Inger needs help. It’s Winter 2125. Damian is the same. A microdick believing he is Adonis. Calling the cops a century from now is a challenge. Some cities and counties survive with 911 still in service. Other places? Not so much. There are cops on the payroll in some places. Just not the whole infrastructure we enjoy in 2025 as I write this. Defund anybody? Salvatore Jimenez was a thousand miles from her. Road trip!
Paradise Valley, Nevada to San Lorenzo, CA today is a boring cruise along well maintained Interstates. The drive can be completed in a day. Crossing the Sierra Mountains is a non-event. The mountains roll under the car like speed bumps. In 2125? Different story.
First, it’s about 40 minutes from Paradise Valley to Winnemucca in 2025 if the weather is clear. Snow/freezing rain complicates things. Today, US-95 is a maintained highway. In 2125 it is somewhat maintained by Saito-Gumi. Most clients staying at the Resort and Casino fly in by autonomous helicopter.
Nobody Drives Anymore
Why drive? The roads between Winnemucca and San Lorenzo are catch as catch can. Some are passable, others are gravel trails. The Door Network obviates the need for land travel. Autonomous aircraft can fly most anywhere. Anybody who is anybody either uses the Door Network or flies. Local travel? Nobody drives. That’s stupid. The cars can be summoned by a Hive connected app. Then said cars drive you to your destination. Drive? Nobody does that.
Inger does that. She learned to drive on the private roads of the Resort and Casino. It’s an odd hobby shared by only a few people. Even fewer people could master a six-speed dog box with a locker two speed transfer case. In the cab are too many sticks. The six speed, the locking, two speed transfer case, and levers for the lockers front and rear. Kenji, the truck’s builder, is proud of the build and his ability to drive it without grinding gears. Inger practiced. She’s not as smooth as Kenji. But smooth enough that he lets her drive it into the mountains near Paradise Valley.
Truck Deetz for the Road Trip
Well . . . deetz. Am I right? It’s a 2097 Ford F-250 build by a Saito-Gumi associate named Kenji. He has a passion for antique (USA) American trucks. Regular cab, long bed—roughly thirty years old in 2125, built at the end of the internal combustion era. On the outside it looks like a wasteland survivor headed for the junkyard: faded silver paint with deliberate fake rust patina, mismatched fenders acid-washed for character, dents and primer patches that scream “ignore me.” Subtle Saito-Gumi touches peek through the grime—a ghosted crest on the doors, faint kanji reading 無敵 (muteki—invincible) low on the rockers, and a tiny rising-sun motif only those in the know would spot.
Under the hood beats a Cummins 5.9L 12-valve inline-six, mechanical injection fed by homebrew biodiesel from casino fryer oil and local soybean crush. The transmission is Kenji’s pride: an aftermarket six-speed dog box built on a reinforced ZF case, straight-cut gears that whine on upshifts and demand perfect rev-matching. Manual everything else—two-speed transfer case with floor lever, front and rear manual lockers, heavy clutch pedal tuned for the diesel’s grunt. It’s slow on flats, thirsty by modern standards, but unstoppable when the road turns hostile.
Inside the cab is pure driver’s joy with Inger’s unmistakable stamp. Vinyl bench seat, manual windows, no screens except the palm-sized Hive node styled like a 1950s chrome AM radio, pulling Starlink-derived mesh for comms, streaming, and maps when the sky allows.
Weapons Cold
Shotgun rack mounted behind her head, a Sig Sauer P220 Carry in .45 ACP in a pastel My Melody holster in the glove box. The bed (lockable tonneau over organized chaos) holds ammo cans, barter goods, the powered cooler humming on solar-topped lithium, and a scabbarded .30-30 lever-action under the tarp. Her kawaii layer softens the masculine beast: glitter-dusted TEMU Christmas tree suctioned to the dash, crocheted flower clipped to the vent wafting faint lavender, Hello Kitty headphones dangling from the mirror.
Two mid-range Tavros ride with her—Kuma and Momo—modular bipedal guardians defaulting to heavy lift and scout configs, cores tied loosely to the Hive collective. The truck itself has zero autonomy; Kenji built it for the pure joy of driving—no self-drive, no “take me home” commands. Five gear levers, a substantial clutch, and the Cummins clatter demand presence and skill. Thieves who try to steal it quickly discover it’s a riddle only Inger can solve. To her it’s home, partner, armor, and statement all in one—muteki on wheels, junkyard ghost with a precision heart, rolling west on biodiesel and quiet confidence.
The Packout
Inger spent a week stocking the truck with what she’d need for the journey:
- Powered cooler (Goal Zero Alta-style, battered white with faded YETI branding): strapped driver-side rear, humming quietly on solar-topped lithium. Inside: frosty drinks, fresh fruit from the casino hydro, vacuum-sealed jerky, a six-pack of real beer, and those unobtanium vintage MREs wrapped in a Hello Kitty insulated sleeve.
- Ammo cans (half a dozen olive-drab steel ones, stacked two high and bungied): three hold .45 ACP, 9mm, .30-30, and 12-gauge; the other three are supplies—spare filters, tools, stabilized biodiesel additives, medical kit, and barter odds like coffee bricks and antibiotics.
- Lever-action rifle (.30-30 or .45-70, wood and blued steel): scabbarded in weathered canvas, strapped horizontally along the bed rail within arm’s reach of the cab window.
- Jerricans (four or five 5-gallon, hand-labeled): homebrew B100 biodiesel from casino fryer oil and local soybeans—golden, faintly french-fry scented, strapped passenger-side.
- Tavros ride space: Kuma and Momo’s default folded positions—Kuma cradled in a custom cradle amid the cans, Momo perched or strapped topside when moving. Spare modular limbs (crawler tracks, telescopic arms, heavy claws) in a locked toolbox bolted to the forward bed.
- Minimal overnight kit: military poncho and woobie rolled tight in a dry bag (woodland camo woobie with a small embroidered peach blossom patch Inger added), closed-cell foam pad wedged flat, small fire kit and collapsible pot.
- Barter overflow: a couple sealed crates under the tarp—whiskey bottles wrapped in rags, vacuum-sealed tobacco, real soap bars, paperback books—luxuries that buy passage when ammo feels too heavy.
Ride Along
Tala heard about the road trip. She’s never been far from the casino. The furthest was to Winnemucca on a date with one of the cooks. Then he got fired for theft. So it goes. Inger was at the back, the F-250 parked in a spot at the loading dock. There was a pile of gear and supplies on the dock. Inger was packing the bed with what she needed for the trip. A Tavro was moving supplies and gear to the edge of the dock.
Tala watched Inger wrestle another crate into the bed, then stepped closer. “Girl, where are you going?” She glanced at the loaded truck. “Looks like you’re packing for the apocalypse.”
Inger grunted, sliding the crate into place. “Nowhere special. I have a problem I need help with. I need a cop—a real cop.” Tala tilted her head. “Those are hard to find.”
Inger latched an ammo can with a sharp click. “I know. That’s why I’m going to San Lorenzo.” Tala’s eyes widened. “San Lorenzo? That’s… far.” “Yep.” Inger wiped her hands on her jeans. “But my problem won’t go away or shut up.”
Tala murmured in Tagalog, almost to herself. “Hay naku, si Damian ba ‘yan?”
Inger gave a short nod. “That jerk.”
Boy Problem
Tala pressed her lips together, then let out a small breath. She shifted her weight, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. “Must be hard, going alone.” Inger paused, looking at her. “It is.”
Tala glanced away, then back. “The road’s long. Someone to talk to… would make it shorter, maybe.”
Inger’s mouth curved in a faint smile. She understood. “You want to come?” Tala’s shoulders lifted in a shy shrug, but her eyes brightened. “If… if it’s okay. I mean, only if you want company.”
Inger considered for a beat, then nodded once. “Could be nice to have someone to talk to on the way.” Tala’s face lit up. She bounced lightly on her toes. “Talaga? Sige na!”
Inger laughed softly. “Tell the Tavro you’re coming with me. Use my account—get whatever you need. I got you.”
Tala hesitated. “Are you sure po?” “I’m sure.” Inger handed her a jerrican to carry. “Are you?” Tala took it, grin spreading wide. “Oo. Tara na! Let’s go!”
The rest of the afternoon passed while Inger finished packing the truck and Tala gathered what she needed. What Tala needed turns out to be a bag filled with Korean Instant Ramen and a suitcase full of necessary things for a hotel stay. Inger looked over the gear and nodded to the Tavro. He loaded Tala’s suitcases into the bed of the truck then secured them.
City Fish
A single person tent from Walmart, a butane stove, extra fuel canisters, and five gallons of drinking water were added by the Tavro for Tala. About as useful as an umbrella in a hurricaine but whatever. Inger and Tala hit the road the next day. The first leg through the valley to Winnemucca took all day. It was a four-high overland cruise to US-95 South. They made it to the Fairfield Inn. First world comforts would be scarce for the rest of the way. Might as well enjoy it while they could.
At the front desk, Tala looked nervous, “We don’t need something this nice.” Inger is busy with the desk clerk, “It’s all good. I got you.” The room was a double king with a kitchenette. It is the last bit of first world they would see for a while.