Welcome to Wing Sing

[Keida]

垃圾灣入境口岸 - 永勝技術民國
Laap Saap Bay Port of Entry - Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing​

A line of refugees stretched the entire length of the facility and out the door, as far as Corporal Tsui Zou-jiu could see. “The Technocratic Republic welcomes you,” a the loudspeakers announced in Jizhou Chinese, “There is no war in Wing Sing. Here you are safe. Here you are free. A civilian of the Technocratic Republic makes his own destiny, a citizen shapes the nation's.” The message repeated again in Singlish and Dutch.

Tsui watched them shuffle, listening to the announcement. The 'boat people,' they were sometimes called. The poorest arrived with a knapsack full of clothes and little else, the richest brought livestock with them. They even brought the goats here, into the port of entry. Tsui had a rifle, and when he got very bored, he'd think about what would happen if he shot one of the goats. He couldn't really imagine what the rifle was for. Were they afraid of a stampede? And if they were, would a rifle really help?

But the short (even for a Singlishman), jumpsuited corporal had another duty in addition to crowd control. He was on the lookout for 'war criminals.' Even with Oikawan troops running around the capital, they hadn't been able to catch the top dogs of Jizhou's so-called 'Yiyuan Clique.' And the Oikawan embassy in Central believed, rightly or wrongly, that they might make for Wing Sing with all the other refugees.

“They were probably in Port Saint Joy a month ago,” Tsui said to himself, looking over the poster of 'report on sight' faces. “As if Li Yuying would come shuffling in here with a goat,” he scoffed.

“Oi, soldier boy!” An elderly refugee called to Tsui, his toothless mouth somehow producing passable Singlish, “Help an old man with his cart?”

The corporal sighed and nodded to one of his cohorts down the line before hopping over the rail that divided the soldiers from the refugees. “You speak Singlish, gramps?” Tsui asked, shouldering the man's cart full of clothes and other essentials,

“A little. I work in Wing Sing when I am young,” he stood up proudly, “'Acquisitions Liaison for Nationalist Party of Jizhou,'” the old man smiled, “Zhang Hao, or Zoeng Hou. You choose.”

“Wait,” Tsui stopped moving and dropped the cart, holding up some refugees behind him, “Did you just admit to me, a soldier of the Wing Sing Laap Saap Garrison, that you are a member of the JMD?”

“I did, I did!” He laughed, the seriousness of the situation eluding Mr. Zoeng, “Now hurry up, I need my civilian ID card. Zoeng Hou, civilian of Technocratic Republic. That's me!”

“You realize I'm supposed to report all JMD members to my superiors, who presumably send you to an Oikawan death camp or something.” Corporal Tsui shouldered the cart anyway,

“But you not do that,” the old man said, not looking back, “You a good boy. Help an old man with his cart.”

Tsui started to get annoyed, “Why won't I do that?”

“Listen.” Zoeng said, holding up a finger to the loudspeaker:

“There is no war in Wing Sing. Here you are safe. Here you are free.”

“You not need bring Li and Yoshikawa's war here. You let an old man get civilianship, maybe open noodle shop.” They were fast approaching the front of the line, “Jizhou is dead. Nationalist Party is doomed. Li gambles in Makai with government money. Yoshikawa rapes my grandchildren. Only Wing Sing is Chinese for Chinese,”

“Name?” The pretty young bureaucrat asked,

“Zoeng Hou”

“Birthdate?”

“9 June, 1926”

“National origin?”

“Republic of Jizhou”

“Welcome to Wing Sing, Civilian Zoeng,” she said, smiling appreciatively, “Here you are safe. Here you are free.”

 

[Keida]

陳偉智陸軍訓練中心 - 永勝技術民國
Can Wai Zi Army Training Center - Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing​

Private Wu Jik Naam adjusted the thick black frames of his military glasses, irritated by the heavy helmet on top. “Wu!” the drillmaster had to call out his name twice, he still wasn't quite used to the Singlish name. He was Hu Yinan for the first twenty two years of his life, back in Jizhou. But when he became a civilian of Wing Sing, he had the choice between a Singlish or a Dutch name, and he chose the one that would be easier for him to pronounce. “Wu, stop fidgeting and get your ass to the other side of that pond!”

A shallow marsh strung over with barbed wire stood between him and the end of his training. Private Wu had signed up to do his two years of service in the Bak Keoi Rifles within about a week of arriving in Wing Sing. On the one hand, there was the idea of doing something to prove himself to his adopted country, to become a full member of this new society, to truly leave Jizhou behind. But more importantly, Hu had arrived completely alone. His parents were too old to leave Chongbin and his traveling partners, including his fiancée and two dear friends, were killed during their escape from the continent. When Hu became Wu, he had no prospects for work, didn't know a soul. He was exactly the kind of immigrant that Wing Sing loved: ethnically Chinese, prime working age, with no prospects other than national service.

Many of Wing Sing's best and brightest started in exactly the same situation as Wu Jik Naam. Gaa Hong Lim, Chairman and CEO of Coeng Sau Enterprises, used to be Jia Kanglian until he made the perilous crossing with his family and others in 1948. Like Wu, Gaa was one of very few survivors. An old saying in Wing Sing is that only immigrants like Gaa who have the get-up-and-go to get-up-and-go can make it in the sink-or-swim, dog-eat-dog, cutthroat world of of the Technocratic Republic. Only they will be the technocrats.

Of course, as Private Wu was struggling to keep his helmet from getting stuck on the barbed wire and simultaneously keeping himself from a mouthful of pond scum, his mind wasn't on that saying he had never heard. All he wanted was to make his paycheck, make some friends, make connections. Such relationships were very important in Jizhou, called 關係 or Guanxi, Wing Sing was different; here, you needed 關係 or Gwaan Hai, to survive.

The ten meters of crawling felt like ten miles, and he figured he'd never forget that rancid stench. Still, when he sprung up out of the marsh and barbed wire, he managed to cross the finish line with a pretty solid time. The drillmaster called it out and he earned some applause from his comrades.

“Private Wu, having completed your training, you are ordered to Daa Gu Station for duty. Your tour as a Bak Keoi Rifleman begins immediately. Keep the Technocracy safe. Keep the Technocracy free.”

 

[Keida]

老張茶館 – 旺角區 – 永勝技術民國
Old Zoeng's Tea House – Wong Gok District – Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing​

“Why my shop empty?!” The toothless old man called from behind the counter.

“What?” Yelled back a pretty young girl wearing a tea shop's apron, her silky black hair tied in a ponytail to keep it out of her eyes,

“There's no customers here!” The old man screeched angrily, switching to Jizhou Chinese, “I pay you to serve tea; and when there's no one to serve, I pay you to bring me people to serve. Now get out on the street and bring me some guests. Things are going to get ugly if I have to stand up!”

The young Miss Taam put down her cell phone and poured some tea samples. Her name tag read 'Hannah Dang Siu Syut,' it was the name she took upon arriving in Wing Sing.

“Tea? Try some tea, sir?” She offered her little samples, “Special today. Full set lunch. 30 guilder.” The girl, in her mid twenties, was still struggling with Singlish. She had hardly heard of the language growing up in northern Jizhou. “30 guilder. Best price in Wong Gok! Excuse me, sir. Are you hungry?”

She caught the attention of a group of three well-dressed businessmen. They were sweating through their suits in the summer heat, “We have air conditioner!” She used the Jizhou Chinese word for the appliance.

“You look familiar,” one of the businessmen said. He had a stone face and eyes obscured by thick spectacles. Hannah didn't understand what he said.

“30 guilder each. Please, come in,” she invited them with a tip of her head and a motion inside. The three men babbled to each other in Singlish before nodding and stepping inside.

“Fun jing gwong lam!” Old Zoeng called out the traditional service industry greeting, scurrying out from the back to meet his customers while Siu Syut prepared some snacks, “I'm Zoeng Hou, and this is my shop. I hope you enjoy meal, gentlemen.”

“What's that girl's name?” The one with the spectacles asked Old Zoeng, staring at her back, “I'd swear I know her from somewhere.”

“Dang Siu Syut,” the old man held himself back from berating his customer; the name was written on her badge, after all, “She very new. Just come from Jizhou a week ago, I think.”

“Strange. Well, in any case, we'll be enjoying your set lunch. Jasmine tea, please.”

“Right away, right away!” Zoeng scurried back into his kitchen before screaming out in Jizhou Chinese, “Don't fuck this up, Siu Syut!” He turned on his radio to amuse himself while cooking.

“Now the most important thing is that we take this with grace and tact; the communist party is probably going to push them into a full-blown strike to gain street cred against a foreign company,” the bespectacled businessman said to a grey-haired accomplice as Hannah brought their first serving of tea, “The goal is to create the illusion of giving a major concession while in reality only playing lip service to their demands. You have to know how to think like a Vangalan, that's the trick.”

Hannah smiled flirtatiously as she poured. She had learned about the Singlish custom of 'tipping,' giving extra money for good service. She planned to exploit that. The young girl could tell she was distracting the suits.

“But the... uh...” the third of the group, whose weight was considerably more than a third of their total mass, had his train of thought broken by some harmless staring,

“What?”

“Right, yes. We may avoid raises by offering things like additional bathroom breaks or health care for on-the-job injuries. I'll have my men work up a cost-benefit analysis.”

The radio began playing a catchy pop tune from a well-known girl band. Siu Syut served some noodles.

“We just have to be careful,” the grey-hair said, twirling some noodles around his chopsticks, “We don't want to set a precedent. The last thing we need is all our enterprises in Vangala rising up every two weeks for another bathroom break or another missing limb damages payout.”

The fat one adjusted his cartoon character necktie, keeping it out of his lunch, “I'm sorry, what? I just love this song.”

“It's the White Guards' last single,” the bespectacled one said between noodle slurps, “'Run Devil Run.' Wing Sing is the one of the only places in the LFS it can be played, actually. What with the 'Oikawans are invader dogs/the free republic rises on their ashes' lyrics and all.”

Hannah brought out the teapot again,

“They may have been blatant propagandists, but you can't fault these rhythms,” the grey-hair shrugged, “A shame they're all probably in death camps by now.”

“Pretty young things too,” Spectacles added, “Especially their frontlady, Nadiya T-” He froze in mid-sentence and locked eyes with Hannah, in the midst of refilling his teacup, “You're Nadiya Tan!”

She hadn't been paying attention to what the group was babbling in Singlish, but she suddenly recognized her old name; even in Singlish pronunciation. “What?”

“Guys,” Spectacles said, his smile widening, “This tea shop girl is Nadiya Tan! That's her singing on the radio right now.” He stood up and put his arm around Hannah, slowing down his speech as he pointed to the device in question, “That's you, isn't it? You came from Jizhou and changed your name?”

She denied it, “No, no. Just farm girl. I need to more tea...” the young girl slipped away to the kitchen. Old Zoeng came out in her place.

“Old Man, do you know who that girl is?” Spectacles asked while the other two gobbled their remaining noodles,

“Pretty but incompetent tea waitress?” He said, putting down some cucumbers,

“She's a very famous pop star from Jizhou. Used to be the darling of the JMD Cultural Ministry. No doubt wanted by the Oikawans for god-knows what.”

“No she not. She a tea waitress. You ready for your bill?”

“That girl must have a fortune,” Fatty said, “Why is she working in a tea shop?”

“A fortune in worthless Jizhou Republican Yuan,” grey-hair answered, “In national banks that have been frozen and/or bombed by the Devils.”

“Ninety guilder,” Zoeng said impatiently. Spectacles paid.

“Can I get a picture with her?” He asked.

“No.” He answered. “Have a nice day.”

Sensing Old Zoeng's displeasure with their conduct, the three suits made their way out. They were still talking about Tan, Fatty hummed some of his favorite singles.

Back in the kitchen, Miss Taam was clearly distressed. Her head was hung low over a boiling kettle. Old Zoeng put his hand on her shoulder, “Don't worry,” he said in Jizhou Chinese, “We won't be listening to that station again.”