It had worked. Four solid hours of sleep, two in each direction, meant Quentin was back to where he'd started, feeling much more like himself. Not the pain, though. That wouldn't let up.

He needed to close the hole if he wanted to be safe, and for that he'd need the manual, which would put him right in Ian's path. A catch-22 if there had ever been one. He needed to take risks to avoid risks. It'd take him half an hour to get home — to get to Ian's home — and there was a decent chance Ian would be asleep at half past four in the morning. No time like the present.

For all his fears, breaking in turned out to be easy. Quentin didn't test the alarm codes — Ian would no doubt have changed them and inputting the old ones would probably trigger the very alarm Quentin was trying to circumvent — but he knew what to do. Any other BioSynth would have run into trouble here. Would have assumed they could cut power to the entire block, wait for Ian to come check nothing was amiss, and then go in.

Quentin knew better.

He knew there was a backup generator, where it was, what it was connected to, and how. He also knew the exact location of the motion sensors — something Ian wouldn't have been able to change on such short notice — and the speed at which they activated, so a falling sheet of paper wouldn't trigger an alarm. This was where his old, newly rediscovered infiltration memories proved useful.

Quentin spoofed the closed circuit signal, so he could set the camera on a loop. Then he got in through the window and, moving at the exact speed he was allowed to, grabbed the first motion sensor, rapidly lowering his core temperature until it froze and shattered in his palm; three more to go.

It took him twenty minutes, but he was now able to move freely. As long as Ian remained asleep, he wouldn't even know Quentin had been here — not until he needed to reach for Quentin's manual, at least. He let the street cameras outside turn back on; he'd turn them off again before exiting but, for now, it was less suspicious this way.

His visual sensors had no need for light other than the sliver provided by the moon. They adapted to the current conditions but, even if they hadn't, the garage was a part of his home. He knew his way around like the back of his hand.

Except for the BioSynth standing in the corner, sending Quentin's heart racing. The BioSynth from last Friday, that Ian had caught just before they went out to dinner.

A lifetime ago.

What was it — she — still doing here? Had Ian become so single-minded about hunting him down that he'd forgotten to do his job? His fists closed tight as he bit his tongue to keep himself from making a sound. It made sense. Finding out he'd been fucking a bot for the last ten years might do that to a man, even one as duty-focused as Ian. Picturing the look of revulsion on Ian's face wasn't something he wanted to do now. Ever.

He was wasting time. Ian's motivations weren't important, and this BioSynth's fate wasn't Quentin's responsibility. If he turned her back on, how would she react? Any noise she made could spell doom for both of them, and how would that have helped? No, he had to find his manual and leave; his very survival hinged on it.

The manuals weren't on the shelf where he expected them to be, giving way to a moment of panic. Had Ian known Quentin would come here? Had he set up a trap, removed the manuals in case it didn't go well?

Quentin scanned the rest of the shelves, heart falling with every single one that failed to contain the manuals. If it was a trap, he had to leave, but — There. On the desk, and on the floor beside it. One more thing so unlike Ian, that he'd leave work tools lying around instead of storing them in their proper place. How quickly love had turned to hatred, and how foolish of Quentin, to not be able to let go of the love he felt with the same ease.

He only realised he'd shut his eyes when the first tear leaked.

For all he kept telling himself there was no time for this, that he could mourn his old life later, being here was like shooting with no film. Like opening the chamber to find all he had were his memories, with no tangible proof there'd ever been something more.

The manual. Right now he had to find the manual. It wasn't on the desk, which threw him for a loop — he'd assumed Ian would have been studying Quentin's, to know all of his weak spots. But there it was, in a pile on the floor: BSYN21069, the gateway to Quentin's freedom.

Experience told him to take a few of the others as well, throw Ian of the scent. His husband didn't have an eidetic memory, but he came close, and if more than one manual went missing it would at least not be definitive proof it had been Quentin behind the break-in. The 62, 77 and 93 ought to do it; Quentin didn't want to carry more weight than he had to, on his back, lest it tore the hole in his chest further.

His backpack caught on the edge of a metal shelf as he turned, dragging a box of spare SynthNuller charges to the floor. He was lucky the noise it made wasn't loud enough to—

Inside the house, a light turned on.

Ian was awake. Heart wanting to beat out of his chest — please, not literally, he thought to himself, suppressing hysterical laughter — Quentin abandoned stealth in favour of speed, jumping out the window and darting outside faster than a human could. His four-hour charge wouldn't last, not with the damage from the crash and this mad dash, but there was no other choice.

He didn't look back.

Quentin ran down the street, the hole in his chest feeling like it was on fire, until the row of houses gave way to buildings and he was in the city proper; it wasn't until then that he remembered to turn off street cameras. Ian would definitely know he'd been there, but at least Quentin had escaped. He could get lost in the crowd here. If Ian had followed, he hadn't been fast enough.

Energy stores depleted, it was only once inside yet another moving train that he felt like he could stop. Ian might have woken up for a number of reasons; he might not even have noticed Quentin being there, much less getting away. He was safe, and he had his manual.

It was a win.

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It was a loss. No matter how he looked at it, it was a loss.

He'd locked himself in the train's bathroom, scanning every page of the manual so it'd be saved to his memory files, convinced he was one step closer to freedom. It had been a struggle to make himself shut down afterwards, in his seat on the train, when all he'd wanted to do was dive in his newly acquired files and start searching, but he'd done that too. He knew it would do him no favours to wear himself to the brink, especially not with Ian... Yeah.

Long-distance train rides couldn't be his answer to everything, for about a dozen different reasons that started with Ian would notice the pattern and ended with Quentin simply didn't have enough credits to sustain that lifestyle. But they'd been good for sleeping, and they were good for him to review his manual, he'd thought.

He'd read it cover to cover, twice, over four different trains. He knew, in theory, what he'd need to do to fix the hole in his chest. That was where the good news ended.

No web cloaking feature.

No info on what factory made his chip.

And BSYN21069 had no appearance-altering abilities.

It was hard to tell which was the more devastating blow of the last two; he couldn't see a normal future ahead, or anything resembling peace. Even if he managed to flee to a different country — even if Ian hadn't already sent his photo to every travel hub in existence — this was Ian. He chased normal BioSynths with relentless focus. If his love for Quentin had morphed into hatred? There was nowhere on the planet Ian wouldn't Track him. Quentin doubted even the heart of a virgin forest would have been enough to shield him from the man he still loved.

Not that Ian would hurt him. No, he didn't have it in him. His hatred was for Quentin's makers — Quentin himself didn't warrant even that much. He'd hunt Quentin, shut him down, and send him in for reprogramming, all without batting an eyelash. Quentin would exist, but not be. A fate worse than death.

A fate he'd doomed the woman in Ian's garage to that morning. Did he have any right to hope for a better one?

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Thank you for reading!

BioSynth made past Round One of the ONC! Now I'm eagerly anticipating the opening of the submission form for Round Two, because BS hit 8k last chapter. Onwards and upwards!

Quentin's mournful eye up there is asking you to kindly hit the vote button if you've enjoyed this chapter. Comments would make my day!

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

Quentin is all about the close calls these days. How will Ian react to the break-in? Want to find out? Tune in to SynTracker, BioSynth's companion novella (link on my profile) to find out!

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ONC Rec Time!

This week's recommended novella is Ante, by salemkeating

Here's the blurb: In a world where science and magic collide, Lav Sciarra is hailed as a hero. But Lav knows the ones who win are the writers of history. Told in his own voice, Lav recounts the truth of how he became the most powerful Gemma alive and exactly what it cost him.