[CURRENT ZONE: FOLKESTONE TERMINAL (UK BORDER EXIT)] [MAIN SCENARIO TIME REMAINING: 6 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 12 MINUTES]

  "Keep your windows rolled up, don't make eye contact, and let me do the talking," Terry muttered, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  The Black Cab was inching forward in a massive line of minivans, lorries, and caravans. Above them loomed the sprawling concrete canopy of the Eurotunnel Folkestone Terminal. Thanks to the Juxtaposed Controls agreement, French customs operated on British soil, meaning the ultimate test of their forged physical passports was happening right now.

  Kai stared at the glowing blue overlay hovering above the toll booth ahead.

  [NPC: INSPECTOR LAURENT] [CLASS: FRENCH CUSTOMS OFFICIAL] [PASSIVE AURA: WEAPONIZED ENNUI (IMMUNE TO CHARM)]

  Inspector Laurent sat in his little booth, looking utterly devastated by the sheer weight of existence. He was a middle-aged man with a meticulously trimmed mustache and a crisp blue uniform. On the desk next to him, his dispatch radio was already crackling with frantic, overlapping French voices complaining about agricultural quarantine checks on Lane Seven. Laurent ignored it.

  "Next," Laurent sighed over the intercom.

  Terry pulled the cab up to the booth. He lowered the window and handed over a thick stack of passports.

  Laurent took the stack. He flipped open the first one. "Terrence. Purpose of visit?"

  "Tourism," Terry grunted. "Taking some of my relatives to Disneyland Paris."

  Laurent didn't even look up. THWACK. He stamped the passport. He opened the next two. "Kai. Walter. Tourism?"

  "Yes, sir," Kai squeaked, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  THWACK. THWACK.

  Laurent opened Maya's passport. He finally looked up, his eyes scanning the back seat. "Maya. Canadian. How long do you intend to stay in the Schengen Zone?"

  "Just passing through, eh," Maya smiled tightly, offering a weak, polite thumbs-up.

  Laurent sighed heavily, as if her Canadian cheerfulness physically offended him. THWACK.

  Then, Laurent opened the fifth passport. He stopped. He looked at the photograph, which was heavily filtered in high-contrast black and white. Then, he leaned out of his booth and peered into the back of the spacious London taxi.

  Squashed into the corner, his knees up to his chin, was an 8 foot-tall, neon-green Orc Warlord wearing a tactical vest.

  "Monsieur... Jean Passportout?" Laurent asked, his voice completely flat.

  "Oui," Grom rumbled, his deep, guttural voice shaking the cab's suspension. "I am Jean. I am a citizen of the Republic."

  Laurent narrowed his eyes. "Dans quelle équipe de rugby jouez-vous, Monsieur Passportout?"

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  Grom blinked his heavy green eyelids. He looked at Walter. Walter looked at Kai. None of them spoke French.

  "Uh," Grom grunted. "Croissant."

  Laurent's eyes widened slightly. A faint red ring of [SUSPICION] began to glow around the inspector's nameplate. He looked down at the next passport in the stack.

  "Godefroy de Montmirail," Laurent read slowly, his voice dropping an octave. He glared into the cab at the middle-aged man wearing a breastplate. "Are you mocking me? This is a character from a 1993 cinema comedy."

  "I am no jester, Warden of the Threshold!" Gideon beamed, offering a crisp military salute. "I am a Knight of the Realm! Defender of the innocents!"

  The red [SUSPICION] ring around Laurent's nameplate began to flash rapidly.

  "And the final one," Laurent said, his voice dripping with absolute venom as he opened the last booklet. "Pigleas Foggybottom."

  "Do not test me, peasant," Pigglesworth sneered from his seat. The haughty aristocrat adjusted his monocle and glared at the customs officer, smoothing the lapels of his damp tuxedo. "Stamp the parchment and let us pass. This carriage smells of rotten bananas and commoners."

  Laurent just stared at the aristocratic snob. He looked at the knight and at the giant green rugby player who could only say 'croissant.' Normally, the booth's automated biometric scanners would immediately flag the severe height and skeletal discrepancies, but the terminal’s facial recognition module was currently lagging, its bandwidth entirely consumed by the massive [CODE BLEU] agricultural alert flashing in the background.

  "Sortez de la voiture," Laurent said coldly, his hand hovering over a large red button on his desk. "Step out of the vehicle. All of you."

  Kai braced himself. The Sudo-tag on his wrist throbbed. If Laurent hit the alarm, they would have to smash through the barrier, instantly generating max aggro with the entire European Server. Grom’s good hand flexed reflexively at his side, ready to reach for the minigun hidden under a tarp at his feet.

  Laurent’s finger brushed the red button….

  BEEP BEEP BEEP.

  The emergency radio on Laurent’s desk violently crackled to life, the frantic background chatter finally boiling over.

  "Alerte! Code Bleu in Lane Seven!" a panicked French voice screamed through the static. "A British caravan is attempting to smuggle 300 kilos of unpasteurized cheddar and undeclared sausages! They are breaching the agricultural quarantine!"

  Laurent froze. He looked at the radio. He looked back at the Black Cab.

  The red [SUSPICION] ring instantly vanished from his nameplate, replaced by a blazing, patriotic [CALL TO ARMS].

  "Mon Dieu," Laurent whispered in horror. "The contraband."

  Laurent slammed his stamp down on the remaining three passports THWACK, THWACK, THWACK and threw the stack through the window, hitting Terry in the chest. Laurent simultaneously slammed the button to raise the barrier.

  "Allez! Go!" Laurent yelled, sprinting out of his booth and drawing a baton. "I must defend the Republic from the invasion by unpasteurized cheddar anglais!"

  Terry didn't hesitate. He slammed his foot on the gas, rocketing the Black Cab past the booth and down the winding concrete ramps, following the flashing yellow signs for Le Shuttle.

  "The Oracle’s magic holds strong!" Gideon cheered, patting his stamped passport as they sped away.

  "Never in doubt," Walter wheezed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "Though my heart rate is currently at one hundred and sixty beats per minute."

  "Right, nobody move," Terry ordered as they approached the boarding platform. "Don't scratch the doors."

  The Eurotunnel train wasn't a passenger train with seats and dining cars. It was a massive, enclosed steel tube designed to transport vehicles. Terry drove the cab directly onto the train carriage, inching forward until a worker in a high-vis jacket held up a red glowing wand.

  Terry threw the parking brake on and killed the engine.

  Heavy steel fire doors slid shut behind and in front of the cab, locking them inside a metal box that was barely wider than the taxi itself. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a harsh, sterile glare.

  A loud, mechanical clunk echoed through the metal box. The train lurched forward, slowly accelerating as it plunged into the dark, 31 mile tunnel beneath the English Channel.