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High in the mountains, an endless train thunders through a decaying station. This is the Border Post. Your job is simple: blow a whistle to keep the train on schedule. But the air is thin up here.
Don’t speak. Don’t run. Don’t look in the train. Just do your job. It’ll all be over soon.
It isn’t impossible to breathe in the Border Post. Just impossible to catch your breath. Every exertion is another foot in the grave. Each blow of your whistle is a death sentence. Your only reprieve are air canisters rationed out for your good work. So you better be a good worker.
There’s no shortage of tasks to keep you busy during your shift. Deliver reports. Clean the water filter. Collect discarded wood. And don’t worry about that smell.
Mo is your friend and fellow Border Post worker. His shift is over, but he’ll happily come running if you call. He’ll answer any questions you might have. Well, except for that question. He wouldn’t lie to you. Don’t make him.
Your choices matter. Which choices? What country are you from? How could it matter? Experience a semi-linear narrative where every moment could be a new branching path. Or not. Such is life.
