[ all things considered, it's a pretty pitiful sight. a figure in a dark black riding suit complemented by a bright yellow helmet slowly wheels its ride down some path or other. the motorcycle creaks, groans, barely plods along... on obvious last legs, a walking, decrepit piece of junk if there ever was one in Joywick.

so why is this person pushing it around at all, two hands gripped firmly over the handlebars? maybe even they forget the reason at this point, stopping to lean the giant beat up frame against a park bench. the rider stares down at the sad sight for a moment, drops their shoulders, and -- eventually -- shakes their head, hands gripping into fists before they cross over their chest. it appears the poor object won't be put out of its misery just yet.

how long would it take before the lone figure realized they were being tailed? though the bike had always been silent but for the roll of wheels on asphalt, as the rider's follower remembers, where it's lacking now indicates it will soon be silent for good. equally silent, this other person's attire of all black is brightened by the fur lining his coat. he breaks it with a sudden pang, kicking up a rock with the toe of his shoe and sending it careening into the worn motorcycle. ]

An urban legend reduced to such a sad state. What's the black rider without her black bike?

[ now that he's gotten the rider's attention, the young man speaks with familiarity. ]

Say, Courier. Don't tell me you've thrown everything away for one sorry dream. How do you know if what you're looking for is even here?

[ "her" back having shot up into an utterly scandalized pose almost instantly, said "urban legend" turns to face her unknown assailant, and... well, there's not really too much this "black rider" can do once she sees who it is, is there? looks like the poor object's owner won't be put out of its misery anytime soon either. ]