Carson watched her go and touched his own lips, still warm from her breath. He took a deep, steadying breath, then turned to cut across the woods to the road once more. This time he turned away from the town and hustled down the path, walking for the better part of ten minutes before he came to where he'd hidden his transportation. It was an old thing, but still working and in prime condition. From what he knew and understood the thing had been built initially during a war hundreds of year prior, when petroleum had still been the primary source of fuel, and only later it had been modified to accept and utilize alternative sources. The people of the past had called it a motorcycle.<br/><br/>He liked to call it a Growler.<br/><br/>Ten minutes later found him approaching the gate on the sturdy machine, and he rolled to a slow halt next to her. He wore a pair of goggles and a scarf over his mouth, and offered both to her. "It's loud," he yelled over the sound of the engine, "but it'll get us from here to Central in less than an hour. Maybe even half, if I really push it." He glanced at the guards, who'd rushed to assume defensive positions, and waved, then tugged up the goggles so they could ID him properly. Once he was sure they wouldn't try to shoot him or hurl any spears his way he tugged both scarf and goggles into place and put his attention back on Malia.<br/><br/>"Hold my middle, and if you feel me lean, just lean with me. If you start to panic let me know."