Volume 5: Instar
Issue 8: Outrun
Florian Reyes Honeywell
By Roach
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
After Bōsō posed the question, there was a brief pause. The bikers behind him exchanged a couple of brief glances, but remained focused on us. Next to me, Spindle pointed the tip of the baseball bat against the ground. Stagehand, in contrast, looked more solemn. Behind the mask, his expression was unreadable—but his body was rigid; he straightened up, and folded his hands behind back. I shifted uncomfortably, waiting for one of them to say something. The bees churned through me.
Spindle took a light—almost playful—step toward Bōsō. The baseball bat scraped against the ground as she dragged it behind herself. “Can’t you see through that helmet of yours? We’re superheroes, dummy.”
The silence filled me with dread. Although it only lasted a few seconds, it felt much longer. Behind the helmet, I had no idea how Bōsō reacted to any of this. He turned his head slowly, looking back at the other Yakuza members.
His helmet produced a staccato series of static noise. At first, I thought he growled at us. Then it hit me. He laughed—but through the voice changer, it came out as a distorted, guttural sound. His followers broke into laughter as well.
“Oh yeah?” He turned to us again, cocking his head slightly. “Never heard of you before.” His robotic tone remained a neutral sort of calm. If he were at all concerned by our entrance, he didn’t sound like it.
“Don’t worry. You’re not going to forget us anytime soon,” Spindle continued. “We’re gonna stop you.”
I felt the swarm hiss through my guts. Somehow, Spindle’s speaking made me almost as nervous as Bōsō’s. He hadn’t lashed out just yet, but I felt like all it would take was one wrong word before we had half a dozen Yakuza members ganging up on us. And Spindle wasn’t exactly known for her tactfulness.
“Stop me?” Bōsō chuckled. “Isn’t it past your bedtime or something?” The comment earned him a couple of laughs from his followers.
Spindle continued, “You and your little circus are leaving Chapel High. And you can take your black market operation with you.”
The chuckles from before turned into a new outburst of laughter. Bōsō looked back to his group of drivers. “Sorry guys, I guess we have to pack up and leave.” He focused on Spindle again. “The pretty girl says so, and she looks very scary.” Even through the voice changer, I could hear a sneer seep into his tone.
Spindle’s knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on the baseball handle. Stagehand maintained his composure, and even I couldn’t tell if he really was that calm or if it was just for show. I tried to do the same, but couldn’t help but shift as the swarm stirred within me—a rippling buzz through my organs.
“Alright, Daft Punk,” Spindle nearly spat. She punctuated her statement by tapping her bat against the ground. “Here’s the deal. One way or the other, we’re going to make sure you don’t come back to Chapel. But because I’m nice, I’m giving you the choice right now: leave Chapel alone for good. And you can get back to wasting your life with silly shenanigans. Got it?”
The laughter simmered down. Instead of exchanging humorous looks, the bikers turned their attention to Bōsō again—expectantly. Awaiting orders, I wondered?
His pause weighed down the ensuing silence. As the tension built up again, I felt my insides twist and turn with the restlessness of the swarm. My awareness of them was electric—I picked up every pheromone like a spark, and prepared myself to wield them at any moment.
“No,” Bōsō said gruffly. “That’s not how this is gonna go.”
Spindle exchanged a look with me, then Stagehand. If it wasn’t for the way her green gaze lingered, I wasn’t sure if I would have detected the question mark in her stare. Almost as if she was checking with us for… some sort of confirmation?
Just then, words formed in the air in front of us:
READY WHEN YOU ARE
I realized that it must be one of Stagehand’s illusions—the same kind he used to communicate with me when we were fighting the monster in the theater. But it didn’t seem like the Yakuza could see the illusion, as none of them reacted to the writing.
For a moment, I studied Stagehand—his unflinching stature, his watchful gaze beneath the mask… While he radiated a sense of determination, I only saw uncertainty in myself. Spindle’s files and cork boards flashed through my mind, and I couldn’t help but think that this was a whole lot bigger than us. Yakuza big. Yet, Stagehand had made it clear that he would take these guys on. Was it a front, or a confidence in our abilities I simply lacked?
Or was it what was on the line? Our school, our classmates?
His friends? Jay?
I held my nerves in check, steadying myself. Was I ready for this? No, I didn’t think I ever would be. But I wasn’t about to back down, either. If there was something I was good at, it was putting up a front. My body emitted a low, barely audible, buzz—a quiet signal, that I too, was ready.
Spindle grinned, then stared down Bōsō. “Fine. You wanna do it the hard way? You versus us, mano a mano. Right here, right now… If we win, you and your crew leave Chapel. Deal?”
There was another long pause, as Bōsō seemed to measure us up and down.
This time, Stagehand spoke—his voice cloaked in an illusion which made it sound both deeper and clearer, bordering on reverberating; “Well? You man enough to take us on? Or is all that gear just for show?”
“It’s just adorable that you think you have a say,” Bōsō sneered. He paused again. Although I couldn’t see his face through the helmet’s shield, I felt his stare on us like a spider eyeing a fly. “But you know what? Because I’m nice, we’ll play this your way.”
Bōsō turned the bike around before starting down the road. The bike turned gracefully, its movement so smooth that it barely seemed to touch the road—almost like a ghost. He stopped slightly ahead of us, then threw a glance back over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for?” Bōsō said. “The starting line is there.” He sort of nodded, as if pointing with his head.
“The starting line…?” My voice trailed off, and I looked at Spindle.
“Or what, would you rather fight me?” Bōsō chuckled.
“Just tell me where the finish line is,” Spindle retorted, her tone a calculated calm.
“Follow the forest trail, then continue along the coast. First to make it to the end of the lagoon wins.”
Spindle nodded, and turned back to us. “Get in,” she ordered. Before either of us could reply, she retreated to the driver’s seat. We filed into the car as well.
“He… He wants to race us?” I stammered. From the back seat, I couldn’t quite make out either of my teammates’ expressions. Yet, in the rearview mirror, I caught a glimmer in Spindle’s eyes. She didn’t answer, but started pulling the Pontiac forward.
“You… You want to race him?” I said.
“We’d stand a better chance in a real fight, than going up against that… that thing,” Stagehand said, gesticulating to the motorcycle ahead of us.
Slowly, Spindle rolled up to Bōsō. Aside from the fact that he had pointed it out, there was no visible racing line.
“This is crazy,” I muttered.
“Yes, yes it is,” Spindle said. “I’m crazy,” she said. “And so are you. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have taken on the monster or Max. Honestly, this is going way better than I expected.”
I was quiet as she pulled the car up next to Bōsō. I could hear Stagehand take a deep breath, readying himself for whatever was coming next.
Spindle then rolled down the window. “Ready when you are,” she said out the window.
Bōsō nodded. Spindle rolled the window back up again. Outside, the other bikers drove up behind us, blocking the road we had come from. Just before the window closed, I heard Bōsō call out: “Ryu, count down.”
One of the bikers—presumably Ryu—drove up to the side of the road in front of us. Although I couldn’t see his face, something about him seemed familiar. Maybe it was the wide shoulders, or the leather jacket… Then it struck me. His figure and outfit resembled Kai, who my bees had been following.
“I’ve heard a little about Bōsō, about that bike of his,” Stagehand said. “We’re not winning this race, not even with a good car. We need to be… tricky, use our powers.” His voice wavered slightly, but that sense of determination was still there.
Kai—or, Ryu—raised one hand into the air. He held up five fingers. Then he folded his thumb into his palm.
“I know,” Spindle replied.
The biker closed his index finger, continuing the countdown.
Spindle added, “That’s why I’m not worried.” Her voice was an odd calm.
He closed his third finger.
The Pontiac let out a grumble.
He closed his second finger.
The swarm writhed within me.
He closed his pinky. As his hand turned into a fist, he extended his arm outwards. Almost like he was challenging an invisible party to a game of rock, paper, scissors—but I could only interpret it in one way. Go.
As Spindle slammed the gas pedal, the car lunged forward. My back flattened against the seat at the sudden velocity. Stagehand also jerked, before adjusting himself again.
While the Pontiac gained speed, Bōsō zoomed ahead. It was barely audible over the Pontiac’s starting growl, but his bike produced a softer sound—almost like a humming. It didn’t resemble a motor, which made me wonder if maybe he had an electric engine of sorts.
The surrounding forests and rocks shielded us from the rest of the world. All at once, it was only us, the red blur dashing ahead of us, and the road. Although the first stretch of the road allowed Spindle to gain some speed, it quickly devolved into twisting curves. The sudden quick movement of Bōsō’s bike reminded me of my bees, as he moved down the winding path with ease. The thought would have struck me as funny if we weren’t dealing with a villain. Meanwhile, Spindle slowed down for every turn we made. The wheels screeched against the asphalt as Stagehand and I jerked in our seats.
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“We need a distraction,” Spindle said. Her hands guided the steering wheel with a certain elegance, while I felt the tires crunch against the uneven road beneath us.
“On it,” Stagehand muttered. While I couldn’t perceive his powers in action, I did see Bōsō’s reaction. He swerved on the road in front of us, a red trail of light following his bike. For a moment, as the bike slid in a half-circle, I thought he had spun out of control. But that wasn’t the case. Instead, he turned a 180. Now he faced us. But somehow, he didn’t move toward us. He drove backwards, continuing the race.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Stagehand groaned.
“Taunting us,” Spindle replied. “What did you do?”
“Made it look like a deer ran into the road.”
“Try harder,” she said.
“Fuck off,” he said.
“Remember who’s driving.” Just as she said it, the car slid into the next corner. With a simple turn of the wheel, she maneuvered the Pontiac into a drift—the wheels whining beneath us as they rubbed against the asphalt.
“How are you even this good?” Stagehand asked. And, I couldn’t help but wonder the same—with my half-neglected driving lessons, I barely knew how to start and stop a car. Where had Spindle learned these maneuvers?
“Pure skill,” Spindle muttered, as the car settled into a stable course again.
Ahead of us, Bōsō lifted one hand off the handlebar, then flipped us off. He continued to zigzag down the road, maneuvering its twists and turns—still driving backwards.
“While he’s busy showing off, I’m gonna try to catch up,” Spindle said. “Hive, you’ll swarm him when we pass by.”
As we hit a straighter segment of the road, Spindle accelerated forward. The Pontiac quivered as it let out a grumble. But, as she tried to drive past him, Bōsō drifted in front of us. The two racers continued this back and forth, with Bōsō blocking Spindle each time she came close enough to attempt passing him. If he wanted to, I was sure he could get ahead. Obviously, the helmet hid his face—but, from the way he moved, I got the feeling that he enjoyed this. There was a dance to it, with the bike moving in impossible but sophisticated ways. When it swished back and forth, it appeared to move in horizontal lines rather than diagonally.
And—when I peeked in the rearview mirror—I almost thought Spindle was enjoying it, too.
As this went on, I summoned a small swarm. The bees whirred inside of me, then trickled out of my mouth and ears. I gathered enough of them to cover… well, someone’s head. Then I guided them to the window, where they crawled over the glass. I searched for a button to open the window, before I realized it had a crank instead. I rested my hand on it.
Ahead, the road curved into a left turn—and, just past it, the coastline appeared. I remembered Bōsō’s instructions: through the woods, follow the beach, stop at the end of the lagoon. We were reaching the end of the first stretch. Gradually, jutting rocks replaced the trees. The sun had made its grave below the horizon, leaving only a deep purple which swelled from the ocean. A handful of scattered clouds left dark streaks across the night sky.
Spindle slowed down in preparation for the turn. Simultaneously, Bōsō flipped the bike forward again, facing the coastline. As he turned, Spindle took her chance. She turned the wheel firmly, and the Pontiac drifted into the curve with a loud screech.
“Now!” she shouted.
I twisted the crank. As the window gradually opened, the bees poured out into the road. Air rushed in through the opening, and the veil of my hat fluttered wildly.
I guided the small swarm as best as I could to Bōsō—although, at the speed we were going, it was more like a random shot in the dark. The sheer force of the air flung the bees behind us.
But, the timing was just right. While some scattered randomly into the night, others hit Bōsō. I watched through the window as some of them smashed into the visor of his helmet. Others grabbed onto his suit or bike.
Spindle completed the turn, the wheels gripping onto the road. The road continued along the coastline, following a much straighter line than through the woods. Westwards, the ocean waves lapped against the cliff faces.
Meanwhile, Bōsō’s bike went wider than he probably meant to, rolling off the road and into the ditch. It briefly balanced on the edge of one of the cliffs. He quickly corrected his course, but as he reached for his helmet—trying to brush off the dead bug parts—more bees swarmed his head. I sent them crawling all over the helmet, blocking his vision and creeping over his hand as he tried to brush them off.
Then, he trailed off the edge.
My heart dropped. “Oh.”
“There he goes…” Stagehand said, as if he were more curious than anything else. I was taken aback. Bōsō could die and that’s all he could muster? I continued to watch, waiting for something—a scream, a splash from the sea, anything.
“Amber, we have to stop,” I said, the swarm growing heavy within me.
“I’m not taking any chances,” she said, tightening her grip on the wheel. The Pontiac sped up.
“That could kill him!”
“He has friends.” Spindle glanced at the side-view mirror. The Yakuza had followed us at a distance—while they weren’t exactly participating, they were close enough to keep an eye on the race.
The swarm writhed within me, welling up into my throat. I wanted to protest as well, but choked on my own words. I had intended to slow him down—not send him into the ocean. The stupidity of the entire thing hit me like a rock. I dug my fingertips into the seating.
“We should at least check on him,” I finally managed to say. I stared behind us, trying to see if I could discern anything in the waves. But it was too dark. In the water, I glimpsed silhouettes I thought could be a person—only to realize they were rocks. I reached out for the bees I had sent after him, unable to detect their pheromones.
Then, before anyone acknowledged my plea, I heard an electric whine. I looked toward the source of the sound. Emerging from the cliffside, I saw a red flash.
Bōsō.
He drove on the cliffside; the bike made its way up the rock, seemingly defying gravity. But that wasn’t quite right, I realized upon closer inspection. Small jets protruded from his wheels, letting out a purple light as they pushed the bike against the surface—allowing him to move vertically. Although the bees still covered his helmet, they didn’t seem to bother him much as the bike drove back onto the road. He resurfaced just in front of us.
“Absolute bullshit,” Stagehand muttered upon witnessing his display.
On the one hand, I was relieved that I hadn’t actually hurt or even killed someone by accident—even if the guy was a villain. On the other, a wave of dread washed over me as I realized what we were up against. Maybe Bōsō’s bike could go backwards and climb walls. But we certainly couldn’t. All it would take was one accident, and we were out…
I didn’t want to dwell on the possible consequences of that.
“See?” Spindle said. “It wasn’t going to be that easy.”
“We need to try harder,” Stagehand straightened up and peered at the road ahead, a new wave of determination washing over him.
I dismissed my bees, as they didn’t seem to have any effect on him besides the initial surprise. How did he see through them? His helmet had a voice distorter, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it could do other things—maybe some type of thermal imaging or camera system?
“Stagehand,” Spindle said, as the distance between us and Bōsō grew, “do your thing.”
Stagehand just nodded. He took a deep breath, and sighed it out.
Moments passed in tense silence. Then, Bōsō swerved ahead of us, as if trying to outmaneuver an invisible force. The bike veered off the road again—toward the woods.
This time, his bike started to climb the rocky slope on our right. I watched as the bike zipped vertically across the stone, only slowed down by the trees and bushes. Bōsō zigzagged between the trunks, whizzing past the branches without ever actually hitting something. The bike kicked up a trail of gravel and dust behind him, which drizzled onto the road.
“He’s trying to avoid my cop car,” Stagehand explained. I couldn’t see his illusion, but it would explain why Bōsō had elected to abandon the road. “Should slow him down for the moment.”
He was right. Now that the road followed a straighter line, the Pontiac gained new momentum as Spindle moved the stick shift, the engine roaring. Meanwhile, the hillside terrain slowed down Bōsō—just enough for us to begin inching our way into the lead.
The beach welled up into a shoal, cutting the lagoon off from the rest of the sea. The lagoon was shallow, and—even in the night—displayed a green shine from all the seaweed and algae resting on the surface. The green deepened into a mossy shade and then to black with the distance. But, by the muddy waters ahead, I could see the road as it broke off from the banks and meandered back into the woods again.
We just had to follow the shoreline to reach the finish line. And, against the odds, we had managed to keep up with Bōsō. So far.
But our lead wouldn’t last for long. Bōsō’s bike sprung off the cliffside, landing on the road behind us. His wheels pounded against the asphalt. I looked back at him. The red circuit lights of his helmet pulsated in short, rapid bursts. The motorcycle hummed softly as it dashed forward, quickly closing in the distance between itself and the Pontiac.
“Stagehand!” Spindle exclaimed.
“I can’t trick him forever, he’s too fast!” Stagehand responded.
As if to prove his point, Bōsō whizzed by in a red blur. When I looked out the window, the bike passed by us in a split second. The car shivered slightly as he zoomed ahead.
Spindle moved the stick shift again. Although we were in the final gear, her hand remained clenched around the handle. I couldn’t see her face, but her intense silence told me that she was in deep concentration. The road rumbled under us.
The finish line approached rapidly, with Bōsō racing farther and farther ahead.
Spindle moved her hand off the stick shift, but didn’t return it to the steering wheel. Instead, she reached out into the air. She moved her index finger in a peculiar way—almost like a harpist plucking an invisible string. Then, a glowing beam appeared in the air. It ran out of my chest and through the windshield. I traced it with my gaze. The beam went all the way to Bōsō, projecting out of his back. It followed his every move.
I touched the beam, almost instinctively. The light felt cold against my skin. While the connection was red, it looked a bit transparent. I couldn’t see it as clearly as the connection between me and Camilo, back when Amber had demonstrated her power after the fight with Max.
“What’s… What’s this?” I said. Obviously, I knew the answer. It represented my relationship with Bōsō; which I could only imagine had manifested throughout the race. But why Spindle wanted to show me that, I wasn’t sure.
“Stagehand, grab the wheel!” Spindle ordered, ignoring me.
“What?” Stagehand exclaimed.
“Just do it!”
She let go of the wheel. The Pontiac swerved—nearly out of control—and the thread between Bōsō and I shook accordingly. Stagehand, left with no other choice, reached desperately for the wheel. Within a heartbeat, he steadied the car again. Simultaneously, Spindle had reached for something to her left. At first, I couldn’t see what it was.
That was, until she turned to me—wielding her baseball bat. “I’m so sorry Florian,” she almost whispered. She adjusted her grip on the bat. In the background, Stagehand cursed as he struggled against the wheel. “Just trust me,” she added.
Before I could process what she meant, she swung the baseball bat down, slicing it through the empty space between the driver and passenger seats. It descended down toward the middle seat in the back—right where I sat.
The bat struck the top of my head. I noticed the sound before anything else—how surprisingly loud it thumped when it bounced off my skull. With a loud buzz, bees rushed to my head. Their hisses and whirs deafened everything else. Amber and Camilo’s frantic shouts grew fainter, and I couldn’t make out what they were saying… And the pain intensified. I reached for my head, my fingertips seeking out the searing pain. The fabric at the top of my hat felt slightly wet. Blood? No, too sticky. Honey?
Before I could work it out, I heard a cheer through the buzz. Amber.
“Hell yeah baby, we did it!” she shrieked. The Pontiac let out a victory honk. First, a longer one, followed by a sequence of shorter beeps.
I looked up, trying to orient myself. The Pontiac slowed down. It stopped honking, as Spindle threw her arms into the air. Next to her, Stagehand had sunk deep into the seat, resting his head against the passenger window. He breathed heavily. In front of us, the highway had deviated from the shoreline, continuing deeper into the rocky hills. A few stars twinkled in the dark above.
I shook my head, as bees exited through my ears and crawled under my hat.
The car slowed to a halt, stopping in the middle of the road. Spindle turned to me with a bright grin. “Hive, you did it!” She reached her hand out to me, motioning for a high five.
“Did you just…? Hit me?” I knew very well that she had, but somehow I had to say it out loud to believe what had actually happened.
“Aw, come on. You can take a hit from a mind-controlled, powered-up Max, but not from little me?” she teased. “Besides, we took out Bōsō! Me and you. We won.” Then she gave Stagehand’s shoulder a light punch. “You too, tricksy,” she laughed.
“We won?” I mumbled.
“Christ,” Stagehand sighed. Then he chuckled—more forceful than his initial determination would have suggested. In fact, it almost looked like the wind had been knocked out of him.
“Yes, we won!” Spindle laughed.
In my daze, I realized that I couldn’t see Bōsō anymore. I looked around, taking my surroundings in a bit slower than I wanted to. Once I turned back, I saw that the connection between us had shifted. I followed it with my gaze, tracing it backwards. First, I saw the red motorcycle, lying sideways on the road. Bōsō lay next to it, propped up on his elbows. The connection between us throbbed with a deep red. I realized that it was my pain moving through the bond, splitting it between us. The bees had already started to patch up my injury, and the pain gradually grew tender.
Bōsō slowly got up. He staggered to his feet. And, then, he marched toward the car.
Spindle got out first. Stagehand and I looked at each other, then followed after her.
“How’s that for a pretty girl?” Spindle said triumphantly. She rested the bat on her shoulder and smirked.
Bōsō didn’t seem to register Spindle’s comment. Instead, he stared at the bond between me and him. Somehow, the connection looked clearer than it had before—less transparent, a deeper red.
“You cheating shitheads.” Bōsō’s voice rumbled through the helmet’s distorter. “You’ll regret this.”
Our connection grew shorter as he advanced toward me, too quick for me to even let loose a small swarm. Determination weighed down each of his steps. He raised his hand. Then, a violet light extended from his right wrist. The light materialized into a more concrete form—like a blade, about the length of his forearm.
Pointing the violet blade toward me, Bōsō lunged forward.