It's a hard ride. Worse than she's had in a long time. The void between worlds is turbulent, struck through with pockets of terrible energy that would vaporize her in an instant. 

She lives for this. 

She controls her bike, all instinct and training, faster than her brain can think, just riding the way she should, dancing with a dragon that wants to destroy her. A meshwork of plasma and buffeting stellar currents flashes past her faster than she can even be afraid.

The bike's fighting her. For an instant, she's out of control, and an instant is all she needs to become far behind the bike. She dips almost too slowly to slide under a final pocket of plasma, the void weather trying its best to kill her personally, and careens out of the slipspace with the bike not quite under control —

She falls, careening out of the sky towards a city on a coast. She recognizes the shape of it at a glance — probably Seattle, or at least a Seattle — but she's got to stop the damn bike before she plows into the ground —

The world blurs away as the reactor whines beneath her. She forces every rev she can from the engine, barely dodges plowing directly into the side of a skyscraper, and turns her fall into a controlled stop as pedestrians dive out of the way of her bike — 

She comes to a screeching stop in the middle of a busy square near a fountain, and puts down her bike's landing gear just in time to settle neatly onto the earth with a clunk. 

She pulls off her helmet, shakes out her hair, and lets out a triumphant whoop, pumping her fist in the air. 

"Fuck yeah!" 

It's only after that that she bothers to look around. 

International Fountain is recognizable, but deactivated and surrounded with sandbags. There are more sandbags against low-enough windows, and around some entrances to buildings. Other windows are boarded up. There are scorch marks on the side of the Children's Museum, and signs of newly-filled holes in the pavement in suspiciously crater-ish shapes.

The pedestrians are looking at her with a mix of curiosity and wary resignation, and there's a palpable tension in the air, along with a hint of faded shock. People's motions are furtive and cautions, their laughter just a little more stilted, sooner to be cut off.

A few people have phones out to take pictures or video of Rider. A few others are making phone calls while eyeing her suspiciously.

Ah. She's touched down in a warzone then. And one used to weird things. 

Chaos? Surely not, or nobody would be staying to take pictures. Something else. 

It's a little hard to hide her smile, even though it's clearly not the time. She taps a finger against her lip and tries to think of what to say.

"Sorry for the sloppy landing, folks, usually I'm better than that." She does a little bow and waves to the cameras. 

She looks over at the filled-in holes. "I take it there's a war on of some kind. I'm no military woman, but my heart goes out to you all. Hope things go better." And if they're fighting a war against something like Chaos then maybe she'll throw her hat into the ring; there's a reason ones like her don't get sent to the front lines, too vulnerable to the Thirster, but not all threats fight for the soul like that. 

A blond man in a light blue polo and khaki shorts steps closer, hesitantly, despite his companion — husband, judging by the rings on their fingers — pulling at his shoulder. "Yeah, there's a war on, lady," he replies, his voice tired, and tight with old anger and pain. "You haven't heard of the Abyssals?"

"No, I'm not from this universe. Know some other nasty bad things but not Abyssals specifically. What are they?" She leaves off the "here" — there's worlds with Abyssals she knows, but they're more animistic and not so urbanized. Different kind of Abyssal. 

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes wide, reeling a bit. "God, really? Not from this universe?"

"Is it so strange, Chris, after getting invaded by demon boats and the navy fighting them off with shipgirls?" his husband asks him, an eyebrow raised, hand on his hip.

Chris laughs sheepishly. "Suppose not. Just not used to the idea. Had to get used to a lot of shit, though, so guess I'll get used to this, too. Think that fancy bike of yours could put a hole in a demon's hull?"

"Yeah, probably. It's got a dragon gun down its axis from the reactor. These demon boats, are they smart or more like animals?" 

"They're pretty dumb, like animals, but there has to be something smart coordinating 'em. Blood Week was too well planned to be done just by animals." Chris replies with a scowl, shoulders tensing.

His husband suppresses a shudder at the memory.

A master behind the scenes? If it's a war of one against many she's probably gotta be on the side of the many. Especially given that the Children's Museum was apparently shelled; that's just wanton destruction. Terrible things happen in war, but she'd rather be fighting on the humans' side in this one. Call it speciesist of her to assume, but she's always had a weakness for humans. 

"Where can I get in contact with the military as fast as possible without alarming them too badly? The hoverbike's gonna put the wind up them I'm pretty sure but I gotta talk to whoever's coordinating your defense."

One of the people who'd made a phone call when she landed raises a hand and volunteers, "I called the Navy when you landed, ma'am. Some MPs should be arriving any minute."

Another person says she called 911, who forwarded the request to the Navy on account of flying bikes being similar enough to "magical shipgirl bullshit" to be their problem.

Chris' husband speaks up again. "You want to talk to someone up at Everett. That's the nearest major naval base, and where the Pacific fleet's based out of. If you want to talk to the highest brass on the west coast, that's where you'll find them."

"With any luck," Chris adds, "the MPs'll wanna take you there."

A question rises to Rider's lips — You think they'll let me keep the bike? — and dies. 

Then a grin comes to her lips. 

If she stays, anything could happen. 

She likes the sound of that. 

She flips down the kickstand and dismounts the bike. "Then I'll wait here for 'em. Hope they don't take my baby from me, but some things are more important."

Chris nods. "Damned right. Fate of the world and all that shit."

Sure enough, the naval MPs roll up in a pair of squad cars momentarily, flashers on, but no sirens. They get out and walk toward her in two pairs, hands on their sidearms but not drawing them yet.

The lead officer, a man whose uniform identifies him as CWO. Dalton, gives her a cautious look. "Ma'am, are you the unknown visitor with the flying bike?"

"Yes, I am." She gestures to it, careful not to touch it. "It's a long story, but the key points are that I'm not from this universe, I want to help with the war against the abyssals, and I have foreign technology and expertise y'all could probably use. I go by Rider. I'd appreciate it if you could keep the bike within my eyeshot, it's my only ticket home, but if your orders make that impossible I'll deal."

Dalton's partner, a woman with blonde hair in a tight bun, mutters, "More sparkly bullshit," under her breath, but falls silent at a glare from Dalton.

"As you're coming in voluntarily, and you don't seem to be a threat so far, you can keep the bike," he replies. "We'll lead you to Naval Station Everett, where Lieutenant Commander Edwards will talk through the state of the Abyssal war with you and figure out how you can help. Keep to street level and stay between our squad cars, please, ma'am."

"Yes, sir." She doesn't salute — she's not in his command chain — but she gets back on the bike and nods to Dalton. "Lead on."