<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/1T1AhxZ.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Akiyama Amaya<br/><strong>Location:</strong>School parking lot<br/><strong>With:</strong>Benjamin Stewart<br/><strong>Time:</strong>Second day, after classes<br/><hr/><br/>Classes had ended, sun was still high on the sky. Groups had already started to form, though, as expected, there were still signs of segregation if you looked deeply enough. As expected to be fair, however, it was not nearly as bad as Amaya had first expected it to be. She assumed the grown-ups were a bit more aggressive on the segregation, whilst the younger generation didn't mind so much. All the better most likely.<br/><br/>However, Amaya had yet to find her closed group. She had her doubts she'd find one either, she enjoyed where she was at. She didn't feel like anyone disliked her, and that was really the most important part of it all, friends could be made later, not to mention she could cherry-pick, she'd never been much one for groups anyways.<br/><br/>Granted, the primary reason she had yet to group up with anyone as of yet, was because of what she was overlooking. Placed on a bench with grand view of the parking lot, she sat with one leg crossed over the other, creating an unstable laptop-table, ideal for the occasional chittering on the keyboard between the countless finger-gestures to flip through pages and scrolling through them. Whilst she'd ended the last night on a sour tone, Amaya did not let it phase her very deeply, she quickly got back on her feet, as per usual. She'd always been that way, and she predicted she'd maintain her way of life for a good while. There was nothing good with staying down anyways, it wasn't like it led to anything good. Perhaps for those who romanticized pity, but she wasn't one of them, at least not for herself.<br/><br/>No, between the views on the modestly lit screen in her lap, her eyes darted up to a metallic beauty mixed between disgusting low-performance Japanese moving boxes, better known as the ever familiar Japanese family car. Looked hideous, went from zero to a 100 in a couple hours, and sounded like a coffee kettle. However, between those, she'd noticed it yesterday, was something far more interesting. Chrome shine was what had first attracted her attention to the motorcycle pitted between the hideous examples of automotive engineering taking leaps in reverse.<br/><br/>She'd first noticed it the day before, though after sticking around for a small while, the owner hadn't shown up, so she'd decided to show up the day after, hence why she was currently waiting. Whilst she had no plans of sticking around for the rest of the day - for all she knew, it could belong to someone in the dorms - she was wiling to sit around for as long as it took for her to get throughly bored, too bored to find out who the bike belonged to.<br/><br/>Not that she was forced to wait for long however. A small half hour after she'd sat out, a figure approached the bike. It was eye-drawing enough to make her shut the laptop and stuff it into the bag laying beside her before throwing it up on her shoulder so she could catch the cyclist before he made his escape. Whilst she had hoped it would be a tall attractive lady, she'd take it, beggars couldn't be choosers, or however the saying went.<br/><br/>Her attire swung around slightly with each step. She was certain her sneakers were pulling on the back lining of her loose jeans, though it didn't bother her much. A blue and red flannel was swinging around her waist, meeting a white T-shirt hanging perhaps a tiny bit too low over her well-sized breast, over which again a simple black jacket, left open with the sleeves slightly pulled up, swung around, only tied down by the brown leather bag she kept her laptop in.<br/><br/><strong>"Hey, you there!"</strong>Amaya called out, jogging across the parking lot. Despite being some range to cover, she didn't seem moderately phased by it. She stood fairly tall for her nationality, only shorter than the western figure in front of her by a few inches. Her eyes shone with confidence, as did the modest smile on her lips.<br/><br/><strong>"Your bike?"</strong>She asked, without showing the consideration to wait for an answer as she slowly circled around it, studying it. She was quite certain it had to be his, after all, American made bikes were hard to come by in Japan, and he looked like the kind of person who liked engines and all that came with it.<strong>"It's nice, I quite like it, not Japanese but I can forgive that. You're a foreigner, no? America I presume?"</strong>Perhaps a bit preemptive, though she figured the same nationalism that went into brand pickings likely applied to wherever the foreigner was from, which would make America the first guess.<br/><br/><strong>"Oh, I guess I should introduce myself, just call me Amaya, I don't care much for honorifics and all that stuff. It's a nice bike, I hope you don't mind me barging in on you, it's just fun to see something a bit different from mopeds and minivans"</strong>