Ian hadn't felt this free in a long time. Quentin always shouldered half his burdens, but this went beyond that. Ian could scarcely believe he'd allowed himself to commit to a date. Fifteen years - still too far in the future to dream of, but it was there. Something to work towards. Home at the end of a long, long day.

A different job. Teaching. Making sure the kids getting SynTracker licences these days knew what they were walking into, how to track Syns without civilian casualties or without getting themselves killed. Perhaps form a guild of sorts. Ensure no one without the right psychological profile could get a licence, and that no one without one would be paid for turning in a Syn.

No more heroes.

No more psychopaths.

It sounded like utopia. And there were practical considerations that wouldn't let him give it more serious thought for years.

It'd be a pay cut, and they were already pouring all their resources into the house. He wouldn't be able to pick contracts that fit around Quentin's hectic schedule, so he could always be there when it was important - in ten years he'd never missed an exhibit's opening night, never missed a birthday or an anniversary.

More importantly, if Quentin ever came across a Syn and it harmed him, Ian would never know if it was one he might have taken off the streets. No, he couldn't do it yet. Not while he was in his prime. But picturing it filled him with warmth just the same.

"Credit for your thoughts," Quentin said from the passenger's seat.

Ian forced himself to take his eyes off the road so he could bask in his husband's features. The car drove itself, but giving up control was still hard. "Just thinking about our talk. All the reasons I can't quit for now." He reached out to caress Quentin's cheek. "But I'll keep my promise."

"I know." Quentin smiled, and everything was right with the world.

Something in his peripheral vision made his eyes dart back to the road a fraction of a second before the impact.

One, two, three flips. In slow motion. Each so detailed it was as if it had taken an hour, yet Ian never had the time to say a word. Something hit him in the face - Quentin's camera bag. Ian, disoriented, couldn't be sure which way was up anymore. He turned to look at Quentin, to check if he was okay, but everything went dark.

☵☲☵

Quentin was calling his name, but Ian couldn't get to him. It was like being underwater, trying to swim for the surface only to realise he had no way of telling which way that was. Like a beacon, Quentin continued to call; Ian held on to that thread with all his might until he managed to open his eyes.

Everything was blurry. He felt nauseated, his head pounded, Quentin was laughing, and that wasn't right - he wouldn't be laughing in a situation like this, would he? Wasn't he screaming just moments before? Was he alright?

He said something - asked Quentin if he was alright - hadn't he just been thinking that? His ears rang. Quentin asked something. He replied something else, but couldn't, for the life of him, remember what it was.

Damage. He needed to assess damage. They were both wearing their seatbelts, there was no-

No.

No.

No.

A burst of adrenaline filled him with horrifying clarity when he saw what had caused the crash. A stray piece of billboard frame had shattered the windshield.

It had pierced through Quentin's sternum.

From where he was hanging, Ian couldn't see any blood, but there was virtually no chance of it not being fatal.

Nausea and pain receded. Quentin needed him now. He pressed his thumb to the nexus and hailed TrackerEvac. Faster than the regular medics. They had no way of knowing Ian wasn't the injured party and, once on site, couldn't refuse to transport Quentin. He'd be alright. He'd be alright, and Ian told him so, because there was no sense in worrying Quentin when he'd so obviously be alright.

Ian had no recollection of untangling himself from his seatbelt. His only thought was that he needed to see. Ignoring the certainty that there was nothing he could do, no matter what he found. He kept talking to Quentin, his demeanour calm. Inside, Ian was drowning again.

It took far too long for the nexus to provide the light he needed, but that couldn't be right either. It always tuned on in a fraction of a second, didn't it? Unimportant. Now he'd be able to see the wound and-

And he saw it, his vision sharpening for that one sickening moment.

The wound.

The torn skin, the blood, the organs.

The Syn mechanism underneath.

This wasn't Quentin. It was a Syn wearing his face.

Instinct and training helped him through the shock. Ian had pulled a gun from his boot and had it pressed up against the Syn's forehead the next minute. "Where is he," he asked with no inflection.

The Syn was a perfect copy, all of Quentin's features arranged into a vivid expression of horror and betrayal. Insisting it was Quentin, and Ian had to keep glancing to the damaged sternum to remind himself that, no, the piece of hardware and software in front of him was not his husband. Oblivion threatened, but he held fast; If he fainted the Syn would murder him, and there'd be no one left to rescue Quentin.

He was used to relying on Syns being able to scan heart rate and his other tells for them to know Ian wasn't bluffing when he pointed a gun at them; that he'd press the trigger if he needed to. Right now he only hoped this Syn's sensors had been damaged in the crash, because Ian didn't have a SynthNuller on hand and wouldn't risk damaging the Syn's memory banks with a bullet.

Not the memory banks that might be his only chance to find Quentin.

Nausea returned with full force when Ian realised everything he'd done with the Syn earlier, in this very car. While Quentin was missing, possibly hurt and afraid, or maybe even- No. He couldn't think that.

Ian adjusted his grip on the gun as his body threatened to betray him. The Syn closed its eyelids in an expression of pain that was pure Quentin - another defence mechanism, the ability to provoke empathy in its captors. The car spun again, but it was only Ian who was spinning, too fast to stop.

Consciousness and the gun both slipped from his grasp. The impostor's face was the last thing he saw.

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Thank you for reading!

As usual, any and all comments are exceedingly welcome. I'd love to know your thoughts on the plot, the pacing, the characters, or just what you liked or disliked. If you feel it's warranted, there's a little star icon that will reward this chapter with a vote!

The blurb pretty much gave it away but, for those of you who didn't read it, were you expecting this new development?

And, if you want to know what's going on with Quentin, tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile), but be forewarned: There will be spoilers if you decide to read both.