Trike Patrol Merilyn Apr 2026

Then she lights a cigarette, watches the fog roll in off the water, and waits for the next stupid thing to happen.

She wrote in the log: “Subject fled on foot. Trike undamaged. Louise performed admirably.”

Last spring, a stolen forklift tried to run her trike off Pier 9. She didn’t swerve. She just turned on her floodlight, full beam in the driver’s eyes, and sat there. The forklift hit a pothole and died. The driver ran. Merilyn finished her coffee, then called it in.

A trike isn’t a motorcycle. It doesn’t lean into corners. It grumbles through them. It sits lower, wider, more stubborn. You can’t chase a speeding sedan on three wheels. But you don’t have to. Merilyn’s job isn’t pursuit. It’s witness . Trike Patrol Merilyn

You see her coming before you hear the whine of the electric motor. Merilyn doesn’t sneak. She arrives .

She calls the trike “Louise.”

She sees the kid trying to jimmy a lock on the old fishery. She sees the bar fight spill onto the sidewalk before the first punch lands. She sees the woman walking alone pull her coat tighter—then relax when she spots the pink stripe and the slow, circling light. Then she lights a cigarette, watches the fog

Most of Sector 7 is a ghost after 2 AM—shuttered warehouses, the slow drip of pier water, and the occasional stray dog that knows better than to cross her path. Merilyn doesn’t patrol for speed. She patrols for presence .

She isn’t a hero. She isn’t a detective. She’s the third shift on three wheels, the last set of eyes before the sunrise.

Patrol Unit M-847, callsign “Merilyn” Vehicle: Modified Cushman Model 53, three-wheeled electric trike. Armored saddlebags. Single floodlight. Jurisdiction: Dockside Bypass, Sector 7 Louise performed admirably

At 4 AM, when the rain starts, Merilyn parks under the overpass. She takes off her helmet. Her hair is shorter than it used to be. She has a small scar above her left eyebrow—a souvenir from a drunk with a bottle last February.

She pats the trike’s dash. “Good work, Louise.”

Merilyn doesn’t draw her weapon. She just idles. She waits. She records in her head.