Sunday's motel room might look different from Saturday's, but it felt exactly the same. Impersonal. Generic. Lonely.

It wasn't the motel's fault. Quentin doubted the penthouse suite of the most exclusive hotel in the city would have felt any better. He'd gotten used to sleeping next to Ian, or at the very least to having his face in 3D on the nexus, so they could talk before bed when one of them was away. Yesterday had been the first time he'd gone to sleep without talking to his husband since they'd moved in together.

Quentin shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He had to stop thinking of Ian as his husband, even if ex-husband sounded inaccurate. Ian was someone else's husband; someone who didn't exist. And Quentin didn't want to forget him, not ever — he wouldn't spend so long reviewing memories of the last ten years if he did — but another night had passed and he was no closer to figuring out his next step, so he had to put Ian away, for a little while. His past wasn't going anywhere.

Next on the agenda: a shower.

Showering was a frightening, if necessary, endeavour. The hole in his sternum had stopped shrinking, and to wrap it in plastic film felt surreal when there were organs — actual organs — functioning over his core mechanism, visible inside. Pain had dropped to an acceptable level, proof that he could control some things, but not others. The data he had access to told him he didn't need any of those organs, which was a relief. They were a design feature, a stealth enhancement, conceived to fool scans, and—

Alone under the shower spray, he giggled like a madman. Had he really just thought to himself it was a relief he didn't need his organs? Maybe he'd damaged his emotions chip in the crash — laughter kept bubbling up in the most inappropriate situations, and tears followed it far too often.

Less than two days and he'd already embraced he was nothing but a bot.

At least clothes hid the unseemly hole, even if they didn't make knowledge of it any less disturbing.

The corresponding hole in his back had closed with relative ease, on its own, without any input. What was wrong with the chest wound? He ran a diagnostic test. The ability should be there, to regenerate the synthetic flesh, the skin over it, but he couldn't access it — didn't know where to begin.

What he did know was that he no longer needed a nexus to access the web. He could do it with a thought, sift through whatever knowledge he sought, without people being the wiser.

People being the operative word.

He could feel them — other BioSynths — in the web. Researching, hacking, shopping, watching. Some just watched. He didn't know who the others were — knew they wouldn't know who he was, either, unless he chose to interact — but the crawling sensation of a million eyes on the back of his neck made him want to run, to lock the door, to shut himself down entirely.

A million spiders on the web, and Quentin was a fly.

And, with his next search, he had no alternative but to give those watching another piece of the puzzle of his identity.

BSYN21069. Search.

There was so little information available, even in places rarely travelled, that he still couldn't get what he needed. No information on his abilities. How to repair. How to cloak. How to construct a different persona from scratch, without giving away who he was with the first press of an analogue shutter.

Ian had to be tearing the city apart, looking for a missing husband who'd never return home. Quentin didn't want someone to recognise him from the inevitable nexus ads Ian would buy, but he couldn't stay locked up within four walls either. He had to find a job, a home, start over. He wouldn't last long without learning how to alter his appearance.

Messages floated by, some within reach. Other BioSynths making contact, though what for Quentin had no clue. The last thing he wanted was to connect to any of them and be recognised as the BioSynth who'd turned his back on the rebellion.

They wouldn't understand. All they knew was violence and betrayal, war and anger. They'd tried to walk away from it, after the annexation of Xeygh, and where had that gotten them? Ordering Ian's murder, seeing humans as the enemy, proving humans right.

No, Quentin wanted none of that.

All he wanted was to pass for human again. He'd never find another Ian — in sixty-seven years, he'd only ever found the one — but that didn't mean he couldn't try to have something. Someone.

He had to keep reminding himself: he pulled his own strings.

When the feeling of being watched went from generic to intense and personal, Quentin dropped the connection with a shudder. He'd found nothing of value about his model, but he didn't feel safe in the web. He'd access it as little as possible until he relearned to cloak.

Still out of balance from the unnerving experience, Quentin's lunch consisted of water and stale bread. He hadn't bought that many protein bars on the night he'd fled, and had run out earlier. How ironic: Pinocchio still had to eat to keep functioning.

The afternoon was spent shopping for food and more clothes, turning off street cameras in five different points of the city's grid whenever he needed to move to a single zone. This was why the city cameras spent more time offline than online: BioSynths, shutting them down to be safe.

There'd be mass panic if the humans knew.

Dangerous or not, being outside again, under the winter sun with his camera bag on his shoulder, made him feel better. He couldn't take pictures — buying something as specific as film would raise flags Ian was sure to be monitoring, and he didn't have access to a darkroom to develop them anyway — but just the weight of it felt comforting.

Maybe he'd go digital as soon as he figured out a way to earn credits. Nowhere near as satisfying, but having a camera in his hands again would be something to tidy him over until he could move somewhere else and start over. Ian would have teased him for this obsession, for his need to be able to shoot that outweighed the needs for food and sleep.

Ian wasn't here anymore.

Clouds obscured the sun, making him shiver. Everyone around him had somewhere to go, a life to get back to. They huddled in their winter coats, speeding up; some smiling, others in the middle of a conversation. Even the billboard ads had purpose, bathing the city in their neon glow, night or day.

Quentin had nothing.

Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be back in his motel room. The streets no longer felt comforting or secure. He had his food; he had his clothing. Locking the door behind him when he arrived allowed him to breathe properly at last. A home base. Temporary security. But he couldn't stay another night.

He wanted more than this, more than lugging his meagre possessions from day to day to a different place, never laying his head down on the same pillow. He needed a home.

He needed his service manual.

Ian had piles of BioSynth manuals in his garage, paper manuals. Quentin had to break in and search for his. He had to break into what, a mere two days ago, had been his home.

Irony in spades, that all roads led back to Ian.

It might free him, or it just might kill him.

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Thank you for reading!

As always, votes are beloved, and comments treasured and given cookies.

Curious to know what Ian's been up to? Tune in to SynTracker, BioSynth's companion novella (link on my profile). Just be mindful that there'll be spoilers if you decide to read both.

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ONC Rec Time!

This week's recommended novella is Swift as a Coursing River, by BirtheV

Here's the blurb: A recently out divorcee must explore his identity and how to not be the straight-acting man he's been his whole life. Just when he has found his footing, a flamboyant trans man jumbles up his ideas about what it means to be gay, to be masculine, to be a man.