TRIGGER WARNINGS: graphic torture | suicidal thoughts.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Connors's nexus beeped a warning and he tutted, wagging a finger. "Calling for backup, are we? No more web for you."

Quentin's access was gone, with a single press of a button. The restraints interfacing with his system had multiple uses, he realised.

"My shoulder hurts," Mason complained. "Pack the thing up so I can go get it looked at."

"Pack the thing up?" Connors sounded affronted. "Is that any way to speak about Morgan's beloved husband?"

"I'm serious. It shot me, and—"

Connors must have been using a silencer, because there was no loud bang as his bullet hit Mason between the eyes. Just a pop. Mason slumped in his chair, a puppet with his strings cut, and Connors nudged him to the floor with the tip of a booted foot.

"Now see what you've done, Quentin?" Mock dismay, delivered with a serpent's tongue, as Connors circled him again. "You've gone and shot poor Mason. Tsk. You Syns are so violent. There's no reasoning with you, really."

The knife slicing through Quentin's back registered more as pressure than as pain. He'd been designed so that the cut needed to access his control panel was barely felt.

Then Connors turned his pain sensors all the way up and everything, even the clothes against his skin, was pure agony.

Except Connors wasn't done. With a series of nexus commands, he activated something in Quentin's restraints that made his previous torment feel like child's play. He couldn't think, couldn't reason, could only feel, and feel, and please, please, it hurt, oh, God, it hurt.

"Much better," Connors was saying. "I find your factory settings so... Constricting. I know you can't handle these for long, but I promise I won't break you. Not soon."

A moan escaped his throat only for him to try to suppress it, as that, too, was excruciating. Connors laid a finger on the side of his face, tracing patterns in Maxine's blood, leaving a blazing inferno in its wake. Breath was a knife stabbing his lungs. Quentin was going to go mad before he ever managed to die.

"Don't be afraid," Connors whispered in his ear. "We're going to be having fun for a long, long time. I'd never forgive myself if I broke Morgan's toy too soon." A smile that terrified him all the more for the way it did reach Connors's eyes. "Let me give you a sample."

Connors produced a dropper from his pocket, a momentary reprieve from the pain caused by his touch, even if all the rest remained. He brought it to the right side of Quentin's face, just next to the eye, his tone pleasant. "Did you know this was made exclusively for Syns? Cleans you up without damaging your mechanism."

There was no time to parse his meaning before the drop of acid hit, searing everything in its wake, eating layers of skin and tissue, tearing through the nanites trying to repair the damage it caused like they were nothing. A cry ripped through his throat, unstoppable in the wake of the agonising destruction of his face, and it was all Quentin could do to scream and whimper in turn, thrashing, helpless, in his restraints, no longer able to form words.

He thought he heard Connors laughing, but he could be imagining it; every sensor was malfunctioning with the overload of pain. Just as he felt his vision dimming, it receded with a movement of Connors's hand above the nexus, leaving just his amped up sensors. Quentin's throat was raw.

"See? I can be a reasonable man. Better?" Connors walked over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water before offering one to Quentin, who refused to even blink.

"Really? I thought you'd be parched after all that screaming." An elegant shrug. "To each their own, as they say. Let us continue, if you've recovered enough."

Quentin wasn't ready, would never be ready, hadn't expected Connors to put him through it again so soon, but his factory settings were being tampered with and the world was on fire. He tried to plead, to shrink in on himself, but he couldn't move, and Connors had produced a metal tin out of nowhere, as long as an adult's forearm, filled with liquid that had to be the same as the acid he'd just used on Quentin's face, and, no, please, he couldn't mean to, please.

The Tracker took hold of Quentin's left elbow, holding his unresisting forearm above the tin, and Quentin didn't know, wasn't sure anymore if his pleading was making it past his lips or was all in his mind.

Time slowed down and sped up in the same breath, a strange quality that allowed Quentin to be aware of every single detail happening around him even as horror and agony conspired to suffocate him. He saw the fingers of his left hand go inside the acid, excruciatingly slowly in more ways than one, and the disjointed, irrelevant thought that hounded him was my wedding ring is on that hand.

Then his forearm was all the way inside the box in one fluid movement, almost up to the elbow, and Quentin wanted to laugh but he was crying, screaming, synthetic synapses misfiring as the acid ate through everything in its wake leaving only the skeleton structure encasing his mechanism, black as sin, as sin, as Syn, he laughed at last and, God, when would he shut down from the pain?

"Good boy," Connors said, coming closer and patting his head in a mockery of a caress before reducing the level again. Quentin would never have thought he'd become accustomed to his max factory setting to a point that it became relief to have his pain regulated by it. He could think again.

"Tell me, Quentin, because I've been dying to know: What was Morgan's face like, when he saw what you are?"

Connors would mistake Quentin's lack of reply for defiance or inability. That was alright. Quentin's eyes had zeroed in on his light-absorbing black skeleton hand, built out a material that shouldn't have been able to glint. What used to be his palm was shallow but still deep enough to hold a few drops of shiny acid, harmless now that it had no further organic matter to destroy.

And, from his left elbow down, the restraints had nowhere to cling to.

He flung his hand towards Connors's face, not caring which parts of himself he might hit, and missed his own skin by sheer luck. Connors went down screaming; the rest of Quentin's restraints releasing as the nexus broke in the fall. Acting without thought, Quentin rose and pushed the box of acid to the floor, to splatter all over Connors before he could get up.

There was savage satisfaction to be felt, even through the pain. Connors's unholy gurgle didn't last long, his face dissolving almost too quickly for Quentin to enjoy. And he was enjoying it. Absent a BioSynth mechanism or a non-organic skeleton, there was very little of Connors left by the time the acid was through with him.

Quentin couldn't stay upright once the wave of adrenaline ebbed. His factory settings might be a reprieve from whatever hell Connors had devised, but those were still his pain sensors amped to the max. A flash of gold caught his eye, glinting close to where Connors had lain only moments before.

His wedding ring. Because gold couldn't be destroyed, it had sat in its acid bath even as the finger that wore it had been consumed. Until Quentin had tipped the tin over. Every bit of organic skin he still possessed needed to avoid the acid still on the floor, but his skeletal hand didn't have that problem. Shaking, he reached and clasped two claw-like fingers over it, dragging both it and his arm across the carpet until the contact stopped eating through everything in its wake. He slid the ring into the zipper pocket of the uniform he wore. Safe.

On his hand and knees, Quentin looked around the room. Three dead bodies, two by his hand. The third would be pinned on him as well. The media would whip people into a frenzy about the deadly weapon living among them, if they knew. And Ian... Just thinking of his husband brought forth a kind of pain that had nothing to do with his sensors. Ian would see it as confirmation. That Quentin was nothing but a murderous thing.

No.

He couldn't deal with it now. Too much of him was broken already, without adding this grief to the mix. It was hard to catch his breath, and impossible to reach his main panel. Everything was much harder to control after whatever Connors had done, his system malfunctioning. His best bet was a reboot, but he needed a four-hour charge first, or he risked not waking back up at all.

His head was light. Could he even afford to do that here? Anyone could walk in on him, and he'd be vulnerable. Easy pickings. But the alternative — a half charge, for alertness — would leave him in the same spot for eight hours before he had enough energy to walk out the door.

With staggering difficulty he crawled far enough to close the front door, each brush of carpet against his right hand and knees fresh agony. It didn't close all the way, but at least anyone approaching wouldn't see him unless they wanted to walk in. It wasn't enough. He made his painstaking way to where he'd dropped his gun and clutched its handle, dragging it back to the far end, back against the wall just next to the bathroom, and commanded the lights to turn off.

If anyone walked through that door, it'd be their last mistake.

☵☲☵

Breathe in. For the first two hours, he just focused on not screaming. Breathe out. The pain wasn't mounting, but it wasn't abating either, a constant, lancing presence that made higher functions inoperable. Breathe in. Six more hours to go. Breathe out. Footsteps on the stairs. Breathe— What?

Please, be just a tenant. Please go to another floor.

Whoever it was didn't heed his silent plea. Quentin clutched his weapon tighter and took aim, the trigger feeling like it was slicing through his skin just by being in contact with it.

He'd give anything not to take another life, but these people kept trying to end his. Was he so wrong for wanting to preserve it? For wanting to live?

The door opened, Quentin's visual sensors immediately picking up the intruder's features in the dark.

Ian.

Soaked through. Holding a gun.

Quentin knew then he was done for. Over. There was no way he'd ever be able to bring himself to end Ian's life, nor would he want to. Shooting him in a disabling, non-lethal spot would only be a good enough alternative if Quentin didn't have to share the same space with him for the next six hours.

He summoned all his bravado and spoke before Ian's eyes could adjust enough to know he was there. "Ian. I don't want to shoot you, but I will if I have to. Walk away while you still can."

Ian froze until he didn't, striding towards Quentin at an alarming speed as soon as he confirmed it was, in fact, Quentin there, holding him at gunpoint. He walked as if Quentin's gun was irrelevant; nothing but a toy.

He was taking a gamble on Quentin not firing. With another breath that did more to amplify the pain in his lungs than to steady himself, Quentin aimed to the side of Ian's head and fired a warning shot, too wide off the mark to inspire any real fear. Even that act made him want to curl in on himself and weep.

A week ago they'd been making love in the car. This was Ian. The man who always hogged the covers but made up for it by holding Quentin tight through the night. The man who came to all his exhibits even while he was on a job. The man who flew half way across the world to wish him a happy birthday before jumping back on a plane because he had a briefing in twelve hours.

Ian hadn't bothered pointing his gun at Quentin. He knew. He knew Quentin wouldn't fire.

Quentin's hand shook — his emotional responses were as functional as always, even with the damage he'd sustained — as he made a show of aiming straight at Ian's forehead. "Walk away. Now."

Ian didn't answer, but he didn't have to. He stood right in front of Quentin now, completely unafraid. Terror gripped Quentin as Ian crouched to take the gun from him with no effort. He should have turned it on himself while he had a chance. Being sent to the mines was worse, so much worse.

Quentin's vision was blurry; his breathing was laboured; the pulse he didn't need sped up. This wasn't a malfunction; it was an instinctive reaction, as much a part of him as of any human.

He watched, through a haze of hitching breath and tears, as Ian put Quentin's gun out of reach, to the side, and tucked his own in his boot holster. Weapons don't weep, Ian had said. Then why couldn't Quentin do anything else?

"Ian." He hadn't known he was about to speak, but seeing Ian about to touch him, about to reach for his inconveniently located control panel, brought forth his last remnants of self-preservation. His throat held, despite the abuse it had suffered. "Please. If I ever meant anything to you, don't do this. Don't take me in." There were only two ways he was getting out of this: to the mines, or scrapped for parts. He needed to convince Ian to go for option two. "Shoot me. Tell them you had no choice. I don't want to be a slave."

Ian's left hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him gently away from the wall to better access the control panel on his back. Did he even realise this made a mockery out of every embrace they'd ever shared?

How pathetic was Quentin for leaning into that not-embrace? It was likely to be his last act as Quentin. Why not close his eyes and imagine this was any other night? That the hand reaching behind his back was only to pull him closer? Feeling Ian's touch remained a comfort if he could get past the pain — he just had to ignore the circumstances for a minute, just a minute, and it'd be over.

But he couldn't stop begging long enough to believe the lie.

"Ian, don't do this. Please. Just shoot me. I never meant to deceive you. I'm sorry." Ian's fingers were inside the panel now, feeling for the switch he needed, and he still hadn't said a word. Quentin was going to be a slave for as long as he still functioned. And he'd always know Ian had despised him enough to condemn him to that fate, and nothing, not even Connors, could have shattered his spirit so profoundly. "They'll lock me in the mines. Turn me into a thing. Ian, please. I'm begging you. I—"

Ian's fingers reached their goal. Quentin's internal systems were still going haywire from the damage he'd sustained, but the physical pain stopped the moment that wheel was turned, leaving him awash in fierce, bright hope. Ian was a merciful man. Why would he reach for Quentin's pain receptors first if he didn't intend to do as Quentin begged? Quentin loved him all the more for it in his last few minutes. A mercy killing would be infinitely preferable to eternity in the mines, rotting away to nothingness as time lost all meaning. Even if Ian thought him a thing, even if Ian feared Quentin was a threat to innocent people, he had it in him to show kindness.

Ian's hand was still so tender where his fingers grazed the back of Quentin's neck. He let his forehead fall to Ian's shoulder, filled his lungs with the heady mix of Ian's comforting scent and the smell of fresh rain. It wasn't a bad way to go. It was possibly the best way.

Quentin smiled and closed his eyes, welcoming the bullet that was sure to follow.

He had only a single moment to realise the betrayal as Ian's other hand flipped the switch inside his panel and the world went dark.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

I want to write a clever line here, provoking your thoughts, asking for comments, but this one is hard to summarise considering it still punches me in the gut weeks after I've written it, so I'll just say, please hit me with your thoughts (a lot more welcome than gut punches, as you can imagine). If you feel it's warranted, please hit that Vote button up top.

And expect the next update on Wednesday, by which time I'll know whether BioSynth and/or SynTracker have made it to the next round of the ONC.

What was going on in Ian's mind at the end there? Did he really listen to the pleading of his husband only to decide he was nothing but a thing? Tune in to SynTracker, BioSynth's companion novella (link on my profile), if you're okay with knowing more than the characters do.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

ONC Rec Time!

Today's recommended novellas are No Sleep In Dreamland, by flowerghostqueen

And Embrace the Sky, by indigosa