Can't Tame Me

"Lyra, hurry up; the customer is waiting!" I snatched the package from the hands of this cretin of a secretary in order to run to get on my bike. I work as a courier in New York, and this idiot just made me lose precious minutes because he did his packing wrong. Time is money, and I don't have enough to waste. I have already done more than 1,000 kilometers today, yet I would like to be able to do at least two or three more races in order to increase my salary for the day. To achieve my goals, I race through traffic, weaving between cars, sometimes hooking up with a bus or taxi to pick up some speed. My next client is in the middle of Manhattan. I have to go to the Verona building, in one of the Big Apple's business districts. It's a place I've never set foot in, despite my job, because it's quite a vampire neighborhood, and they tend to call on their minions for the kind of service I render. However, it is not a problem for me to go there because the money has no smell, no race, and no country, and no matter where it comes from, I take it without shame. Following my GPS with one eye, I look at the buildings around me, vaguely wondering what to expect. As far as I know, I've never met non-humans, and unlike the rest of the people I meet, I've never been interested in them. Luckily, vampires are by far the most at risk, so despite living in a district exclusively inhabited by my race, I have some notions about them. First of all, knowing that there was a time when they hunted my kind for food, I'm glad to be protected by the primary agreement. It is a non-aggression pact that prohibits the unauthorized hunting and consumption of other individuals. Even though I have never trusted justice or the law to defend me, the bonus my company offers me for coming so far from my usual neighborhood helps me put caution aside. If things go wrong, I'll let you know. Anyway, this isn't the first time I've had to take care of my own safety. Leaning my bike against the wall, I tell myself that, after all, all humanoid bipeds look alike, so I don't have to fear them any more than the others. Looking up at the building with its impeccable windows and vertiginous lines, I also think that most of the people inside must be careful about their brand image. Eating the delivery man would probably be a bad thing. Pushing my cap on my head, I wedge my package properly under my arm before going through the automatic doors and trotting to the reception, chasing all the doubts from my brain. The woman at the entrance watches me arrive with a stern look, wincing at my torn jeans at the knees and my Carapuce t-shirt. I'm well aware