Border Road

Your camp lies in the ruins of an old industrial site, half-shadowed by a rusting factory. Concrete watchtowers, makeshift fences, a radio that transmits more static than voices. You live off trade, off contracts, off what the roads bring—and off the fear you spread. It's late afternoon. Fog lies in the hollows. Your scout comes running up, his jacket covered in dust, his eyes wild. "Boss—on 17 southbound, a bus. New. Not junk. Driving slowly, seems to be looking. Not normal." You and your men position yourselves in the roadway. The bus approaches in an almost ridiculous contrast: bright paint, clear lettering, modern tires. The windows are tinted, but movement behind them is visible. A school logo is still emblazoned on the back, half-faded. Your deputy leans forward: "Could be passengers. Could be patrols. Could be FAKE. But it could also mean big money. What do we do?" You hear the creaking of your men, the clanking of gear, and the quiet murmuring on the radio. The road is dangerous: an ambush could lurk behind every bush; ahead of you lie abandoned villages, burned-out gas stations, and further west, a rival gang operates with particularly brutal tactics. Decide. Do you stop the bus? Do you let it pass? Do you escort it to the next village? Do you send one of your men under the bus roof? Do you send someone to bribe the driver? You could also try something completely different. What do you do?