A cover persona file for him to study and integrate.

Ash Whitlock, 34, holorama maker. Single. No siblings. Orphan. Enjoys cooking. Good with small repairs around the house. Friendly. Neighbourly.

But he’d changed it. He had nothing against “Ash,” no reason to assume his target would be less permeable to his attempts because of a name, but, after so many years, “Quentin” was the first name with a shape and a sound that truly fit; that he’d wanted for himself. And he didn’t enjoy cooking, and he despised holoramas. He’d always been drawn to classical photography, and that had been his chance to indulge in it with complete impunity: making it a part of his cover. But how— there. Because he wasn’t working for the government by then. Had rebelled and, in doing so, had gained enough autonomy to have a say in his cover profiles, and to adapt them to his needs.

Quentin had been a part of the rebellion for thirty-nine years by then. From the moment the war had ended and Alyra government officials had decided beating and annexing Xeygh wasn’t enough: they wanted to use BioSynths to do some conquering of their own now. Going from ‘righteous defenders of their homeland against a ruthless enemy’ to ‘ruthless enemies of those righteously defending their homelands’ had been a pill no BioSynth had been able to swallow.

They’d been promised integration. They’d been lied to. They were, in the end, nothing but weapons in their makers’ eyes.

Target: Ian Morgan, 36, SynTracker. Single. Siblings: one; relationship status: estranged. Parents: divorced; relationship status: estranged. Enjoys [_].

Nothing.

There was nothing, they’d had no info on Ian’s hobbies, because his work was his life, and he knew better than to use his nexus for purchases. His habits couldn’t be monitored. There were names, lists of friends — Zaiden Nuhr, Cid Rossi, Kaya Jones — but barely any decent info.

Mission parameters: observe and report. Sabotage if possible. Do not compromise cover. Collect data.

His dislike for parts of his persona had been his first in with Ian. He’d been irritated, distracted, knowing he was meant to have created a mouthwatering dish to go do the neighbourly thing and had, instead, allowed it to burn while fiddling with his camera settings.

Bold and eager to prove himself worthy of having gone solo, he’d improvised. Knocked on Ian’s door not with an offer of dinner but with a frustrated slant to his eyebrows that was only too real. Without having tamed his singed hair or changed into a t-shirt that didn’t smell of smoke, he’d asked Ian if he could borrow a protein bar, because there was nothing to eat in his entire flat at the moment.

Ian had thrown open the door to his flat with an amused smile and an offer of food.

He’d thought himself so clever, then. Mere days into his first solo assignment and he’d already established a connection with his target.

Except Ian had refused to stay a target from the first minute.

Nothing in the files Quentin had studied had told him Ian would be quick to help and easy to please. That he got no satisfaction from the record number of BioSynths he’d captured, apart from the belief he was making the streets safer.

Nothing had warned him Ian would knock on his door every other day to ask if he wanted to grab a bite somewhere, or that he’d look so very enraptured when viewing Quentin’s photos. Nothing had indicated Ian would spontaneously put him in touch with Zaiden, noting they had an art gallery and had contacts whom Quentin might be interested in meeting.

Nothing had prepared him for Ian’s intense blue eyes to lock on his outside a restaurant one night, or his quiet “I’d really like to kiss you right now.” For how right that kiss would feel, more than any other before it. For the way Ian’s smile had been almost shy but had lit up his entire face.

For ‘pleasure’ to be such an inadequate word to describe what they’d shared.

For how wrongfooted he’d felt when Ian had dressed in a hurry in the middle of that night, after receiving a nexus call, and said he’d be gone for an unspecified number of weeks, and he wouldn’t be available via nexus. For the heart-stopping relief, unrelated to his mission, when Ian had rang his bell only minutes after having left, blue eyes wide, to say it wasn’t an excuse. That he knew how bad it looked but, if Quentin were still interested in giving him a chance on his return, he’d do his best to make amends for his hasty departure.

For having as many kisses as he dared take — and he dared plenty — and never feeling like he’d had enough.

It had been a heady existence for months on end; Quentin had almost managed to ignore he was betraying Ian at every step until the order came.

Terminate target.

Ian was too efficient at his job, and the rebellion was turning more violent with each passing day; trying to get humans on their side was no longer in their priorities list, let alone at the top of it. And that... That violence hadn’t been what Quentin had signed up for, nearly four decades prior, when he’d joined the rebellion.

How could he be expected to murder Ian in the name of something like that?

Quentin had been given leeway to decide when and how to do it, what information might be worth more than termination, and for how long. But it wouldn’t last forever. Feeling Ian’s body against his own, night after night, the ease with which he let Quentin have his keys, the trust he displayed whenever he turned his back to Quentin without fear, each had been one more twist of the knife, gutting him until there was nothing left. He’d made excuses for weeks, both to his superiors and to Ian, so he’d have less opportunity to complete the assignment. Had misplaced his smiles, his conversational skills, his charm.

Until the day Ian, no longer wearing an easy smile, had asked if Quentin had had enough of him; if he’d been struggling with how to break the news.

And, when Quentin had opened his mouth to concoct a plausible explanation for his behaviour, what had slipped out had been the truth instead. “I love you. I know it’s too soon, but I do.”

Ian, painfully beautiful with joy, was one of his favourite memories. “Oh, thank god,” he’d said, pulling Quentin closer. “I love you too.”

And that had been it. Quentin had shut down that night in emotional turmoil. With the fiercest, most hopeless yearning to be human — to be Ian’s Quentin for real, instead of a murderous thing with a hidden agenda. The following morning, he’d woken up light-hearted and buoyant from their mutual confession the night before, with no knowledge of being a BioSynth. He’d rewritten himself in his sleep. A glitched would-be murderer turned boyfriend, later turned husband, to the most wonderful man he’d ever come across.

He released the thread.

There was no “real Quentin,” whether dead or imprisoned. He might be Pinocchio but, despite all the corrupted data and the abilities he couldn’t access, he pulled his own strings. When Ian had pointed that gun at him last night, he’d been chasing a fool’s hope. Ian’s human husband had never existed. And Quentin? No glitches would save him now.

Alone.

Unwanted.

Dead.

Ian’s Quentin had died in that car crash, killed the moment Ian had seen the truth. But he still had to figure out where to go from here. Because, despite the pain, despite the loneliness, one thing remained constant: Quentin wanted to live.