Monday dawned as grey and listless as Quentin felt. Third motel room in a row. He needed to get that manual if he didn't want this to become so commonplace he wouldn't even count anymore.

A new face. He studied the one he currently wore in the bathroom mirror, wondering how he'd feel the next time he looked and saw someone else's reflection staring back at him. If he weren't being forced into it, he imagined it'd have been exciting — a fresh look whenever he wanted one, features as interchangeable as clothes.

It didn't feel exciting.

It felt sad.

The last piece of himself he'd be forced to leave behind before he could start anew. A life without Ian. Without his photography, too obvious a tell. He'd travelled enough, as had his photos, to know it'd be an unacceptable risk. Without the name he'd chosen for himself, the only one that had ever sounded right. And a life wearing a face that didn't fit.

In his wildest, most selfish moments, he imagined reinserting himself into Ian's life, once he had a new identity. Seducing him, having him back, not letting go. But it was more than the risk — Ian didn't deserve to have that done to him twice. It'd break him if he ever found out.

It took Quentin a moment to notice he was turning his wedding ring on his finger, twisting it left and right just for the comforting feeling of having it right there. This, he'd keep until he was well and truly ready to let go.

He splashed cold water on his face to chase away the last remnants of sleep. It was time to move on with the rest of his life.

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Storing his camera bag in a locker was a painful step. He'd already made his peace with all the lenses he'd left at home, each one beloved, with its own story to tell. Letting go of the rest in Wave Plaza — an area of the city he hadn't ever been to as Quentin, but whose ins and outs he knew from before — crushed what little sense of self he still had.

There was no alternative. It made no sense to keep it with him when he couldn't even use it but, more than that, things that made him favour one side had a tendency to make his wound hurt more than it should, and access to his pain sensors wasn't always easy or intuitive. And not having a home — well. It went without saying.

He sat outside a coffee shop, looking for all intents and purposes like he was nibbling on a muffin and not doing much of anything else, as he hacked the security cameras outside his own garage.

Nothing stirred, and there was no car parked outside — its interior was always too stuffed with Ian's work tools to fit a car — but neither of these meant much. The car had been wrecked in the crash; Ian could be inside the house. It wasn't as if Quentin had plenty of other choices, though. He now understood Ian's paranoia, the way he'd remove the nexus' tracking chip whenever he needed a replacement, how he never made any purchases that could be linked to his name. It would have been far too easy to figure out his movements and pinpoint his location, otherwise.

The nexus' tracking chip.

Ian removed the chip so he wouldn't be tracked. How had Quentin not thought of that? More than altering his appearance, or at least as important as that, was to remove his own tracking chip. Ten years by Ian's side had taught him Trackers were blind without those.

The feeling of being watched returned. All around him, with their messages and their whispers and their eyes, were other BioSynths. More messages hovered close to Quentin, daring him to open and read them. At least one of those was from one of the BioSynths who'd tried to contact him last time; Quentin had no idea how he knew this, but he knew.

He pulled away, chilled. Humans accessed the net, but they weren't in it. They'd never have an inkling of what it was like. For a BioSynth, it was just an extension of physical space — another room to walk into. Quentin had memories of doing it without flinching, of it being natural, benign, but he'd spent ten years doing it the human way. It was nothing if not unsettling, these days.

Over fifty years after the war and the web was nowhere near BioSynth-proof.

Quentin searched his memories. They'd developed this current version of the web during the war. BioSynths. Its original goal had been to communicate while on a mission; it hadn't been meant for humans, except for those issuing the orders, but then those same humans had ordered it adapted as a civilian commodity. Not out of generosity, but because it made humans easier to track.

They just never realised they weren't the only ones doing the tracking.

Under different circumstances he'd have found it fascinating, how his memories were a history lesson no syllabus ever told. Running for one's life had a tendency to take the shine off most things. The coffee was lukewarm and the muffin soggy, but he made himself finish them as he sifted through more memories, looking for whatever info he'd once possessed about his chip. Credits were in short supply, and he couldn't go around wasting food.

A forty-seven-year-old conversation in the rebellion's headquarters rose to the forefront of his mind. Taking the chip meant death. The BioSynths who'd tried it didn't turn back on, no matter what. He needed to know more. His internal filing system supplied the next logical follow-up, a file dated three years after the original conversation. It wasn't death, per se — not if someone kept them supplied with enough power to keep basic maintenance systems running. It was a coma, a failsafe.

They could remove their tracking chips, but they needed their tracking chips to turn on and function. An inescapable paradox?

No.

They'd found a workaround — switching the original chip with a blank one worked, provided it had been specifically built for their model number. Provided it was a human who installed it, because BioSynths were hard-coded not to be able to make the switch. But blank chips were in short supply since the rebellion. Only three government factories made them, so they could rechip any captured BioSynths who'd managed to get theirs out; the locations were classified, and the factories had no model overlap.

The thread ended.

It was now even more imperative that he get his manual. To close the hole, alter his appearance, and figure out which factory held the key to his freedom.

He couldn't be sure whether Ian was home or not, but he wouldn't be any more sure if he waited. No time like the present. His chest twinged in warning as he got up, an ever-present reminder of his wound. He'd taken to wearing the plastic film wrapped around himself at all times, more for psychological comfort than for anything else, but he knew the hole wasn't meant to be open for this long. He was about to fix that.

The aftereffects of his visits to the web lingered. Even now, walking the streets, regular people walking past him on either side, it was as if he could feel eyes on the back of his head.

Watching.

He turned right, not really looking where he was going, just trying to shake the feeling. It didn't work. Paranoia, that's all it could be, Quentin told himself as he shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking. There was no one watching him here. This wasn't the web. But the feeling wouldn't abate, putting all his senses on high alert, until he pivoted to look back, hoping to allay his fears once and for all.

Ian froze several paces behind him, a SynthNuller in his hand.

Ian. Right here, in front of Quentin, his blue eyes so cold where there used to be nothing but warmth. Time stood still for a moment as they stared each other down. Then Ian took off towards Quentin, the Nuller and the determined set of his jaw leaving no doubt as to his intentions, and Quentin's fight-or-flight response kicked in. He'd never want to fight Ian. Flight it was.

His body seemed to know what to do, how to zigzag instead of allowing Ian a clear line of sight, how to never be outside the safety zone of people. He could tap into both endurance and speed he hadn't known he'd possessed before the crash, putting some much needed distance between them; for a few minutes he allowed himself to be comforted by the foolish notion that he'd escape a confrontation with the man he loved.

But the twinge in his chest had given way to excruciating pain, and no amount of mentally adjusting his receptors would make it fade. There was a physical control inside him, right next to his on/off switch, clearly not made for BioSynths themselves to access. He put away thoughts of why such a thing would have been built into all of them as he held a hand to his chest, as if he could keep the hole from widening through willpower alone. Breathing was becoming hard, and what good was being a fucking bot if he still had to breathe?

He'd never make it like this. He took another left, running blindly, hoping to lose Ian somehow.

A dead end. The street was deceptively pleasant and wide, but it lead nowhere. There was a guardrail by the sidewalk at the end, serving as a belvedere of sorts, and he couldn't turn back or he'd run right into Ian. Below him, parallel train tracks stretched as far as the eye could see on either side, a promise of freedom. Accessing the web for the schedule required no conscious thought.

And then he knew what he had to do.

If he timed it right, he only needed to stall for ninety seconds. He stood by the guardrail, helplessly watching as Ian closed in. hoping against hope the train wouldn't be late. Just another thirty seconds. The Nuller in Ian's hand glinted in the winter sun as he sped closer and closer. Ten seconds. Quentin took two steps left, using a couple as cover. Two seconds. One.

He jumped.

Pain exploded as he hit the car's roof, but he couldn't give into it. He had to figure out how not to fall. He had to— Instinct kicked in again, his memories offering one more ability Quentin didn't know he had. He lay flat on top of the train and magnetised his entire body; there'd be no risk of falling off now.

Just a risk of passing out from the blinding pain.

At the guardrail, Ian looked on, helpless to follow.

Quentin had meant to get off on the next station, but he was in no condition to do it then. It took him three stations just to get his breathing under control, and another two to feel like he'd be able to walk.

Ian had his tracking codes. Ian was the one hunting Quentin. His husband wanted him dead.

And, if Quentin didn't manage to get his manual, Ian might just get his wish.

By midnight, Quentin was too exhausted to go on. He'd been wandering the city since his run in with Ian, constantly on the move, most of his energy redirected to the tendrils of pain radiating from his chest; hoping Ian wouldn't be able to get to him if he didn't stay put. It had worked as intended, but that had meant no opportunity to recharge, and what good had it done him? If Ian showed up in front of him now, he could probably take Quentin in even without a Nuller, for how much strength he had left.

He knew his tracking chip would be off during sleep — a feature designed to give BioSynths a fighting chance, in case Xeygh cracked their codes during the war — but if Ian saw his signal go dark and stay dark, he'd be onsite faster than Quentin could wake up.

Hoping he wasn't signing his own death warrant, Quentin purchased a long-distance train ticket, adjusted the hoodie to obscure as much of his face as he could, settled in by his window seat, and slept.

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Thank you for reading!

As usual, votes and comments make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Just how did Ian get Quentin's codes so fast? Want to find out? Tune in to SynTracker, BioSynth's companion novella (link on my profile). There will be spoilers, but I personally thing the experience is made fuller by it.

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ONC Rec Time!

This week's recommended novella is One More Cup of Coffee, by _coffeewithhoney

Here's the blurb: An autistic barista learns to communicate with a reserved pianist when their life is predicted by the musical selection the man performs.