4 Police Motorcycle Chase

Messy streaks of a light blue fade with tall, symmetrical buildings that wave to a motorcycle revving across the street made of black glass to race the sunset. The rubber of the two tires bumps over little debris as the black gloss of the downtown streets is maintained by digital workers every day. A shining neon that traces the edges of the vehicle in a white painted from stars outlines the bike as it crawls through a highway. It speeds past the other vehicles that ride over the hollow street, with several swerving into a different lane to follow the same intention as the bike: not allowing anyone to slow them down. The many vehicles rise with the crystal bridge towering over them, and below them, the swarming waves of a dark abyss are eager to find something to bury. Even with all the vehicles managing to touch every edge of the four-lane pass, with large rectangles the same white glowing structure into the street, the slim motorcycle still finds a way to flow through like a soaring ghost entering the night. The echoes of the revs bounce off the sides of the other vehicles after the buildings at the end of the bridge block the great winds of the sea.

Layers of a dark sapphire blanket the hundreds of structures that mountain to the stars, many cut open with a neon edge to mark their presence above the horizon. The people of the streets, while the driver of the motorcycle barely notices their presence, are lively and bustling. The polished stone sidewalks outline every door and alley. The downtown is home to many entrepreneurs that attempt to rise above the poor of society. The driver glances at several, but never slows down to give any interest that the shopkeepers are begging for with every person that walks by. The motorcycle inches through two vehicles next to each other, finding a small opening to pass them and swerve into another street. The turn the driver attempts at the lethal speed of the vehicle is so sharp that the glass of the road nearly meets the driver's sleek helmet of the same material.

The bright white of the vehicle beams across more glass of a great civilization. The engine thunders over light conversations and the loud strikes of a storm that has yet to bring its wrath to devour the sky. The rainbow of advertisements and entertainment signs vibrating the lower walls of the buildings melt into a swirl through the helmet of the driver, their attire as dark as the vehicle they drive. Little specks of crimson on their trench coat flick through the wind as they swerve around a turn, their speed at the curve so high the vehicle loses the ground for a few seconds. The motorcycle booms past anything in the way and nearly melts its white into the snowed steel of a bus. The driver scans ahead for more incoming obstacles in their way, carefully listening to the sirens that start to follow them with motorcycles of their own.

The pulses of red and blue flow through traffic faster than their target ahead of them, the civilian vehicles slowing and pulling to the side gracefully to allow the authority to speed past. The target, staring at the incoming police through their rear-view mirror, races with unwanted attention. An intersection meets their sight with the crosswalk glowing red with the demand to stop.

The target looks back, looks ahead, and speeds up to the swarm of passing traffic moving in a different direction. The police take their chances, the target leading them to their fate, and follow the motorcycle in hopes that its driver will find some kind of common sense. The intersection grows larger as the target rushes closer, closer, and closer until the vehicles in front of them are only feet away. The police keep chasing, losing sight of their target for a single moment as they pass to the other side of the street in front of another bus.

The driver ahead prepares for anything, hoping to pass through the intersection without another streak of light meeting theirs. Just as they speed over the bright red crosswalk, a purple-streaked semi-truck wipes the view ahead away. The driver panics, stepping from the cushioned seat of their motorcycle and jumping into the air, their body turning backward. The motorcycle immediately turns to the ground without a guide, sliding and barely grazing the corner of the semi as it passes into another street. The ends of the trench coat drift with the body of the driver as they flip to the ground, the police swerving to stop their vehicles and reduce their speed. The two authorities slide off their vehicles immediately, their sleek handguns forming inch by inch at their thighs until the metal clicks into a weapon. They raise their sights at the body that rises slower from the glass road after bashing against it, turning to view their impending arrest. They step up to their target without hesitation, preparing to grip their arms, kick them to the ground, and cuff them in metal restraints.

Instead, they wave over a digital hologram, who stares at them and raises their middle finger through fingerless gloves. The motorcycle behind it begins to disintegrate, fading into nothing as the intersection is filled with panic and rage.

The real driver, still on moving wheels, shows the same gesture while their helm starts to enclose a screen covering a quarter of their sight from a new, empty road ahead. Their laugh sounds as a muffle that gets stormed over by another rev of their engine. They look back at a risky, sharp turn they took through an alleyway in order to leave the downtown when the police had lost their chase the moment they blinked away. Giving a silent thanks to the white bus that had covered the view of the authorities, the target drives a simple path to freedom.

As the storm moves in from the background to overtake the noise of the engine, the driver speeds into the night like a phantom to haunt the outskirts of the city.