Nav walks him through it. They'll oversee the project, but Zef is lead designer. Rylan secured investors over the span of a weekend. Apparently, enough people saw the merit in a mental health-related implant to put their credits into it.

The high Zef feels is tempered by a couple things.

Thing one: the investors' names are redacted. Apparently he isn't privy to what sort of people are interested in profiteering off this tech.

The second, Bionic Capital already fucked him.

Zef's got ideas about that. Ways he can put work into building this thing while leaving out crucial information in case they decide to pull him off the project again. It's a pain in the ass, but this is what he became an engineer for. It's the whole damn point of cybernetic enhancement. Enhance human quality of life. Make things easier, happier. Cynicism be damned. Company politics be damned. He wants to make a difference. Has to try.

Zef takes his lunch with Nav. With his upcoming surgery, a question burns a hole in his pocket. He musters the courage to ask Nav.

"So, Rylan gave me the gender-affirming care package deal with this job—"

Nav thrusts a bag of salt and vinegar chips at him. "Chip?"

He accepts one. "And I've got surgery this evening."

"Woah! That was quick. Congratulations. Your medical care package must be sweet as hell to get things that snappy."

"Yeah, I was surprised, too. I was wondering how it's gone for you. If you're all right sharing."

"Yeah, of course! Honestly, I'm an open book about it, but I don't know how much help I'll be? I only opted for hormone therapy. Judging by that whisker on your upper lip, you're already there."

"My what?" Zef gropes at his face. He hadn't noticed it in the mirror this morning, but there—right under his nose—is a more prickly hair than the other downy, invisible ones of his pre-T days. "Holy shit."

Nav snorts, but apparently Zef's delight is contagious, because their eyes sparkle. "Congratulations. I take it you didn't notice that one."

"No. I had a, uh, busy morning. So what you're saying is the cybernetics and surgery routes are all Greek to you, too?"

"Yeah, sorry. I came for the voice, stayed for the moustache, but I kind of like where I'm at. Feels very—" they gesture to their entire person, swishy skirts and facial hair and eyeliner so sharp you could cut yourself on it— "This is me. Doing non-binary my way."

"It's a stellar way."

"But not your way," Nav infers. "You have misgivings about what you want?"

Zef tilts his head side to side. "I knew I wanted the titty removal committee to pay me a visit. Otherwise? There are so many options now. Fuck knows which one is best for me." Vocal replacements, height modification. Hell, he could get a whole new face.

Nav nods sympathetically. "Sorry I can't be more help on that front. You tried the net? Neorleans may be a shithole, but it at least comes part and parcel with a boatload of queers. There's gotta be a trans man support group out there."

It's not like Zef never considered support groups or net forums, but...

In spite of the fact he's about as trustworthy as a white van spray painted with a 'free candy' sign, Gray is the person Zef most wants to talk to.

Zef still hasn't responded to the texts. Feels a bit bad about it. There haven't been any new ones since last night's. Before he can open the text log and consider a response, a new message comes through. Not from Gray. From Rylan.

>>Please meet me in the lobby now.

Zef swallows. He can hazard a guess what this is about. If he's lucky, it's about Project Serenity. If he's unlucky, it's about Gray.

He lets Nav know Rylan's calling him out for a meeting. They raise a thick eyebrow, but must think better of asking questions.

In the lobby, Rylan stands next to one of the indoor waterfalls. Her pantsuit looks part armour. Silver and tailored to perfection from neck to patent leather pumps with the blood-red soles. Probably from all the people she stepped on to get in her position. She wouldn't look out of place in chainmail or full kevlar. Beside her, a bodyguard stands with hands behind her back. Suited. Sunglasses. The works. Something about her crooked nose feels familiar.

Rylan wastes no time. "You're here. Good. The taxi's just arrived. For security reasons, don't speak for the duration of the journey."

Security reasons? Zef keeps his frowning mouth shut as Rylan leads the way outside to a—yep, that's bullet-proof glass—military-grade armoured cab. The bodyguard gets into the driver's side. Through the shades, she seems to watch Zef closely in the rearview.

The silent, awkward ride takes them into the heart of the neon quarter—the district devoted to bleeding caps of their creds. Probably the only place where wealth got redistributed, though always from one overly gilded hand to the other. Buildings with reflective shielding scatter the abundant lights like fish scales. Balconies spill over with hanging flower baskets and their pristinely dressed, inebriated guests. The taxi stops outside a cocktail bar called Stealth Shot.

The building is probably meant to resemble a silver bullet. Zef chooses to think it looks like a vibrator.

Rylan doesn't speak. She gets out of her side and heads for the door. Zef follows. Security don't give Rylan a second glance, but they do take a step toward Zef until Rylan says,

"He's with me."

Great. It's a you look too poor to be here type of place.

Inside, he feels under-dressed. The first woman he sees in the lobby is wearing a dress cut down to her navel entirely composed of LED lights. Another man is so covered in gild it looks like Midas touched him. Rylan breezes past, paying them no attention.

They watch her.

By extension, they watch Zef, too. He feels their gazes like pins and needles on his neck. Rylan leads him into the lift and presses her palm to a biometric scanner. A recorded voice says in saccharine tones, "Platinum access approved. Welcome back, Rylan Archer."

The lift ascends and opens to a dining floor. Zef doesn't have to guess any longer why Rylan chose this location to speak with him.

Except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and a minute electrical buzz, the room is eerily quiet. Yet, it's full of people. They sit, clinking wine glasses, mouths moving in silent communion, each in their own self-contained, glass bubble. They look like fish in aquariums. Flowering plants frond each round booth within, blocking direct line of sight with any of the occupants.

Rylan leads him to an empty one. Upon closer inspection, Zef can make out hair-thin wires enmeshed within the glass like a fisherman's net.

It's a Faraday cage. All of them, each little glass bubble, is a self-enclosed Faraday cage to block electrical impulses. A safety net. Within, nobody's implants can be hacked. No bugs can transmit data. No communication can go in or out. No eavesdropper can physically or electronically hear what goes on within.

The key to his little Gray problem clicks into place.

When Rylan presses her finger to another biometric reader outside, a section of glass slides aside then shuts behind them. It silences the air conditioning's hum, the dull noise from other floors, everything.

Zef would hate to be here in the dark. The sensory deprivation would be suffocating.

His footsteps plink rather than pat on the glass floor. In order to work, a Faraday cage can't have any openings large enough for electrical impulses to pass through. The close web of wires surrounding catches all impulses in its conductive current. The door, now shut, closes the circuit. Zef briefly wonders how drinks are served until he notices how the glass floor flutes in the centre, rising in a column to support the table. The support is hollow, and something rises up within it. A circular tray with two glasses of champagne, bubbly and glittering. An aperture in the table top opens to admit the drinks before closing again beneath them.

"We can't be overheard here when discussing sensitive company projects." Rylan slides into the booth and picks up a champagne flute.

Zef does the same. "Your office isn't shielded like this?"

"It has security, but all security has its holes." She rolls the word over her tongue like it's the champagne she hasn't sipped yet. "But let's start with the pleasant news. Project Serenity. Congratulations."

She clinks her flute against his. Zef knows what he's meant to say. Thank you. A dream come true.

He had just enough time in the car to think about how he'd play this game. Rylan took his own project away from him this morning, then handed him his dream project as recompense. Slapped him with one hand and offered him cake with the other.

Now she wants him to respond as though she only gave him cake. Let the slap be bygones.

His pride stings with the need to prove she hasn't pulled the wool over his eyes, that he knows what kind of power play this is, and he hates her for it. He doesn't trust her, but maybe the best way to avoid the same thing happening with Project Serenity is to let her believe he's clay. Squishy. Easily manipulated.

Let her underestimate him.