The industrial docks of Mirage City were a labyrinth of silent cranes and hulking warehouses, all draped in the thin mist rolling off the black waters of the bay. Lyra cut the engine of her bike and coasted the last hundred meters, ears straining for any sign of life. The coordinates had led her to Warehouse 17—a squat concrete building sitting isolated at the end of Pier 12. A single flickering strip light above a loading bay door was the only indication the place wasn't entirely abandoned.
She dismounted, boots crunching on damp gravel. The air smelled of salt and oil and something chemical. In the distance, automated loading machines clanged and groaned as they moved shipping containers, but here near Warehouse 17 it was eerily still.
Lyra approached the side door indicated by the coordinates on her HUD. It looked recently pried open—its electronic lock panel dangled by a wire, sparking fitfully. Whoever had called her here had made a quick entry. She slipped inside.
The interior was dimly lit by a few emergency lights casting long shadows between towering racks of storage crates. Water dripped from the ceiling into puddles on the concrete floor. Lyra kept her steps light and her profile low, scanning for movement. "Hello?" she called softly, her voice echoing. "I'm here for the pickup."
For a moment, only the drip of water answered. Lyra's pulse quickened. Was this a setup? A trap? Her hand went to her hip, where a folding knife was clipped. Not much against a gun, but better than nothing.
A silhouette emerged from behind a stack of crates, making Lyra tense. It was a man, moving with a limping gait. As he stepped into the hazy light, she saw he was in his fifties, with disheveled gray hair and a face gaunt with stress. He wore a damp lab coat over a rumpled shirt. One of his hands was pressed to his side, and dark stain spread between his fingers. He'd been wounded.
"You're Nyx?" he rasped, eyeing her warily.
Lyra gave a curt nod, not taking her eyes off the blood on his side. "I was called for a rush delivery. Seven thousand creds. I take it that's you?"
"Yes… yes." He seemed relieved to see her, but it was clouded by urgency and fear. "Thank God. I thought maybe they'd gotten to you too."
"Who? You need help, you're bleeding," Lyra said, taking a step forward. He backed away quickly, shaking his head.
"No time. Listen." He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a small metal briefcase, about the size of a tablet. Even in the dimness, Lyra could make out that same emblem again—Prysm-Sek's prism-and-serpent—etched into its surface. Her stomach tightened. What the hell is this?
"This is the cargo," the man said, voice trembling now. He coughed, and Lyra noticed how pale he looked, sweat beading on his forehead. "It's… extremely important. They can't have it. You must get it to the drop point." He held the case out towards her.
Lyra reached for it cautiously. "What exactly am I carrying?" she asked. She could feel the case's cool metal and surprising weight. Something inside it whirred faintly, a soft hum.
The man's eyes darted toward the warehouse entrance nervously. "I-I can't explain. There's no time. Just know it's life or death. Keep it on you at all times until you deliver it. Don't open it."
Life or death. Great. Lyra bit back a dozen questions. "Fine. Where am I delivering? My coordinates were locked."
Before he could answer, a distant thud reverberated through the warehouse, like a door being forced open. The man's eyes widened in panic. "Oh no… They're here."
"Who's here?" Lyra hissed, though she suspected the answer. The "people trying very hard" to stop this delivery had arrived.
As if in reply, a clipped voice echoed from the darkness: "Prysm-Sek security forces! Step out and surrender, you are in possession of stolen corporate property. This is your only warning."
Lyra's heart sank. Black-ops, for sure—likely a kill squad from the sound of it, not regular police. She'd heard about Prysm-Sek's tac-teams: privately trained, augmented, and ruthless. She cast a glance at the case in her hands. What on earth had she gotten herself into?
The man in the lab coat backed away, looking around frantically. He suddenly grabbed Lyra by the shoulder, startling her. His eyes bored into hers with a desperate intensity. "Listen to me. If they catch you, they'll kill you. You have to run. You have to protect it," he whispered harshly.
Lyra nodded, adrenaline surging. She shoved the metal case into her courier pack, shrugging it securely onto her back. "Come with me. I can get you out," she urged.
But he shook his head violently. "I won't make it. I'm dead already." He pulled his hand from his wounded side—blood streamed anew. He'd been shot badly. Lyra realized he must have been on the run, hit before he even called her. Still, he tried to push her toward a back exit. "Go, now!"
A blinding flash and an ear-splitting crack cut him off. A bullet slammed into a crate to Lyra's right, spraying splinters. They both ducked instinctively. From the front of the warehouse, she saw three dark figures fan out, tactical lasers slicing the shadows. They had entered quietly and got close while they were talking. Too close.
Lyra's mind raced. There was at least fifty meters of open floor between them and those soldiers. She had her knife, and the element of surprise was gone. Running was the only option. But as she tensed to bolt, the scientist gripped her arm one more time.
"If they catch you... Project Mantis... everything's lost," he rasped. His other hand plunged into his coat pocket and came out holding something small—a metallic cylinder with blinking indicator lights. Before Lyra could react, he jammed it against the back of her neck.
Pain. Sudden and immense, like white-hot wires threading into her spine. Lyra screamed, arching away, but the man held her firmly with surprising strength. She felt a pressure, a sickening crunch just above her shoulder blades as the device latched onto her vertebrae. A flood of sensation surged down her limbs, electric and alien.
She tore free from the man's grip, stumbling forward, hands clawing at her nape in panic. "What did you do?!" she gasped, vision blurring with tears of pain. Her fingertips brushed a slick metal protrusion now embedded at the base of her neck. She could feel it fused there, an unnatural weight along her spine.
The scientist's face was etched with remorse and resolve. "No choice," he wheezed. "It's the only way to keep it from them. You have to run, now. Use the old drainage tunnel behind the warehouse... leads out to the dock. Go!"
Lyra's head swam, but training and instinct drove her into motion even as her mind reeled. Footsteps pounded closer; the black-ops team was advancing tactically, weapons ready. Gritting her teeth against the agony radiating from the foreign object in her spine, Lyra bolted toward the rear of the warehouse where the man had gestured.
Another gunshot rang out, and a crate just left of Lyra exploded in a hail of splinters. She zigzagged, making herself a harder target. In the corner of her eye, she saw the scientist slump against a crate, the fight draining out of him. One of the soldiers broke formation to charge at him, a combat knife gleaming. Lyra had seconds at most.
She spotted the drainage tunnel—a rusted grate about a meter wide in the back wall, hanging half-open. With a burst of effort, she dove into it, scraping her knees and palms on the corroded metal but squeezing through. The tight tunnel echoed with her ragged breaths as she crawled and slid over slick algae-coated concrete. Behind her, shouting voices—"Target is in the tunnel!"—and then gunfire. Bullets pinged off the drainage pipe with sharp clangs, one ricocheting past her ear. Too close.
Lyra forced herself onward. The tunnel was a maintenance conduit that sloped downward, water trickling under her. Each movement sent lances of pain from the foreign object in her spine. She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. Keep moving. Just keep moving. If she got out of the pipe, she could lose them in the dockyards.
A dim circle of moonlight became visible ahead—the tunnel's exit. She half-slid, half-tumbled out onto a slimy concrete ledge overlooking the bay. The cold sea air hit her face. Outside. But she wasn't safe yet.
With no time to think, she dropped from the ledge into the water below. The frigid harbor water shocked her system, stealing her breath. She went under, disoriented for a moment in the dark brine before her survival instincts kicked in. Kicking hard, Lyra surfaced quietly amidst debris and the shadow of the pier.
She clung to a barnacle-crusted pylon, catching her breath, trying to make herself invisible in the murk. A few seconds later, a pair of dark figures emerged from the drainage tunnel above her. One shone a tactical light around the ledge. Its beam sliced just above Lyra's head across the water. She pressed against the pylon, making herself as small as possible.
"Lost visual," one of the operatives said, voice distorted by a helmet modulator. "She might be in the water."
Another answered with a curse. "Thermals can't pick up through all this interference." Likely referring to the warm waste water mixing from the city outlets, confusing their heat sensors.