spoke up. "We'll award an M24 sniper rifle to the top spender, and we'll also pick the one who spends the least." He chuckled.
Everyone froze. What did it mean to single out the lowest? Dozens of eyes swung instantly in that direction, Jing Shu's included.
That couldn't mean anything good. Probably a punishment. At least, that's what she thought.