Whizzer and great scooter escape

The rain fell in sheets, a cold and relentless downpour that painted the city in shades of grey. Whizzer crouched under a rusting awning just outside a coffee shop that had long since closed its doors. The once vibrant neon sign above him now flickered weakly, the word “Java” barely visible through the grime. The street was deserted, save for the occasional scurry of a rat or the low rumble of a Gov-Fed patrol vehicle cruising ominously in the distance.

Whizzer’s fingers tapped nervously on the rim of his snare drum, a battered old thing that had seen better days, much like everything else in this part of the city. His black hoodie was soaked through, clinging to his lean frame, and his sneakers squelched uncomfortably with each shift of his feet. He scanned the street, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, waiting for the moment he could begin. He knew they were watching. They were always watching.

But the music was worth it. The music was always worth it.

He glanced up at the buildings towering above him. Once, these high-rises might have been gleaming examples of modern architecture, but now they were just another part of the decaying skyline. Air conditioning pipes snaked along the exterior of every building, pumping fetid air into apartments crammed with too many people and too little hope. In the distance, the skeletal remains of Victorian structures loomed like ghosts from a forgotten past, their grandeur reduced to nothing more than crumbling bricks and shattered glass.

Whizzer shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts of decay. His job wasn’t to think about how bad things had gotten. His job was to play.

Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the drum strap across his chest, feeling the familiar weight of the instrument settle against him. The moment had come. He lifted the drumsticks, his grip firm despite the cold, and began to play.

The beat was fast, a staccato rhythm that echoed through the empty street like gunfire. Each strike of the sticks against the drumhead was a rebellion, a challenge to the oppressive silence that Gov-Fed had tried to impose. It wasn’t long before the sound of his playing was joined by another—a sharp, shrill whistle that cut through the night like a blade.

Whizzer didn’t stop. If anything, he played harder, the rhythm growing more frantic as the pounding of boots became audible over the rain. He knew who it was before he saw them. The Gov-Fed police were nothing if not predictable.

“Oi! You there!” a voice barked, thick with the kind of authority that came from years of practice and not much else.

Whizzer continued to drum, his head down, focusing on the rhythm. The sound of heavy footsteps grew louder as the officers approached, their boots splashing through the puddles that had formed on the cracked pavement.

“Shut it, drummer boy!” another voice snapped, this one deeper and rougher. Whizzer caught sight of them now—three stocky figures in tight-fitting blue jumpsuits, their faces obscured by the dark sunglasses and blue Victorian-style helmets that had become synonymous with Gov-Fed’s brand of thuggery.

Whizzer paused mid-beat, letting the last note hang in the air like the final breath before a storm. He looked up at the officers, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What’s the matter, lads? Not fans of live music?”

One of the officers, a particularly brutish-looking man with a crooked nose, stepped forward, his hand resting on the large black truncheon hanging from his belt. “You know the rules, scum. No unauthorised music in the city.

Whizzer snorted, giving the man a once-over. “You call that a uniform, mate? Looks like you’re one wash away from wearing rags. How about you lighten up and enjoy the show? You look like you could use it.”

The crooked-nosed officer’s face darkened. He took another step forward, raising the truncheon slightly. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? Maybe I should show you just how funny I can be.”

“Maybe you should,” Whizzer shot back, though his heart was pounding in his chest. This was the game, the dance he played with these goons every time they tried to shut the Last Ghosts down. Push them just enough to buy time, to keep the music alive for a few more precious moments.

But this time, something was different. The other two officers were circling him now, a predatory gleam in their eyes. Whizzer’s mouth went dry as he realised they weren’t here to scare him off. They were here to make an example of him.

“Listen,” Whizzer started, his tone losing some of its bravado. “I’m just playing a little music. No harm in that, right? Maybe you could let this one slide?”

“Not a chance,” the crooked-nosed officer growled, gripping his truncheon. “Time to teach you a lesson.”

Before Whizzer could react, the officer lunged at him, the truncheon swinging through the air with brutal intent. Whizzer barely managed to dodge, the heavy blow missing his head by mere inches. His snare drum wasn’t so lucky—the truncheon struck it dead centre, splitting the drumhead with a sickening crack.

“No!” Whizzer shouted, a mixture of anger and fear bubbling up inside him. The drum was more than just an instrument; it was a piece of his soul, a symbol of everything he and the Last Ghosts stood for.

But there was no time to mourn. The other two officers were closing in, their truncheons raised. Whizzer’s mind raced, searching for an escape, a way out of the trap they were closing around him.

And then he saw it—a flash of red and yellow plastic in the corner of his eye. An abandoned child’s scooter, leaning against the wall of the coffee shop, half-hidden by shadows. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Without thinking, Whizzer made a break for it, darting between the officers with the agility of someone who had spent his life dodging trouble. He grabbed the scooter, nearly slipping on the wet pavement as he swung himself onto it. The wheels squeaked in protest, but they held.

“Get back here, you little—!” one of the officers shouted, but Whizzer was already moving, kicking off with one foot and propelling himself down the street. The scooter wobbled dangerously, clearly not built for someone his size, but it was faster than running.

He could hear the officers behind him, their shouts mixing with the sound of rain and the distant rumble of thunder. Whizzer gritted his teeth, focusing on the narrow beam of light from a flickering streetlamp up ahead. If he could just make it to the next block, maybe—just maybe—he could lose them in the maze of alleyways that crisscrossed the old Victorian district.

The rain pounded harder now, turning the street into a slick river that threatened to send him crashing at any moment. But Whizzer didn’t dare slow down. He pushed the scooter to its limits, the wind whipping past his face as he flew down the deserted street.

Behind him, the Gov-Fed officers were losing ground, their heavy boots and bulkier frames no match for the nimble scooter. But Whizzer knew they wouldn’t give up that easily. He could almost feel their rage, the burning desire to crush anyone who dared to defy the music ban, especially a nobody like him.

As he reached the end of the block, Whizzer took a sharp turn into a narrow alleyway, the scooter skidding dangerously close to the wall. He could barely see in the darkness, but he didn’t need to. He knew these streets like the back of his hand, every twist and turn, every hiding spot.

He heard the officers curse behind him as they reached the alleyway, their voices echoing off the brick walls. But they were too slow, too cumbersome to follow him into the tight space.

Whizzer didn’t stop until he reached the other side of the alley, emerging into another deserted street. He skidded to a halt, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest. The rain had soaked him to the bone, but he didn’t care. He was alive. He had made it.

For now.

He looked back, half-expecting to see the officers right behind him, but the alley was empty. He let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over him. “Maybe next time, boys,” he muttered to himself, wiping the rain from his face.

The thrill of the escape was quickly replaced by a pang of sadness as he looked down at the broken snare drum strapped to his chest. It was a loss, a small but significant victory for Gov-Fed in their relentless war on music. But it wasn’t the end.

Whizzer took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. He knew the fight wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be over until the music was free again, until the Last Ghosts could play without fear, without having to run from the shadows.

And as long as he had a beat to play, he would keep fighting.