A matte-black standard-class motorcycle of indeterminate manufacture, the kind of bike that gets built in a back-shop garage from parts that came off seven different production frames. No corponation branding anywhere on it. No registration plate visible from the road; the plate is there, magnetized to the underside of the rear cowl, and Kyle moves it around depending on which Tier the contract is in. The bike is fast enough, light enough, and forgettable enough — the three qualities Kyle wants in transportation he might have to leave somewhere and walk away from.

Kyle parks it at ground level. He could pay for vertical garage space (most West Town buildings have at least token bike-rack hooks at the second-story setback), but ground level is where everyone else parks, and Kyle is not in the business of advertising that he has more options than the people whose work he competes for. The bike sits outside The Pivot most nights, against the alley wall, under whatever overhang catches the worst of the rain. Sometimes it sits at Mrs. Chen's noodle stall. Sometimes at the trailhead of the Gray Zone eastern strut, two blocks south of the loading dock that will not have a happy night.

The bike is unobtrusive in a city where the rich travel by VTOL and the corponations travel by armored convoy. It is part of how Kyle keeps the surface of his life looking like he belongs to the same Tier his contracts are written from.