Unease creeps back into the fresh safety Zef had only begun to feel. He heads down the hall, glancing into empty rooms. No Gray. In the kitchen, Damo holds up a napkin.

"He left a note."

Gray's penmanship, even on a crumpled napkin, reminds Zef of the letter inviting him to the Iron Steer. This message is far shorter and less sentimental.

Went out. Not sure when I'll be back.

Lay low. Don't do anything stupid.

-Gray

Zef lets out an annoyed breath. "Went out where?"

"Always been cagey with me about where he goes. A bit like a stray cat. You never know whether he's got other families he goes to for a few scraps in between yours."

Zef squints at Damo suspiciously.

"All right, I got some idea where he might've gone," Damo confesses. "But our sweet feral cat might need some space, first."

"Yeah. Okay."

Zef had wanted to say something to Gray after Matthias lit him on fire yesterday. Now it'll have to wait.

He feels like a matryoshka doll of mud, blood and barnyard dirt. Desperately needs a shower. Damo takes off his bandages and dressing first. Her brow wrinkles as she takes in his bruises. Dissatisfied with the healing progress, she says it's a good thing there's nothing for him to do but rest.

With Gray gone and an unresolved pile of problems fermenting between them, Zef won't rest easy. He gets in the shower, luxuriates in the hot water, scrunches his curls in the towel. He finds Damo buttering a slice of toast in the kitchen, which she shoves forcefully into his mouth.

"No, he's not back yet, and might be gone for longer than you'd like, so please kick back. Relax. Eat. Listen to me yammer on for England." She starts buttering another piece of toast before he finishes the first. "My sources say Rylan's people have crawled back into whatever pocket dimension she summons them from. No more surveillance state. Well, no more than usual."

"Sources?"

"That 'communication network' I mentioned? She's a sentient android, like me, only she's...multiple? Plural? There are a couple hundred units of her, and she's all over the city. I'm sure you'll get a chance to meet her."

She sets the toast and a glass of green slush in front of him. He eyes it doubtfully.

"It's a spinach and banana smoothie, not algae. Scout's honour."

The toast scrapes Zef's raw throat. He washes it down with the smoothie, sweet and happily not tasting like grass.

"So. Change of subject." Damo gestures for her holo computer, the screen illuminated above the table. She flicks through a few screens, landing on one with a cybernetic enhancement that makes Zef choke on his smoothie.

"That's a penis."

"Yep."

"It's blue."

"Doesn't have to be," Damo says, swiping to show a bunch of other models. Some which look fairly realistic, some with more...fantastical attributes. Others are photographs from non-cybernetic surgeries. "Don't know how much Gray told you, but us androids have an underground operation going. Well, operations, plural. We've got our fingers in lots of pies." Zef can't think of a worse expression to use while he's looking at 3D cock models. Damo continues, "One of those pies is for trans people. We helped Gray out. Wanted you to know, just 'cause you don't have that stinky job anymore, doesn't mean you're out of options."

"Uh. Wow."

Since his top surgery, Zef hadn't the time to consider what else he might want. The option gives him a rush of hope and uncertainty both.

It's not like he has a problem with what he's got going on down there. Not to the degree he did with his pre-op chest. But, well...

The versatility is appealing.

"How much does it cost?"

"Sliding scale," Damo says. "Depends how fancifully you want to pimp your bod. We try not to charge anyone who's skint, but if you've got detailed specifications? Like, if you want a designer dick? Takes time. Easier to source materials sharpish with funds."

Zef knows his face is probably purple by now. He dabs at toast crumbs on his plate. "Thanks. I'll think about it? I never— I don't know. Been hard to do future planning while running for my life, you know?"

"I hear you," Damo agrees. "If you've got questions, lay them on me. For now, just know you've got a choice."

With those words, the wriggling uncertainty in Zef goes suddenly still, replaced with a piercing hook of...grief? Comfort? Relief? All three?

He'd been making choices from between a rock and a hard place so long. The freedom and autonomy to choose for himself?

It's novel.

The rest of the day, Damo entertains Zef by finding digital copies of a few vintage films he never got to watch. She rigs up an old projector to display it on the wall of her living room and makes a blanket fort.

He knows what she's trying to do. Distract him. Keep him from worrying about Gray.

But Zef heads to bed hoping Gray will be back come morning.

And he isn't.

Nor the next day. Or the one after.

Instead of perusing the catalogue of trans body mods or Damo's impressive collection of archived movies, Zef finds himself ruminating on what they can do about Rylan. Crafting a solution to the Gray-control-chip problem. So maybe, when Gray returns, Zef will already have a way to help.

He floats his idea past Damo while they marathon a series called Die Hard, which Damo explains was controversially considered, by some, to be a Christmas movie.

"Do you still have the chip Gray ripped out of my chest?" Zef asks.

Damo adjusts the nest of blankets around herself. "Unless you're thinking of making it into a Christmas ornament, I don't see how that's relevant to my fascinating movie trivia."

"Do we have it, though?"

"You are so obsessed with each other. Yeah, I got the chip wrapped up in tinfoil, but Rylan will have another server set up by now."

"Yeah, I figured, but maybe if the chip still works, we can find out its IP history. Rylan said that IP unlocks control of Gray. It'll be installed on any new setup Rylan makes. If we can find out what it is, and reverse search it..."

Damo says, "We might be able to find the location of her new data fort."

"You're an android. You probably understand this stuff better than I do. But if it works—"

"You can give lover boy a welcome home present," Damo supplies.

"Well, not— Not like that, I just thought— If we could get ahead of this. Before Rylan figures out some other scheme or— okay fine, yeah. I feel guilty as shit, and I want to help."

"I'm pulling your leg."

Damo gets up and returns with a tinfoil package, which she peels apart. A mangled lump sits inside.

"Sorry. I was a wee bit busy putting you back together. No time to clean the bits of you off this thing. Give me a minute." The pad of her fingertip opens and a laser burns away the dried blood and viscera. Blowing the ashes away, she opens the casing to reveal the circuitry within.

"So, we just need to hook it up to a protected computer and give it a ping," Zef says.

"I am a protected computer." She places her finger—ring finger, this time—to the universal port where a cord could normally be plugged in. Circuitry flashes beneath Damo's skin, pretty like bioluminescent magic. "Bingo. Got it." She starts reading out a number. Zef, unable to use his implant anymore, starts looking around for a place to jot it down before Damo says, "Don't worry. I'm old, but my memory's not that dodgy."

"Okay, can you run a search? See if a computer's been assigned that IP?"

"Already on it, and... Ah. Shitty shitty bang bang."

"What?"

"The new data fort. It's in Bionic Capital HQ."

That unceremoniously pops the helium balloon of hope in Zef's chest. As an ex-employee, he had to go through several layers of security to get through the front doors. Cameras everywhere, guards, scanners to pick up weapons or non-approved implants. Gray's gild would light him up like a Christmas tree, and Zef?

All he'd have to do is run into someone he used to work with. Someone like Nav, who he worries may have gotten heat for Zef's treachery.

They probably don't remember Zef fondly. "I'm assuming you can't get in, either."

"Me?" Damo barks a laugh. "They made me. I'm classified as a highly restricted weapon. Wouldn't get through the front doors. Might be able to hack my sentient electronic psyche into some of their systems, but the data fort, that'll have the strictest, nastiest firewalls. I'd rather not risk cooking myself in one."

Zef deflates. "So, it's impossible."

"Naw. Nothing's impossible. If John McClane can defeat terrorists crawling around in vents, we can infiltrate that architectural eyesore." She watches the movie, lips pursed. "We're a couple of geniuses. I'm sure we'll cook up a plan before Gray gets back."

Zef falls quiet. Then, "When is he coming back?"

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Four days." Feels longer, though. "I'm worried about him."

"Mm. Don't want to admit it, but me too."

"You said you might know where he is."

Damo walks her fingers up her bent knee. "He's got his haunts. Hard to say whether telling you'd be a violation of his privacy, but..." Her gaze turns inward, eyes alight with blue filaments behind the brown of her iris, like memory made alive and animate. "Harder still to say whether giving him space is helping or hurting after this long."

She sounds like she speaks from experience. Zef doesn't want to pry. Doesn't know what the right answer is, neither. Luckily, Damo doesn't keep it to herself.

"I used to be a lot like Gray. I'd do something reckless chasing what I wanted but didn't believe I deserved. Get all twisted into pretzel shapes in my own head. Fuck off until I could think straight. Come back, pretending I had it together. Trouble is, sometimes I wanted space, and sometimes I wanted someone to chase after me. But most of the time? Most of the time, I wanted both." She smiles wryly after catching sight of Zef's confused expression. "I know it sounds like a contradiction. Here's the only way it made sense: I wanted someone to chase after me so I wasn't alone while I fell apart. But I also wanted 'em to hold space for me. Let me be messy as a pinata at a pool party instead of trying to clean me up, 'cause that just made me feel more ashamed. Or like it should be easy. It's not easy. Hard from both sides. Hard to let someone see me all wounded, squishy and vulnerable. Hard for them to see me all fucked up. Especially when we're the ones fucking each other up, in spite of how hard we care."

A flash of memory kicks Zef in the chest. Gray's body contorted, pulled like a puppet. His hand raised like a claw. His expression—teeth grit hard enough to chip a tooth, terror alighting on him like a disembodied touch in the dark.

"I tried talking to him about it," Zef says. "Didn't go well."

All of a sudden, Damo looks her age. Youthful face too full of wisdom earned the hardest way—experience. She says, "Go up the stairs and out the third door on the left. After that, across the roof, up the ladder to the billboard, across that, then follow the splashes of neon paint. You'll find him."

Zef swallows. Gets up to go change. Stops in the door.

"What should I say to him?"

"Nothing. Gray ain't a words-of-affirmation type."

"What type is he?"

Damo smiles wryly. "How about you find out and tell me?"