Two wheels trump two feet. #2

The confrontation with her mother still nagging her mind, Cara nearly walked past the estate's garage. Modeled after a late 1800's carriage house, the ivy covered structure was far larger then it appeared. Entering her personal code into the data lock beside a small door sitting between two larger, swing doors, she stepped inside.

Already well lit, the garage went back into the side of the hill several hundred feet. Rows of vehicles, ranging from the common to the exotic, gleamed under long florescent lights. The vehicles. The floors. Everything within in sight was clean and organized, befitting the most expensive of display rooms.

Passing by a limo, two Bagatti sports cars, and a Tesla hover-sport, Cara made a beeline to the row of motorbikes. Between her brothers and sisters and her father's passions, there were over a score to pick from. But she had one specific bike in mind.

The Yamaha Rapier 2099.

Blood red and trimmed in black, the bike held a semi-permanent polish that made it sparkle in the bright lights. There were some 'other', less noticeable modifications that had been tailored to her specifications. The only thing that stood out, at least to her, was the leering Raven painting decorating the low windscreen.

Cara's personal take on the family crest.

Stepping around the bike, she reached for a locker set into the wall and hesitated, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"Hello, Torque," she said without looking back.