Private Chat
Brain Has Brian:⏰ Wake up m'lady! :}
KaitSparkle!: Ughhh, what now, Brian~ 🥴
Brain Has Brian:Remember what you texted me the other day? Don't tell me you forgot~
KaitSparkle!: Doesn't your hand hurt typing all that? Just call me, dumbass. :3
Chat ended.
Brian didn't hesitate. He hit the call button, and a voice chimed, "Please hold…" A second later, the hologram of a gorgeous cheerleader flickered to life in front of him. Her smile lit up the projection, and he couldn't hold back.
"So, sweetheart, you free today? Thought I'd take you to a movie. Word is it's insane—shot practical, no CGI. Looks real as hell. What d'you say?" His grin had that easy charm he'd been practicing since middle school.
She tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk. "You mean that movie, F This World? Hell yeah, I'm in!"
"Don't spend forever with the makeup, babe. I'll swing by in an hour," Brian said with a cocky wink before cutting the line.
He slipped into his mom's room. The space was dim, lit only by a faint glow from the hall. She looked older than he remembered, fast asleep on the worn bed. Quietly, he set her pills on the nightstand, scribbled a short note, and weighed it down with a glass of water so it wouldn't drift off. He pulled the door shut so softly it barely clicked.
Seconds later, Brian was tearing out of the apartment, straddling his monster bike parked out front. The thing was massive, wheels twice the size of old motorcycles, frame sleek and futuristic. With a growl, the engine carried him into the neon-lit veins of Los Angeles.
Above him, glowing orbs floated like artificial stars in the night sky. The streets ran in stacked layers-four transparent highways, one on top of the other. Each hover-car had clearance based on its registration, dictating which level it belonged to. Traffic looked like a giant, glowing puzzle.
But for Brian, that wasn't a problem.
"Not for me," he muttered, twisting the throttle and weaving through like the road was made for him. He juked between cars, popped the front wheel in front of a luxury hover-ride, and laughed as he shot forward.
Headphones jammed in, he drowned out the wind with guitar riffs from the '60s and '70s, rock 'n' roll pounding against his skull. He cruised past drive-thru diners built on second-story platforms for hover traffic. Neon lights splashed against his jacket, the bold letters flashing across his chest:
Rollin' Pazley Club.
Finally, he pulled up in front of a narrow apartment block. Sitting on the steps was Caitlyn. Red-haired, stunning, legs crossed like she owned the world. She had the slim, toned frame of the cheerleader she was, lips painted the color of ripe apples.
And she was smirking at him.