You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Clark and Pete walked around the shipping container and stood at the edge of the main street of Ninth Street, suddenly frozen in place.

Clark's nose twitched twice, but he didn't smell the expected stench of urine.

The homeless tents on both sides of the main road have clearly been reorganized and are now neatly arranged at certain intervals, with enough space between the tents for two people to walk side by side.

Several homeless men wearing reflective vests were squatting by the roadside, using brushes dipped in soapy water from a bucket to clean chewing gum from the cracks in the sidewalk tiles.

An old man wearing a baseball cap sat in a folding chair, holding a registration board in his hand. Every time he finished cleaning a section, he would draw a checkmark on the board.

"What the hell is going on?" Clark instinctively raised his phone, but didn't know what to film.

Just as he was lost in thought, a microwave oven was pushed out of the nearby repair shed, and a man who looked like a welder shouted towards the roadside, "Fixed! Whose is it?"

A fat woman emerged from the roadside, clutching a crumpled banknote in her hand. She handed it over, picked up the microwave, and left.

The welder stuffed the money into his apron pocket, turned around, picked up a broken radio from beside his feet, and began to tighten the screws.

On a folding table next to it were a row of repaired rice cookers and electric fans, each with a yellow sticky note with the owner's name and pickup time.

Further along, Pete muttered to himself, "Boss, isn't that...that dump truck they were talking about in the news the other day...?"

Clark looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a dump truck, its entire body welded with bulletproof steel plates and its bucket covered with barbed wire, parked quietly by the roadside. Next to the truck sat an old soldier sunbathing, a blanket covering his legs and a copy of "Infantry Drill Manual" in his hands.

The veteran noticed someone was watching him, looked up, nodded at Clark and Pete, and then continued reading.

Clark's phone was still hanging in mid-air; the whole scene had left him stunned, and he still hadn't realized he should put it down.

"Hey, you're from that city hall, right?"

A voice came from behind.

Clark turned around.

An old man stood in front of him, over sixty years old, thin but with a straight back, wearing an old military uniform with a row of homemade medals made by flattening beer caps pinned to the chest.

"I am MacArthur." The old man extended his right hand.

"Douglas MacArthur".

Clark's mind went blank for two seconds.

He certainly knew who Douglas MacArthur was; he was the Supreme Allied Commander in the Pacific Theater during World War II.

But he knew even better that the old man in front of him who called himself MacArthur was just a homeless man in an old military uniform with a beer cap pinned to his neck. "Uh... I'm Clark, the head of the City Hall Procurement and Contracts Management Bureau, and this is my assistant, Pete."

"I know who you are." MacArthur released his hand, put it behind his back, and glanced at Clark's face.

"We received the notification from the City Hall motorcade to depart around 9 a.m., and I was supposed to pick you up at the intersection of the 10th block."

He glanced at his watch.

"However, it seems you arrived twenty minutes early, which is not in line with the original plan."

"But that's alright. On the battlefield, there are no offensives that proceed exactly according to a schedule. As a commander, you need to adjust your deployments based on the actual situation at any time."

Clark opened his mouth.

"So...you're...Ray Fong?"

"I am General MacArthur, Mr. Ray Fong's chief of staff. I was transferred here after this area was taken by the auxiliary forces," MacArthur corrected his wording.

"I am now in charge of the daily operation and external liaison work of the East District Community Activity Center."

These words were spoken by Leon at the tavern yesterday, at a signal he gave MacArthur.

[First Release Update!] They initially concealed their identities to operate covertly and facilitate the occupation of the East District. Now that the East District has been occupied, the significance of concealing their identities is no longer great.

Moreover, without the overt identity of an NGO, it is inconvenient to carry out activities.

After that, they would say openly that the people in the East District were NGOs who had recently moved from the West District. If anyone asked about the Portland gang, they would say that they were not comfortable doing open work and were gradually withdrawing from the East District.

"Come with me, I'll show you our core facilities."

He turned and walked away, his steps quick and steady, forcing Clark and Pete to jog a few steps to keep up.

MacArthur led them across the main road and onto a side street.

At the end of the side road, in an open space, there was a makeshift shed made of scaffolding and canvas.

A dozen or so homeless people were working inside; some were dismantling old appliances, while others were putting labels on refurbished electric fans.

An elderly welder in overalls was squatting on the ground, using a welding torch to weld two pieces of sheet metal together, sparks flying everywhere.

A young homeless man stood nearby, holding a broken bowl filled with a grayish-white paste.

"Old man, here's some mushy stuff." The young homeless man handed him the bowl.

The old welder looked up, took the bowl, glanced at it, and frowned. "Why does this porridge smell so metallic today?"

"The trash can philosopher said that rust can supplement iron, so he added a handful of copper wire."

The old welder paused for two seconds, then lowered his head and poured the paste from the bowl into the waste oil drum at his feet, before continuing to weld his sheet metal.

"This is our old appliance recycling and refurbishment workshop." MacArthur raised his hand solemnly, as if introducing a missile launch site, pointing to the mountains of old televisions, refrigerators, and washing machines.

"We collect discarded electrical appliances from residents, repair and refurbish them, and then resell them to residents in need at a price 60% lower than the market price."

"Last month's report from the West End was that we repaired and sold 327 devices, serving more than 200 households."

He paused for a moment, then added, "All of our operations are legal, all transactions have receipts, our tax records are clear and verifiable, and we pay our taxes on time."

Clark stared at the row of neatly stacked old microwave ovens and rice cookers, speechless, frozen in place.

"After I recently arrived in the East District, in order to replenish the troops, I also began the recruitment of homeless people in the East District as instructed by the commander."

Lyon also instructed that the recruitment of homeless people be resumed.

Since deep government infiltration is almost impossible to prevent, and with Lyon's organization constantly expanding, it is also difficult to guard against external spying, Lyon simply decided to fight back without restraint.

Lyon has just deployed fifty or sixty veterans to the East Precinct. With such a large operation underway, and the need to fill positions in the municipal government and other districts, they're starting to run out of manpower again. "Most of the newly recruited personnel have been assigned to the street cleaning team, responsible for the daily sweeping and garbage collection of the twelve main streets in the East Precinct," MacArthur continued.

"Each neighborhood is equipped with a registrar responsible for population registration and skills classification."

"All residents can participate in community work, and the hours they work can be exchanged for food and other supplies."

"Distribution according to work?" Clark muttered.

"Yes." MacArthur stopped, turned around, and looked directly into Clark's eyes.

"Everyone should contribute to the community, even if it's just sweeping the streets, taking out the trash, or fixing water and electricity, there are corresponding work points."

"We exchange work points for food, medicine, and other necessities. People who don't participate in labor don't get free food unless there are special circumstances, such as being hit by a car."

He slightly raised his chin.

"The lazy and drug addicts have been weeded out; those who are willing to work are the ones who remain."

Clark's throat felt a little dry.

"Does what you're doing comply with federal welfare distribution regulations?" Clark tried to regain some leverage from a legal perspective.

“We’re not distributing federal benefits,” MacArthur corrected him. “We’re registered as a community mutual aid organization where residents earn their wages through their labor, and we provide food and basic necessities in exchange. This has nothing to do with federal benefits, and we haven’t received any federal welfare funds at all.”

He paused slightly.

"Of course, if the city hall is willing to purchase street cleaning services and waste appliance recycling services from us through outsourcing contracts, we will provide formal invoices and tax payment certificates as a legitimate company."

Clark opened his mouth, having prepared a whole host of reasons to make things difficult: non-compliance with procedures, incomplete qualifications, community opposition, budget overruns.

But when faced with the old man in front of him, he couldn't utter a single word.

MacArthur glanced at his watch again.

"It's 2 minutes to 10. Your itinerary was originally scheduled to start the site visit at 10:00 and end at 10:30. It's 9:58 now, and according to the original plan, there are still two minutes before it officially begins."

He raised his hand and pointed to the other end of the main road.

"That's our temporary medical point and community canteen. You still have time to look around."

Clark swallowed hard.

"No...no need, we've already finished watching."

"Alright." MacArthur nodded and turned to walk back. "I will compile your findings into a written report and submit it to the City Hall Procurement and Contracts Bureau within one business day."

"If you need any additional materials, please feel free to contact my assistant, Lei, who will handle the coordination."

He walked back to the main road, stood next to the dump truck, and waved to Clark and Pete.

"Thank you for visiting the East District. We hope the City Hall can complete the contract drafting and approval process as soon as possible."

"We are fully prepared to undertake municipal outsourcing services."

Clark opened his mouth, but finally stammered out what he said.

"I...I will submit the contract as soon as possible."

"Very good." MacArthur took a step back, slowly raised his right hand, and touched his eyebrows with his fingertips, giving a standard military salute.

"Wishing the City Hall all the best in its work. Dismissed."

He turned around and strode towards the repair shed.

Clark and Pete stood there, watching his figure disappear behind the canvas shed.

The silence lasted for several seconds. "Manager..." Pete's voice was somewhat unsteady.

"Let's go." Clark put his hands in his pockets and strode towards the official car parked by the roadside.

He opened the car door, plopped down in the passenger seat, and slammed the door shut.

Pete walked around to the driver's seat, started the engine, and glanced at the orderly street in the rearview mirror.

"Manager, should we... should we really hand over the contract to them? Or should we stick to the original plan and keep dragging it out?" Pete gripped the steering wheel.

"That old man said he was MacArthur, and he had a bunch of beer medals pinned to his fingernails... Does he have some kind of mental problem?"

Clark leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a long time.

"Whether he has mental problems or not is irrelevant." He opened his eyes and looked at the roof of the car.

"What did you just see?"

"I saw it... a homeless man sweeping the floor, repairing appliances, and a crazy old man in military uniform saluting me." Pete's voice sounded somewhat confused.

"What I see is different from what you see. What I see is a well-established community organization," Clark interrupted him.

"I was skeptical about Sterling's grassroots support before, since controlling the police department and acting mayor Harvey alone wouldn't necessarily win them the mayoral election." "But now that I've actually taken a look around the streets, I've discovered that they also have a homeless armed force that's even more like an army than the National Guard."

"I originally thought that the NGO Lyon set up was just a facade, no different from an empty shell company, only to make it easier to siphon money from the municipality later."

"To be honest, the exact composition of his organization is not important, but the fact that his organization is capable of taking action is very important."

"How long do you think it will take him to replicate the same pattern in the North and South regions?"

Pete opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Although the mayoral election might be held earlier, there's still a month to go as things stand," Clark said, tossing his phone into the armrest box.

"Lyon now has a strong foothold in two districts."

"Even if he only sends a few community sanitation teams to the North and South districts during this period, what kind of votes will Sterling get on Election Day?"

He turned his head and looked at Pete.

"It's not a question of whether Sterling can win anymore, it's a question of whether the Democrats can find someone who won't lose too badly."

Pete gripped the steering wheel, his palms starting to sweat.

"Then...then what about the city hall..." "Those people at the city hall are still observing, but after I went there, I'm not going to observe anymore." Clark sneered and pulled over to fasten his seatbelt.

"After we get back, we'll complete the contract process and send it to the East District tomorrow."

"Sign the required documents, affix the required stamps, and if anyone asks, just say the inspection results were satisfactory and the procedures were compliant."

"What if someone objects? What about Representative Sandra...?"

"When Sandra was running for acting mayor, she was helping Lyon secure votes herself, so why are you worrying about it?" Clark waved his hand.

"Now that it's confirmed that the streets of the East and West Ends truly belong to Lyon, it's only a matter of time before Sterling takes over."

"If we submit the contracts in advance, we can still keep our positions when Sterling officially takes office and begins the reckoning."

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

"I'll take the pressure from the other wait-and-see group. You guys under me just need to do your jobs and follow the procedures."

Pete paused for a few seconds, then stepped on the gas.

The official vehicle slowly drove away from the East District. In the rearview mirror, the clean main road and neat tents gradually became smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared behind the street corner.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly. But just as they drove onto the highway ramp, Clark's phone rang.

He pulled his phone out of the armrest and glanced at the caller ID. It was a landline number for the City Hall Procurement and Contracts Bureau office, and it belonged to his other assistant, Diane.

"It's me." Clark pressed the answer button.

Diane's voice came through the receiver, sounding somewhat tired:

"Manager, Wells Fargo just called and said that our application to open a new corporate account last week has been rejected."

"The reason is... the internal risk assessment failed."

Clark frowned.

"Risk assessment failed? What risks?"

"We applied using the city hall's Procurement and Contracts Bureau's corporate account, and the account purpose was listed as 'community service grants.' What risks could there be?"

"The bank didn't give a specific reason, just said it was the result of an automatic system assessment."

"I called to ask, and their account manager said that it needs to go through a manual review process, which will take about two to three weeks."

"Two to three weeks?" Clark's voice rose slightly. "We can't wait two or three weeks; the East Side community cleaning contract needs to be funded next week."

"I know, supervisor, but..." Diane paused.

"This is the third time this month."

"Last time, JPMorgan Chase rejected our application for a dedicated account to receive road maintenance grants from the state Department of Transportation. The time before that, U.S. Bank froze our existing infrastructure maintenance account for 48 hours, citing a routine risk review."

Clark was silent for a few seconds, and he certainly remembered that this was not the first time recently.

Initially, U.S. Bank froze their account for 48 hours. Those two days happened to coincide with the final payment to the contractor for street repairs, and they almost got fined for being late.

Then it was JPMorgan Chase, and now it's facing another setback.

Clark has been in this position for years; how could he not know what kind of people banks are?

They will not freeze a city hall's account without a reason, nor will they refuse a government's account opening application without a reason.

There must be signals from a "higher level" at work behind these operations.