“‘Wanted: Breast donors. 34 C or D cup, O negative or AB, Caucasian. Non-smokers preferred. $500 USD plus expenses. Absolutely NO BINDING.’ What the hell is this?” Ryan waved the classified ads in Race’s face. “Donors for plastic surgery? How much demand can there possibly be for that?”

Race shrugged and looked up from his copy of the Daily Times. Jobs were scarce and getting scarcer, which is why he and Ryan had hit upon the idea of going through the city papers in search of paid medical tests. “Enough that they’ve got an ad for it.”

“No, but I mean, seriously,” Ryan protested. “I can understand wanting blood or tissue donations for, I dunno, mangled faces or something, but breasts? How many people, like, lose their breasts in a car accident? Isn’t that sort of a weird thing to be reconstructing?”

Race snickered and looked back at his paper, combing the pages for something that didn’t actually require them to have diseases beforehand. “I doubt any of those ads are for accident victims.”

“You mean augmentation? But that’s illegal. How can they advertise something like that in the public paper? Won’t the doctors get arrested?” Ryan looked back and the ad and chuckled. “Though that does explain why they only want Caucasians.”

“Just because it’s illegal doesn’t mean they don’t do it. I bet half the tests we sign up for aren’t exactly legal either, but who’s going to stop them? We need money and rich people’s kids need a cure for cancer.”

“I guess,” Ryan agreed. He frowned at the ad for a few moments more before adding, “But $500? That’s it? What woman in her right mind would give up her breasts for only five hundred dollars?”

“Plus expenses,” Race reminded him without looking up.

“Expenses? Expenses for what? Never being able to get a date again? Christ.”

“For the medications and after-care, and the cosmetic surgery on their chests afterwards.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. No girl is going to cut off her breasts for five hundred dollars, no matter how much ‘after care’ there is.” Ryan snorted and turned the page.

“People who didn’t want them in the first place won’t mind losing them. Might even be a good opportunity.” Race’s voice was casual, a quiet musing as he frowned and reread one of the ads he’d circled as a possibility.

“Wait. You mean…” Ryan put the paper down completely, frowning at Race. “Trannies? That’s way more illegal than cosmetic surgery.” His face showed that he was more than a little uncomfortable at the idea.

“All the more reason for them to connect with rich women who want bigger boobs. The government isn’t going to break in and stop it; that’d be like enforcing prohibition. It’s a good way for everyone involved to get what they want while giving the law a good excuse to look the other way. How about lymphoma preventatives?” Race asked. “It’s long-term, so the pay’s good. You have a history on your mom’s side, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good,” Ryan answered, distracted. He was still frowning. “How do you know so much about this breast transplant shit?” he asked Race, squinting at his friend.

Race didn’t look up. He just smirked.

“How do you think I got rid of mine?”