Lyra Vale leaned low over the humming grav-bike as she zipped through Mirage City's midnight streets. Neon signs bathed the wet asphalt in pinks and blues, the colors bleeding into puddles that splashed beneath her wheels. Above her, skyscrapers rose like jagged teeth into the smog-choked sky, their countless holo-billboards flickering with seductive advertisements. At street level, it was a different world—grime-covered alley mouths, steam belching from vents, and the occasional glint of a surveillant drone high above. Lyra weaved through stalled traffic and narrow side lanes with practiced ease, just another shadow in the city's restless neon glow.
Rain began to drizzle, a warm chemical rain common in this part of Mirage City's sprawl. Focus, Lyra, focus. Her own mantra echoed in her head as she tightened her grip on the throttle. Strapped to her back was a slim carbon-fiber courier pack. Inside it, an unremarkable gray parcel no larger than a book—but what it contained, she neither knew nor cared. She had long since learned not to ask questions; in her line of work, curiosity could get you killed. The only thing that mattered was the delivery and the creds that came with it.
Tonight's job should have been routine: pick up at a noodle shop in Little Shanghai, drop off at a designated locker in the Diamond Bazaar. No face-to-face contact, just how she liked it. But as she had left the pick-up, a pair of street toughs tried to corner her. Likely gangers looking to snatch whatever she was carrying. It happened sometimes when word got out about a courier holding something worthwhile. They almost boxed her in near a defunct tram station—almost.
Lyra smirked at the memory of one thug's startled face as she suddenly throttled and took a hard turn through an alley barely wider than her bike. The second ganger had misjudged the slickness of the street and skidded into a pile of trash and scrap metal. She'd left them cursing in the rain behind her. But the delay meant she was running late for the drop-off.
Her comm implant—an old, legally-installed model just behind her ear—buzzed. She tapped two fingers to the small protruding node. "Yeah?"
"Vale, you still breathing out there?" crackled a familiar voice. It was Maro, the dispatcher who often arranged her contracts. Through the static, she could hear him chewing on something, probably the candied ginger he liked. "Client says the delivery window's closing in five. You gonna make it?"
Lyra grimaced and leaned forward to duck under a low-hanging digital banner projecting from a building. "Had a bit of unexpected company. I'm almost there." She swerved around a slow-moving auto-cab, its AI driver blaring an annoyed horn at her unauthorized lane splitting. "Tell the client to keep their pants on. I've never missed a—"
Before she could finish, a security drone's spotlight flared to life ahead of her, cutting a white cone through the night. Lyra's heart jolted. She instinctively killed her bike's front light and veered into a side street. The drones usually ignored lone bikers, but if those gangers had stirred up trouble, the corporate patrols might be sweeping the area.
"Lyra? Dammit, did I lose you?" Maro's voice fuzzed in her ear.
She didn't answer immediately, concentrating as she navigated a tight bend. The drone's searchlight passed overhead, then moved on. She exhaled slowly. "Still here," she whispered.
"What's going on?" Maro pressed. "You in trouble?"
"Nothing I can't handle," she replied, rejoining the main route once the drone drifted away. Best not to worry him—Maro was jumpy these days with corp security tightening everywhere. "I see the Bazaar now. Will confirm once dropped."
"Roger that. Be careful, kid." The call disconnected with a crackle.
The Diamond Bazaar loomed ahead—a massive open market dome, its geodesic structure glittering with triangular panels that reflected city lights. Even at midnight it was alive with people: vendors pushing late-night tech, neon signs for noodle stands and VR parlors, hustlers and tourists intermingling under the structure's artificial sky projection. Lyra guided her bike into a quieter side entrance where couriers often came and went. She rolled to a stop by a shadowy column out of the main thoroughfare.
Killing the bike's engine, she listened for a moment to its whine die down, blending into the ambient thrum of the Bazaar. No sign of the gangers. No sign of security. Good. She tugged her hood further over her head to hide her face from the casual glance of any nearby cams. Though here in the Bazaar's underbelly, official surveillance was thinner—privacy sold well in markets like these.
Lyra dismounted, taking the gray parcel from her pack. It was sealed and featureless, save for a single symbol stamped in one corner: a stylized prism with a serpent coiled through it—Prysm-Sek's corporate logo. She frowned. Courier packages often lacked any marking, and it was unusual for one to sport a megacorp insignia so openly. Was it a ruse, or did this item legitimately belong to Prysm-Sek? If it did, why wasn't a corporate drone delivering it? Why hire an under-the-radar courier like her?
A prickle of unease ran up her neck. She had ferried contraband for corp defectors and smugglers before, but delivering something for a corp was new territory. Not your business, Lyra, she reminded herself. Just drop it off and get paid. Still, she made a note to ask Maro what he knew about this contract later.
Slipping through the throng of late-night shoppers and dealers, she found locker 1138 tucked between a vending machine dispensing stim-gum and a stall selling knock-off cyberlimbs. The locker's metal door was scuffed and graffiti-tagged—no outward clue of what waited inside. She retrieved a small keycard from her jacket—provided in the pick-up—and pressed it to the locker's sensor. With a click, the door popped open.
Inside was an empty compartment, just large enough for her parcel. Lyra placed it in gingerly. She took a half-step back and tapped a sequence on her comm implant to signal delivery confirmation. The link bleeped and sent a secure handshake to the client's network. Almost immediately, her HUD—displayed faintly on her augmented contact lenses—showed a payment confirmation. Funds transferred: six hundred credits.
She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Easy money, she thought. Six hundred wasn't bad for a few hours' work, enough to cover next month's rent on her shoebox apartment and maintenance on her grav-bike with a little left over. Maybe she'd even spring for real food tomorrow instead of nutri-paste.
Lyra shut the locker and melted back into the crowd. Job done. Now she could head home and—
Her comm implant pinged again, a priority call this time. The sudden noise made her flinch; priority meant something urgent, often dangerous, and usually lucrative. She moved away from the bustle of the main walkway, ducking behind a pillar where the din of haggling voices and street musicians dulled to a muffled hum. "Answer," she whispered.
A woman's low voice, edged with static, came through. Not Maro—this voice was unfamiliar, smooth but with an undercurrent of tension. "Is this Nyx?"
Lyra's brow furrowed at the use of her street handle. Very few outside her circle knew her as Nyx. "Who's asking?"
"No names. I have a rush job, high pay. You come highly recommended, Nyx." The woman spoke quickly, each word clipped. "Pickup and delivery, right now, details to follow upon agreement. Seven thousand credits on completion."
Lyra nearly choked. Seven thousand? That was more than she made in some entire months of steady runs. Her first instinct was wariness—nobody paid that much for a simple delivery unless the risks were proportionally high. Still, seven thousand would solve a lot of her problems.
"What's the catch?" Lyra said, voice low as she kept an eye on passersby. Anyone could be listening in this city; paranoia kept you alive.
"Discretion required. There's... sensitive cargo involved." The woman paused, as if weighing how much to reveal. "And possibly some people trying very hard to make sure it doesn't reach its destination. But from what I hear, you can handle yourself."
Lyra clenched her jaw. It sounded exactly like the kind of trouble that got couriers killed. She should walk away. She'd completed her job and had enough to get by for a while. Was she really about to risk her neck for even a mountain of creds?
Yet something in the woman's voice—maybe a tremble beneath the calm—stirred Lyra's curiosity despite herself. That, and the mention that she came recommended. Recommended by who? She didn't like unknown variables, but the offer was too tempting to ignore outright.
"I want to talk to my dispatcher first," Lyra said, stalling to think it through. "Standard protocol."
"No time," the voice cut in sharply. "This opportunity is closing in minutes. I need your decision, now. Seven thousand, Nyx. Coordinates for pickup will be sent on acceptance. Are you in or out?"
Lyra looked out from behind the pillar at the sea of neon-drenched faces in the Bazaar. Just another night for them. For her, this could be a turning point—for better or for much worse.
Her heart thumped, a decision crystallizing. She thought of her threadbare savings, of the persistent ache in her left leg (still paying off that synthetic muscle surgery from a crash last year), of the tiny framed photo of her and Noel that sat by her bedside—her brother giving the camera a cocky grin, her own face younger and unscarred by cynicism. "Someday we'll get out of this city," she had once promised him. Except Noel was gone now, and she was still here, running in circles. Seven thousand credits could be a ticket out, a chance to start fresh—if she dared.
"Send the coordinates," Lyra said, before she could second-guess herself. "I'm in."
The line went dead without another word. A second later, her HUD blinked as new coordinates loaded onto her map—a location on the outskirts of the industrial sector, near the docks by the looks of it. The destination, however, remained locked behind a security cipher. This was a blind run: she wouldn't know where she was delivering until after pickup. More red flags, but it was a little late to back out now.
Lyra swung onto her grav-bike and revved the engine. The thought crossed her mind to call Maro and loop him in despite the woman's warning. But the coordinates suggested this wasn't exactly above-board—if Maro thought it was too dangerous, he might try to call it off, or worse, send someone else. She couldn't afford that. Not after she'd agreed.
Pulling her helmet over her head, Lyra sped out of the Diamond Bazaar and back into the night. The bike's engine whirred softly as she navigated through the maze of streets towards the city's edge. The rhythmic patter of rain on her visor did little to calm her racing thoughts. She focused on the road ahead, neon afterimages streaking past in her peripheral vision.
Whatever awaited her at the pickup, she would deal with it. Fast jobs, dangerous jobs—they came with the territory. But even as she pushed the bike to higher speeds, a whisper of intuition nagged at her, a feeling that tonight, the city's shadows hid more than usual. Something big was brewing out here in the dark, and she was hurtling straight into it.
She just hoped seven thousand creds would be worth whatever hell she was riding into.