Going out for rides on the seemingly endless desert roads of Arizona was far from out of the ordinary for Quill. His Harley-Davidson roared with every revv of the engine, the steel beast rumbling under him as he tore up the asphalt beneath his tires. He let his eyes scan his surroundings, taking in the endless ocean of sand dry vegetation and the sun high in the sky. All nice and normal.

Except for that person out there.

Wait what?

Quill does a double take and lets his bike skid to a stop. He watches for a few moments, confirming that it is, in fact, a person walking through the desert and towards the road, maybe only a few yards away. Then suddenly the figure collapses—no doubt from the heat and god knows what else—and Quill is quickly climbing off his bike and running into the brush to help them.

“Hey! Hey, you alright?” He asks when he reaches them, kneeling down at their side. The person blinks up at him blearily, wincing at the sun in their eyes. Their clothes is dirty and nearly soaked through with sweat, and their skin is all red and no-doubt burnt from a lack of protection from the sun.

Quill feels his heart drop into his stomach when the person struggles to reply, and he doesn't think twice before he's reaching out and hauling them up onto their feet. “It's alright, I got’cha. I'm gonna get you somewhere safe, just hang on.” He assures them, already walking them back towards his bike.

He slides his helmet onto their head, not caring that he'll be without his own protection. He places them in front of him on his bike. It's not the standard position for passengers, but he doubts they'll be able to hold onto him from behind without flying off the back of the bike.

“Just hang on.” He tells them again, his heart feeling like it's going to jump out of his throat as he turns tail and speeds off back towards the clubhouse.