Captain Kyle Branson slammed the headset across the guard shack. “Chihuahua Alpha” — his proud gamer tag — had just been swatted off a cliff like a bug. One second he was doing overwatch; the next, some rando rushed him from behind and sent him rag‑dolling into the abyss. Damian’s laughter crackled through the headset. Asshole.
From his debtor’s prison Damianlaughed as his friend’s avatar flailed it’s way into the lake water below, cursing the whole way down. Kyle muted the channel. Damian’s laugh always lingered a beat too long. Why did he keep playing on Damian’s side in Valkyrie Blackline?
Kyle heard the guard shack door creak open. In his wife’s hand was a steaming cup of tea and a scone. He recognized the tag on the teabag, Twinnings English Breakfast. He could see dried cranberries in the scone. Dana knew him better than he knew himself. He stood up, took the tea and scone from Dana, and set it down, “Thanks babe. Perfectly timed.”
“Damian Damianing?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why I keep playing against him. He’s a true asshole.”
“Then don’t. Valkrie Blackline isn’t the only game in town. Anything scheduled today?”
“Two women traveling to San Lorenzo in a custom F250. Nice truck. Cummins Twelve Valve, Six Speed dog box, two speed transfer case, two speed diff, CTIS controlled by an analog computer. Two door cab, short bed.”
“Nice. I’ll check their paperwork. ETA?”
“They have an appointment for this afternoon. They better be early.”
“Kyle, don’t mess with the women, ok. We talked about this,” Kyle’s face twisted into that familiar expression — half alpha posturing, half domestic contrition. If they were hot enough for the juice to be worth the squeeze, he might ignore Dana’s admonition.
Trampled Boundaries
Outside, the heat shimmered off Highway 50W. Ninety‑six degrees at six thousand feet felt like punishment. The kind of heat that made the asphalt breathe and the metal on cars too hot to touch. The kind of heat that made a four‑hour watch feel like a sentence. Kyle hated summer shifts. Hated the tourists drifting between casinos. Hated the drunks who wandered across the border like it was still 2020 and the USA hadn’t fractured into the Rocky Mountain Pact and Pacific Cascadia.
He especially hated walkers — people who crossed the border on foot, forcing him to pretend he cared which jurisdiction they were in. Analog vehicles? Those he had to inspect. Pact rules. Cascadia rules. Hive compliance rules. Everyone distrusted everyone else’s data.
And today, of course, it had to be ninety‑six degrees. Of course the AC in the booth was wheezing. Of course the next appointment was an analog truck. The binder of regs for ICE vehicles was six inches thick. Six inches of reasons why that old Cummins twelve valve offended the Pacific Cascadia.
Snacked Up
Inger and Tala fueled up at The Last Turn. Then went inside and stocked up on snacks. Their Tavro run radio let them know that the border crossing can be fickle. Some days it’s nothing. Then randomly, it’s something. Their appointment was for 2:00 PDT. The deets are that appointment times were one of a few things that are fungible. Being prompt helps, but the right incentives help more.
But in 2125, with the USA long gone and the Nevada/California line now dividing the Rocky Mountain Pact from Pacific Cascadia, the crossing mattered again. And depending on whether Kyle was on shift and in a casual mood, it was still mostly nothing.
Inger and Tala had spent a day at 影の華 doing the legwork so the crossing would be perfunctory. Rules were mapped and memorized. had been cataloged, Soft and sharp incentives catalogued. Hive paperwork flowed smoothly under their hands.
Summer’s Heat
It was summer. Peak tourist season. Any other time the border gates were up and the guards were waving people through. But the heat today was the kind that made tempers short and procedures long. Sweaty, can’t‑wait‑for‑the‑watch‑to‑be‑over hot. Watches were four hours. Then the guards rotated inside, where the HVAC maintained a civil temperature.
Kyle was on duty. And Kyle hated the heat. He stared at a line of cars 200 deep—in both directions. The retinue of pedestrians on both sides of the border grew faster than they could be processed. Kyle didn’t care about politics. But recent saber rattling between Pacific Cascadia and the Rocky Mountain Pact made his job worse. “This job wants to kill me,” thought Kyle.
There were two lanes. One for people who didn’t have an appointment and another for those that did. Inger pulled Muteki into the appointment lane ahead of their 2pm appointment. In Tala’s lap was a binder with all their paperwork arranged in order. Each document was in a plastic sleeve. They were ready.
Big Alpha Mode
Captain Kyle Branson stood on the curb of the guard shack as he worked through the line of cars. Most were perfunctory. Gamblers who played at one of the Rocky Mountain Pact casinos and stayed on the Pacific Cascadia side of South Lake Tahoe. In the appointment line ahead was the custom F250 he told Dana about. Occupided two times, both average hot women. Good enough to get with, though.
He had their names and paperwork on his tablet. Everything was in order. It should be an easy wave through. But Branson chose an audible so he could see how much he there was to get. Naked, willing, horizontal women would be a major win. But scoring some snacks could work also.
Inger paid a visit to the salon before leaving 影の華. Went in with soft brown hair and came out with blond curls. Under her Paradise Valley Resort and Casino t-shirt was a push-up bra. The makeup was on the edge between meh and trashy. There was an intelligence report about one of the gate guards that said he was a pig. Mincemeat for Inger.
Tala went for a different vibe. She had a pink floral Hawaiian shirt over a bare midriff tank top and Mom shorts. Crocks for shoes. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail with a jeweled hair clip. Her makeup said, “not in the mood.”
Rolling Coaled
It was their turn in line, “ID, Insurance and Registration, please.”
?? Usually it was whether they were bringing in any fruit. Whatever, they were ready. Inger handed the documents through the downed window to the guard. His nameplate said, “Captain Kyle Branson”. Branson leaned into the open window of the custom F-250, his blue eyes flicking from the documents to the two women inside. The truck idled with that deep, old-school Cummins rumble, no electronics to snitch on emissions or route data, just raw mechanical honesty that both jurisdictions grudgingly tolerated with the right stamps.
Inger met his gaze with practiced ease, blond curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head, lips curved in that sweet-but-calculated smile she’d rehearsed at 影の華. The Paradise Valley Resort tee hugged just right, the push-up doing its job without screaming desperation. Tala, quieter in the passenger seat, kept the binder open on her lap like a shield—plastic sleeves gleaming, every form triple-checked.
Branson’s flat-top didn’t have a hair out of place despite the sweat beading at his temples. Ninety-six degrees baked the blacktop; the heat mirage made the line of cars behind them waver like a bad trip. His crisp uniform shirt clung in places it shouldn’t on a man who lived for the pump, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, veins standing out like roadmap lines from last night’s curls and presses.
Happy Wife
“Everything looks… in order,” he drawled, handing back the stack but letting his fingers brush Inger’s just long enough to test the waters. “Custom rig like this—Twelve Valve, manual everything, CTIS analog—it’s a dinosaur these days. Pact loves ’em raw; Cascadia wants to neuter ’em with regs. Can I see documentation of the required inspections?”
He paused, letting the silence stretch. Inger didn’t flinch. Tala handed the binder to Inger, who passed it out the window to Captain Branson, “Impressive. But you rolled up with soot rolling out your stacks. We don’t allow that on this side of the border, Question is,” Branson continued, voice dropping lower, “you ladies in a hurry? Afternoon’s young, heat’s brutal, and I’ve got discretion on analog inspections. Could be quick… or thorough. Your call.”
“Captain Branson, right? We appreciate the thoroughness. Truly. But we’ve got places to be. Maybe next time we can… discuss incentives in more detail?” She let her eyes linger on his Gold’s Gym arms, then flicked them back up. “For now, though—think you could make this one perfunctory? We’d be very grateful.”
Cold Tea
Branson heard the door of the booth’s westbound side open. He knew who that was. Damn. Just a few seconds more an this could have gone a lot better. Dana came through the eastbound door and put a hand on his shoulder, “Afternoon ladies. Everything allright?”
For Branson, no everything was not allright. He was so close, damnit. The Pinay looking passenger chirped, “We are good.” Branson’s hand was on Inger’s. He stroked it, “just making sure they are in compliance.”
Mrs. Dana Branson saw the way her husband’s hand moved across the drivers hand, “honey, do you love me?”
From swole to limp in seconds. The moment collapsed, “Of course, honey.”
“Then, what the fuck are you doing?”
The driver pulled her left hand back inside the cab. Brandon had a wounded, contrite puppy face, “Nothing.”
Dana tapped the button to raise the gate, “ladies, nice truck, have a great day.”
Inger pushed in the clutch, shifted to second, and eased Mitaki on through.
Postlude
The F-250—Muteki to its owners—surged forward, the old Cummins Twelve Valve waking up to a full-throated roar. No fancy DEF, no EGR delete drama needed; this thing ran clean enough for the Pact but dirty enough to announce itself when provoked. Inger had given it just enough pedal to make a point.
Thick, inky black smoke billowed from the twin stacks behind the cab, rolling coal in defiance of every Cascadia emissions pamphlet ever printed. The plume twisted upward in the shimmering heat, a dark signature against the pale blue sky and the distant Sierras. Tires bit asphalt, the short bed loaded light with gear and snacks from The Last Turn, suspension squatting slightly under the torque before the truck leveled out and accelerated hard down Highway 50W.
In the driver’s seat, Inger’s blond curls whipped in the wind from the open window, her Paradise Valley Resort tee stretched taut over the push-up, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She glanced in the side mirror at the shrinking guard shack, at Chihuahua Alpha standing there with his hand still half-raised like he couldn’t decide whether to wave or curse. Tala, passenger side, binder now closed on her lap, let out a low laugh. Her pink floral Hawaiian shirt fluttered, ponytail swinging, Crocs kicked up on the dash like she owned the road—which, for the next few miles at least, she did.
“Pig didn’t stand a chance,” Tala said, popping a snack from their stash.
Inger shifted into third, the dog-box manual snicking cleanly. “Dana’s timing? Chef’s kiss. Saved us the trouble of shutting him down ourselves.”
Behind them, the smoke hung heavy for a long beat before the wind shredded it. Muteki didn’t look back. San Lorenzo waited, paperwork pristine, incentives untouched, and the border just another speed bump in a fractured world.
The truck vanished into the heat haze, leaving only the faint diesel tang and the echo of that Cummins growl fading west.