Bog's been in Novalectrum for five years when he spots the wing implants in a window.

  The dark-haired demiguy parks puts the shield down on their oldhoverbike. It's pretty chilly out, especially up this high in the 'scrapers - windy too. He draws his old extruded-leather duster around his chubby frame with one hand, carrying a heavy bag of vintage game consoles with the other. Of course this client would be in one of the richer districts. He grumbles, squinting glowing eyes against the wind.

  They're glad enough to drop his burden at the guy's front door and wash their hands of him, considering he's been an asshole the whole time. In fact they're so glad that they almost pass up the display on the way back to his hoverbike.

  But a display in the window on an implants boutique lights up just as he passes and his cyan eyes go wide.

  The display's all red velvet and black lace, gussied up as they are in these places - just to let the lower classes know that They Cannot Afford This. That's not the thing that catches Bog's tired and somewhat irritated attention. He's used to that kind of ostentatiousness after this long in the city.

  No, the thing that really catches his attention is the hardlight wings being displayed.

  They stare for some moments at the shimmering wings, nearly the same bright cyan as their own eye implants. They hardly blink even against the cold wind. According to a blurb displayed on a screen in a corner the things are permanent installations, capable of imparting the ability to glide and even some limited powered flight. They reach out a chubby hand towards the things before arresting the movement before his hand hits the clear hardlight. Then they make their eye implants take a screencap and force themself to walk away.

  If they had a heart it'd remain right in front of that damn window.

  Bog keeps looking back, even though the dropoff from this height's a son of a bitch - the ground is only barely visible through the shorter 'scrapers and the lanes of skycars. They only stop looking back once they mount their hoverbike.

  Unfortunately, when they search for the things online, wing implants are fuckawful expensive. More than their rent at least. And, while repairing and reselling vintage electronics does well enough...

  Fuck, they want those wings.

  That thought stays with Bog, night and day, day and night. They have Torvald at their place one evening and bring their problem up to him in bed, snuggled with their back against his hairy front. "Hon...?"

  Torvald kisses the back of their head lazily. "Mmh?"

  It's still hard for them to talk about things they want; or even to let themself want things. Haltingly they manage to spill to him. It's not as if they don't trust him - as far as that goes. It's simply that they've been let down by people too many times in the past.

  The muscular blond man listens without interrupting. "Mmh, that is a problem," he murmurs in their ear once they're done, voice low and throaty. A warm hand smoothing over their soft belly quiets their racing thoughts for now. And here, with the soothing warmth of their lover in bed with them, the problem doesn't seem insurmountable.

  "I know you have connections for old electronics," the man behind them muses before nuzzling his nose into their shoulder-length dark hair. "Do you think any of them would know any implant runners? I know someone who might be looking for a...slightly less than legal implant."

  The suggestion is clear.

  It's a hell of a question though. They don't know much about running implants - not yet at least. As with all things of dubious legality in Novalectrum, the laws tend to vary from distract to district; even from day to day, if the legal teams of the various megacorps are quick enough on their feet so to speak. But with the right gear and the right scramblers...

  "I'll have to ask around," he mumbles. He rolls over in Torvald's arms, meets their lover's eyes; one artificial, one natural. "You're fantastic, ya know that?"

  Then he grabs his man and kisses him for all he's worth.

  --------------

  After their lover leaves for his next mission the next morning, Bog gets dressed and walks by that same boutique. The wings are still there; good, because they apparently don't make a lot of these things. He stands there in the chilly fall air, staring at the implants. Weighing his desire for them against the risks that always come with skirting the law.

  Well, at least with the wings he'd be able to get away quickly.

  Bog does their research, with a scrambler of course. At least the dinky one he has is good for something. They've heard of implant runners - been tempted to dabble themself before this. Even very cautiously mentioned it to Torvald; which no doubt was the reason he suggested this job. Vintage electronics repair is fun but sometimes you want a little more help paying the bills.

  Or upgrading yourself, as the case may be.

  They start putting feelers out, discreetly as possible. The last thing they need is to get caught before they're even started properly. Or even worse, to get the wings and lose them before they can have the things installed.

  It takes a long time, a lot of friends-of-friends, and then even more time, before Bog feels ready to tell Torvald to pull the trigger.

  In the end the job goes better than they'd hope. It turns out that refurbishing and memory-wiping an implant isn't too much different from doing any other electronics, although if he keeps doing this he'll need to put together a real kit. Get a sterilizer too.

  The dealer they made contact with offers him further jobs if he can clean and repair so he tucks that idea away for future use.

  Bog knows better than to think it'll always go this well. That kind of confidence almost always leads to disaster. But though he continues his vintage repair work just to have something going that's on the up-and-up, he also dives into the new realm of implant running with hardly a backwards glance.

  Part of the money from his first job goes into a sterilizing and repackaging station, and part of it goes into a repair kit - they intend to improve those as they get the money. They also learn pretty quickly not to ask where the "used" implants that go through their hands came from.

  Ignorance and bliss, after all.

  Another, cleaner part of fencing is scrubbing the ownership data off of used implants. That's simple enough, a hookup to their computer and a few passes of a program they buy for that purpose, and the internal memory of each and every implant is flashed clean and ready for a new owner.

  Of course Bog has a few close shaves with the law, especially before they can afford proper scramblers for their bike. But in the end, after months of delicate work, he has the credits in hand to simply go into that boutique and outright buy the wings he's been dreaming of this whole entire time.

  Having them installed is gonna be a different matter, and entirely more bloody. Hell if he cares though; anything happens in the future, well, they'll deal with it.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  With this in mind, the cyan-eyed person goes off to one of his new contacts to have his back flayed open.

  --------------

  This is way too much like visiting a doctor, Bog thinks as they enter the implant parlor. They have to bite back a wave of nausea at that thought.

  The room's mostly done in sparkling white tile with matching cabinets along the outer perimeter. There are a few pieces of equipment he doesn't recognize, along with a nanobot bay - expensive piece of kit. In the middle of the floor are a standard-looking operating table and a similar chair, both covered in material that's easy to sterilize. Nearby is a rolling table covered in implements he doesn't want to think about too hard.

  Hell those are gonna get used on him.

  Briefly they look back outside at Torvald's car. He's waiting on Bog, not least of which is because the demiguy simply won't be able to drive himself home after all this. He really does...

  The short person shakes his head. Well. Time's a-wasting.

  Bog's never met the transmogrifier who's going to open him up in person, although they've been getting clients for him for the past half-year. Henrik greets him enthusiastically, much the same way he does over messages. Got a bit of an accent, German probably. It's cute.

  The clean-shaven person's only slightly taller than Bog, much to his surprise; they're used to being one of the shorter people in a room. He's dressed in a white lab coat and trousers, probably to make himself seem more official. Henrik's long hair is a startlingly bright pink, pulled back into a ponytail, and he's made up with a similar shade around the eyes and lips. On the end of his long nose perches a pair of round, pink sunglasses.

  Overall it's a hell of an effect, and just dissimilar enough to a doctor to ease Bog's fear.

  Hm. He's heavily modified too, or else Bog misses his guess. That guess is confirmed when they spot the little fangs in his mouth.

  Hell that's cute.

  Henrik smiles just a little, drawing Bog's attention back to the hot pink lipstick he's sporting. He almost misses the way those pale blue eyes, emphasized by his eyeshadow, flick down his body appreciatively.

  Well he's not half bad looking himself, Bog decides, returning the look.

  With a flirtatious twist of his head, Henrik speaks. "Now liebchen, do you have you the implants with you that we discussed?"

  Bog has, and they display them now. The things don't look very impressive when deactivated, just a series of projection discs and tiny generators connected by body-safe wires, both safely sterilized and in bags of saline.

  The man peers down through his glasses at the implants, examining them closely. "Ah, the new models, hmm? Rather pricey." He looks up at Bog almost sadly. "These will mark you out, you know."

  Bog is a very private person; which is a polite way of saying he plays his cards so close to the chest they're in his ribcage. So why the fuck, now of all times, does he want to tell Henrik more than he should know?

  The demiboy shakes off the urge and instead indicates his glowing eyes. "These mark me out well enough." In some circles that's more neutral than anything; in other places, well, better not to think about that.

  "Ah, and so they do," the transmogrifier replies; the moment of sadness is gone, replaced by a knowing look on that long face. Then he grins, revealing the little fangs in his upper jaw again. "Perhaps you should allow me to examine them in greater detail someday?"

  Bog pauses. That kind of a pickup line really should be annoying. They've been dealing with that kinda thing since they started growing up. Still something about the way the other says it makes them interested. "I'm seeing someone, but lemme see what he says later, huh?"

  Henrik's grin takes on a sheepish tone. "I never expect that line to work," he admits. "But please do tell me what he says."

  "Yeah, sure."

  The talk turns more serious after that. The transmogrifier after having been told about Bog's various implants, has warned them that until they get used to them the wings may put undue strain on their body - hell they've already got enough going on in there. Henrik details aftercare, healing time, how long until they'll be able to return to their work or other activities, the sleeping posture they'll have to take with the wounds he'll be inflicting on their back. Typical aftercare instructions for as invasive an implant installation as this.

  Maybe they're a little familiar with those, they think, hiding a shudder.

  Henrik directs them to remove their shirt without so much as a hint of his former flirtatiousness - then again, he'd have to detach himself from what's to come, wouldn't he? "Up you get, liebchen," he directs abstractly.

  Bog hops up and lies on their stomach on the table, resting his head on his folded arms. He feels cool liquid being spread over his back, shivers a little. "Disinfectant," the other person murmurs, by way of explanation.

  The prone person gives a grunt of acknowledgment, trying not to squirm. It's the sharp chemical smell that's taking them back to some very unpleasant places. But he's not there or then he reminds himself, looking over at the transmogrifier.

  He's here. Now. This is his choice.

  He's all right.

  After the liquid on their back dries, Henrik spreads some kind of gel over their skin. "Topical anesthetic."

  "Yeah."

  Despite the fact that it makes him uneasy to see, he turns his head to watch the man injecting something into his back. "Another anesthetic," Henrik tells them, his tone a bit detached. "Trust me, liebchen, you don't want to feel what's to come."

  "Ain't arguin' with ya there."

  It takes a little while for the injected anesthetic to kick in and when it does he feels pretty funny. It's weird, but it's still better than feeling what he's chosen to have done to himself.

  Henrik changes his gloves before picking up an implement from a nearby rolling table. "Marking the surgical site," he mutters, almost to himself. Bog doesn't even feel the pencil against his skin, so he supposes that the anesthetic must be working.

  "Now, are you ready?"

  "Ready as I'll ever be."

  "Then here we go."

  He still can't feel anything, even when he twists his head to see the transmogrifier plying the scalpel on his back. Bog looks away quickly, shutting their eyes a minute. Nope. Not lookin' at that shit. Just think about something else - anything else. He'll get through this.

  Just like he's gotten through all the other shit in his life.

  They wish Torvald could be here with them but the parlor is only so big and the person working on him wouldn't allow it anyway. They'll just have to deal.

  It gets worse when Henrik starts screwing the implant discs into his ribs. Makes sense, the things need somewhere sturdy to be anchored to so they don't tear out of his back. But that doesn't make this procedure any less fucking awful. Bog just grits his teeth against the nauseating feeling of his very bones being vibrated.

  The little demiboy doesn't realize they're crying until they feel the tears on their arms. They're dissociating so hard in self-defense that they only barely realize when the transmogrifier starts sewing their back up. "Hngg?" they groan.

  "Almost over, darling," Henrik murmurs. "You're sitting so well for me. Ah, there...there...and there. All done, just lie there and let the glue set for a bit."

  "Hell of a first date," they mutter, trying to scrape together some semblance of their sense of humor after hours under the knife - and the drill. Still it's better than being in the hospital.

  Discreetly as they can, they wipe their eyes on their arm.

  "I hope the next shall prove more pleasant," Henrik replies gently, discarding his bloody gloves and reaching into one of his pockets. He retrieves a mellowthorn cigarette and steps towards the front of the table. The person's sleeves are spotted with blood and bone scrapings - Bog's own he thinks, making a face.

  "Holding up, darling?" the transmogrifier asks after a long drag of his cigarette.

  Bog sighs. "Yeah, 'bout as much as I can."

  "Good. Sit up for me? Carefully, liebchen."

  Something feels weird inside, like he remembers the artificial heart in his chest feeling during all those weeks in the hospital back in the Swamps. But he manages. Weirdly he feels more exposed like this than he did with his back flayed open. Helluva thing.

  Henrik looks their wounds over. He discards his cigarette, cleans his hands again, then gloves up and starts wrapping bandages tightly around Bog's glowing chest. "Yes, you are a work of art, darling."

  He's not feeling his best; which'll do, until a bigger understatement comes along. Still, he manages a tired grin at the compliment.