Freshly showered, Quentin towelled his hair with one hand while going through his wardrobe for the perfect t-shirt. He had the rest of the outfit already picked out — grey jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket that screamed “you’ll have to put effort into looking this effortless” —, determined that one of them would look trendy in the company of Zaiden and Cid. Not that Ian didn’t look good — that was the problem. With his intense blue eyes and spiky cropped hair, allied to the physique of a SynTracker, he looked good in anything. Which meant the man always went for practical, leaving Quentin to shoulder the burden of trend alone.

Quentin studied himself in the mirror. He might not be as gorgeous as Ian, but he wasn’t too shabby either — trim body, short beard, dark hair that was about to be artfully messy... Yeah, he’d look good at dinner. Not to mention he had amazing genes — in the ten years since he’d met his husband, Ian had aged at a regular pace, while Quentin didn’t look a day older.

He spotted the black and purple t-shirt Ian had given him — with a white drawing of a camera and the words “stop or I’ll shoot” — and huffed out a laugh, already knowing he’d wear it. Damn Ian for giving him cheesy, goofy gifts that melted his insides and made him abandon all pretence of being a trendsetter.

The nexus went off, beeping with an incoming message. Running a little late. Still hoping to make it in time for dinner. Love you.

“A little late,” in Ian’s line of work, could mean a few minutes or several hours. Well, he could start with a drink. It was past five o’clock: fancy cocktails with tiny umbrellas were fair game. He searched his nexus for the news and blew up the picture, covering the living room in 3D imagery.

Ugh.

If he’d known it would be politics, he’d have gone back into his darkroom.

He grumbled every time, but never failed to watch the news. It was more of the same. Increased regulations for the disposal of toxic waste (always a plus). The government was trying to ban untraceable cards, so that banks could control every single credit going in and out of someone’s account — they tried this stunt every couple of years, and they never pulled it off. New licences for SynTrackers: yet another excuse to make them spend money on endless bureaucracy. Ian was going to be thrilled.

A BioSynth had been spotted in a small town, and people were required to stay indoors while SynTrackers dealt with the issue. Quentin let out a breath of relief that it was all the way across the country and Ian was already occupied with a case. Multiple SynTrackers after the same target had the potential to turn lethal fast.

The obligatory commercial break, and a brand of implants for humans, purporting to be the next big thing, exhorted him to 'Embrace your true self and take control of your life'. He was in perfect control of his life without the need for implants, thank you very much.

Further south, a group of lunatics protested the legitimacy of SynTrackers — Free BioSynths, they said in their colourful posters and holosigns, ignoring the fact that it was the very SynTrackers they were protesting against that made it safe for them to be out in the streets in the first place.

Drone footage of a female-looking BioSynth, cornered, the tears in her eyes belying her aggressive stance. And Ian. Quentin clutched the glass stem with too much force, helpless to do anything other than sit there, watching the man he loved risk his life. Ian was on the nexus, SynthNuller in hand, telling the BioSynth to stand down. Quentin looked at the blinking text to confirm what he already knew. “Live footage.” He hated this reminder of how dangerous Ian’s job was, despite the glory that came with it. Suddenly his colourful cocktail was unbearably cheery.

The BioSynth’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the area to confirm she — it — had nowhere to go. Quentin sent out a silent prayer it wouldn’t self-destruct and take out half the neighbourhood, including his husband, with it. Most of them weren’t programmed that way, but there had been the occasional case, and it… He couldn’t finish that thought. His pulse beat an erratic tattoo on his throat. Please be safe. Please be safe.

The BioSynth raised its hands in defeat, and Ian hit it with a disabling pulse. It was over.

Stomach still roiling, Quentin turned off the nexus and sat there, feeling queasy. He knew it was a BioSynth, but his untrained eye couldn’t tell the difference, and it looked like his husband had just shot an unarmed, weeping woman, live on the news.

He needed something stronger than a cocktail.