[ Another motorcycle speeds by Fern's bike, the woman on it clearly turning her head to look as she passes by. The bike recedes in the distance down the road... then after some consideration seems to slow down. Brake likes come on. The bike slowly turns around and comes back.
The rider makes a slower pass, goggle-glad gaze hard on Fern. She goes off the road and circles around Fern as if to scope her out, or rule out there isn't anyone else hiding in wait as her head swivels left and right. Once she seems to deem her loop satisfactory she pulls the motorcycle to the side Fern and stares for a long hard while, dust from her circle drifting between them like a formless tumbleweed. She turns off the engine and steps out, rising on long legs and moves forward only a step or two closer. She wears a leather bomber jacket with some cuts and questionable stains near the cuts that covers only the top half of a garishly blue skin tight suit. The leather boots she has are also mismatching in this way—probably not hers.
She looks at Fern. Her backpack. Her motorcycle. The manual. She frowns a little, goggles not offering much else in manner of her expression. Back to Fern. She's treating this with all the caution of an elaborate ruse but asks in all seriousness, dryly. ]
arrival
The rider makes a slower pass, goggle-glad gaze hard on Fern. She goes off the road and circles around Fern as if to scope her out, or rule out there isn't anyone else hiding in wait as her head swivels left and right. Once she seems to deem her loop satisfactory she pulls the motorcycle to the side Fern and stares for a long hard while, dust from her circle drifting between them like a formless tumbleweed. She turns off the engine and steps out, rising on long legs and moves forward only a step or two closer. She wears a leather bomber jacket with some cuts and questionable stains near the cuts that covers only the top half of a garishly blue skin tight suit. The leather boots she has are also mismatching in this way—probably not hers.
She looks at Fern. Her backpack. Her motorcycle. The manual. She frowns a little, goggles not offering much else in manner of her expression. Back to Fern. She's treating this with all the caution of an elaborate ruse but asks in all seriousness, dryly. ]
...What happened?