Eric leaned against the alley wall, doing his best to look nonchalant but thoughtful as the morning traffic zipped by not too far away. His rumpled blue suit, combined with his near-vampiric pallor, gave off an air of someone who'd been partying all night and was contemplating breakfast before going home and going to bed. That impression was mostly true and partially intentional. 

He looked up when he saw he was sharing the alley with a middle-aged man wearing a trenchcoat. The man was lightly tanned, face only slightly wrinkled, and his hair was just starting to go gray. He moved like someone fully aware of the pistol holstered under one arm and hidden by the cut of the coat.

Eric pulled out his phone, checked it, and nodded.

"The tank is this way," he told the man before taking the stairs down to the basement entrance, unlocking the door, and leading him into the club.

The club was empty, quiet, and clean at this hour, but still bore the vibe of a room that a few hours before had been packed with ravers indulging in near-orgiastic excess. A thumping mechanical hum came from the back room. Eric led his charge to the door, knocked on it a couple of times, and waited. His eyes contained a catlike shine, possibly contacts but more likely to be augmented given what they were about to negotiate. The older man mused that night vision would be a useful trait for an underground club manager.

A moment later a woman opened the door, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, her sepia skin lit harshly by cheap lighting. Behind her, in the corner, a clear cylinder full of fluid pulsated and throbbed, bubbles coming up from machinery in the base. One side was covered by a floor-to-ceiling unit that, among other things, looked to contain the controls as well as the loading point for the fluid used in the device. Tubes and wires ran from the side-unit into metal bands in the base, and a set of small spindly mechanical appendages extended into the tube from its ceiling. Sparks jumped between nodules at the tips, illuminating the fluid.

On the floor next to the control unit, a woman describable only as an anthropomorphic arctic fox with green streaks dyed into her head-fur sat cross-legged, going over something on a laptop that was plugged into the unit. She wore a collar with a single earbud coming off of it and tucked into an ear. She didn't bother to look up, and the newcomer wasn't given much time to gawk before the woman at the door got his attention.

"Are you Stan?" she asked.

"Stan Mackenzie, Graham Technologies." He handed her a business card. "You and Eric asked me here to take a look at something... Is that an old bodyswap tank?" He pointed at the tank in the corner. "Or perhaps an elaborate washing machine?"

Despite the look on his face that suggested he found the comparison amusing, the woman at the door took at least a little offense at that. Eric opened his mouth to say something but she cut him off with a look.

"Doctor Dorothy Banks," she said with a restrained glare. "It's currently in maintenance mode at the moment, but that is a bodyswap tank. A BodyShape original." She stepped back and waved them in.

"I'm surprised there are any left," Stan said. "I mean, after the government commandeered the company's equipment to treat the Genehack Plague at cost, the company collapsed from the fallout. Genehacking technology lost what little trust it had, BodyShape went under, and the rest of the industry divvied up the company's assets and designs. I thought all the original tanks were decommissioned. And you have a working one?"

"Sort of. Which is why you're here." She went over to a worktable with a number of advanced electronic components on it. "That's an original tank, but it's been modified. We've been using it to treat people who need help and can't afford it."

"You realize there are current versions of biomod technology being used in hospitals as an alternative to surgery, right?" Stan asked with a raised eyebrow.

"And those are expensive," Eric said. "We're not doing it entirely free, but we're providing a service to families that can't afford treatment in the big hospitals. It's partially paid for by putting the tank to use doing cosmetic stuff for patrons willing to pay for underground treatment." The tank stopped humming, the nodes in the fluid stopped sparking, and the bubbles tapered off. Eric glanced over at the fox-woman on the floor. "When it's working, that is."

She glanced up at Eric with a scowl. "I didn't build it, and I'm not the one who Franked it. I'm just keeping the patch job working as best I can. And right now, that means a maintenance cycle and a reboot."

"Eric, not right now," Dorothy sighed. "Stan, we've been using this to treat people for a wide variety of things. And yes, every now and again someone comes in to get turned into a morph or genetically enhanced or the various things people did with this before BodyShape went out of business. Parts have worn out and been replaced, and I've had to improvise some. And it led me to figure out how to mod it and make it do this."

She waved Stan over to the table and showed him a series of images on her tablet. They charted the progress of someone being cured of a degenerative disease with the tank. Stan reviewed the images once, and then looked over the timestamps.

"This can't be right. This type of muscle degeneration... Treating that with a hospital biomod tank needs at least six weeks. You did it in two? What kind of rehab after?"

"Almost none." Dorothy's eyes gleamed with pride. "The patient slept on the cot for observation and went home the next day with a prescription. Look, these things can undo biological damage, but they used to have to transform you into a different template to do it. It's how they dealt with the Genehack Plague back in the day, and all of the viable templates were anthromorphs until they found another way.

"I looked at how this worked with the templates, and... Well, I sped up the process. It's more efficient and has very little aftercare. But it's harder on the tank. Parts wear out and it's become harder and harder to scrounge up original parts, so we've taken to making this thing a technical Frankenstein's monster. We can't do that forever."

"Which is why I'm here," Stan said with a nod, looking thoughtful. "My company produces components for hospital tanks, and you... what? Want to commission us to build something for you? I'm not sure we can."

"We just need some parts. They don't even have to be exact, as long as they function. Elizabeth here..." Dorothy gestured to the fox-woman, whose ear perked while she rewrote code on her laptop. "...and her boyfriend have given us a lot of custom drivers to make some of these components work. You might not even have to custom-build anything. Maybe you've already got something useful we can make a deal on."

Stan nodded and seemed to make a note of that, looking over the place.

"Well, I mean, I'm not sure if it's a great idea," Stan said as he rubbed his chin. "I mean, first off, modifying this stuff without the proper clearance is illegal in of itself. Everyone in this room would go to jail. Even if it works. Even me, just for being here."

Elizabeth muttered something to herself.

"What was that?" Stan asked.

"Probably nothing," Eric quickly said, shooting a look at the fox-woman's back as he placed a hand on Stan's shoulder. "Probably just thinking out loud while she's working on the drivers."

Elizabeth turned, opened her muzzle to say something, but saw the look that Dorothy and Eric gave her. She just snapped her mouth shut and frowned as she went back to the laptop.

"I understand there are... Difficulties with the sort of work we're talking about," Eric said with a diplomatic tone. "And getting the proper clearance would mean working with a for-profit company that might, say, make sure this technology only goes to the extremely rich and powerful. But we're trying to help people, here. Doesn't that mean something?"

"We've only got so much money," Dorothy chimed in, trying and failing to keep desperation out of her voice. "Basically everything from the club and a handful of paying clients goes into the tank. But we could possibly scrape something together, pass the hat, if that matters..."

"What if..." Stan rubbed his chin some more, wheels apparently spinning. "What if we could work together, get a copy of your designs, use your modifications to build a new tank model altogether. You work for me, we go into business together, produce these tanks and have a way to make sure they go to the right people... We could make that work, right?"

The white-furred vixen shot Eric a glance and an unspoken conversation passed between them. Eric didn't seem to like where it went. Dorothy, focused on Stan, didn't pick up on their body language though he sure did. Elizabeth went back to work on the laptop, rubbing the collar and muttering to herself again.

"We could," Dorothy said thoughtfully. "As long as I get final say on the design. I mean, the reason this tech is so heavily regulated is because you do one thing wrong and next thing you know you're killing thousands because someone wanted to cheat at sports and turned a muscle enhancer into a degenerative disease. I know how safe this is, and we'd have to recreate it as best as we can. Biomodding is delicate work and I can't trust anyone else to tinker with the system I've put together." Her eyes gleamed with passion for the subject.

Stan held his hands up defensively. "Of course, of course, any changes -- assuming we'd make any to begin with -- would have to be approved by you." His tone was only slightly patronizing.

"And in the meantime," Dorothy continued. "I'm focused on making sure we can keep this one working and stable."

"Can this one do enhancements?" Stan asked, curious.

"Nothing beyond Class I Augments," Dorothy said. "It can fix some birth defects, provide an alternative to certain surgeries... And satisfy the occasional rich kid's need for transhuman experimentation. It can't 'upgrade' people, if you're thinking it could be used for that."

"Look, if you're going to be so defensive and paranoid..." Stan grumbled.

"Paranoid?" Dorothy yelled, eyes wide and flashing with anger.

"Y'know what? I'll pass."

Without another word, Stan turned around and stepped back out through the door into the empty club. The space sat quiet, dark, small piles of trash and dust dotting the floor where someone had brushed it all into clumps but hadn't properly swept it up yet. He walked towards the exit and ignored the sounds of bickering in the back room as he produced his phone, dialed a number, and punched in an extension.

"Report?" The voice on the other end was filtered, but that was to be expected.

"They've got one, and it's improved. Heavily. But they're going to make us fight for it. Call our usual contacts at city hall and draw up the paperwork to confiscate the tech before we call the cops. If we can't find documentation, we'll reverse-engin--"

Eric stepped out from the side, a pistol in hand, aimed at Stan. He froze, phone still against the side of his head. His eyeshine added a certain ominous note to his entrance.

"Gun on the ground," Eric said. "Kick it here."

"You don't know what you're doing," Stan said. "Lower the gun, come to work with me, and we can settle this to your personal benefit. My people already know what you have."

"Your people know nothing," the voice on the phone said. "I've made sure of that."

Stan dropped the phone. The speakerphone turned itself on. There was a squeal as the filter switched off and Elizabeth's voice continued.

"Graham Technologies doesn't have the clearances for what you just proposed, so I did some more digging and broke your cover. So who do you really work for? NUBio?"

Stan refused to answer.

"Gun. On. The. Ground." Eric still had his weapon trained on the man.

Stan sighed. "We won't need all of you to--"

Eric fired the gun, the bullet whizzing by Stan's head to hit the wall.

"--make this work." Stan wasn't even interrupted by the shot, monk-calm. "Given who you think I work for, you think I'm the sort of person who's capable of being worried about that gun? That my adrenaline response isn't carefully modulated? That my ears will hurt at the sound of gunfire?" He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly. "Do you think shooting me would even do enough physical damage to slow me down?"

Eric involuntarily glanced at something just over Stan's shoulder, giving him just enough warning to brace himself for Dorothy's attempt to tackle him. He shifted his weight, trying to toss her off, only to feel a needle jabbing into his neck, followed by the familiar pressure of someone pushing the plunger. He dumped her onto the ground with a thud and yanked an unlabeled syringe out of his neck.

"What is this?" he demanded to know.

Then he noticed Eric lowered the gun, like he was no longer concerned. A shudder ran through Stan's body. Muscles twitched and locked up, and the colors in the room seemed to shift before his eyes. He collapsed and stared up at the ceiling, the strength leaving his arms, his senses muffled.

"We can reverse-engineer things too," Dorothy said. "And we know about the stuff NUBio includes in their mods just to make their users susceptible to certain... proprietary paralytics. Just in case, of course." She held up the syringe. "Homemade omega-tralcurium. You're off the clock, asshole. Liz?"

"Yes?" came the fox-woman's voice from the phone.

"How quickly can you shut down the tank for transport?"

"Already working on it."

"Okay, then do me a favor and call the bears, call Alex so we can borrow the truck, and..." She stopped to rub her forehead. "Just... Dammit. Thought we had some good luck for once."

"Don't worry about it, Dr. Banks. Already on it. Also, grab Stan's phone. I want to scan it, block it, wipe it, and then I know someone who'll pay you for it." The phone beeped as the 'call' terminated.

Stan just listened to all of this as best he could, vision and hearing fuzzy. He wheezed on the floor -- breathing was a chore, but not impossible. He'd never been subjected to OTC, but he'd heard stories of victims passing out from lack of oxygen in the early stages. Depending on individual metabolism and specific modifications, usually respiration would get back under control before they died.

Usually.

He tried to move enough to utter a curse, some slur or invective, but couldn't get the lips to form the syllables. He couldn't stop Dorothy and Eric as they went over his stuff and took his gun, his wallet, and swiped anything they knew wouldn't have a tracker on it. They took his car keys. Then they literally dragged him into the corner behind the bar, where he'd be unlikely to see or hear anything important.

"Just focus on breathing," Dorothy said. "I don't see a lot of OTC victims down here, but I know how dangerous this stuff can be. Don't worry, I'll make sure someone finds you. Just not too quickly." She left him alone where within minutes his entire world consisted of the ceiling and the sound of equipment being taken apart and wheeled out of the building.

After a while, maybe an hour or two, Eric came back behind the bar. He crouched down next to Stan to look him in the eyes. Stan was breathing easier, though that development didn't seem to thrill Eric much.

"I'm just gonna say this once, Stan or whatever your name is," Eric said. "You find us again, you come after us... You'd better just shoot first and take the tank. Dorothy's a good person. People like her. They'll help protect her, move the tank, whatever it takes, because she saves lives and doesn't take them. But if I see you again, it'll give me a chance to test a theory about using the tank to dispose of bodies."

He pulled out a cheap disposable phone and dialed a number.

"But because she asked nicely, I wish you good luck and godspeed. More or less."

He hit 'send' to dial the phone and set it down to Stan's head before walking away, leaving the corporate agent to grunt for help as the operator got to work trying to locate the phone. The last he heard from Eric was a distant, muffled shout before he was left entirely alone.