Dawn was breaking when Ian returned home. He'd gone through narrow streets and back alleys, a hood pulled over his face, head down, doing his best to blend in with the shadows. None of that would stop decent face recognition from spotting him, and leaving his nexus home had been as much of a tell as taking it with him, but his visit to Wave Plaza had paid off.

He now had an anonymous nexus; one that didn't require a linked account to function and that would capture no image on his side. Both his browsing and his infantile attempts at hacking would be private.

SynSec would be watching, wondering if Ian would be a proper lapdog or a rabid one that needed to be put down, but his people would find nothing except what he wanted them to see. Was that what they'd done to Kaya? Murdered her for refusing to hunt people? That would be much more in line with who she'd been than her turning into a willing slaver.

'It genuinely grieved me to hear of her passing.'

He clenched his jaw. One problem at a time. First, he needed to do the right thing. He couldn't kidnap a person and keep her in his garage for the crime of not helping him; that would make him no better than the worst kind of Tracker.

Then he needed to figure out how to find Quentin, to get him to safety. Ian didn't yet know how he could begin trying to atone for twenty years on the wrong side after that, but he'd find a way. He'd dedicate the rest of his life to it. It would never be enough, but he'd keep at it. Finding out the truth about Kaya, as much as she'd been like a sister to him, was at the bottom of the list. The truth wouldn't help her now, and a part of him would prefer not knowing, on the remote chance SynSec hadn't been lying.

Ian studied Ulla's manual with the garage lights on, the sky outside too heavy with clouds for sunlight to stream in, until his vision swam and his head felt close to bursting. He could see the placement of her tracking chip in the diagram, but it wasn't as easy to get to as in older models. As in Quentin. He'd had some practice with removing tracking chips while in school, decades before, even if the objective then had been replacement, not removal, but it had always been in models like Quentin's.

They'd allowed high school students to practise on people for career day, he realised with disgust. Before they'd decided Trackers didn't need training and only had to be good at pressing the trigger.

The knowledge would serve him now, even if it wouldn't serve Ulla. He wouldn't risk damaging parts of her he couldn't understand.

Turning her pain sensors back to normal sensitivity was the most distasteful thing in the process of freeing her, but he couldn't leave them off; BioSynths, like humans, required pain as an alert mechanism. A necessary evil of being alive.

This time, he didn't restrain her. He left a card with all the credits he could spare on the desk, a bottle of water, some protein bars — he doubted she'd eat or drink anything he gave her any more than he'd accepted the Secretary's drink, but it wouldn't be for lack of offering — and a warm jacket with a hoodie. The garage door open, Ian turned her switch on, stood in front of her with his back to the wall, Nuller pointed at her chest, and waited. Ten seconds later, her eyes opened. It didn't take her long to appraise the situation.

"What now, Tracker? We play catch and release, then catch again?" Her lips twisted in contempt, but that wasn't the primary emotion behind her eyes. She was afraid. In front of him stood a being capable of covering three blocks in nuclear radiation, now that she was unbound, but she was afraid of him. Because she chose not to destroy innocent lives. How many had he destroyed over twenty years?

"No. Release only. The Nuller is so you won't attack me." He jerked his head towards the desk. "There's food, clothes, and credits. Even if you take nothing else, you know the credits are traceless. Take the card." Her eyes widened. "I asked them for another week to Track you, yesterday, and they agreed, but I can't be sure it's real. I think they're onto me as well. If you can get the tracking chip out, I suggest you do. Or find somewhere to lie low."

"You think I'm going to fall for that?" Her eyes darted to the open door, twitchy with the offer of freedom she wasn't sure she ought to take. "Lead you to my 'contacts'?"

"You're welcome to stay here, but I wouldn't. I don't think they trust me either. My advice is cover your face, get the credits and get out. There are street cameras everywhere, so keep your head down."

"I don't need your fucking food and your fucking clothes and your fucking advice," she spat, reaching for the card. She took a step back, not breaking eye contact. Ian remained in his spot against the wall, Nuller at the ready, watching her retreat step by step.

Watching his best hope of finding Quentin walk out into the incoming storm, head held high.

Brain throbbing and too exhausted to care about his empty stomach, Ian slid to the floor, closed his eyes right there, in the garage, and slept for the first time in the last fifty hours.

☵☲☵

He woke to incessant pounding that, for once, was happening outside his head. Pouring rain, unwavering in its assault of the garage roof, and he'd left the door open. Little wonder he was freezing. He dragged himself back to the house for a hot shower and food. His next step was clear, both far too painful and easier than he would have imagined.

This had been his dream house from the moment he'd laid eyes on it. Spacious, airy, with room for all the things Quentin loved, and with a garage Ian could use for work. It had been somewhere they could be together, even when their different worlds demanded attention. In a better part of the city than they'd expected to afford, the way the light came in through the glass windows just before dusk fell had had Quentin reaching for his camera more often than not.

Ian had pictured them growing old together here. He could have lived in a shoebox, if need be, but this was the kind of home Quentin deserved. It had taken repairs, patience, and nearly all the credits they had, but he'd rarely felt happier than he did when they'd installed Quentin's darkroom side by side. Knowing Quentin would never again have to depend on places that went under almost as fast as they opened, or have to go all the way across the city to develop a single photo at the last minute.

This had been Ian's dream house, yes, but only because he'd share it with Quentin. Without him, it was just concrete, glass, and pretty paint.

His abandoned nexus blinked with two messages. Travers. On a Saturday? He brought up the more recent one: "Fuck. Last message wasn't for you. Sorry about that."

The first contained Tracking codes Ian could only assume were for Quentin.

His heart did a painful flip, trying to beat faster and stop all at once. If it was the trap, it was the perfect one: sending Ian something he couldn't ignore, no matter his misgivings. And Travers had sent the message via the usual channels, though that was also a smart move, if it was the real deal. Plausible deniability of his 'honest mistake' so it wouldn't cost him his job. If he didn't know SynSec could cost people far more than their jobs.

The codes were dormant for the time being, which might simply mean Quentin was asleep.

Running the Tracking app on Ian's brand new nexus would have defeated the purpose of buying it, which meant he had to be attached to his work nexus for a little longer, but that was alright. SynSec wouldn't find anything suspicious in Ian attending a party at a friend's; it was a risk he had to take.

☵☲☵

Half a million credits later, he was back home. Half what Zaiden had offered a week ago, but that had been when they'd made the offer thinking they'd buy the house with backup from proper banking institutions. Ian couldn't really feel wrongfooted they'd offered half a mil in untraceable cards in the span of a handful of hours. He'd dodged the concerned questions, the pitying look, the offer to sleep on it.

Packing was faster than he'd expected. Quentin's books and photography aside, they didn't have that many things, every object in their home something with a history. Treasured. Meaningful.

The move had been an excuse to get rid of a hundred knick knacks they'd accumulated, to build anew, with purpose.

Leaving the house behind was the end of an era he'd been sure had only just begun.

A pile for storage, a pile for Quentin, one for himself. Quentin would want the rest of his photography gear; Ian had no doubt that had been no mere cover. A few of his paper books had been more beloved than others, their dog-eared pages worn and cherished over the years. Ian knew what his favourite clothes were. What awards meant more.

He just didn't know whether he, himself, had ever meant anything at all.

His fingers tightened around their wedding album; this, Ian would keep, even if he couldn't bear to look at the pictures inside. He wrapped it with care, vowing to get it from storage as soon as he had a place to stay. For now, he needed his work tools more than anything else, and those could be replaced if lost.

Zaiden had told him to take his time, whether days or a month, but Ian needed this chapter behind him. He was almost done when his work nexus blinked.

Quentin's Tracking signal, if Travers' codes were reliable, had just sprung to life.

☰☱☲☳☴☵☶☵☴☳☲☱☰

Thank you for reading!

So, Ian did do the right thing with Ulla, though it took him long enough. And he sold the house. Any thoughts on that?

Also very curious to know whether you think Travers is helping or hindering because Travers has been an interesting character for me. He turned out quite different from what I'd first envisioned.

As usual, please remember to vote if you if feel it's deserved.

Expect the next update on Monday, so have a lovely weekend!

Want to know what Quentin's been up to? Tune in to BioSynth, SynTracker's companion novella (link on my profile) to find out!