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"Why would them opening fitting centers be a problem?" Someone in the chat got there before Ryan could.
Viv forwarded a news link. "The Helios CEO said they're going to expand their fitting centers globally, including into our domestic market."
Prosthetic limbs couldn't be attached directly to the human body. Every amputation left a residual limb with unique contours, scar tissue, and bone structure. Connecting a prosthetic required a custom-fitted socket, a device called a residual limb interface, which had to be individually molded to the wearer's anatomy. This was what fitting centers did: they measured the residual limb, produced a resin or silicone socket, and attached the prosthetic to it.
The socket's quality directly determined whether the prosthetic was usable or tortuous. A badly fitted socket meant pain, skin breakdown, and abandonment of the device. A well-fitted socket meant the prosthetic could be worn all day.
Fitting centers didn't manufacture prosthetics. They distributed them. They had hospital relationships, referral networks, and regional footholds. Most prosthetic manufacturers sold through these third-party networks rather than operating their own retail footprint.
Helios, apparently, was going direct.
The team was alarmed.
"They're entering the domestic market already?"
"Their Harvard tech is mature enough for consumer launch."
"Can our prototype even compete with their product? They have tactile feedback. We don't even have that on the roadmap."
Ryan read the chat with a flat expression. A team of recent graduates, all of whom had spent their academic careers on myoelectric prosthetics, were panicking about a competitor's neural prosthetic launch while completely failing to recognize that their own product was technologically superior to the competitor's in every meaningful dimension.
At least Mason was holding it together. Being the team leader meant staying calm.
"Ryan, what do we do?"
Ryan sighed. Mason had lasted three minutes before joining the panic.
"All of you, go read the technical specifications of Whitfield's prosthetic. Actually read them. Understand what his product requires. Then come back and tell me why you're worried."
The chat went silent. Nobody wanted to admit they didn't already have the information they should have.
Ryan put his phone down and went back to watching Thornton's team disassemble the plasma cannon.
-----
Meanwhile, in a glass-walled conference room overlooking a harbor three thousand miles away, the Helios Group's senior leadership was meeting.
At the head of the table sat Michael Reeve, the CEO. Tall, silver-templed, the kind of man whose suit fit him the way paint fit a canvas: unobtrusive, professional, expensive without being showy. Beside him sat his chief operating officer and two senior assistants. Across the table, Whitfield and Osman represented the Harvard partnership.
Reeve stood to begin.
"Everyone, good to see you. First, I want to congratulate us on completing Phase One successfully."
He clicked a remote. The screen behind him displayed engagement metrics. Ryan Mercer's name had seen a sixty percent increase in negative sentiment coverage over the past two weeks. Whitfield's lab had become the dominant reference point in discussions about neural prosthetics. The narrative shift was measurable.
"We have successfully pivoted public attention away from the Mercer project and toward our technology. Millions of people are now looking to us as the leaders in this space. That's the foundation we needed. Now we build on it."
Whitfield shifted in his seat. He was a scientist. Discussions of "narrative pivots" made him uncomfortable.
Reeve continued. "Phase Two is commercial launch. We're creating a dedicated subsidiary to manage the neural prosthetics product line. The brand name, tentatively, is Angel. The positioning is simple: our product gives people their lives back. The name reflects that."
The screen changed. A clean, ivory-toned logo with stylized wings. Minimalist. Premium. Pharmaceutical-adjacent. It looked expensive. It was supposed to.
"We're establishing fitting centers globally. Priority markets first, but we're planning domestic and international expansion in parallel. Fitting centers will be company-owned and operated, not third-party licensed."
Whitfield raised a hand. He didn't like this part. "I'd recommend against international expansion at this stage. The regulatory and logistical complexity is significant. We should focus on proving the model in one market before scaling."
Reeve shook his head politely. "Professor Whitfield, with respect, you're thinking like a scientist. The math of this venture doesn't work on a single-market basis."
He leaned forward.
"Your lab has absorbed approximately three hundred million dollars in research funding over the past decade. Helios is committing an additional seven hundred million in productization costs. That's a billion-dollar initial investment before a single unit ships. Factories, fitting centers, regulatory approvals, training programs, ongoing R&D. The total all-in cost to reach market at the scale we're planning is closer to two billion."
Whitfield's mouth tightened.
"I'll be direct. At normal operating margins, this product will not recoup its investment for fifteen to twenty years. The addressable market for brain-controlled prosthetics requiring targeted muscle reinnervation surgery is limited. The product will never be cheap enough for mass adoption. In a pure profit-and-loss analysis, Angel is a money pit."
Whitfield closed his eyes. He already knew this. He'd been living with this knowledge his entire career.
"Which is why," Reeve continued, his voice rising, "we're not going to operate Angel as a profit center."
The room leaned in.
"Angel is not a product. It is a narrative. Helios Group is the technology company that is saving disabled people. Helios Group is the company that combines cutting-edge science with compassionate application. Every fitting center we open becomes a permanent billboard in a major city. Every prosthetic we fit becomes a marketing asset with a face and a name. Every story we tell becomes press coverage, brand elevation, and public trust."
The screen showed a map of proposed fitting center locations. Dozens. Not a distribution network. A brand campaign.
"The fitting centers will welcome visitors regardless of whether they need a prosthetic. They will be showrooms for our technology. They will host community events, school tours, media segments. They will become the places people associate with Helios Group's commitment to humanity."
Reeve's COO caught his gaze. They'd had this conversation. She knew where this was going.
"And here's the financial mechanism," Reeve said. "Angel's success as a brand, its cultural positioning as the company making the future accessible, will drive a valuation premium across our entire portfolio. When we launch the next Helios funding round, we will not be raising money as a tech conglomerate. We will be raising money as the tech conglomerate that is fundamentally reshaping human capability."
"That shift in narrative will add billions to our valuation. Billions, not millions. The direct losses on Angel's operations will be completely swallowed by the equity uplift."
Whitfield stared at the table. He'd come into this meeting expecting a product launch. He was leaving it having been told his life's work was a marketing prop.
Osman, seated beside him, didn't look surprised. He'd spent enough time in industry to recognize the play.
Reeve concluded.
"Phase Three is the funding round. When Angel has its first six months of public operation, when the brand is established, we launch. That's when the real money arrives."
The COO, silent throughout, understood completely. Her boss was a genius. He was going to sell his story three ways: narrative capture of the neural prosthetics space, technology absorption from Whitfield's lab, and billions in valuation uplift at the next round.
Four meals from one fish.
Angel was never meant to save disabled people.
It was meant to save Helios Group.
-----