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—