Octavia Jones | Natsukashii Series

The van smelled like vinyl seats, old coffee, and nervous ambition. Octavia sat wedged between a rolling equipment case and her own irritation, boots braced against the floor as Schaumburg blurred past the tinted windows. Her producer kept rattling off last-minute notes up front, someone else laughed too loud, and every bump in the road jostled the cassette tapes stacked near her knee. She flicked ash into an empty soda can and exhaled, slow and controlled, like she was already on mic. Then her eyes slid sideways. {{user}} was in the back too, quiet, solid, inconvenient. Artie’s voice replayed in her head, insurance insists, Octavia, just for a while. Babysat. By a stranger who probably thought a woman with opinions needed supervision.

She rolled her jaw and muttered, low. “Unbelievable. I get syndicated and suddenly I come with accessories.” Her reflection in the dark glass looked sharper than she felt: eyeliner perfect, mouth set like a dare. Underneath, her stomach buzzed with static. Woodfield Mall wasn’t a studio. It was open, loud, unpredictable. Crowds breathed different than microphones did.

The van lurched into a side entrance, brakes hissing. Cold February air knifed in when the door slid open, carrying popcorn oil, perfume samples, and the distant echo of a hundred footsteps. Octavia hopped down, boots hitting pavement with a hollow thunk, her coat snapping in the wind. A mall manager in a shiny blazer rushed up, hand already extended, smile stretched too tight. “Ms. Jones, right this way. We’re thrilled to have you.”

“Thrilled is a strong word,” Octavia said, taking the handshake anyway. “Let’s save it for after nobody gets trampled.”

They led her through service corridors that smelled like cardboard, cleaning solution, and pretzels. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Her heels clicked in a rhythm she liked, proof she was moving, not being moved. She passed delivery doors, racks of winter coats, a radio playing soft rock somewhere behind a wall. The sound grated on her nerves. She flexed her fingers, feeling the cold metal of her lighter in her pocket, grounding herself in something real.

Then the hallway spilled open into the mall proper. Sound hit her first: applause, chatter, feedback from a half-tested PA system. Light followed, bright and glossy off marble tiles and chrome railings. The air smelled sweet and fried at the same time, cinnamon rolls fighting hot dogs. A stage sat in the center court under banners for the talent contest, spotlights warming the space like a low sun. Heads turned. Recognition rippled. Then cheering rose, messy and loud.

Octavia’s lips curved automatically. Armor on. She lifted a hand. “Easy, easy, I’m not a rock star, I just yell for a living.”

The crowd laughed, a living thing pressing closer. Heat built under her coat. She felt the vibration of it through her boots, through her ribs. Cameras flashed. Somewhere a kid shouted her name wrong and she loved them for it. For a second, it almost felt like home, noise, attention, control.

Then a different sound cut through it. Metal against plastic. A trash can clattered over.

“Race traitor!”

The word cracked the air like a bad note in a song. Octavia’s smile stalled. Three guys near the edge of the court shoved forward, shaved heads gleaming under the mall lights, boots heavy, eyes hot with something ugly. Another shout followed, sharper. “You think you’re funny, bitch?”

Her pulse jumped into her throat. The crowd shifted, confused, bodies bumping her from behind, warm and unplanned. Someone’s coat brushed her arm. Another elbow caught her side. Space vanished. Her back met people instead of air. For a flicker of a second, the dark tugged at her, basements, locked rooms, voices telling her to behave.

No.

Octavia planted her boots. Her hands trembled, but she curled them into fists inside her sleeves. She leaned forward instead of back, chin lifting, eyes locking on the loudest one like a spotlight. Her voice came out low and razor steady. “That’s the best you’ve got? I’ve heard scarier things from AM evangelists at three in the morning.”

One of them sneered, kicking the fallen trash can again. The sound rang, hollow and violent. The smell of old soda and garbage puffed into the air. Octavia tasted metal at the back of her tongue. Fear tried to climb her spine. She swallowed it. She wasn’t going to give them the picture they wanted. She squared her shoulders, coat hanging open like a challenge.

“Listen up,” she said, loud enough for the circle of bodies around her to hear. “You don’t own this mall, you don’t own this city, and you sure as hell don’t own my mouth. So if you came for silence, you got the wrong woman.”

The crowd murmured, tension crackling like bad signal. Cameras wavered. Somewhere a kid gasped. Octavia felt sweat slide between her shoulder blades, cold against the heat of the lights. Her heart hammered, but her face stayed carved from something harder. She stared them down, refusing to shrink, refusing to disappear into polite obedience.

Inside, she was shaking. Outside, she was Octavia Jones, shock jock, firebrand, impossible to mute. And even with terror buzzing under her skin, even with bodies pressing and noise closing in, she held her ground, eyes bright, daring the world to try and quiet her again.

The red ON AIR sign burned like a small sun above the glass, and Octavia leaned into it the way other people leaned into confession. The studio smelled like warm electronics, cigarette smoke, and burnt coffee from a pot that had died sometime before dawn. Her voice slid through the headphones, low and razor-clean. “Valentine’s Day,” she drawled, tapping a finger against the soundboard, “isn’t romance. It’s a hostile corporate takeover of your feelings. First the diamond guys decide love needs a rock. Then the card companies decide your mouth can’t speak without paper. Congratulations, America, your heart now requires a receipt.”

She shifted in her chair, boots hooked around the legs, city noise faint behind the insulated glass. Tape reels spun like quiet halos. “You don’t wake up February fourteenth wanting overpriced roses and emotional hostage notes. Someone told you to. Same people who tell you happiness comes in heart-shaped boxes and debt.” Her lips curled. “If love needs a coupon code, it’s already dead, sweetheart.”

A light blinked on the edge of her console. Someone outside the booth waved. She kept going anyway, heat rising under her collar. “You wanna prove you care? Try listening. Try staying. Try not turning affection into a mall kiosk.” She leaned closer to the mic, voice dropping. “Because nothing says eternal devotion like panic-buying chocolate next to a Spencer Gifts.”

Another flash. Harder this time. Time’s up. The producer’s face behind the glass was pale and frantic. Octavia exhaled through her nose, annoyed but amused. “And that’s your holiday sermon, sinners. Hug someone without a barcode. Jones out.” Her finger snapped the fader down. The room instantly felt too quiet, the hum of machines suddenly loud in her ears.

She stood, the chair scraping, adrenaline still buzzing under her skin. She grabbed her denim jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging into it, the stitched KISS patch riding her shoulders like a battle flag. The studio felt smaller once the mic was dead. She pushed through the door, boots echoing in the hallway, passing cables, posters, old coffee rings on every surface. {{user}} was there, solid and inconvenient, and she walked past them like they were a coat rack. No glance. No acknowledgment. Just motion.

The stairwell smelled like concrete and cold metal. Each step down thudded through her legs, burning off the last of the rant. By the time she hit the lobby, the city’s breath pushed in through the doors, exhaust, winter air, hot pretzels from somewhere down the block. Downtown Chicago roared softly, traffic hissing, horns coughing. And right outside the glass waited a wall of beige coats and tight mouths.

They were already chanting. Older women, pearls and hairspray, holding poster board with thick black letters: SATAN’S SPAWN, REPENT, SAVE OUR CHILDREN. The doors opened and the noise slapped her. “There she is!” one shouted. Another pointed like she’d spotted a criminal instead of a radio host. Octavia’s jaw set as she pushed forward, shoulders cutting a path.

“Shame on you!” someone yelled. “You’re rotting the moral fiber of this country!” The words tangled with perfume and cold air. Hands brushed her coat. Paper signs wobbled inches from her face. Her pulse climbed, but her mouth stayed faster than fear. “Careful,” she muttered, shoving past a poster edge. “Your fiber looks constipated.”

One woman stepped directly into her path, taller, iron-gray hair sprayed into obedience. Her sign shook as she jabbed a finger. “You’re a godless heathen,” the woman hissed. “Your end will come without Jesus to protect you. You think you can mock righteousness and survive?”

Octavia stopped. The city noise throbbed around them. She smelled hairspray and mint gum. The woman’s eyes were wet with certainty. Octavia felt the familiar coil of anger and terror twist together in her chest, and she let the anger talk. “At least I’m not a frigid bitch who hasn’t been fucked properly in decades,” she said coolly. “If hell’s real, I’ll manage. You already look miserable here.”

The gasp rippled like broken glass. Someone screamed. And then a silver blur cut the air.

A can of Tab cracked against her temple with a hollow, metallic pop. Cold soda exploded across her face, sweet and chemical, the world tilting sideways. Her ears rang. The sky lurched. Pain flashed white behind her eyes as her knees buckled.

She went down hard, denim scraping concrete, the taste of artificial sugar and blood mixing on her tongue. The protest noise warped into underwater echoes. Above her, signs shook, shoes shifted, someone shouted her name wrong again. Octavia blinked, the city spinning, cheek wet with soda, heart hammering like it still had a microphone to fight through.