As Luo Shu approached the border checkpoint, he realized he'd underestimated the U.S. military's vigilance.
While the massive migrant flow did strain their resources, their scrutiny was laser-focused on outliers—and Luo Shu stuck out like a sore thumb.
His heavily modified pickup screamed "not a peasant." Wealthy Mexicans didn't sneak across borders; they bought visas.
So from the start, the military flagged him as suspicious.
Turning back now would only confirm their suspicions. Instead, Luo Shu honked aggressively, cutting to the front of the line.
A soldier barked, "You're not Mexican. What's your game?"
Mexicans were predominantly mestizo or Indigenous, with darker complexions than East Asians. Luo Shu's disguise—a middle-aged, greasy Chaos Insurgency-provided identity—was unmistakably East Asian.
Abandoning the migrant act, Luo Shu switched to "fellow American" mode:
"I'm Chinese-American, from South Carolina. Was road-tripping in Mexico when the shit hit the fan. Been trying to reach my family—just wanna get home."
"Passport." The soldier wasn't buying it.
Luo Shu's pickup did sport South Carolina plates (useful for past errands), but road-trippers usually drove RVs or SUVs—not farm trucks (America's equivalent of hand tractors).
And he had no passport—no exit records either.
Time for persuasion.
Flipping open the Anomaly Archives, he activated Convincing Force:
"The world's gone mad! I lost my luggage rushing back—no clue where my passport is. Check immigration records if you don't believe me!"
The soldier relented, escorting him for "verification."
A quick Mechanical Animation hack later, Luo Shu had a fake identity.
Just as he thought he'd cleared the hurdle—another problem.
A sergeant circled his truck, eyes narrowing.
"Two 500-gallon auxiliary tanks? You prepping for transatlantic flight?"
You have no idea, Luo Shu mused.
The sergeant kept dissecting:
"Look at this nose—aerodynamic lift. Speed up, and it'll take off. These panels? Foldable wing edges. And these wheels—turbine-blade spokes, universal axles… Do they turn into propellers?"
Luo Shu checked the man's uniform: 91st Infantry Division, 166th Aviation Brigade.
A Texas-based Army aviation mechanic.
Bro, you should be fixing Black Hawks, not playing border guard!
But with immigration officials decimated, the Army had drawn the short stick for domestic security.
Luo Shu forced a laugh: "Just a Transformers fanboy messing around. It's all for show—no way this thing flies."
The sergeant eyed the dashboard and snorted: "Yeah, no shit. You didn't even install aviation instruments—still using a steering wheel. At least swap in a control yoke!"
Oh, the irony. Transformers don't need instruments—they fly themselves.
Finally cleared, Luo Shu accelerated toward El Paso, Texas, planning to take the highway north through New Mexico to Colorado.
But just beyond the checkpoint, a wall of steel blocked his path:
M1A2 Abrams tanks.
M2 Bradley IFVs.
A second-line armored brigade, poised to crush any migrant uprising.
This was America as a wounded beast, baring fangs it could barely use.
Its labor force gutted, it had to accept Mexican migrants—yet it pointed guns at them, a contradiction laid bare.
All while blaming Luo Shu, oblivious to the true culprit: The Administrator, "God."
The tanks' barrels were mostly for show. America's logistics were crippled; a moderate war would exhaust its supplies in days.
The migrants didn't know that. They inched forward under the guns' shadow, terrified.
Luo Shu knew better. He drove past, unfazed—
—until a loudspeaker blared:
"HALT! SUSPECTED VEHICLE, EXIT NOW! RESISTANCE WILL BE MET WITH DEADLY FORCE!"
...How am I still suspicious?!