Prancer's Palace is a strip club.

Zef doesn't have a problem with sex work. It's a job. If capitalism's gotta be the machine on which their society's back breaks, sex workers get to make their creds on their backs, their knees, whatever talents come natural to 'em.

Zef isn't sure why the flip Gray asked to meet him here, though. That is the only reason he's uncertain. For sure.

Prancer's is off the beaten path in a sub-city alleyway, marked only by a neon lit design of a woman in reindeer antlers kicking a high-heeled leg on the sign. Muffled music and a bass heartbeat thunder through the walls, the floor. Two bouncers with delts like melons flank the entrance. The woman dresses in a (respectfully) slutty baseball uniform and wields a bat meant for hitting balls, but not the sporting kind. The man's knuckles shine golden with gild that could punch hard enough to turn brains hamburger shaped. He is wearing less clothing than his compatriot.

Both bouncers give Zef the up-and-down, scanning him.

"Coulda sworn you were underage, love," says the woman. "Time's been kind."

"Trans fountain of youth?" Zef mumbles.

The man says, "First time?"

Oh, good. So it's obvious. He nods.

"No photography or recording. Security will fry your implants if you try. No scanning patrons or employees neither. Pronoun wristbands are available; blue for gents, pink for ladies, and white for non-binary. Ask before you touch. Whatever's the price asked, you pay it. No negotiating. Private rooms are sold out at the moment—"

"I won't be needing anything like that, I'm just meeting a friend," Zef says.

They accept this as if it's not remotely out of the ordinary.

"Welcome to Prancer's then, doll," says the woman, handing him a blue wristband and opening the doors to usher him inside.

Zef slips the wristband on and descends into a basement. Abruptly, he doesn't know where to look 'cause so much skin is on show he feels lecherous if he blinks in any direction. Makes no sense—the whole point of these places is to look. Raised platforms like Romanesque columns are decorated with chrome poles, and decorating those chrome poles are every variety of nearly-naked body. Like MilliTasty Ice Cream. Bodies now available in every flavour.

He spots Gray from afar, talking to a person wearing nothing but the white pronoun bracelet, a harness, and a bouquet of fake flowers over their delicates. Though the flowers aren't what catch Zef's attention. Neon blue paint accentuates their top surgery scars, glowing in the ultraviolets. No cybernetics like Zef's, just old-fashioned doctors and scalpels. Less common these days. Next to them, Gray looks overdressed in head-to-toe leather and denim.

Zef hesitates at the sight of Gray, heart in his throat. He came for a couple reasons. To hear Gray out, for a start. To figure out his next move, too. Rylan made it clear she doesn't want to wait much longer.

But he also came 'cause a part of him—a selfish, stupid part—wants to tell Gray about his new chest. Share that with someone who understands.

He wants Gray to notice.

Gray catches sight of Zef. A bit of relief unwinches his scowl, but there's guardedness in his face, too. Very porcupine-y. His gaze doesn't flick down to take in Zef's new chest. Belatedly, Zef realises it isn't obvious. He's bandaged up and wearing an overly baggy jacket he chose because it disguised his curves when he had them. He and Gray are equally overdressed.

Doesn't matter. Zef needs to focus on the more important reasons he's here. Maybe he can tell Gray, later.

The dancer Gray's with turns and waves. But like— Sensually? Just with the fingers in an undulating rhythm from pinky to index like they're playing a piano scale.

"You must be Gray's friend," they say, still sensual but with a definite tone. Threatening? "The one who stood him up yesterday."

Oh.

"Sorry. Got the message at a bad time."

"Whatever." Gray's voice reveals nada. Comes across bored. "Cal, could you give us a minute?"

Cal glowers. "Sure, baby. But if you need me to beat him up." Cal punches a fist into their open palm. They are smaller than Gray. Teacup-sized. Not intimidating. Still, Zef feels a very inconvenient spike of something when they call Gray, 'baby.' "I'll ask Vic 'n Vickie to do it, 'cause that's their forte. But listen. It'll be coming from me. It's the thought that counts."

"Won't be needin' that, doll," says Gray. Zef glances away. The inconvenient emotion repeats on him at the word doll in Gray's mouth.

"Fine, fine. Call if you change your mind," Cal says. They point at Zef menacingly then strut away.

How anyone could look at Gray and think, 'That guy needs protecting,' is beyond Zef. Gray stalked Zef to his home. Gray stabbed a dude. Gray should come with complimentary caution tape and a warning label like you get with prescription medications. 'Side effects may include stress-induced hernia, injury, maiming and death.'

Gray stomps off to an unoccupied booth. Zef follows. There's a (currently dancer-less) pole on the table. Zef prays no one takes its emptiness as an invitation as they sit down.

"Thanks for coming," Gray says gruffly.

"Not sure I should have," Zef answers. "Why here?"

"Had to make sure we weren't being bugged 'n overheard. This place is good for that. It protects their dancers, but protects us, too. Lights and music don't give me a migraine, neither." He chews the inside of his cheek. "You gonna tell me why you never showed?"

"You first. Tell me why you murdered a guy."

"Couldn't even text to say you couldn't make it?"

"You go first. Murder, like, takes priority conversation-wise," Zef insists.

The dark shadows under Gray's eyes look deeper as he falls into a stubborn silence. He chews his lower lip. Makes a noise that's half hiss, half sigh. "I said I'd explain, but now you're here...I ain't got a clue where to start or how much is safe to tell."

"Safe for who?"

"Both of us."

Zef tamps down his frustration. It isn't helpful. Least Gray's trying. Plus...well, Zef sort of hopes Gray did have a good reason. All while the annoyingly sensible voice in his head says, is there any reason good enough?

"You gotta give me something, Gray. You got gild the likes of which I've never seen. You show up in my life stealing cars and stalking me home, then you murder a man in front of me, like—" Zef throws up his hands. "No big deal! Right?"

"If you're so sure I'm bad, why're you here, then?"

Got him there. Gray's words are a spotlight shone on the darker side to Zef's intentions. Still not a lie when he says, "Hoping I'm wrong."

A breath huffs through Gray's teeth. He gives the no-smoking sign a reproachful look and fishes a toothpick out of his pocket to chew on. "Okay. Here goes. That guy on the subway weren't just some Joe Blow. He's one of a number of dickheads hunting me down."

Oh. A shiny mirror of painful clarity comes into the picture. People hunting him down. People like Zef. "Hunting you? For what?"

"I'm valuable. Or the tech inside me is. They want it."

"Who's they?"

"That middle-class fancy fucker on the subway, for starters. Competitor companies want me out of the picture 'cause I inconvenience their precious productivity. Some want me to themselves so they can pick me apart and see how I work."

Zef considers that. It's not brand new information. Rylan hired him for the first reason on the list. It seems Rylan isn't alone in her hunt, though. She also never mentioned picking Gray apart. Zef files that under 'concerning and worthy of investigation.'

"The one who made my tech wants it back before someone else gets their hands on it," Gray continues. "I'm proprietary. Just like you said."

That, however, is brand new information. "Wait. 'The one who made your tech?' But don't you work for them?"

"Ain't working for 'em no more. Defected. Used to be their weapon and now I'm just their liability," Gray says.

"But you said it's so hooked up to your vitals that if anyone removed it, you'd..."

Gray makes a gun with his hand and fires it at an invisible target. "Bingo."

"So you're saying," Zef continues, "it was you or him. On the subway. He would have killed you, or given you to someone who would, so you killed him first."

"Yeah," Gray confirms.

"In that split second you saw him, you knew for sure?"

"Always with that tone of scepticism," Gray growls. "You get used to seeing through the camouflage."

"Can you blame me?" Zef says. "Never seen a murder, let alone one so casual."

"Murder," says Gray, tasting the word like it's an expensive vintage. "You think your dad didn't get blood on his hands as a soldier?"

"That's..."

"Different? Is it?"

"It's war."

"It's all war." The prominent knob of Gray's Adam's apple bobs like he's swallowing something acrid and barbed. A pinched look of disappointment creases the corners of his eyes. "I'm done talking about this. Make your judgments and go. Shit. Thought you'd be—"

The unspoken end to that sentence is a guilt-laden hook in Zef's breastbone. Gray hoped Zef might understand. Empathise. Only, Zef is trying his hardest (and failing) not to. It'll make what he has to do that much harder. He needs this job.

"I'm not judging you," Zef says softly. "You've got a point. And if what you say's true, that's...I dunno, 'fucked up' doesn't really cover it."

"If it's true." A wry smile. "What, you don't trust me?"

Zef studies Gray. The deep shadows under his eyes, nails bitten to the quick and red around the cuticles, fingers tapping, knees jiggling. All the same signs. The tech pains him. It makes sense he doesn't want it, but doesn't want anyone ripping it out of him either.

He's also talking around topics, avoiding Zef's eyes, and bristling at questions that are beyond understandable for Zef to want answers to.

Zef doesn't consider himself a psychologist, but he has a decent track record for reading people.

Gray is hiding something.

Doesn't mean Zef's heart isn't cracking under the pressure of sympathy. It's enough for him to move on. Murder not forgotten but filed under may not have been as cold-blooded as it appeared.

So Zef changes the topic. "I looked at the data about your tech, by the way. Think I might know a way to help disable it."

Gray perks up. Still wary, but listening. "Yeah?"

"Don't want to jump to conclusions. Especially if it's hooked up to your—well, everything." Zef licks his lips, preparing his questions in as casual a way as he can manage. "It'd help if you could tell me everything you know about it."

"I'm no engineer. Could probably fill a thimble with what I know."

"Okay. Give me the thimble."

"It..." Gray runs his fingers through his choppy hair, leaving it in disarray. "I don't know. It turned me into a...a weapon." He holds up a hand, nothing but the tips of some leaves visible of the tattoos creeping out of the leather gloves. He removes the glove, revealing the red peony framed in flowing, black leaves. He clenches his fingers in a fist. "They called it Project Jewel Wasp. Didn't know that at the time. Not like anyone tells their gun whether it's a pistol or a semi. Just point and shoot, that was what they wanted me for. Know what a jewel wasp is?" Zef shakes his head. "It's a parasite. Stings cockroaches. First sting paralyses, second one goes right in the gray matter and destroys its fight-or-flight response. Then the little fuckers chew off the cockroach's antennae and tug on the stubs like a leash. Lead them to a burrow and lay their eggs. Then the eggs hatch and the larva eat that poor roach, leaving the organs for last, so it's alive as long as possible."

"They made you into the wasp?" Zef asks.

Gray sucks on the toothpick between his lips. "The wasp. The roach. Both. The whole kitten caboodle."

"I don't understand."

"Probably better you don't."

"I need to understand more if I'm going to help."

Zef means it. Gray is spiky and defensive, but Zef can't help sensing it comes from a place of hurt. Throughout the conversation, he endured the tug-o-war between his heart and his head. The former torn apart with sympathy and the urge to help, the latter providing a cold reminder of Rylan's blackmail, of all he could potentially lose if he doesn't capture Gray.

The look on Gray's face when he talked about Project Jewel Wasp?

Yeah. Cracking his resolve.

It gets him thinking, maybe he doesn't have to choose. Maybe he can find a way to help Gray and Rylan. If he can convince Rylan that Gray's no longer a danger, that he defected, maybe she'll be content so long as Gray's relieved of the tech currently hurting him and turning him into a target. Without it, he's not a threat to Rylan, anyway.

Gray, visibly aching for a cigarette, chews on his toothpick and shifts in his seat. "You really wanna help me after—" He cuts himself short. Stiff, a muscle in his jaw working around the words.

"Yes," Zef says without hesitation.

Gray stares. His face looks a little ghostly, a little haunted. He drums his fingers against the wine-stained table. Zef impulsively starts reaching across to comfort him. He stops short of touching, remembering what happened the last time. Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me. Gray watches him retract his hand, expression struck through with...

Zef can't place the guarded look Gray gives him. It's full of a lot.

"All I know—" Gray says, "—is it...controls me. Sometimes. Can turn me into a fuckin' puppet. Makes me a prisoner in my body and gets me to do things. The orders I wouldn't follow, they could make me. My implants let me infect the tech of others like a parasite. Like the wasp. But—" His Adam's apple bobs.

"It lets the people who made it infect you, too," Zef finishes.

Gray nods.

"If they can control you so easily, why haven't they caught you yet?"

Gray's lip curls. "I worried the same thing, when I ran. Figured it out eventually. It's touch activated. So long as they don't get their hands on me, they can't give me orders."

Something squeezes in Zef's chest. Is that why you hate touch? he wonders. It's not the time to ask. "That fits with what I found out, actually. But before I tell you, are you sure you'd want your gild disabled? They're hunting you for it, sure, but it's also protecting you from those hunters."

"Didn't need it for the last one," Gray points out. "A knife does the job."

"It's still a risk."

"Everything in life's a risk. Surgery's a risk. Plenty of us trans guys go under the knife in a heartbeat. Risk means nothing when you're not free."

Well, fuck. Just gonna blindside him with the hard truths like that?

Zef can't argue. "All right. Then, here's what I figured out. There's a computer or a server somewhere that's got... I'm going to call it a control chip, but it's not really. This metaphor is going to get a bit ugly, so bear with me. Imagine your handler's got a leash, and you're the dog on the other end, right? The computer server is the collar. Every command this person gives you, it has to be routed through that server, and only that server. Given they don't want anyone else controlling you, the server's probably key-locked to their implants and yours. That's where the touch thing comes in. In order to route through the server, tug on your collar so-to-speak, the server has to be unlocked by both yours and your handler's implants in tandem. They touch you. Their specific implant communicates through yours to that server, which unlocks it, but only that specific combination of their implants and yours works. That layer of complication makes it unfriendly to hackers. You following?"

Gray's face shutters, eyes dark. "I follow."

"Now, this is my theory given what I read in your implant data, but since that server controls your tech, it can probably also disable it. Problem is—"

"It's a needle in a haystack," Gray supplies.

"Right. Billions of computers in Neorleans alone. But the best way to narrow it down is if you tell me who your handler was. Start there."

"No," Gray says.

Zef thinks he's misheard. "Wait...no?"

"No, I'm not giving you the name."

"Why not?"

Gray sneers like Zef just said something real stupid. "You want a target painted on your back, too? It ain't safe. 'Specially not for any friends of mine."

Something dangerous unspools in Zef's stomach, warm as a sip of hot cocoa. "And that's what we are? Friends?"

Gray looks discomfited. "Safer if you weren't."

"So you're protecting me by withholding info, is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"You're lying."

"Ain't no lie."

"But you're not telling me the whole truth. Lie of omission."

Gray grumbles but doesn't deny it. He leans back in the booth and slaps the table. Discussion over. "I appreciate the info, but I'll be the one to deal with it."

"You know, trust goes two ways," Zef says. "And, not to be that guy, but between the two of us? You have to admit who's giving sketchier vibes."

Gray's lip twitches. "Everyone gives sketchier vibes than you, mister goodie-two-shoes."

"I'm not that good."

"Oh yeah?" Gray's tone lightens mischievously. "Y'haven't eyed up a single, solitary ass since coming here."

Zef can't help looking affronted. That only makes it worse. "Neither have you," he says lamely.

Gray rolls his eyes. Gives Zef a pointed look. Eyes scanning him up and down. Zef becomes vividly aware of the way he's sitting—back pressed into the booth, angled away from the club of nearly naked people milling about, his shoulders bunched up to his ears.

Gray's scarred upper lip lifts in a smirk. "You got a problem with strip clubs?"

"Got no problem with them existing," Zef mutters defensively. "Never been in one before, though."

Gray rolls his eyes. "You ever have any fun?"

"Sure. Just 'cause my version of fun doesn't have enough sex, drugs and rock 'n roll for you..."

"Don't get me wrong, here. If I thought you were tee-total 'cause you had bad experiences, or didn't enjoy it, or just 'cause you didn't want to, I wouldn't ask. But I don't think that's it."

Zef knows the winching of his shoulders up to his ears is giving him away when he says, "Oh, and you know me so well already?"

"It's just a hunch." He takes the toothpick out. "Love to be wrong, so tell me. What do you do for fun? How do you let loose?"

Zef can't even come up with a decent lie. The reality is, he never does. Always been this up tight. Worry wart, his dad often called him.

Gray tilts his head. "Nothing? Zip? Zef, c'mon. You gotta have dreamed up dumb shit you wanted when you were a kid."

"What's it matter to you?"

"Just does. Humour me, all right? 'N get specific. Get weird. Bucket list shit. Stories to tell the grandkids."

He's asking what things might make him happy. For a second, Zef is filled with blind terror. Because it's not like the answers come easily. He has to think about it, hard. So much of his childhood got spent worrying about adult problems. There hadn't been time to dream.

But...he made wishes on birthday cakes. Before he wished for money, for Ollie to feel better, for his dad to come home safe, he wished for dumb stuff. To go diving with sharks, tickets to Nascar, to travel and taste the rain in another country.

The wishes tasted sweet at the time. They've gone a bit sour. They're all adventures he and Ollie used to talk about having when they 'made it.'

Ollie never made it.

He can't tell Gray about it. The subject's so sore, and he's already got heartburn. He doesn't need to break down sobbing in a strip club on top of it.

He sticks to the basics. "I dunno, bull riding. Maybe that's unrealistic. Maybe a motorbike? Get a tattoo. Swim in the sea with no top on." Out loud, they sound stupid. Childish. "I don't know. I'm bad at this. It's dumb."

"Naw." Gray looks at him. His hands are steady, a bit of the edge gone from his voice when he says, "Naw, those are good ones, darling."

That look does things to Zef.

"What about you?" Zef asks. "What do you do for fun?"

"Pick up babes in stolen cars and smoke."

Zef never heard such a clear deflection in his life, but he nearly chokes at the word babe applied to him. Probably means nothing. He called Cal 'doll.' He calls Zef 'darling' all the time. He's a pet names kind of guy. "Right."

Topic dropped, he looks away from Gray. Tries not to appear too uncomfortable at the sight of all the scantily dressed dancers and patrons beyond their little booth. He catches sight of Cal again, lounging across a patron's lap. The patron's hand wanders up their waist to the neon glow of paint across their top surgery scars, stroking them like they're precious and perfect like that.

A lump of longing threatens to choke Zef just watching. With his arms folded, he can feel the newfound flatness of his chest, can almost revel in the bruised soreness dulled by painkillers.

He wants to tell Gray.

But...

He can't look away from Cal, touched and adored. He doesn't know what it feels like to walk nearly naked and paint your trans-ness in bright colours without the quiet fear that every hint of the body you once wore is a quiet, shameful admission.

Now he has the chest he always wanted, the pain of wishing someone else would want it—want him, shirt off, naked—hits harder than expected.

Gray follows his gaze. He grunts, "If you're interested in Cal, they're expensive."

Zef shrugs off the comment. "Not interested like that."

"They not your type?" Gray asks, off-hand. "This place has plenty more types. Which one's yours?"

Zef holds his tongue to stop from saying, 'You.' "Don't know what that's like, is all." Feeling wanted. "Feeling comfortable naked."

"With that spiffy job o' yours, you'll be able to afford it sooner or later."

In light of the change in topic, now seems the best time to tell Gray the good news. "I already got top."

Gray's jaw drops. He looks down. Zef, feeling suddenly self-conscious, uncrosses his arms to unzip his jacket. He's melting in it, anyway.

"Fuck me, Zef, you kept that on the down low. When?"

Gray sounds elated. It makes Zef kinda want to cry. "Like, yesterday. It's why I didn't get back to you. I'm sorry. Got your text right when the anaesthesia kicked in."

"Shit. Hell. I mean, congrats, just— That was fast. Thought you said you couldn't afford it?"

"I can't. My job covers it. There were lots of options, so hard to pick, but—"

"Wait, they covered it?" Gray interrupts. His tone changes. "What do you mean, covered it?"

"I mean, it's part of my benefits package. The cybernetics, the surgery—"

"No, no, no. They don't do those kinds of benefits, and they definitely don't let you cash in quick."

"It's..I mean, they just did." Zef can't quite follow Gray's logic, but the excitement of telling him? Quickly turning to dread. "What's the matter?"

"You said you got the job so you could afford to pay out of pocket."

Had he said that? "I didn't know they offered medical care until my final interview."

Gray isn't listening. He gets to his feet. Shaking like the carefully climate-controlled club is now Baltic. Shivering his way out of the booth. His voice is grit spat from the wheel of a motorcycle spinning in gravel.

"I need a cigarette."