You Look Like You Need a Ride

By Jamie F. Bell

Stranded in a downpour, a young man's cynicism is challenged by the unexpected appearance of a mysterious stranger who offers more than just a lift through the neon-soaked cityscape.

The rain wasn't a soft patter, not here, not in the low-lying sectors of Neo-Veridia. It was a sheeting curtain, a liquid wall that erased the already-fading bioluminescent advertisements on the crumbling overpass support pylons. Corey shivered, not just from the damp chill seeping into his threadbare synth-leather jacket, but from the sheer, profound misery of his situation. His hover-scooter, 'The Siren's Wail' — a name chosen with the bitter irony of a drowning man – coughed one last time, a metallic gasp that vibrated up his spine, then went utterly, irrevocably silent.

He kicked the dented chassis. Not hard enough to hurt it, because what was the point? It was already dead. Just enough to show it he was displeased. The kick, though, sent a spray of oily rainwater up his worn cargo pants, and he sighed, a cloud of visible vapor in the cool spring air. Above him, the gleaming chrome spines of the upper city, where the privileged lived in climate-controlled domes, looked like indifferent gods. He’d barely made it out of the commercial district before the power drain, a predictable flaw he’d ignored until it became inconveniently terminal.

“Wonderful,” he muttered to the empty, rain-swept street, the word tasting like rust and disappointment. “Just absolutely, precisely, wonderfully *perfect*.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache he’d been nursing since dawn deciding this was the moment to bloom into full, throbbing glory. The distant hum of orbital traffic, usually a comforting backdrop to the city's ceaseless thrum, sounded like a mocking choir tonight.

A soft, almost imperceptible thrum grew louder, cutting through the drumming rain. Corey didn’t even bother looking up. Probably some courier drone making a last-minute delivery before the storm systems locked down the air lanes. Or a garbage scow. Either way, nothing for him. He was too busy contemplating the artistic merits of slowly dissolving into a puddle. The alternative was a multi-kilometer walk back to his miserable 'habitation pod' in the forgotten industrial zone, and the thought alone made his knees ache.

Then, the sound stopped, right beside him. Not a hover-truck’s aggressive whine, nor a drone’s insectoid buzz. This was different. Gentle. He reluctantly lowered his hand, blinking rain from his eyelashes. A vehicle, sleek and impossibly dark, shimmered in the downpour. It wasn't just black; it seemed to absorb light, bending the neon reflections of a distant noodle bar into fractured, fleeting hints of amethyst and jade. It had no visible seams, no exhaust, just a seamless curve of polished material that looked like liquid shadow.

The canopy, a single pane of electro-chromatic glass, slid silently back, revealing the interior. It was surprisingly spacious, the cabin bathed in a soft, cool glow, like moonlight filtered through glacier ice. And inside, a man. He sat with an almost unnerving stillness, his hands resting lightly on a control surface that seemed to materialize from the dashboard itself. His hair, dark and impeccably styled, didn't have a single drop of rain on it. His clothes, equally sleek, were the kind that whispered 'custom-tailored' and 'costs more than your life savings'.

His eyes, though. They were the color of petrichor after a spring storm – a deep, almost luminous grey-green that seemed to take in everything and judge nothing. He looked directly at Corey, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Rough patch, huh?” the man asked, his voice a low, resonant baritone, smooth as polished ceramite. Not mocking, not pitying. Just… an observation.

Corey blinked, caught off guard. He hated that. Hated feeling transparent. “You could say that,” he managed, a little too defensive, a little too sharp. “Unless you consider having your main mode of transport turn into an expensive paperweight in the middle of a storm a particularly *smooth* patch.” He watched the man, waiting for the inevitable sneer or the polite, dismissive nod before he drove off.

But the man didn't move. He just watched Corey, his gaze steady, almost unnervingly patient. “It’s quite a common occurrence in these older sectors,” he said, still with that infuriatingly calm tone. “Power grid fluctuations. Cheaply made capacitors.” He paused, then tilted his head slightly. “You look like you need a ride.”

Corey scoffed, a genuine, unadulterated scoff. “And you look like you need to be somewhere important, not picking up strays from the undercity. What’s the catch? You charging by the second? Or is this some kind of market research for a new line of charitable transport for the perpetually miserable?” The words spilled out, a familiar, acidic torrent. He watched for the flinch, the narrowing of the eyes, the polite refusal. Nothing.

The man merely chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that seemed to chase away some of the storm's oppressive quiet. “No catch. And I'm not in any particular hurry. Just… observing the urban flora after a good cleansing. Though I admit,” he gestured vaguely at Corey’s defunct scooter, “that particular specimen isn’t blooming.”

Corey felt a flicker of something, a spark of annoyance mixed with a grudging, reluctant amusement. This guy was *weird*. “Urban flora? You mean the rust and the algae growing on the ferrocrete? Yeah, real aesthetic.” He shifted his weight, suddenly hyper-aware of his soaked clothes, the grime on his boots. His heart gave a curious, unbidden thump against his ribs. Ryan’s eyes, fixed on him, made his skin prickle with an unfamiliar heat.

“Some call it that,” Ryan replied, his smile widening just a fraction. “Others see the persistent tenacity of life. The way the dampness brings out the hidden colours in the decay, the way new sprouts push through the cracks. It’s all a matter of perspective, wouldn’t you agree?” He extended a hand, a surprisingly elegant gesture. “Ryan. And you are?”

Corey hesitated, staring at the outstretched hand. It was long-fingered, unblemished, a stark contrast to his own, perpetually oil-stained palms. The gesture felt… intimate, somehow. Like an invitation he wasn’t equipped to accept. But the rain was getting heavier, and the prospect of hypothermia was starting to feel less poetic and more genuinely terrifying. He felt the blood rush to his ears, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Corey,” he mumbled, his voice a little rougher than he intended. He took the hand. It was warm, firm, and sent a jolt, not of electricity, but of something akin to static, right up his arm.

The contact lingered for a beat too long, and Corey snatched his hand back, suddenly uncomfortable, his mind reeling. *What was that?* Just a handshake. Nothing. But the quiet certainty in Ryan's gaze, the way his fingers had felt… Corey shoved the feeling down. It was just the cold. Or the hunger. Or the existential dread. Probably all three.

“Well, Corey,” Ryan said, still smiling, completely unfazed by Corey’s abrupt withdrawal. “Care to join me in observing the tenacity of life?” He gestured to the empty passenger seat. Corey eyed the vehicle, then his defunct scooter. “What about… this?” he asked, nodding towards the wreck. “I can’t just leave it.”

Ryan flicked a control. A small, articulated robotic arm extended from the vehicle’s undercarriage, deftly scooping up The Siren’s Wail. It retracted, securing the scooter to the rear of Ryan’s vehicle with an almost surgical precision. “Consider it secured. Now. Get in before you freeze. Or before some opportunistic scavenger decides your parts are more valuable than your pride.” The quip was delivered without a hint of malice, and Corey found himself huffing out a surprised, albeit reluctant, laugh.

He slid into the passenger seat. The interior was even more plush than it looked, smelling faintly of ozone – no, not ozone, something sharper, cleaner, like ionized air and newly polished metal, mixed with a subtle, earthy scent he couldn’t quite place. The seat molded perfectly to his form, instantly warming him. He felt… enveloped. And intensely aware of Ryan’s presence beside him. The air between them felt thick, charged. He could almost taste it.

“Comfortable?” Ryan asked, his voice a low hum. The canopy slid shut with another silent *thunk*. The rain outside became a muted whisper. The world outside, grey and dismal, seemed to dim, while the cabin’s internal glow sharpened, making Ryan’s profile stark and compelling. His eyes, in this light, were almost iridescent.

“Yeah, sure,” Corey mumbled, avoiding direct eye contact, instead focusing on the rivulets of rain streaming down the inside of the canopy, distorted reflections of the city’s unseen lights. “Just… a bit much, maybe. For a taxi.” Ryan chuckled again, and the sound vibrated through Corey’s bones. “It’s not a taxi, Corey. It’s a vessel for exploration. And sometimes, discovery begins with a detour.”

Ryan shifted, turning slightly towards Corey, his elbow resting on the console between them. The gesture was casual, yet it brought him closer, shrinking the already intimate space. Corey found himself suddenly unable to breathe properly. He could smell Ryan now, a clean, subtle scent that was unexpectedly alluring – something woody, with a hint of something metallic and fresh, like rain on hot circuitry. He cleared his throat, feeling a blush creep higher up his cheeks.

“Exploration of what?” Corey asked, trying to sound aloof, trying to ignore the magnetic pull that seemed to emanate from Ryan. He clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. “The inner workings of a broken-down scooter? Or my deeply fascinating cynicism?” He tried for sarcasm, but his voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Ryan’s gaze softened, a hint of something warm entering his cool grey-green eyes. “Perhaps both. Sometimes, the most interesting landscapes are found within the least expected individuals. And cynicism, Corey, is often just hope in a very clever disguise.” His thumb brushed lightly over the control panel, and the vehicle glided forward, silent as a ghost, out into the rain-slicked arterial roads.

Corey was acutely aware of the warmth emanating from Ryan, the proximity of their shoulders, the way Ryan’s steady breathing seemed to synchronize with his own suddenly erratic one. He found himself unable to articulate a biting retort. His mind, usually a fortress of sarcastic comebacks, felt… blank. Just Ryan. And the hum of the silent vehicle. And the rain. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt exposed, stripped bare by the quiet intensity of Ryan’s attention. He wanted to look away, but couldn't, a strange, undeniable compulsion keeping his gaze fixed on Ryan’s profile.

They drove in silence for a while, the cityscape flowing past them like a holographic dream. Skyscrapers draped in luminous vines, the glow of hydroponic farms, the hurried dance of autonomous delivery drones. Corey, for the first time in what felt like years, was just… seeing. Not cataloging everything that was wrong, not tallying up his own failures. Just observing. The gentle rocking of the vehicle, the cool air circulating within the cabin, the unexpected warmth beside him. It was unsettling. It was… peaceful.

“So, what exactly do you do, Ryan?” Corey finally managed, breaking the charged silence, his voice still a little shaky. He hugged himself, feeling a shiver run through him that had nothing to do with the cold. Ryan’s mere presence felt like a physical impact, an internal shift he hadn’t anticipated.

Ryan turned his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I navigate. I observe. And occasionally, I lend a hand to those who seem a little… lost.” His eyes flickered to Corey’s, holding them, and Corey felt the familiar flush rise to his face. There was a directness in Ryan’s gaze that was both disarming and utterly captivating. It was as if Ryan saw something in him, something beyond the grime and the cynicism, something Corey himself couldn’t perceive.

“Lost, huh?” Corey scoffed, trying to regain some semblance of his usual sardonic self, but it sounded weak, even to his own ears. “I’m not lost. I’m just… taking a scenic detour through the abyss. Happens to the best of us.” He crossed his arms defensively, trying to put some physical barrier between himself and the unsettling warmth of Ryan’s attention. But the gesture felt futile, transparent.

Ryan’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Perhaps. But even the abyss can have its own kind of beauty, if you know where to look. And sometimes, a guide can make the journey a little less… lonely.” He reached across the console, his hand hovering for a moment before lightly resting on Corey’s forearm. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a searing heat through Corey’s entire body, making every nerve ending sing. Corey froze, his breath catching in his throat, unable to move, unable to think.

Ryan’s fingers were warm, surprisingly calloused beneath their smooth appearance, a faint tremor in their contact. Corey could feel the subtle pressure, the undeniable presence. It was not a casual touch. It was deliberate. Ryan’s thumb moved, a slow, gentle stroke against the synth-leather of Corey’s jacket, just above his wrist. The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, it stole Corey’s voice entirely. His gaze darted to Ryan’s face, searching for a hint of jest, a flicker of mockery. But Ryan’s expression was earnest, his eyes holding a depth of understanding that made Corey’s own suddenly sting.

“What… what are you doing?” Corey whispered, the words barely audible, his voice raw. He wanted to pull away, needed to, but his muscles refused to obey. The contact felt too potent, too real. It was unraveling something tight and protective inside him.

Ryan’s smile softened, a slow, beautiful unfurling. “Just… making contact, Corey. Sometimes, even the most self-sufficient among us need to feel connected. To know they’re seen. Truly seen.” He didn’t press, didn’t force. His hand remained, a quiet anchor. Corey’s breath hitched. He felt his face flush a deep, painful red, his whole body tingling with a sensation he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just physical warmth; it was something profound, something that seeped into his very core, bypassing all his carefully constructed walls.

He found himself leaning, just barely, almost imperceptibly, into the touch. It was a betraying, involuntary movement, one he immediately regretted. But Ryan seemed to notice, and his smile deepened, his eyes shining with a knowing light. Corey felt a confusing mix of embarrassment and an aching, desperate relief. This was dangerous. This was far too much.

“Look,” Corey stammered, finally wrenching his arm away, though the phantom warmth lingered like a brand. “I appreciate the ride, really, but… I’m fine. I don’t need… whatever this is.” He tried to sound firm, to re-erect his defenses, but his voice was trembling, betraying him. He felt his heart thudding, an erratic drumbeat in his chest, echoing in his ears.

Ryan merely nodded, the corners of his lips still curved. He didn’t push, didn’t argue. He just guided the vehicle with a casual grace, navigating a complex interchange of flying traffic lanes. “As you wish, Corey. But sometimes, what we think we don’t need is exactly what we’re searching for. And what we fear most is often what will set us free.” The vehicle swerved subtly, taking an unexpected exit ramp, dipping down into a lower level of the city, a maze of older, less-trafficked streets. The rain continued, a ceaseless rhythm, washing the grime from the city’s bones, revealing an unexpected vibrancy beneath.

Corey watched the lights streak past, feeling a strange blend of anxiety and exhilaration. He was out of his element, in a stranger’s vehicle, being told uncomfortable truths, and yet… there was a nascent curiosity unfurling within him, a tender shoot in the damp soil of his cynicism. Ryan was an enigma, a walking, talking paradox of calm intensity, and Corey, despite himself, was utterly captivated. The world outside, for all its perpetual gloom, suddenly felt a little less suffocating, a little more expansive.

The vehicle, after a few more turns through winding, dimly lit side streets, pulled to a stop beside a patch of wild, unkempt green. It was an anomaly in the concrete jungle, a small, overgrown park reclaimed by bioluminescent mosses and a few tenacious, rain-drenched flowering bushes. The air here was fresher, carrying the scent of damp earth and something sweet, like night-blooming jasmine. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of purple light pulsed from the ground, painting the scene in ethereal hues.

Ryan cut the engine, plunging them into a sudden, profound silence, broken only by the persistent drumming of the rain and the chirping of unseen bio-insects. He turned fully to Corey, his expression unreadable, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “Here we are,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. “A destination, or simply a pause. The journey, after all, is rarely about the arrival, but the small discoveries along the way. Wouldn’t you agree, Corey?” And in the quiet glow, a tiny, crimson bloom, pushed through the wet, dark earth just outside the window, seemed to answer him.