Zef isn't sure if he kept his cool this long because he's experiencing some kind of post-trauma brain fog, or because he'd been more concerned with Gray's dysfunctional relationship with Rylan, or because he's hopped up on heavy painkillers, but whatever the reason, that cool gets nuked immediately.

"What do you mean that's for the best?! Everyone thinks I'm dead and that's fucking good? No big deal?! My dad will be having a heart attack."

Gray retorts, "Better a heart attack than a bullet."

"Better neither."

His shouts attract attention. Damo's face appears in the doorway. "I heard a lot of swear words."

"Apparently it's a good thing I'm putting my dad through fucking—" Zef mimes grasping for words. "Unnecessary and agonising parental grief pretending to be dead," Zef fumes.

Damo says, "Ah."

"Listen," Gray says. "Rylan doesn't know nothin' about Damo. She won't know anyone would be around to save ya, neither, but she's got surveillance everywhere. She'll have someone look for your corpse back at the factory. When she can't find it, she'll monitor hospitals. She'll keep an ear to the ground for you all over the city. Your implant pings anywhere—buying a train ticket, taking a taxi—she'll know you ain't dead, and then she'll come finish the job. She don't leave loose ends. Then your dad'll be grieving for real."

Zef chokes down that bitter pill. It's sensible, but he's still allowed to hate it. "So your brilliant plan is to let my dad believe I'm dead or disappeared until you kill Rylan? And in the meantime I just lay low here?"

Gray says, "Told you he wouldn't take it well."

Putting his hands together as if in prayer, Damo looks contemplative, like a Buddhist monk about to impart wisdom and peace upon them.

He says, "I'm craving ramen."

Both Gray and Zef are burnt out husks of humans. It takes some convincing, but Damo persuades them to eat, or they'll be too hangry to have a productive conversation. He moves them from the medical room down a twisty, dark hallway lit by a very questionable phosphorescent substance in wall sconces. The kitchen has a similar, piecemeal vibe to the medical room.

Reluctant to talk about anything except his dad, Zef can't help some curiosity. "Where is this place?"

"Subcity," Damo supplies. "Waaaaaay down, like the deep sea. I've rigged up some real good filtration systems. I don't need it, but you sure do. It's off-grid, and that's the only way I can operate. I have my own unique little communication system. You'll meet her later. For now, welcome, make yourself at home. I hope you like your ramen extra garlic-y. Garlic helps the immune system, and you are both so dang sickly."

Zef decides his brain is too full already to ask why Damo's communication system is a 'her.' He takes a seat at a kitchen island held up by a welded metal sculpture of a bear.

Damo says, "That's Gus."

"The— bear?"

"Yeah. Brought him all the way from up North in the real boonies. Made him. We've been through a lot together."

Zef glances at Gray for feedback on his strange friend, but Gray won't look at him.

Tapping his chin, Damo says, "Hmm, hate to embody typical gender roles, but mind if I change?" Before Zef can process the question or form an answer, Damo shapeshifts before his eyes. His high cheekbones soften, rounder now than before. His dark eyes briefly illuminate blue as they change shape. Wider now. She ties an apron around her waist, accentuating the curves she just recreated, and starts flipping through cupboards in search of ingredients.

If only it were that easy, Zef thinks.

While Damo cooks, she chats animatedly, needing very little input from either Gray or Zef. Which is for the best. The air between them is still polar-ice-caps-cold. The steaming bowl of ramen set in front of Zef smells just as garlicky as forewarned. It's wholesome, the kind of food Zef would crave if he had a cold.

"That recipe's from an old friend," Damo says. "Fuddy duddy did know how to cook. Well, what are you waiting for? If I don't hear you slurping in a few seconds, so help me."

"It smells delicious," Zef says. "Thank you."

It tastes even better. Only awake an hour, Zef hadn't clued into how cold his body felt. All that blood loss, surgery, time under anaesthesia. The soup melts the leftover tension from all he endured, leaving him warm and satisfied and desperately in need of a nap.

He can't sleep yet, though. Needs to find a way to fix this mess he's in. Preferably a way that doesn't involve assisted matricide.

"Look," he says, pushing his empty bowl away from him. "Thinking about it, I get what you guys mean. It makes sense to lie low. But I can't just leave my dad in the dark. Not just 'cause I don't want him hurting like he did when— You have to understand, he was a soldier, all right? He won't just lie down, grieve, and get on with life. I hardly told him anything, but he worked for caps. He'll draw conclusions about the shit I'm in and start hunting for clues. I'm afraid he'll storm Bionic Capital HQ if he thinks for even a second they're hiding what happened to me."

Damo takes off her apron and sits on the edge of the countertop. "Okay. I hear you. A valid concern."

Gray grunts in the barest acknowledgment that his plan has its problems. "So we send Damo with a message, then."

Damo says, "Not to put too fine a point on it, 'cause I know you're still feeling guilty—"

Gray cuts Damo off with a glare.

"Zef's in rough shape," Damo continues. "Hate to be the responsible one, but as his impromptu doctor, I can't leave him until I'm sure he won't fall apart at the seams."

"It doesn't matter," Zef says. "My dad is suspicious by nature. Used to come home and wouldn't have supper until he'd scanned the whole place for bugs. If somebody he's never met and I never told him about comes to tell him I'm fine, he'll suspect something's up. Worse, he'll suspect you're involved."

"We could bring him a nice little video message from you," Damo says. "No, wait, bad idea. Leaves an electronic trail Rylan can hack. Also, makes you look like a hostage."

"Dee could go disguised as you," Gray suggests. "Shapeshift."

"It's got limits," Damo says. "I can only adjust my height and mass within reason. I can't go from six-foot-five to five-foot-six."

"Seven," Zef says testily.

"Besides, you really think I can put on an act good enough to fool the man's father? I'm flattered, but nah."

Gray mutters something darkly inaudible. "Fine. So what are our options?"

Damo taps her fingers, muddling through it. After a second of silent contemplation she says, "I got something." Then she looks at Gray. "But you're not gonna like it."

~ * * * ~

Zef finds himself back in Damo's surgery room, seated on the table while Damo's nimble fingers prise open the casing of the implant on his temple.

It's old and homebrewed, which Damo seems to approve of, but as she put it, it's a liability right now. Implants were a modern convenience no one could do without anymore. It contained your bank details, your personal identification, your connection to the net. With it, you could pay for your groceries, scroll social media, watch porn in public, and text your family.

Having a computer in your head also came with caveats. Advertisements could scan your implant, read your purchase history, and change to suit your spending habits. Security cameras could identify you not just by your face but by the tech in your head. Without one, you looked suspicious as fuck, and you could kiss your job prospects goodbye. Even just the application process was nigh on impossible without it.

In Zef's case, it makes visiting his dad impossible without Rylan finding him.

Damo says, "Nearly there," as he fits a small device into the port inside Zef's implant. Zef wrinkles his nose at the pressure and click of it sliding into place. On a stool against the wall, Gray watches the procedure in silence, chewing on another toothpick.

"Done," Damo says after fitting the casing back over the body of the implant. "Time to test it's working."

Rolling around the workshop, he gathers things from the haphazard piles of tools. A tablet. A camera. A cord so tangled he doesn't bother trying to unkink it.

Once assembled, Damo turns the tablet on and holds the camera to face Gray. "Say cheese."

Gray's scowl deepens.

"Aren't you photogenic."

Damo shows them the picture of Gray looking like a death metal album cover, then turns the camera on Zef instead. This time, when he turns the tablet to show the results, it depicts a generic face bearing no resemblance to Zef at all. He looks a bit like one of those offensively heterosexual ads for cologne. Generically handsome with the personality of hotdog water.

Aside from the even stubble, of which Zef is envious, he hates it.

But it serves a useful purpose.

"And this'll affect every security camera I happen to pass?"

"Yep."

"And blocks any ping from my implant?"

"Yeah."

Gray says, "I don't like it."

"That is an unfortunate personality flaw of yours," Damo says. "You don't like anything."

"It's too damn risky. Just the presence of someone without an identifiable implant will look suspicious."

"Not," Damo argues, "if we keep to low income areas in our transport route. Plenty of poor and homeless people don't have implants, plenty more have busted ones. Lots of criminals and gangs will have this anti-surveillance tech installed themselves. Not like I invented it." Damo holds up his hands. "Best I can do."

"It's only going to be a quick trip," Zef murmurs.

Sure enough, the moment he speaks, Gray averts his gaze. "Whatever. If it's all we got. Don't bother me, but I'll need something that hides the gild, too."

Damo laughs. "What're you talking about? You're not going."

Gray's scowl could light a man on fire. "Why not?"

"You said it yourself. Rylan's gonna be watching for any sign of Zef like a hawk, but the same goes for you. Now, I can put blocks on Zef's implant, I can dress him like the dictionary definition of cishet middle-aged white man, but I don't think there's diddly fuck-me-daddy I can do for you. Say Rylan's got any surveillance around Zef's dad, right? One strange dude having a 'lil chitchat with him in a bodega won't raise alarms. Two strangers, one of them wearing a damn turtleneck and gloves in the middle of August?" She mimes an explosion. "Whole plan up in smoke."

Gray opens his mouth to protest, but Dee interrupts with a, "But-but-but! I'll be there. I'll keep my distance, supervise from afar, and help set up a meeting. I'll be his shadow escort."

Zef adds, "I'd rather not endanger you, too."

Gray's lip curls like Zef said something really dumb. Zef self-consciously touches his chest, where the injury still throbs through a haze of painkillers.

Gray says, "Fine. Your funeral."

He stalks out, shaking a cigarette out of a pack as he goes.

Damo's face is the human version of the 'yikes' emoji. He rubs his knees and says, "I am sensing so much sexual tension between you two, and I am too old to talk to him about the birds and the bees, sooo..."

"That's not— Look, I'll take point on this one." Zef stands, wincing as his chest pangs him.

He follows Gray outside, where the air quality takes a steep plunge. Smells like sewage and rotten vegetables. Lamplight down here gets green-tinged from the pollution. It's weird, looking up and seeing a roof instead of sky. Buildings inside buildings inside subterranean tunnels. The street is vacant except for a stray cat grooming itself on a low wall.

Gray, with his cigarette pinched between his lips, hasn't noticed Zef yet. He holds a hand out to the cat, saying, "Pspsps," and it comes right over and headbutts Gray's hand.

The door clicking shut behind Zef gives him away. Gray glances over, stiffening. The cat, sniffing the air, realises there aren't any treats and trots away.

"Hey," says Zef.

Gray doesn't answer verbally. He leans against the wall and taps the ashes off the end of his cigarette.

"Can we please talk?" Zef tries. "About what happened."

Gray huffs. "What's to say?"

Zef bites his lip. "I was gonna start with 'sorry.'"

A dry laugh. "For what?"

"For lying to you. For working with Rylan."

"Don't need no apology. Told you. I was playing you, too."

Zef tries to steady himself and take a deep breath, but the air's so shit he coughs on it. Each cough feels like a punch to his injury. He pushes on, "I really was going to tell you."

"You should get inside," Gray says brusquely after another drag on his cigarette. "Air's no good out here."

"I'm sorry about earlier, too," Zef says. "I shouldn't have assumed... You know your situation best. And you know Rylan better than me. The way she treated you, it's not okay."

Gray's nostril's flare. "Don't need your pity, neither."

"It's not pity, it's... Are you really gonna make me beg you to talk about this?"

"To what end?"

"To, I don't know, reconcile? Especially if we're going to be helping each other."

Gray straightens abruptly, throws his cigarette to the pavement and stomps it out. His motions are so brusque and aggressive, Zef takes a step back. Gray finally looks at him, but it's with none of the remorse or guilt or care Zef hopes to see. Just anger.

"Let me make this one thing clear," he says. "We don't owe each other nothin'. We both used each other. We both nearly got each other killed. Both saved each other's lives. We ain't working together. We ain't a team. This situation we're in is temporary. Once we're not up shit's creek, we're done."

Zef, stunned, can't say anything. He doesn't have Gray's aptitude for putting up a guard or hiding his true feelings, though. He knows his hurt is plain as day on his face.

Gray looks away from it. "Don't make it more 'n that."