Flesh Market

The apartment feels emptier than it should. Most of the furniture is gone - sold to the highest bidder on the resale networks. What remains are the essentials: a mattress on the floor, two chairs, a table with the nano-regeneration contracts spread across its surface.

Your partner, Morgan, sits across from you, their seventy-three-year-old hands trembling slightly as they sign the final consent form. Your own hands, at sixty-eight, aren't much steadier. The arthritis makes every movement a negotiation with pain.

"Full design authority," Morgan says, sliding the document toward you. "I trust you. Make us... make us something worth all this."

The price was staggering. Your home, your collections, Morgan's vintage motorcycle, the inherited jewelry - all converted to credits and transferred to Helix BioSolutions. What you have left is this one-bedroom apartment in the Crosstown District, and enough for maybe six months of living expenses.

The technician sits in front of you. You've been given access to the DesignSpace software, a neural interface that lets you sculpt bodies like clay. Every curve, every cell, every aspect of physical form is yours to determine. In just an hour's time, you will begin your transformation into somebody new.

Morgan has one request: that sexuality - pure, overwhelming, electrical sexuality - be the foundation of whatever you create. After decades of bodies slowly failing, of desire outpacing ability, this is your chance to rebuild yourselves around pleasure itself.

The interface glows on the screen, waiting for your vision.

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