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1. Fantube - Ghost Highway

This is inspired by a song that I can't remember the name of lol

Requested by my son in law L, I can't remember his Wattpad account name I am a terrible father

Effervescent, everything dipped in phosphorus. Neon lighting, roads like vinyl records, pink sunsets, purple palm trees. The aesthetic is real. In an acidic future where both nothing and everything exists, glittery buildings craft their own way up in the glory of snapped CDs, lining the streets. A few cars slip by along the musical notes, the fever green clouds reflected in their wing mirrors, heading out from the city. Fuelled up and ready to drive for eternity. Escaping the regime. Freedom from the utopian future where everything is perfectly surveyed.
Traveling along the world's oldest road.
Braving the Ghost Highway.

"Ew! Get off me!"
Wetwipe shoved away at his sister's prodding fingers, frowning and pushing. Annoyed now, he slapped her over the wrist, which sent her into a fit of tears in the backseat. The third child just sat. She didn't care what the other two did as long as they didn't bother her too much. She did love Wetwipe and Paperweight of course, but not as much as she loved silence, and her own personal space. But with two much younger siblings, she wasn't sure she'd get that, especially if this road really was never-ending as everybody said it was.
"OuuuuOOWWWW! MAMA!"
"Please be quiet back there."
The anxiety in Test Tube's voice was enough to strain the mood of the entire car through a sieve. Everybody's emotions mixed, falling to the ground in a fine powder and ceasing to exist.
"Mum and I are trying our best to find a way through to somewhere better. Anywhere. Anywhere but the Cybercity." Fan explained vaguely, looking back at his three children from the passenger seat. The name "Cybercity" could have been sour curdled milk in his mouth by how he spat it out with so much distaste.
"Papa, what did home do that was bad?" inquired Paperweight, reaching out a chubby arm to touch the black vinyl ring on his finger. Fan sighed, glancing at his eldest. The girl who knew too much. Graphpaper nodded sadly. Time for them to know. They deserved the knowledge of why they'd left everything behind.

The young revolutionary pelted along the cobble street, holding a paper bag of groceries to his chest. Bottles clinking, cough medicine. Stolen. The pharmacy window would have some healing to do from his crowbar.
Armed police, ha! Overkill. You can't send out high-tech officers to deal with a simple local thief taking medicine he can't afford to help his sick baby son. It's the greater good, is it not? Oh well, he was on the run now, whether that was morally right or not. And even if they got him, even if he was killed, he would be a martyr. Money would pour in to his widow and child, and the poor lad would be cured. Perhaps he was better off a dead man.
He decided not. His infant deserved a father.
After all, everybody had heard rumours about the chief of police that the papers were clearly being paid to conceal. His barbaric actions on the job, strange orders to less senior members of the force, and supposed illegal private life of drugs and slavery. Everybody seemed to have a theory or two on him, but nothing could be proven. Ah, a gap in the ranks. Time to break out.
Slipping subtly behind a car and making his way through to judge the slow lanes of traffic coming through, he regarded the men. Some of the vehicles had been stopped for inspection by the windmill arms of the troopers so they could prowl every single corner of the area. It was a blisteringly hot day, and the man swore he could smell bacon coming from inside those bulletproof suits. They were pigs, after all, brutish animals.
Making a dash out as the traffic lapsed, he darted across the highway, curved into an alleyway and then into the square. He didn't look forwards or backwards. Maybe he should have, though.
"HALT! IMMEDIATELY!"
The circle of armed and barricaded flesh closed around him, rifles pointed straight at his chest. He stopped, taking their orders. Becoming the pupil in their circular eye of surveillance.
"I HOPE YOU REALISE WHAT YOU'VE DONE TODAY. THE STATE DOES NOT PERMIT DESTRUCTION OF THE PROPERTY OF OTHERS, NOR DOES IT LOOK FONDLY UPON THEFT."
The man laughed coldly.
"Prices have risen so much that this is all I can afford for my sick son to make him better. Give us free treatment or I'm afraid this city suffers the consequences." he spat angrily, the two throbbing veins in his neck and forehead beginning to pop already.
"HE MAY DIE. SUCH IS LIFE."
All present fear fruited into fury.
"Such is life? Oh my god, that's something you say when you miss a bus and the next one isn't for an hour or two. My son is hacking up his own lungs! I demand JUSTICE!"
The next step forward was the last he ever took. The trigger-happy chief's finger twitched, and the bottle hugged to the desperate father's chest exploded inwards, striking him between the ribs with shards of brown glass, surrounding the bullet that ripped a huge hole through his heart. Dead instantly.
Riots began against the police. Government disbanded in the chaos and the President ruled as a state of emergency until he was mysteriously dispatched one night by a lone gunman, along with many other major government officials. The chief was handed the reigns. The rest? History.