The epilogues can be read in any order, but, chronologically, this takes place after BioSynth's epilogue so, if you're reading both, read BioSynth's Epilogue first.

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The water was never quite hot enough for the kind of shower Ian preferred in this place, but, on most mornings, it didn't matter. On most mornings Quentin was in the shower with him, supplying all the warmth Ian would ever need, and living here felt like the privilege it was.

If anyone had told him, six months before, that he'd be happier living in a bunker than in the house he'd lovingly chosen to grow old with Quentin in, he'd have told them to go in for a psych eval. Yet they'd have been spot on in their assessment.

Quentin had owned the bunker long before Ian had met him; he'd planned to move there alone, then he'd given it to his friends, and finally they'd decided to share it. It was big enough for the two of them and the Maimed Misfits, as Quentin's friends insisted on calling themselves, with plenty of room to spare for a darkroom, a workroom for Ian, and to house those just passing by, or needing a place to lie low after Ian switched their Tracking chip.

That didn't mean things always went well.

Jax, the BioSynth Ian and Ulla had mistakenly rescued, spent half of his time in the web, searching for other BioSynths; some he invited over, if they had the corresponding blank chip. Ian never withheld his past as a Tracker. Quentin hated that was the first thing he told people, but he had to; there'd been enough secrets, enough hiding. Quentin had sat in on each of those early conversations, ready to intervene if things escalated, until Ian had put a stop to it. Three weeks later, when he'd found himself pressed against a wall and about to be punched by someone who didn't look like they'd be holding back, he'd had a moment to regret that decision.

And then Jax, of all people, had materialised in the room, yanked his fellow BioSynth off of Ian, and told him he could either stay and have his chip removed or there was the door, thank you very much. His reply to Ian's dumbfounded look had been a shrug and a simple "we take care of our own."

That, more than anything, had been the thing to make him feel welcome here. "Our own," Jax had called him, and he'd never looked at Ian with distrust from that day forward. One by one, the others started warming up to him. Clementine was harder to impress. She'd been one of Connors's victims; the only thing Ian found surprising was that she tolerated his presence enough not to shoot him.

He'd yet to come across another BioSynth he'd Tracked, something that filled him with sadness more than relief: no one in their group had found out where the pleasure houses were located yet and, if anyone had escaped, they weren't talking.

Ian turned off the water so he could shampoo his hair. Quentin went on missions without him, sometimes. Those were days Ian hated with a ferocity he'd never admit to. Like yesterday. Quentin had gone off with Alice and Clementine to confirm if a BioSynth they'd been in touch with for two months was the real thing, and they weren't expected back until that afternoon.

He hoped they wouldn't get held up. The logic was faultless — Ian was human, their only hope of switching any chips at all until he could train another person, and to risk him on a mission would be to risk all of them — but it grated. He didn't have it in him to stay behind doing installs while Quentin was facing danger; it'd been a hard wake-up call, to understand his presence might be the very thing that put Quentin in danger in the first place. That was how they got him to stay home: by calling him invaluable in one breath and a liability in the next.

The glass door slid open as he turned the water back on. Quentin. Wearing nothing but a smile that was instantly mirrored on Ian's lips.

"You're back early." Ian's eyes scanned him for injuries as he always did whenever Quentin was out without him, reaching to confirm with his fingertips that no, he hadn't been harmed.

"And no one even had to draw their weapons this time," Quentin murmured against his neck.

How was it that Quentin could always undo him without even trying? A touch here, a lingering kiss there, and no matter how mundane his words were, Ian would find his heart rate had skyrocketed and his knees had gone weak. "So was Olivia — ah. Was she," his breath hitched, "the real deal?"

Quentin pressed up against him, and Ian found himself with his back against the tile. "You're still too coherent by half. Let me see how long it takes to change that."

'Not long at all,' was the obvious answer. By the time Quentin was done with him Ian couldn't form words, his only reassurance seeing that Quentin wasn't any more articulate.

Yet there was something off with him.

Something brittle, fragile. From the way he dragged them back to bed and just held Ian against him, the fingers of his right hand tangled in the hair Ian wore slightly longer these days, kissing him as if they both didn't have a debriefing in less than half an hour, to the way his every shuddering breath spoke of something more profound than aftershocks of pleasure.

"What happened, love?"

"Olivia checks out. She's a 72, has at least five others with her — I don't know their models, but some are like Ulla. If things go well, we'll be able to do a lot more from now on."

Then why were his eyes so haunted? Ian didn't speak, gave Quentin the time to gather his thoughts.

"It's Yanes."

Things slotted into place. "You finally met the elusive Yanes. I was right, wasn't I? Yanes is human — that's why she was always absent from your meetings in the web."

Quentin's Adam's apple bobbed, his chest rising and falling in deliberate breaths. "We haven't met Yanes yet, but yes. Olivia confirmed it today. We'll get to meet all of them in an hour, after the debriefing. They're coming here."

Ian tried his best not to let Quentin read him, but it was a lost battle. His husband knew him far too well, judging by the way his eyes slid to the ceiling and wouldn't meet Ian's, or his halting, "Try not to look so happy at the thought of going out and getting yourself killed guilt-free, will you?"

"I'll be careful. I keep telling you: I always come home to you."

"Yeah," Quentin's voice was thick, raw, "Until the day you don't. It's been on my mind, lately. How, even if you don't get yourself killed, you're still going to die one day and there's nothing I can do about it."

Ian slid his leg over Quentin's, palm on his cheek, feeling wet trails on the tip of his fingers. He couldn't deny he'd thought about it, too. "Hey, now. That's still a long way away." With synthetic organ replacements, implants, and new advances every day, Ian could hope to live another sixty, seventy years if the job didn't kill him. "You'll be stuck with me for a good long while before you get to replace me with a newer model." That last bit showed more of Ian's own vulnerabilities than he cared to admit. Knowing he'd get old. That Quentin wouldn't.

Quentin's arms came around him tight, his skeletal hand digging hard into Ian's back. He never lost control of his emotions this way, and it... Ian didn't doubt Quentin's feelings for him — it would have been impossible, after everything — but in times like these he felt them deep enough in his core not to be able to tell which ones were his and which were Quentin's. He found he liked it that way.

"I'm never replacing you, damn it. Why do you think I keep trying to get you to stay safe?" A hard kiss. "It's all selfish. I get to be lonely and miserable for all eternity after you're gone."

"No, you won't." Ian brushed his tears away, leaning his forehead on Quentin's. "You'll mourn me, you'll miss me, and then once you're done doing that you'll find someone else."

"I won't."

But Ian had given this far too much thought, as he'd come to terms with knowing there would never be a growing old together in their future. Quentin was all but immortal, and forever was a long time to be lonely. "You will. Do you know why?"

"Why?" Sullen, to mask the ache.

"Because I don't know what happens next, but if there's a way for me to come back and live another life, I'm coming to find you all over again. You won't turn me away, will you?"

"Yeah?" Quentin's laughter was a sob. "And how will I know it's you?"

"Because I'll be persistent. I'll feel right. And you'll want to let me in." It wasn't a belief; it was a fantasy, wish-fulfilment. But he wanted Quentin to absolve himself from the crime of finding happiness again, when the time came. "Now, can we stop planning my funeral? I'm not going anywhere soon."

"No? When was the last time you had a headache?"

Three of their in-bunker BioSynths had extensive medical knowledge, as did Ulla; Quentin never let that keep him from worrying. "Months ago, love. It was just a concussion." One Ian had made undeniably worse by not resting and jumping headfirst into all the events that followed, and one that still sometimes made his vision blur or his head pound, but he was taking care of himself. He intended to live by Quentin's side for as long as he could.

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They were late for the debriefing. Olivia's group would be here any minute, and Ulla had dropped by to meet them. She was making tea, her partner taking care of the sandwiches, their children being babysat by Jax and asking him all kinds of questions about his glowing orb.

International regulations were the only thing stopping Ian from suggesting they hack the nexus news and announce, in prime time, that BioSynths were AI. The tableau in front of him proved it beyond the shadow of any doubt: they could not only coexist, but be one. Equals. Far more humans in Alyra would support it, if they knew, but what good would that do if every other country was waging war on them for creating artificial intelligence in the first place? There had to be a better way.

Four motorbikes came into view of the drone outside the bunker, their translucent 3D images blown up on the nexus. Olivia, Yanes, and the rest.

Ian and Clementine were among the first to go up to meet them. Most 75s and below they came across travelled by bike, the helmets a helpful tool to hide whatever damage there might be, but Olivia's group took it a step further, with state-of-the-art voice distortion on every helmet. She'd just taken hers off and greeted Clementine when her partner drew her weapon on Ian with a single word: "Tracker."

Ian raised his arms, finding himself on the wrong end of seven identical guns in the blink of an eye. This was why he insisted on having people know in advance, he thought with more annoyance than fear. Clementine drew her gun and stepped right in front of him with a, "Yeah, well, he's our Tracker. If anyone's going to shoot him it'll be me," that warmed him up inside; behind him, Xavier and Lara were following suit.

"Why did it have to be you," the woman asked, and there was something so familiar, past the helmet, past the voice distortion, Ian was almost afraid to think it. Until Quentin burst from the bunker, ready to do who knew what, and her voice went from dismay to an astounded, "Quentin? You're a BioSynth?" as she lowered her gun.

On opposite sides, Quentin and Olivia both looked at a loss, even if he was as ready to commit murder on Ian's behalf as she was to murder Ian to protect her group. "Yeah, that's Quentin. We met earlier. You know him?" A quick glance. "Come on, Yanes, is the other guy a Tracker or not?"

"He's safe," the woman said with a laugh that, even with the distortion, was filled with joy. "If Quentin's a BioSynth he's definitely safe." Several pairs of shoulders relaxed, weapons being holstered.

And then 'Yanes' took off her helmet, hand running through her short curly hair, and Ian felt tears jumping from his eyes without warning. He'd known it, in his bones; he'd always known she wasn't the monster SynSec had made her out to be. "Kaya. I went to your funeral."

"Yeah? Turns out I got better." Her grin was unrepentant as she moved past Clementine and Quentin to draw him into a hug. "SynSec really ought to hire better thugs, but I'm happy to let him think he won this one."

Ian laughed through the tears he'd shed moments before, wanting to keep hugging her and to throttle her all at once. "Why didn't you tell me? Once you knew?"

"And what? Get you on SynSec's radar too? So you could fake your death and join me because it was the right thing to do? You'd have been miserable without your better half over there. I wasn't leaving anyone behind; it was cleaner like this."

She wasn't wrong. It'd have torn Ian to shreds, but he wouldn't have told Quentin a thing. Wouldn't have made him a target, forced him to give up his exhibits, his photography, his freedom to pay for Ian's mistakes. But he wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he'd kept Tracking; he'd have staged his death like she had, and missed Quentin every single day that followed.

Kaya let him go to punch Quentin's right shoulder. She might have been closer to Ian, but she and Quentin had always gotten along famously. "I can't believe you were a BioSynth all along! I'm going to need details. And wine."

"I can't believe you were alive all along," Quentin shot back, his grin matching hers before his voice dropped to a stage whisper, "These people feed us tea."

The rest of Olivia's group had mingled with the Misfits, everyone making their way inside. These were his people now, as much as Quentin's. Ian wouldn't have traded them for his old life if he could.

"So," Quentin was asking, "'Yanes'?"

"What? I read about Symons, figured I could get cute with my name as well. Beats Kajo!"

Oh, he'd missed her.

One of Ulla's children flew by in Jax's arms, pretending to be an aeroplane, and Kaya turned to give both of them a pointed look. "You have children here? I hope you've discovered what locks are for. I still have this one's," she indicated Quentin with her chin, "arse burnt into my retinas."

Ian brought a hand to his face, heat spilling to his fingertips as Quentin lifted a shoulder. "Serves you right for not knocking."

"On my own bedroom door? You were supposed to be outside enjoying the party."

"Turns out I was enjoying the party inside." Quentin had the gall to waggle his eyebrows, making Ian's face go from heated to a full-blown inferno. Damn the man for never missing a beat.

The aforementioned damnable husband put his right arm around Ian and pressed a kiss to his temple, which Ian absolutely did not use as an excuse to better hide his face. "Let's get caught up before Ian spontaneously combusts. What don't we know?"

"Oh, boy." She picked up a tea mug with a dubious look and sat down. "What you don't know could fill a book."

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I can't believe this is it. We've reached The End. Of these novellas, at least — I still have a lot of stories left to tell in this universe, as it turns out. Anyway, I'll have a few questions ready for you in the next chapter, if you're willing and able to spare a few minutes.

Thanks for reading this — I hope Ian and Quentin's journey kept you company and provoked thoughts, feelings, the works.