"Gray's implants are more sophisticated than anything I've seen," Zef says.

Rylan cuts him short. "I'm aware. We've been dealing with him for some time."

"I bring it up because capturing him will be, like, Saturday morning cartoon levels of ridiculous. More so. Even if I dropped a shark cage over him, his implants make him strong enough to break steel. He could hack the crane and let himself out the same way he got trapped." Zef's stalling. Hammering home how difficult the job will be in hopes he can leverage the little information he gives her to his own ends.

"Are you implying you can't do it?"

"I'm saying I'll need resources." Delivered quick, sharp, final. Like Zef has a truckload more confidence than he feels.

He must imagine that she looks the tiniest bit impressed. Not like her implants don't let anything as soft as feelings get through. "What sorts of resources?"

"The usual kind. Creds."

"For?"

A quick getaway if all this goes tits up, for a start. But he doesn't want her to know that part. He'll have to give her a piece of the picture. But just a slice. "Net blockers, for example. A lot of Gray's implants require net connectivity to interface with others. Many don't, but I'm working out the loopholes on those, too." Not about to let her know he already has a location scouted where net access is pretty bupkis anyway.

"Anything more?"

He chews his lip. "That's all I've got for now."

Her gaze gets very stabby. "That's all?"

"Any of your previous hires get this far?"

Reluctantly. "No. Most were inclined towards use of force."

"Then I got further in a weekend than the amateurs. Give me some credit. Like, actual, monetary credit."

She reaches into the pocket of her pantsuit and retrieves a copper plated credit chip the size of a business card. Her implant glows as she transfers the money.

Interesting.

Since they're both within the Faraday cage, she could have sent it electronically but opted not to. Using the credit chip keeps the transfer of funds anonymous. She doesn't want any of their interaction here traceable.

She slides him the chip, and he pockets it rather than transfer it to his bank. Might be best he doesn't have suspicious transactions either.

"Will you be needing anything further?" she says.

"Patience."

Not quite a frown, but her mouth wrinkles at the corners, two quotation marks appearing in the plastic-y skin. "I'm not known for it. The more efficient you can be, the better."

Zef says, "I'll keep that in mind," but what he really keeps? Really holds onto, white-knuckled as a toddler receiving his first hit of sucrose from a super-sized, chocolate milkshake?

He won that half of the conversation.

They leave the confines of the Faraday cage. Back into the world of surround-sound.

"One last thing," she says as they head to the elevator. "Your gender-affirming care. I wanted to say congratulations on your surgery this afternoon."

He shifts uncomfortably. She remembered. With that empathy dampener and her generally uncaring demeanour, he isn't sure what to make of it. Empty sentiment? Why pretend to care? "Thanks."

A curt nod. "I can arrange a taxi to transport you to the hospital."

"That would be...great."

Outside, on the curb, a taxi already waits. Not an armoured tank like the thing they arrived in. Her bodyguard stands next to that one. Rylan stops on the curb and turns back to Zef. "I'm attending a conference in Tokyo next week. I will check in again when I return. I hope by then you'll have made progress."

Just popping off to Tokyo for a bit. No big deal.

Zef nods. He gets into his taxi. The driver says, "Saint Midas Hospital?"

"That's the one."

The wheels are in motion. Both the taxi's and Zef's transition wheels. This morning, the notion of waking up tit-less and free filled him with buoyant excitement. He still feels that, but glazed over with trepidation. Nerves that have nothing to do with uncertainty over his choice or the pain of recovery—he knows he wants this, and the procedure he chose is known for smooth, quick healing times.

It's the way Rylan talked about it.

For the journey, he tries to put his finger on the pulse of this peculiarity. It makes some sense Rylan may be motivated to get him installed with the latest and greatest of Bionic Capital's transition tech. The more people avail themselves of Bionic Capital's body mods over the competition's, the better. Zef has no illusions about the realities—his father's legs need repairs and his new chest might, too. But overall, what he's getting is a superficial change requiring little in the mechanics department to keep him upright and functional. He shouldn't have to worry about repair fees or hidden faults to the degree his dad does with his legs.

It's like a popcorn kernel wedged in his teeth. Is Rylan's investment simply an attempt to feign concern for her employee's welfare, or just her usual interest in spreading the supremacy of her company's designs?

Or is it more than that?

The hospital, when they arrive, looks like a hotel. Zef registers at reception and sits in a squashy lounge chair. Two or three other patients wait, too. A wiry, young girl makes eye contact. She sits on the very edge of her chair, knees knocked together, and smiles at Zef with a mirror image of his own excitement and nerves.

As they wait, another patient exits the lift. They walk with the bouncy gait of someone who's just had their height adjusted. Between them all, there's a shared glance. A nod and smile. The sort of acknowledgment that only comes from total strangers sharing a private kinship.

They're all here for the same reason.

Zef wipes away his misgivings over Rylan's interest. He waited so long for this. He needs it. Feels sick at the thought of a life without it. What would his world look like if he chickened out now? A cramped sense of identity. Repeated distress over simple mundanities like clothes shopping. Could kiss his love life goodbye.

If there are hidden drawbacks, he'll deal with them.

A few minutes later, a rosy-cheeked nurse in pink scrubs calls his name and takes him to a cheerfully decorated office where he shakes hands with an officious looking surgeon. Risks and results are detailed. Waivers are signed. Lines are drawn in marker on his chest to indicate where incisions will go. His Bionic Capital insurance documents are pulled. Before he knows it, he's stripping out of his clothes, putting on a hospital gown, and laying down on a cold table while the nurses comfort him. The anaesthesiologist puts a mask on his face and says, "This will be a huge weight off your chest, won't it?" with a wink. She asks Zef to count down from ten.

Zef gets to nine when a deluge of texts from Gray come through on his HUD.

>>Okay, shit, I don't want to talk about this stuff on the wire so here goes.

>>I did do the thing.

>>The thing you saw me do on the subway.

>>But I had to, and I've got my reasons.

>>I'll be at Prancer's Palace this evening. Please come. I'll explain.

>>I hope you're okay.

He has enough time to read them. Not enough to reply. His eyes slip shut.

He won't make it to meet Gray in time.

~***~

The first time Zef wakes up, he doesn't really. The anaesthesia wears off enough for consciousness, but the cocktail of painkillers and healing enhancers turns that consciousness into a funhouse full of mirrors. A nurse reassures him that 'everything went smoothly.' He has a vague thought. What went smoothly? Then he falls asleep again.

The second time comes with some lucidity. His HUD blinks with a missed notification. A text from his dad that reads:

>>Let me know when you're awake and I can come see you. Hope you're healing well.

>>So proud of you.

Zef remembers where he is all at once. His mouth tastes like cotton. Starchy sheets mummify him into the hospital bed. His chest aches. Zef looks down and that ache could not hurt anymore sweetly.

There's no bump in the sheets. He lifts them to find his chest wound tight with bandages. His miraculously, blissfully, tear-jerkingly flat chest.

He sends a response riddled with typos to his dad.

>>im sp hppay

>>whr r u

>>pls im cry

Matthias:

>>Glad to hear the painkillers are doing their job.

>>I'll be there asap.

Zef stares so long at his bandaged chest, he gets a crick in his neck. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow. It could be the drugs or it could just be how long he waited for this, but he weeps. Finally. Finally, I can start the rest of my life.

A nurse comes in to remove his catheter—a very unfun experience, but she says he won't need it anymore. She feeds him. Updates him on progress. "You've taken to the healing enhancers like a duck to water. We can remove your bandages shortly. We just want to make sure your food settles. Some people experience nausea from the morphine. You'll probably need a nap."

"I feel fine," Zef says, eager to see what lies beneath the bandages. The nurse is correct, though. After finishing his meal, sleep doesn't come to him gently so much as it beats him over the head with a shovel.

It is only on his third waking that he remembers the texts from Gray.

Shit. Fuck.

He opens their text log. There are no follow ups, but a quick overview of the previous ones make Zef feel a pang of guilt. No. Pang is too soft a word. 'Stab' not nearly gutting enough. Their text log is just a long string of messages from Gray begging Zef to let him explain, telling him where they can meet, and then nothing.

It conjures an image of Gray sat alone, fingers tapping, knee jiggling, waiting for someone who'll never come.

What irony. Gray killed a guy in cold blood, but the idea of him getting stood up tugs on the strings of Zef's big, dumb heart. Now Zef's the one desperate to apologise and beg for a second chance.

The nurse comes through the door, interrupting his thoughts. "Zef? Your father's here to see you. Should I let him in?"

"Yeah, please."

Matthias comes in moments later. Usually pretty grizzled, he shaved and combed his hair for the occasion. Aside from a slight limp, he walks fine. The repairs to his legs worked. He opens his arms to hug Zef, then hesitates.

"Maybe should hold off on that 'till you're healed up. How are you feeling?"

Zef pats his chest. "Honestly? Fine. Not sure if that's the drugs, or—"

"It will be," says the nurse. "But now would be a good time to check how you're healing and see your results. If you'd like, we can go into a private room."

Zef prefers having someone close to experience it with him. The nurse takes him to the mirror and starts unwinding the bandage. One layer at a time, Zef's new chest is revealed.

A knot of painful joy clogs Zef's throat. There it is. His chest wasn't so much reconstructed as removed and replaced with cybernetics. He touches the flat plane, the divot at the centre, the new skin synthesised from his own cells is soft and smooth, never having seen sun nor scar. The edges of the implant form a line of filigree gold under his peck line, nearly meeting at the centre in curling lines. He opted for a simple aesthetic, the effect minimalistic. He could have opted for something skin-toned, but he figured these sort of embellishments were the benefit of having to undergo surgery anyway. Plenty of rich people opted for medically unnecessary surgery for aesthetics. If he had to go under the knife, might as well get some pretty add-ons.

"Well, I'll be damned," Matthias says. "How does it feel?"

Zef can't find words. He feels...really pretty? Maybe not the word every trans man would want applied, but as he runs his finger along the filigree beneath his collarbone, that painful knot of joy in his throat gives a squeeze.

"I feel more like me," he says.

Matthias's eyes sparkle a bit too much when he smiles. He is the first person Zef would want to share this moment with. He doesn't understand the way Zef feels about his gender, but he's happy that Zef's happy.

There is one other person Zef pictures beside him, though. Someone who would understand on a personal level how much this means to him.

Where the new implant meets his old skin, purple bruises bloom. The nurse touches this gently to ask Zef how it feels. Only a little sore. She takes a scanning tool and applies it to different areas all over his chest to see how well the synthetic skin adhered to his body is healing. The same tech that could synthesise new skin from Zef's cells could be used to speed the healing process, but not everyone takes well to it. The nurse reports everything's going well. She instructs him on how to change the bandages, how many times to eat, what sorts of activities to avoid, and how often to take his meds.

Before he knows it, he's discharged.

The night air is warm, a soothing bath compared to the baking heat of daytime. Matthias breathes deeply like it isn't sixty percent smog. "Dinner on me?"

"We'll see about that."

"'Ey. It's an occasion for celebrating. Let your dad treat you."

They choose a shack serving Mexican. Looks dank from the outside, but the long line of patrons testifies to the taste of its food. Zef and Matthias wait the forty minutes for a table, catching up.

Not really, though. Zef side steps conversations about his job. Talks about the safest stuff. Thing is, he needs to let his dad in on some of it, but it's too dangerous where people could overhear. He chose a busy place for a reason.

He has to text Gray back. Hasn't forgotten. There's some stuff he needs to take care of, first.

The restaurant swarms with people. Hard to hear yourself think, let alone overhear a conversation. Zef huddles with his dad at a corner table. He starts with a conservative amount of food, but in the end they order enough to feed five. Chicken taquitos, spicy corn, nachos slathered in every conceivable topping. "Have a beer with me?" says his dad, but Zef shakes his head and orders a virgin margarita.

"Still a prohibitionist," Matthias teases.

"I guess."

Matthias gives him That Look. The fatherly fondness mixed with worry.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. So. How is the job? I've asked three times now, but you're not giving straight answers."

"Nothing straight about me," Zef jokes. "Actually...that's why I picked this place. I mean, it seemed popular, so that's a reason. But also, I doubt anyone will overhear us."

Matthias's forehead wrinkles with concern. He worked for a mega corporation. He knows the dangers of city life. When Zef first expressed a desire to get a job with Bionic Capital, Matthias was all warnings and reservations. He wanted Zef happy, and they couldn't think of a better way to get transition tech, so he supported Zef, albeit reluctantly.

Sucking guacamole off his fingers, Zef reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. He faces the wall so no one can see what he pulls out. Under the table, he knocks his dad's knee, the denim-covered metal hard against his knuckles. His dad fumbles for Zef's hand and feels the credit chip from Rylan.

"Take it," Zef says.

Deep lines of concern furrow in Matthias's brow. "What's this for?"

The din of music and diners drowns out conversation any decibel below a shout, but Zef lowers his voice. Matthias leans forward to hear, studying his son's mouth. Lip reading.

"I need you to take this and buy me a net blocker," Zef says. "Some EMP grenades, too. Better yet if you can get someone you trust to do it. I don't want anyone knowing what I'm picking up. The rest I want you to set aside."

"For what?"

"Tickets. If we need them."

Matthias's face falls. "You're in some kind of trouble."

"Some."

"Tell me."

Zef chews his chapped lips. After the week he's had, he needs beeswax balm so bad. "Remember how you wouldn't tell me the shit CyberSuite had you doing, 'cause it was safer for me the less I knew?"

"That's different. I'm your dad."

"It's still safer the less you know. I don't want you to worry. This is our insurance. If things start to go tits up, we get out."

Matthias rubs a hand over his face. The deep lines stretch and pull around his eyes. "If it's that bad already, we should get out now."

Zef's heart stutters. "I can't."

"Why? Top surgery was most important, right?"

It's true. Zef considered other mods—new voice, new height, new dick —but remains undecided. There's Project Serenity, though. Important and tough to talk about without bringing up Ollie.

"Remember our rules. Don't take risks," Matthias prompts.

"Stay out of trouble. Don't trust anyone you wouldn't take home. I know." He'd broken them all. The city didn't care for their rules. He'd landed ass first in trouble on day one. "I think this goes outside the purview of our rules, Dad."

The wrinkles in Matthias's forehead suddenly smooth. A look of recognition. "You met someone."

"Huh?"

"Whoever they are, they're tied up in this, too?"

"Sort of— wait, no. Dad, it's not like that."

Matthias sits back, arms folded, assuming the most dad-ish of postures. "Uh huh. I know my son. And I know when he's lying."

Zef stuffs that under the secret trapdoor in his mind faster than a smuggled porn mag. "Just promise me if I send a text with the word 'tamales' in it you'll buy those tickets."

Matthias continues giving him The Dad Look™. Then he grabs a nacho, stuffs it in his mouth, and nods. Zef lets out the breath he held.

"I always maintained it wasn't my job as your dad to protect you your whole life long. My job was—is—to teach you to protect yourself and trust you. Harder said than done, I tell you, but...I trust you." His face pinches. "Do whatever you have to. But make sure you text your old man to let him know you're okay before you give him a hernia. Capiche?"

"I will."

"Good."

It should feel like an extra weight off Zef's chest, titties notwithstanding, to have his backup plan in place. Instead, Zef leaves the restaurant and says goodbye to his dad with a knot in his throat.

Still one more thing to do.

Opening his text log with Gray, Zef fires off his first message to the man since that day on the subway.

>>I'm real sorry. I was caught up and couldn't reply. Promise it was important. If you still want to meet, I'll listen to what you've gotta say.

It takes time to hear back. Zef reaches his door, finger on the keylock, when the response comes through.

>>Same place. Same time.