06-04-2025, 09:45 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-04-2025, 11:11 PM by Ascendancy.)
Snow drifted like ash over the broken road. Wind whistled through the bones of overpasses, and gas signs flapped on skeletal poles above the pot-marked surface of Interstate 35.
On the northern side of the checkpoint, technically on American soil, families huddled in old camping tents and mismashed cardboard. There was no power except for a few diesel generators, but the gasoline was so expensive, nobody could run them more than an hour at a time. A few old wood stoves puffed smoke into the gray sky instead, their warmth shared by too many.
Outside one such tent, a man stood with a pair of battered binoculars pressed to his eyes. He was about fifty, though the cold had carved deeper lines into his face than the years alone could claim. His coat was Army surplus. The hem of a red flannel shirt poked out under the cuffs, threadbare and faded. Through the fogged lenses of his binoculars, Dominance IX shimmered like a distant promise.
On the southern side of the checkpoint, CCD soldiers in environmental armor moved in clean, practiced lines. Portable heaters glowed along the waiting lanes. A holographic video flickered to life every few minutes, casting blue-green light across the tarmac. Families gathered in neat rows, children cradling shrink-wrapped “Unity Gifts” in their arms—each box bearing the mark of the Ascendancy’s double crescent and the symbol of their new Dominance.
And above it all, projected twenty meters high on a drone-suspended emitter rig, was the face of the Ascendancy himself. Speakers made sure that those on the other side of the border would be able to overhear.
“In this sacred season,” he said, voice rich with gravitas and calm, “we honor peace not as a dream, but as an achievement. Dominance Nine is proof of what unity brings. Where once there was chaos, now there is light. Where once there was fear, now there is prosperity.”
A little girl waved at the screen. The Ascendancy didn’t wave back, but his smile widened. It had the precise warmth of a calibrated sunrise.
The man with the binoculars lowered them. His name was Danvers. Once a high school chemistry teacher in Oklahoma City. Now just another border ghost.
His fingers fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside were a few crumpled U.S. dollars. Not digital. Not encoded. Just paper. Once powerful. Now nearly useless. He stared at them a long time. Folded twenty. Two fives. A ten that was starting to tear along the crease. From behind him, a younger man muttered, “Might as well burn ’em. Worth more that way.”
Danvers looked down at the fire barrel, then back at the bills. He lifted the ten-dollar note slowly, feeling the wind tug at it like it was already dead. His fingers hovered just above the flame. But he stopped. Not out of sentiment. Just... inertia. He returned the bills to the bag and the bag to his pocket.
“They’re worth more as memory,” he said, mostly to himself. A child’s voice rose nearby. “Is he coming, Papa?” Someone else laughed bitterly. A mother pulled her child closer. Danvers didn’t answer. He just looked south again.
“To the brave people of Texas, of Mexico, and our brothers and sisters in Central America,” the Ascendancy’s voice rang out, “you stood in the face of uncertainty and chose peace. You joined not a nation, but a purpose. Tonight, your children sleep beneath warmth and order. Tomorrow, they will wake beneath the banner of the future.”
A convoy of CCD trucks passed behind the border fence, gleaming with chrome and efficiency. Danvers watched them disappear into the depths of the Dominance. New roads. New infrastructure. New money. On the American side, a woman bartered with a man for three AA batteries. Two strips of aspirin in exchange.
Danvers blinked and adjusted his binoculars again. The CCD broadcast resumed—bright, seamless, confident. The Ascendancy’s face loomed above the border like a secular messiah.
“This is not conquest,” the Ascendancy intoned. “This is communion. Together, we shape a new era unbroken by chaos, untainted by corruption. We offer continuity. Revival.”
A cheer rose from the Dominance side. Or maybe it was just audio piped through public speakers. Danvers couldn’t tell anymore. Then, a quiet hiss behind him. He turned. On the corrugated wall of a gas station, someone was spray-painting a phrase in red. Sloppy, rushed, but legible.
The paint was still dripping as the person with the can ran. He had a hood over his face, which explain why he had risked coming out in daylight, within sight of CCD drones, just to scrawl that.
Danvers stared at the words. Not revolutionary. Not clever. But it stuck in his mind like a sliver.
A second later, a teenager jogged past and slapped a torn flyer on the same wall. It fluttered in the wind before sticking. Danvers squinted. A silhouette of the Ascendancy’s face—overlaid with a barcode and a chain. The teen was gone by the time anyone noticed.
On the northern side of the checkpoint, technically on American soil, families huddled in old camping tents and mismashed cardboard. There was no power except for a few diesel generators, but the gasoline was so expensive, nobody could run them more than an hour at a time. A few old wood stoves puffed smoke into the gray sky instead, their warmth shared by too many.
Outside one such tent, a man stood with a pair of battered binoculars pressed to his eyes. He was about fifty, though the cold had carved deeper lines into his face than the years alone could claim. His coat was Army surplus. The hem of a red flannel shirt poked out under the cuffs, threadbare and faded. Through the fogged lenses of his binoculars, Dominance IX shimmered like a distant promise.
On the southern side of the checkpoint, CCD soldiers in environmental armor moved in clean, practiced lines. Portable heaters glowed along the waiting lanes. A holographic video flickered to life every few minutes, casting blue-green light across the tarmac. Families gathered in neat rows, children cradling shrink-wrapped “Unity Gifts” in their arms—each box bearing the mark of the Ascendancy’s double crescent and the symbol of their new Dominance.
And above it all, projected twenty meters high on a drone-suspended emitter rig, was the face of the Ascendancy himself. Speakers made sure that those on the other side of the border would be able to overhear.
“In this sacred season,” he said, voice rich with gravitas and calm, “we honor peace not as a dream, but as an achievement. Dominance Nine is proof of what unity brings. Where once there was chaos, now there is light. Where once there was fear, now there is prosperity.”
A little girl waved at the screen. The Ascendancy didn’t wave back, but his smile widened. It had the precise warmth of a calibrated sunrise.
The man with the binoculars lowered them. His name was Danvers. Once a high school chemistry teacher in Oklahoma City. Now just another border ghost.
His fingers fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside were a few crumpled U.S. dollars. Not digital. Not encoded. Just paper. Once powerful. Now nearly useless. He stared at them a long time. Folded twenty. Two fives. A ten that was starting to tear along the crease. From behind him, a younger man muttered, “Might as well burn ’em. Worth more that way.”
Danvers looked down at the fire barrel, then back at the bills. He lifted the ten-dollar note slowly, feeling the wind tug at it like it was already dead. His fingers hovered just above the flame. But he stopped. Not out of sentiment. Just... inertia. He returned the bills to the bag and the bag to his pocket.
“They’re worth more as memory,” he said, mostly to himself. A child’s voice rose nearby. “Is he coming, Papa?” Someone else laughed bitterly. A mother pulled her child closer. Danvers didn’t answer. He just looked south again.
“To the brave people of Texas, of Mexico, and our brothers and sisters in Central America,” the Ascendancy’s voice rang out, “you stood in the face of uncertainty and chose peace. You joined not a nation, but a purpose. Tonight, your children sleep beneath warmth and order. Tomorrow, they will wake beneath the banner of the future.”
A convoy of CCD trucks passed behind the border fence, gleaming with chrome and efficiency. Danvers watched them disappear into the depths of the Dominance. New roads. New infrastructure. New money. On the American side, a woman bartered with a man for three AA batteries. Two strips of aspirin in exchange.
Danvers blinked and adjusted his binoculars again. The CCD broadcast resumed—bright, seamless, confident. The Ascendancy’s face loomed above the border like a secular messiah.
“This is not conquest,” the Ascendancy intoned. “This is communion. Together, we shape a new era unbroken by chaos, untainted by corruption. We offer continuity. Revival.”
A cheer rose from the Dominance side. Or maybe it was just audio piped through public speakers. Danvers couldn’t tell anymore. Then, a quiet hiss behind him. He turned. On the corrugated wall of a gas station, someone was spray-painting a phrase in red. Sloppy, rushed, but legible.
“DON’T BELIEVE HIS PEACE.”
The paint was still dripping as the person with the can ran. He had a hood over his face, which explain why he had risked coming out in daylight, within sight of CCD drones, just to scrawl that.
Danvers stared at the words. Not revolutionary. Not clever. But it stuck in his mind like a sliver.
A second later, a teenager jogged past and slapped a torn flyer on the same wall. It fluttered in the wind before sticking. Danvers squinted. A silhouette of the Ascendancy’s face—overlaid with a barcode and a chain. The teen was gone by the time anyone noticed.