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.