For a few seconds, ten, maybe more, her dark-adjusted eyes are too busy 
screaming in protest for her to do more than squeeze one forearm across the 
bridge of her nose trying to block out the light. The chopper stops directly in 
front of her, rumbling smoothly. Neona guesses she shouldn’t be surprised to
have gotten hit by the beam. A girl with spiky mohawk hair, wearing a black 
vinyl jacket, sitting here all alone in the middle of nowhere at sometime around 
midnight—she’d be suspicious, too. Hell, she wouldn’t even have slowed down had
she been riding the bike.