You know what every person needs when they may be dying at four in the ᴀм? Spicy noodles.

Maybe that was me.

The asphalt was flowing with dark water. My eyes fixed on my feet as I ducked out into the downpour, the technicolor lights dancing in my blurred sight. Under my hood, the sound of rain on plastic filled my ears.

I knew I’d ridden the elevator to ground level, turned left on B4-2 street. My eyes barely open, I had to stumble back as my foot unexpectedly dropped. That was the road. I’d catch a face of wind kicked spray if I looked up for the signs. So, I felt my way, veering left again around the building’s corner.

The pouring suddenly stopped and I ran a hand through my hair, pushing back the hood.

Concrete was above, crossing over the road from one building to the next. Inset into the wall beside me was a vending machine. The face glowed brightly, a haze of red and orange backlighting the weather-worn menu. Under pretty pictures and aside vibrant, happy food characters, items were listed.

Something funny about this machine. Continue reading