A desert during the Summertime was anyone and everyone's least favorite place to imagine themselves, be it walking on foot or riding on the seat of a motorcycle. The blistering hot sun beating down on you anywhere you turned, the arid, dry heat that made you feel as if you stuck yourself in a jet engine; it was especially the empty, terrifying loneliness of the endless stretches of dry, yellow and red lands.

Even then, to some, the desert had a sort of peacefulness to it; an unseen, or blatantly ignored beauty to it. Some liked the solitude and emptiness of the desert, adored it even.

Jon Morgan was one of those few.

On a long stretch of dirt road cutting through a Nevada desert, rode a jade green Indian Chief Black Hawk, shining brightly like an emerald as the sun caught and reflected the dashing paint job. The customized engine roared loudly as the rider pedaled the beast to its full capacity, leaving a long, thick trail of dust from the back wheel, and the smell of hot rubber in the air. The rider himself drove like his life depended on it, brows furrowed and eyes focused under the thick, square safety goggles he wore to keep the dust from his eyes. His breath was both steady and heavy under the red and black cloth mask tied tightly around his face, again, to keep him safe and focused, this time to keep the burning dust from stuffing his mouth and burning his throat from the inside out.

He'd certainly picked a hot day to ride his baby through the desert just outside of his town of Whitewell. Who could blame him though? Riding the machine through such a large, free stretch of land, in itself freed the biker....freed him from the suffocating, chain like hold that any town or city put on its inhabitants. At least on the free road, there were no rules on how fast, or how reckless you could drive.

So what Jon believed anyways.

Jon Anthony Morgan had moved to Whitewell not even a couple weeks prior to present day, having hitched himself a relatively small and shabby, yet comfortable house to rent just block from the actual town itself. While the town was surrounded by desert, it also lived relatively close to green mountains, which thus gave it a stable piece of ecosystem; trees, grass, bushes, the like. Jon's new home, though more distant, had a fair surrounding of trees and wild bushes, so as to give it more privacy that he required in any place he moved to.

Despite his own standard of good living conditions, Whitewell itself was the epitome of a close knit town despite its larger size for a town; everyone knew everyone.

And Jon was the outside vagrant that everyone automatically didn't feel could trust.

He'd come to the Nevada town under unknown circumstances. He just found it one day, and decided to briefly settle, since it was quiet.

He wasn't from Las Vegas, he wasn't from anywhere in the neighboring California...he just seemingly came from nowhere, according to the inhabitants of Whitewell. What's more, the man wasn't friendly. The young man of 25 had 'the attitude of a bull', so said a few men at the mechanic shop he favored. A tough attitude, but clearly a man who cared about his bike; that was where news of the vagrant surfaced from, and like wildfire, spread through the rest of the town, as well as a couple towns outside of Whitewell, such as Rose Trails and South Ashwell.

Again, close knit community.

Obviously it didn't take long for the angry vagrant to hear of the news, and he naturally wasn't too happy about it. Unfortunately, he couldn't fight against it and scream at every person within a 50 mile radius to quit talking about him like some damn alien; it was in a human's nature to gossip like a teenage girl.

These were his words, naturally.

Besides, at the very least, to them, he wasn't an actual alien by their standards.

Jon was a tall man, at least 6"3, with a perfectly built body that most men would grow jealous of, his skin almost whiter than the white sands of California beaches, and his facial features sharp, molded to an Adonis-like perfection. His hair was a short, quiff haircut; extremely short sides and back, almost buzzed, but growing longer and longer at the top until longer platinum blond, and messy bangs fall over one side of his face. It was clear that the atomic blond, almost white hair color, was artificial, what with the dark roots at the base of his scalp. That could be forgiven with his piercing, icy blue eyes.

By anyone's standards, he the perfect American white male.

Physically anyways. Though the man was beautiful, his attitude towards people left a lot to be desired. As previously stated, 'the attitude of a bull'; boorish, rude, and quick to anger. Truthfully, it was one of his greater downfalls, his anger. His anger, even presently, could easily cause many a fight and argument with any type of person. Anytime, the young man could sport a bruise or cut on him due to the fights he found himself in on a near regular basis.

This tidbit of his life presently, followed him to Whitewell.

~.~

Jon had to eventually get back to Whitewell from his drive. Once he saw the town entrance just a mile ahead, he slowed the bike down, the winds surrounding him beginning to dull down and quiet. He straightened his body more as he slowed, his gloved hands loosening off the handlebars of the Jade, and his heartbeat returning to normal as the world again slowed to its natural pace as he approached Whitewell.

The roar of the engine was now unmistakeable to the people present near the town entrance as Jon pulled himself in. He didn't immediately stop though; instead, he continued driving through to the paved, asphalt road that ran through the larger town, and carefully merging into traffic, so as to drive himself further away from the town entrance, and more towards a favored deli shop by 43rd South St.

It took only a few minutes to pull into the small strip where the said shop was located. Pulling into an empty parking space in front of the shop, he took his keys from the engine, and planted his booted foot on the ground. Sighing to himself, he took his helmet off and shook his inevitably messy hair out; after that, he rose his goggles up and lowered his cloth mask down, letting the cooler air hit his skin. Relief washed over him, now that his skin didn't feel like it was going to boil off. Hell, the goggles felt like they would stick permanently to his skin at any given moment, had he not taken them off.

Jon took a moment to breathe out the adrenaline that came from a ride like that, his soul and body more easily relaxed. Briefly, it showed on his face.

Said relaxation melted away when he heard the calmer engine of a car pull up next to him and turn off. Looking to the car, his piercing gaze caught that of another man's. The older man immediately tensed once he got out of his car, realizing he'd been caught. Both men stared at each other briefly, though Jon ending the quick little contest by sending him a killer glare, simply daring the other man to say something.

The older didn't, instead grumbling to himself and shutting his car door, walking himself into the adjacent store to the deli. Jon watched him the whole time, scoffing quietly to himself and getting off the bike.

While he put his helmet into the large, leather saddlebag behind his seat, Jon suddenly felt the sickening feeling that he was being watched. His movements slowed a bit, his brows furrowing as he straightened himself and fearlessly looked around.

Immediately, he spotted what the culprit, or culprits, were: a group of men, around his age, give or take some years between them, all dressed in what one would describe as 'greaser attire', what with the jeans, white t-shirts, and similar looking pompadour hairstyles.

'Wannabe badasses', Jon liked to refer them as. At least, he automatically assumed.

The group of four all stared at the vagrant Jon, their own gazes scrutinizing and judgmental, like they were dressing him down.

Of course, Jon didn't appreciate it. His glare returning, he shook his head, deciding to ignore them for now; he was too hungry to care. For now, anyways.

With a silent scoff, he physically waved them off and went to the deli shop doors, stepping inside.

His rude gesture wasn't ignored by the men however, so he'd soon find out.