On The Road

The apartment was a dying thing pretending to live.
Exposed brick sweated with damp, the plaster flaking in tired curls. The hum of an old refrigeration unit droned from the kitchenette like a failing heart. Out the cracked window, city light bled in—murky pinks and greens that crawled across the walls like infected veins. Somewhere below, a siren wailed and faded, swallowed by the heavy drone of traffic.

At the center, a scarred wooden table bore the weight of the night’s ambition. Two holo-sheets flickered with wireframe renderings of the Okabe Central Bank, their projection hum syncing with the buzz of a dying fluorescent bulb overhead. An ashtray sat between them like an altar, mounded high with half-burnt cigarettes and stubs soaked in cold coffee. The air reeked of machine oil, sweat, and nerves stretched too thin.

“Now’s the time,” rasped the man with the cybernetic eyes. The lenses rotated with a soft mechanical click, each iris contracting independently as the light caught them. Their glow painted his face in artificial hues—part insect, part predator. He jabbed a metal finger into the blueprints, the impact making the light ripple. “The anti-cop march is right outside. Streets are flooded. No one’s gonna notice four ghosts slipping through the back door.” His grin was too wide, wired with hunger. “Easy in. Easier out.”

Across from him, the youngest of the crew hunched forward, elbows pressed to his knees. His hand kept running through his hair, again and again, as if trying to rub out the thought. Sweat traced slow lines down his temple, glinting in the green wash from the window.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, voice tight. “You ever stop to think maybe this is the wrong kind of job?” He glanced at the others but found no help in their faces. “If we hit the wrong mark, some Mr. Johnson’s gonna send us home in pieces. And for what? A few credchips and a story nobody tells twice?”

He tried to laugh but couldn’t. His fingers clenched around his knee until the knuckles went white. “I’m not scared to get my hands dirty,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “But this… this feels off.”

The words hung in the stale air, heavy as the smoke curling toward the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered and a crowd roared. The city pulsed beyond the window like a wounded animal, and the four of them sat still inside its carcass, waiting to see which would break first—the night or their nerve.

The tall one moved like he’d been built, not born.
Metal gleamed beneath the collar of his coat—spinal ports, subdermal lines, the faint blue shimmer of pulse-wire beneath skin. When he smiled, it wasn’t comfort; it was calculation. The scar on his cheek caught the neon like a fault line splitting open.

“Relax,” he said, the word rolling out smooth and deliberate. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring bright against the dim. Smoke coiled from his lips, twisting through the light in ghostly ribbons. “By the time anyone knows we were there, we’ll already be dust in the wind. No body count. No mess. Just precision.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table’s edge. “Slip in quiet. Slip out cleaner. That’s how professionals do it.” His eyes—one natural, one a cold red lens—locked on the kid. “You want out of the slums? This is your chance. You in or not?”

The room held its breath. The woman shifted, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face, eyes darting toward the youngest. The third man’s jaw worked, unspoken thoughts grinding behind it. Outside, the city’s pulse drummed through the walls—sirens wailing, engines growling, electricity whispering like static rain.

Finally, the kid nodded. Once. Quick. Like the motion itself burned.
The others followed, silent agreement passing between them like current through a wire. Four hands met above the scarred table, pressing down on the trembling blueprints. The light from the holosheet flickered against their skin, pale and uncertain.

“Good,” said the scarred man. He crushed the cigarette against the table’s edge, the hiss loud in the silence. Another burn mark among dozens—tiny graves for better plans.

“First job together,” he murmured. “Last one too.” The words weren’t a promise—they were a sentence.

None of them noticed the red pinprick glowing in the corner, steady and unblinking. A security cam lens, recording every shadow, every breath.
And if anyone had looked closely, they might have seen the shadows around them deepen—not just with smoke, but something heavier, patient, and aware.

~
The afternoon light slanted through the high towers of Blue Ash City, cutting gold between the steel and glass. The hum of aircars and chatter of pedestrians wrapped around the open-air tables of Bingo Burgers, where the smell of grease, pepper, and toasted buns hung heavy in the warmth. Somewhere nearby, a street busker’s synth-guitar thrummed over the drone of vending machines and the hiss of fryers.

Apricot Signa slouched on a bench outside, her green-and-white school uniform already creased from the day. The yellow trim at her collar caught the light as she tipped her head back and groaned. “I need a story—a big one—and I need it now.” Her voice carried just enough desperation to make the passing crowd glance her way before moving on.

The bench’s cold black slats dug into her spine as she leaned back. Her half-eaten double cheeseburger sagged in her hand, the bun glossy with grease and yolk from the fried egg that had already bled through the wrapper. “If I don’t turn in something tomorrow, I’m done for,” she muttered, taking a joyless bite. “The Bureau of Education sent me another warning—next slip, they ship me off to the labor corps.” She swallowed hard and dabbed her chin with a napkin, voice dropping to a bitter whisper. “I’m not spending my life screwing bolts on some factory line.”

Bonni sat beside her, legs crossed, café uniform crisp but flour-dusted from her shift. The faint aroma of espresso clung to her hair, mixing oddly with the burger smoke. She twirled a chicken nugget in a swirl of teriyaki and mayo before popping it in her mouth. “Then find a topic, Apri,” she said lightly, mouth half-full. Her tone was teasing, but the look she gave was warm—part mischief, part pity. “You’re the journalist. Make something up if you have to.”

Apricot scowled. “That’s not how it works.”

Across from them, Sato Takoma paused mid-bite. His sharp face caught a passing violet flicker from a holo-billboard, casting him in foxlike hues. He brushed his black hair from his eyes with a flick that seemed almost practiced. “What about that thing at Ginzu this morning?” he asked, tone easy but eyes bright. His wrist comm chimed softly, displaying stacked feeds of city news. “I was there after the robbery. Got a few shots. Real photogenic carnage.”

Apricot gave a short, dry laugh. “Yeah. Real uplifting. A massacre at daybreak.” But the humor didn’t hold. The name Ginzu lingered like static in her head. She knew Sato—always sniffing out chaos before anyone else, always with that dangerous glint that said he liked the risk too much.

Across the scarred metal table sat Machi, his kid sister, chin propped on one hand, salad wilting in front of her. She adjusted her thick glasses, the lenses catching the ad-light like twin coins. “You two are disgusting,” she muttered, voice flat. “People died, and you’re talking about it like it’s a feature piece.”

Sato only smirked. “News doesn’t wait for feelings, sis.”

Machi rolled her eyes and stabbed a leaf with her fork. Apricot glanced between them, biting the inside of her cheek. She looked down at her burger, the wrapper slick with grease and sunlight. “Still,” she murmured, “a good story never starts in the safe places.”

Bonni groaned. “Oh, don’t start sounding like Sato.” Bonni leaned forward, elbows on the table, her voice slipping into a whisper meant to draw attention. “Remember that little secret I mentioned?”

Apricot glanced up mid-bite. Bonni’s tone had that mischievous current again—the kind that usually ended with detention or a police warning. Around them, the streetlamps buzzed, one flickering over their heads like a tired heartbeat. The crowd had thinned, leaving only a few students lingering near the curb and the distant hum of delivery drones weaving through the late afternoon light.

Bonni’s gaze darted left and right before she leaned closer. “I overheard two cops this morning.” She paused for effect, lips curling into a grin. “They sounded scared.”

Sato’s attention snapped to her instantly. He set his burger down, the wrapper crackling. “Scared, huh?” His grin spread slow and sharp. “That’s new. What’d they say?”

Machi sighed and twirled her straw through the melted ice in her drink. “You’re both ridiculous,” she muttered. But curiosity flickered beneath her glasses all the same.

Bonni straightened a little, enjoying the moment. “They were talking about the Okabe robbery—same one you mentioned, Sato. Only they weren’t angry or frustrated. They were worried. Like they’d seen something they couldn’t explain.”

Apricot stopped chewing. A faint chill prickled her neck despite the warm air.

“Come on,” Machi said, stabbing her salad again. “People were killed, Bonni. Of course they were shaken. Wouldn’t you be?”

Bonni waved a half-eaten nugget like a lecturer’s baton. “No, listen. They said one guy took out an entire security team before vanishing. One. And the way they talked about it—it didn’t sound human.”

Sato raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “You’re saying what I think you’re saying?”

Bonni’s grin widened, eyes catching the red sweep of a passing tail light. “Monsters, Sato. Sightings all over the city. People disappearing, weird shadows in surveillance feeds.” Her tone had gone breathy now, almost reverent. “What if the robber wasn’t even human?”

Machi groaned so loud it nearly drowned the hum of the street. “If this ends with you quoting Eerie Truths Monthly, I’m walking home.”

Bonni only laughed, unfazed. “Hey, they’ve been right before.”

Apricot looked between them, her pulse quickening despite herself. The air seemed thicker now—the noise of the street dampened, as though the city itself was listening. She didn’t believe in monsters. Not really. But the fear in Bonni’s voice wasn’t a joke. It was the kind that came from hearing something true.

A shiver traced up Apricot’s neck before she could stop it. Monsters. Bonni had always loved her ghost stories, but there was something different this time—something brittle in her voice that didn’t sound like a joke.
No. Apricot shook the thought away. She needed proof, not paranoia. Facts paid the bills; fairy tales didn’t.

Machi’s laugh snapped through the tension like a spark. “You sound like one of those stream-cast weirdos,” she said, flicking a crouton across the table. It bounced off Bonni’s sleeve and landed in her lap. “Blue Ash has always been full of superstitious junk. People still toss coins to Obojo the money-god when payday’s late—doesn’t make him real.”

She adjusted her glasses, the lenses flashing with the scrolling digits of a live stock feed from a billboard overhead. In that fleeting reflection, she looked every bit the skeptic she wanted to be—rational, composed, untouchable.

Bonni crossed her arms and leaned back, a pout forming beneath the streetlamp’s flicker. “Laugh all you want, but something’s happening. Weird sightings. People dying in ways that don’t make sense.” She tilted her head toward Sato, voice softening into playful appeal. “You’ve seen the feeds, right? Unexplained attacks? Glitched footage? Power surges? Back me up here, hotshot.”

Sato froze with his burger halfway to his mouth, blinking at her theatrics. Then he grinned and lowered it, wiping his thumb across a smear of ketchup. “I’ve heard the chatter,” he admitted, tone lazy. “Half the time it’s garbage, half the time it’s gold.” He shrugged, eyes gleaming. “If I ever catch a real monster on camera, though? That’s front-page everywhere.”

He raised his burger in mock toast toward Apricot and Bonni. “Fame for the photographer, fortune for the reporter.”

Bonni smiled, but Apricot didn’t. Something about the way the streetlight flickered—three short bursts, then a long pause—felt off, like the city itself was winking at them.

Under the table, Machi’s foot shot out and landed a quick kick against Bonni’s shin. “Quit trying to drag my brother into your ghost stories,” she said, her tone edged with irritation—but there was something protective in it too.

Bonni yelped softly and rubbed her leg, glaring. Sato only smirked, sipping his drink like he’d seen this scene a hundred times before.

Apricot watched them with a faint smile tugging at her lips. The bickering was familiar, grounding. But beneath it, Bonni’s words lingered like a splinter. Monsters. She wanted to dismiss it—Bonni’s imagination always ran faster than reality—but lately… there’d been that low hum of unease in the city. Whispers of disappearances. Shapes glimpsed in the corners of your eye that melted when you turned your head. Rumors she’d laughed off in her reports but never quite forgotten.

Bonni gave an exaggerated sigh and turned back toward Apricot, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just imagine it,” she said, waving her hands like she was writing in midair. “Apricot Signa: The Reporter Who Exposed the Monster Invasion of Blue Ash City. You’d be famous overnight!” Her fingers danced over her invisible keyboard, clicking sound effects under her breath.

Apricot couldn’t help but grin. Bonni’s enthusiasm was a wildfire—it burned through reason and pulled you along if you weren’t careful. “It’s definitely… interesting,” Apricot said, trying to sound diplomatic. “But I’d need evidence. Real sources. Eyewitness accounts, documents, something I can verify. I can’t just turn in a story about, uh, goblins because it sounds cool.”

Machi snorted, pushing up her glasses with the back of her hand. “Thank goodness someone here still has a functioning brain.”

Bonni puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms. “Fine. Be boring. But when someone else breaks the biggest story of the century, don’t come crying to me for quotes.”

Apricot opened her mouth to retort—but the sound hit before she could speak.

A shrill wail tore through the air, echoing down the narrow street. Then another. And another.

Sirens.

The four froze. The chatter from the nearby diners fell silent as blue and red lights flared against the walls, casting long, violent shadows across their table. A line of police cruisers screamed through the intersection, their engines roaring like angry beasts. Wrappers lifted off the table and spun into the air as the gust hit—hot wind, grit, the sharp stink of exhaust and burnt rubber.

Apricot’s hair whipped across her face. For a moment, the world was all motion and color—sirens, light, the metallic taste of adrenaline in her throat. Then, just as suddenly, the street was empty again, leaving only the echo of their passing and the thrum of her pulse in her ears.

Sato had his phone out before the echo of the sirens faded. The pale glow from the screen carved his face in sharp planes—nose, jaw, the glint in his eyes. Lines of police chatter streamed across the glass, code numbers and frantic dispatch logs reflected in his pupils.

Apricot leaned closer without thinking, shoulder brushing his. The glow of the screen lit the curve of her cheek as she read over his arm. Disturbance at Okabe Central Bank… armed suspects… possible hostages. The words hit like a spark to dry fuel.

“Anything good?” she asked, trying to sound detached, but her voice cracked at the edge of it.

Sato’s grin spread wide, almost boyish beneath the cold light. He turned the phone toward her, excitement flickering in his eyes. “Bank robbery. Right now. Okabe Central—not far from us.” He gave a low laugh, shaking his head. “Can you believe this luck, Apri? We’re sitting on gold.”

Her pulse kicked. The world sharpened—the noise, the light, the smell of fried oil and exhaust. She snatched up the camera resting beside her burger without hesitation. “We have to go,” she said, already on her feet. Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with hunger. “This is it, Sato. The story.”

He didn’t argue. He never did when that look crossed her face. In one smooth motion, he stood and tossed a handful of emerald-green cash chips onto the table. They clinked against Machi’s untouched salad bowl, the light from a passing ad strip making them shimmer like falling glass.

“Cab fare, kiddo,” he said, slipping his camera strap over his shoulder. “Head home without me.”

Machi’s jaw dropped. “You’re ditching me? Again?” Her glare snapped toward Bonni, who was practically glowing with delight.

“Oh no,” Machi hissed, stabbing a finger at her. “You are not leaving me alone with her!”

Bonni pressed a hand to her chest, feigning innocence, but the grin curling her lips gave her away. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ll keep you safe from the monsters.”

Machi groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Ugh, you are crazy.”

Apricot was already halfway down the sidewalk, the camera bouncing at her hip and the sirens calling like a promise.

Bonni flipped her ponytail with exaggerated flair and stuck out her tongue. “Don’t worry, I’ll babysit,” she said in a syrupy singsong. “We can talk about witches on the way back.”

Machi groaned, gathering up the green cash cards with a glare sharp enough to cut. “I hate you both,” she muttered—but the edge in her voice softened when she saw the credits gleam in her palm. At least she wasn’t being abandoned and broke.

Apricot squeezed her shoulder on the way past, eyes already on the flashing lights vanishing down the boulevard. “I owe you one, Machi. Promise. I’ll fill you in later, okay?”

Machi gave a reluctant wave, her scowl slipping into something closer to worry. The reflection of the cruisers’ strobes shimmered in her glasses as she watched them go. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she murmured, but the words were lost to the wind.

Sato was already astride his motorbike, one boot braced on the curb. The engine rumbled low, a throaty mechanical growl that vibrated through the air. Red underglow painted the wet asphalt beneath him like liquid fire.

Apricot jogged over, her skirt flaring in the wind. She barely caught the rear handle before swinging herself onto the back. “Go!” she shouted over the engine.

“Hold on,” Sato warned, grinning as he twisted the throttle.

Bonni cupped her hands around her mouth. “Try not to die!” she called, her laughter chasing after them as the bike roared to life.

Apricot threw up a quick thumbs-up, her heart hammering like a second engine. The city blurred around them—smears of chrome, light, and motion. Fear tangled with exhilaration in her chest, too tightly wound to tell apart.

They tore down the street, vanishing into the noise and light of Blue Ash’s sleepless avenues.
Neither noticed the canvas satchel still resting under the bench—or the soft red pulse of a street camera overhead, its lens adjusting to follow her departure: silent, unblinking, and watching.

~

Sirens wailed through the stone valleys of Blue Ash, echoing off glass and steel. Their pitch tangled with the guttural snarl of Sato’s trail bike as it tore down the avenue, a streak of crimson light weaving through the city’s metallic arteries.

Apricot clung tight to him, fingers knotted in the fabric of his jacket. The wind ripped at her hair and skirt, whipping strands across her face as neon bled over them—green, red, violet—each flash sliding across the bike’s glossy fairings like liquid fire. Police lights flickered ahead, reflected in the chrome of passing cars, distant but close enough to taste.

The skyscrapers loomed on either side like colossal sentinels, their windows pulsing with the glow of holo-billboards and advertisements stacked sky-high. Power lines webbed the skyline, humming faintly. One massive display blazed to life as they roared past:
OKABE SECURITY — YOUR SAFETY, OUR MISSION.
The words smeared into a band of fluorescent white across Apricot’s vision. She almost laughed. Yeah, right.

Sato hunched lower, shoulders tense. He swerved around an automated delivery van, the rear sensors chirping angrily as they missed it by inches. The backdraft carried the scent of hot oil and ozone.

Ahead, traffic thickened—a frozen river of cars bottlenecked by police barricades. Red taillights flickered like warning beacons.

“Damn it,” Sato muttered. He twisted the throttle. The bike screamed as they darted between lanes, slipping through gaps barely wide enough for a shoulder. Horns blared; a driver shouted something lost in the wind.

The world blurred into motion and noise—light trails, asphalt, the blur of human faces behind glass.

A sharp turn came up fast. Sato leaned into it, the tires shrieking as they scraped past a truck’s mirror close enough for Apricot to see her reflection flash by. Her stomach lurched.

“Sato!” she shouted over the roar, voice torn thin by the wind. “Slow down, we’re gonna—”

The rest was lost to the roar of the engine as the bike surged into the intersection, their voices fading into the city’s restless noise.

Before she could finish, the world ahead erupted in red. Brake lights flared in unison—a wall of stopped cars.

“Shit!” Sato barked, yanking the brakes. The bike screamed against the asphalt, fishtailing hard. Tires burned, the smell of scorched rubber searing the air. Apricot’s breath caught in her throat as inertia hurled her forward. She wrapped her arms around Sato’s waist, clinging for dear life.

The trail bike jolted to a violent stop—inches from the dented rear bumper of a cargo truck. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then came the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal, the faint hiss of steam, and Apricot’s heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Sato smacked the handlebars in frustration. “Traffic’s locked down,” he growled, eyes narrowing at the line of vehicles stretching ahead. Red and blue strobes washed over the street in frantic pulses, their light flickering off windows and chrome. From somewhere ahead came the echo of chaos—shouted orders, breaking glass, the low, rolling sound of a crowd on the edge of panic. Okabe Bank had to be only a few blocks away.

Apricot swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. “This is where I get off,” she said, the words coming out between gasps. She tried to smile, but her voice still trembled. “Thanks for the lift.”

Before Sato could argue, she swung one leg over and landed on shaky knees. The pavement felt solid and alien after the blur of motion. Her hands shook as she adjusted the camera strap around her neck, tightening it like armor.

Sato glanced back, brow furrowed. “You sure about this? You’ll have to hoof it.”

Apricot gave a firm nod, brushing hair from her face. “I’ll manage. Go find a higher angle—rooftop, overpass, whatever you can.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Slipping between the lines of idling cars, she started forward. Drivers honked and cursed as she squeezed through mirrors and fenders, but the noise barely registered.

The sirens were louder up ahead now—shrill, desperate, alive. Apricot’s pulse matched their rhythm. Her fear hadn’t faded; it had only changed shape. It was fuel now, propelling her toward the story waiting in the smoke.

Sato lifted two fingers in a lazy salute, his grin flashing in the wash of red lights. “Get some killer shots!” he shouted over the engine’s growl. “And try not to die, okay?”

Apricot threw him a reckless smile, jogging backward through the traffic. “No promises!” she called, laughter catching on her breath.

Sato barked a short laugh, kicked the throttle, and peeled off into a side alley. The bike’s roar echoed between the buildings, then vanished into the distance—leaving Apricot alone with the storm ahead.

She turned toward the gridlock, heart pounding, camera clutched close. The street had become a metallic maze—rows of trucks and aging sedans packed so tight she could see her reflection warped across their hoods. Engines hummed and sputtered, filling the air with exhaust heat that shimmered off the asphalt.

Apricot moved fast, weaving between mirrors and bumpers, careful not to lose her footing. A delivery drone buzzed overhead, its spotlight sweeping the street like a restless eye. She ducked around a family in a van—their faces pale blue from the glow of a dashboard holo-screen—then slipped past a limo whose open window leaked the heavy scent of synthetic cologne.

The noise hit first: a sudden, high-pitched squeal of rubber.

Apricot spun instinctively.

An impatient driver, red-faced behind the wheel of a glossy electric sedan, had mounted the curb to escape the jam. The vehicle lurched sideways—its front bumper veering straight toward her.

She tried to jump back, but her boot slid on a slick patch of oil. Metal slammed against her leg with a dull, wet thud.

Pain exploded up her ankle, white-hot and blinding. Apricot yelped, twisting as she fell, one thought screaming louder than the rest: Don’t drop the camera.

She hit the ground hard, shoulder first, the rough pavement clawing through her jacket and into her skin. The world spun—headlights smearing into ribbons of color, neon graffiti streaking across the concrete like blood.

“Holy hell—Miss! I’m sorry!” a man’s voice shouted, panicked. A car door slammed, footsteps rushed closer.

Apricot groaned, forcing herself upright. Her breath came in ragged bursts; her ankle throbbed with sharp, rhythmic pain. She flexed it once—hurts like fire, but it held. Her elbow was raw, stinging, but when she lifted the camera, her heart steadied.

No cracks. No damage. Still recording light.

Relief surged through her like morphine. She gave a shaky laugh, brushing dirt from her skirt. Worth it, she thought, gripping the camera tighter. Totally worth it.

The driver stumbled toward her, shoes squealing against the wet pavement. He looked like he’d been dropped from another world—mid-forties, tie askew, sweat beading on his temples, the pale look of a man who’d spent his life in offices, not emergencies. “I–I didn’t see you! Are you alright?” he stammered, reaching out as if his apology could hold her up.

Apricot pushed off the ground before he could touch her. Pain flared sharp through her ankle, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself upright. A thin line of blood traced her shin, soaking into the rip in her knee-high sock. She brushed her skirt with trembling hands, smearing dirt and grease into long gray streaks. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, voice brittle around the lie. “Really. No harm done.”

The man hesitated, eyes flicking from her scraped skin to her pale face. “You’re bleeding—”

“Don’t worry about it!” she snapped, already limping backward, one hand gripping the camera like a lifeline. The sting in her leg barely registered; adrenaline burned hotter. The story was ahead—sirens, smoke, chaos—and she could almost feel it pulling her forward.

She turned and pushed into the flow of stalled cars, ignoring the man’s protests. Each step sent a jolt through her ankle, but she didn’t slow. The city roared around her—horns, engines, the echo of sirens bouncing off steel. Somewhere in the distance, something was breaking.

A faint ringing threaded through the noise, thin and constant. Whether it came from her ears or the alarms, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. She was moving again, camera steady in her grip, chasing the pulse of Blue Ash into the storm.