Ian was back in the car, hanging upside down, Quentin beside him, speared by the billboard's frame. But there was blood, so much more blood than he remembered. It poured from Quentin's mouth when he tried to speak, light fading from his eyes faster than Ian could free himself. Somehow Ian was next to him, looking for the Syn mechanism inside the wound. There was none. Just Quentin's lifeless body.

'That's your fault. Didn't you say you wanted him human?' The Syn from his garage — just a disembodied head — looked on mockingly from his glove compartment. 'You're the monster here,' it repeated, over and over. And, when Ian caught sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror, all he saw was a BioSynth mechanism with no flesh.

He woke up covered in sweat, heart beating erratically in his chest, trapped between horror and relief. It hadn't been the real Quentin in that crash; for the first time, Ian saw that as a positive thing. If it had truly been his husband, he'd have come home a widower; this way there was still a chance — a good chance, every chance, he told himself — Quentin was still alive. As long as that remained true, better to have had the Syn in the car than Quentin.

Throughout Wednesday morning the Syn's words kept playing in his mind on a loop.

'You're the monster here.'

Ian ordered a new security system for the garage, so there'd be no more unwelcome surprises. Then he settled down to make calls to more traditional contacts and set up filters and alerts, all based on Quentin's face. The last two times he'd seen the Syn, it was still wearing it; maybe it'd malfunctioned in the crash and was unable to alter its appearance.

'You won't listen.'

It was a tricky balance to strike. He couldn't get Trackers after the Syn because they might damage it — or worse, hurt Quentin if, by some miracle, he managed to free himself from wherever he was being held captive — but he couldn't report Quentin as a missing person and knowingly expose local law enforcement to a Syn. Whichever way he looked at it, it had to be him.

'You're the monster here.'

Zaiden called over lunch, to invite Ian and Quentin over for a party on Saturday. A fist clenched over his heart at having to retell the entire tale. He thought he'd have Quentin back by now. That he wouldn't have to listen to the shock, the sympathy, the falseness of friends saying they hoped Quentin was returned soon when their tone was filled with nothing but pity and the implication they thought there was no hope at all.

A drone delivered the security system after lunch; setting it up and modifying it took a good portion of his afternoon. The Syn sat unmoving in its chair, face still arranged in the contemptuous expression it'd worn when Ian had shut it down.

'Do you even know the fate you're sending us to?'

He sat down in his living room after that, to search for answers to questions he'd never posed before. Where did repurposed Syns go to? What was the government doing with them? He found no info other than wild theories on activist sites. Everything, ranging from work in radioactive mines, to reprogramming attempts so they'd be usable as weapons again, to exclusive bordellos.

He might believe the mines theory — it made sense to program synthetic bodies into doing dangerous work that could be lethal to humans — but not the rest. Government officials were short-sighted, but the rebellion had proved anyone with sufficient skill could program Syns. Who'd want their gun to fire on them mid-fight?

And bordellos? The article went on to describe, in vivid detail, that appearance altering Syns were used for all manner of sexual work, paid for at a premium. It read more as wish fulfilment of the writer's sick, twisted fantasies than as anything the government would actually promote. Weapons of mass destruction used as sex toys.

'You're the monster here.'

Stupid, to have allowed it to get to him with its mind games, but knowing that and fighting it off weren't the same thing. He searched for the Syns' original programmer, wondering what his life path and goals had been. Bishop Symons. BioSynth. Clever.

Surprisingly little information, considering it'd been his code that had ultimately won them the war. Code he hadn't parted with of his own free will, it would seem. He'd been pulled from the project when he started protesting the inclusion of bellicose features in Syns. He'd been trying to create life, not weapons, he said.

Curious.

Was that why Syns were so adamant that's what they were? Because their programmer had made that faulty statement a part of their core?

Symons had died of a heart attack at the age of seventy-nine, creditless and having faded into obscurity after having been banned from ever touching a line of code again. Barred from so much as giving an interview. International regulations didn't take kindly to people trying to create true AI.

Had he lived another two years, he'd have seen his creations reprogrammed into rebellion.

'You're the monster here.'

Travers' ID on Ian's ringing nexus stole the breath from his lungs, pulling him from his introspective mood. The plain "Morgan" as he answered threw him off-kilter. When was the last time Travers had greeted anyone without swearing?

"Travers. Do you have any news for me?"

"Not exactly. SynSec wants you to come in tomorrow. Four pm."

Ian breathed deeply, in through his nose, out through his clenched teeth. "My husband's missing," he repeated for what felt like the umpteenth time. "I don't have time for whatever new piece of red tape the guys at SynSec dreamed up. Have them send me the forms they're after, and I'll—"

"Morgan." Travers' tone felt off. The man was always insistent, but this wasn't his usual.

"What is it?"

"Not the guys at SynSec. The fucking Secretary himself wants you to come in."

Ian started. Twenty years on the job, and he'd never so much as exchanged a message with the Secretary of BioSynth Non-Proliferation. Not once, and the man had taken office when Ian was still in diapers. He didn't know what to make of it, other than there was very little chance of it being good news.

"I just got the call," Travers continued. "Maybe it's nothing bad, but I don't need to tell you it's not a fucking invitation for tea and biscuits."

"Do you know..." His voice faltered, and he had to start again. "Is it about Quentin?"

"Fuck if I know, Morgan. Been trying to get you those codes, but you know how it is. Fucking database's slow and close to bursting, and you didn't give me any info I could use to narrow it down. I'm still at it."

Meanwhile SynSec himself wanted Ian to come in, and Ian would be able to think of little else until the meet. "SynSec tomorrow — is there any chance I can move it up? Make it morning? Or even now — I'm free whenever he is."

Travers glared at him as if Ian had declared himself an activist for Syn rights. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm going to call SynSec for that."

"No, of course, I..." Ian ran a hand across his face, head throbbing past the point of reasonable thought. "You're right. Four pm. Where does he want me to be?"

"His office." A flurry of translucent movement on Travers' end. "Just sent you the coordinates. Don't be late."

There was no chance of that.

"Oh, and Morgan?" Travers added just as Ian was about to end the call.

"Yeah?"

"None of the morgues have had bodies looking like your man for at least a week. Doesn't mean anything, but I thought you might like to know." Mercurial, but not devoid of empathy, Ian thought once more. "I'll keep an ear to the ground until I have something."

"Thanks. That helps."

"Yeah. I hope SynSec comes through for you."

That was more faith than Ian could spare for the meeting.

He just prayed it wouldn't be a courtesy meeting to show him Quentin's obituary.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

SynTracker is a 4th place Round One Winner! I'm so incredibly thrilled!

And look at that! Ian's up there reminding you there's a Vote button, and also that comments are absolutely amazing.

Ian's sanity is fraying at the edges, between the concussion and all the uncertainty. What do you think tomorrow's meeting will reveal?

And what has BioSynth!Quentin been doing with what he took from that garage? Tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile) to find out!