Messages floated by, some within reach. Other BioSynths making contact, though what for Quentin had no clue. The last thing he wanted was to connect to any of them and be recognised as the BioSynth who’d turned his back on the rebellion.

They wouldn’t understand. All they knew was violence and betrayal, war and anger. They’d tried to walk away from it, after the annexation of Xeygh, and where had that gotten them? Ordering Ian’s murder, seeing humans as the enemy, proving humans right.

No, Quentin wanted none of that.

All he wanted was to pass for human again. He’d never find another Ian — in sixty-seven years, he’d only every found the one — but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to have something. Someone.

He had to keep reminding himself: he pulled his own strings.

When the feeling of being watched went from generic to intense and personal, Quentin dropped the connection with a shudder. He’d found nothing of value about his model, but he didn’t feel safe in the web. He’d access it as little as possible until he relearned to cloak.

Still out of balance from the unnerving experience, Quentin’s lunch consisted of water and stale bread. He hadn’t bought that many protein bars on the night he’d fled, and had run out earlier. How ironic: Pinocchio still had to eat to keep functioning.

The afternoon was spent shopping for food and more clothes, turning off street cameras in five different points of the city’s grid whenever he needed to move to a single zone. This was why the city cameras spent more time offline than online: BioSynths, shutting them down to be safe.

There’d be mass panic if the humans knew.

Dangerous or not, being outside again, under the winter sun with his camera bag on his shoulder, made him feel better. He couldn’t take pictures — buying something as specific as film would raise flags Ian was sure to be monitoring, and he didn’t have access to a darkroom to develop them anyway — but just the weight of it felt comforting.

Maybe he’d buy a DSLR as soon as he figured out a way to earn credits. Nowhere near as satisfying, but it would be something to tidy him over until he could move somewhere else and start over. Ian would have teased him for his obsession, for his need to be able to shoot that outweighed his need for food and sleep.

Ian wasn’t here anymore.

Clouds obscured the sun, making him shiver. Everyone around him had somewhere to go, a life to get back to. They huddled in their winter coats, speeding up; some smiling, others in the middle of a conversation. Even the billboard ads had purpose, bathing the city in their neon glow, night or day.

Quentin had nothing.

Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be back in his motel room. The streets no longer felt comforting or secure. He had his food; he had his clothing. Locking the door behind him when he arrived allowed him to breathe properly at last. A home base. Temporary security. But he couldn’t stay another night.

He wanted more than this, more than lugging his meagre possessions from day to day to a different place, never laying his head down on the same pillow. He needed a home.

He needed his service manual.

Ian had piles of BioSynth manuals in his garage, paper manuals. Quentin had to break in and search for his. He had to break into what, a mere two days ago, had been his home.

Irony in spades, that all roads led back to Ian.

It might free him, or it just might kill him.