Ian. Right here, in front of Quentin, his blue eyes so cold where there used to be nothing but warmth. Time stood still for a moment as they stared each other down. Then Ian took off towards Quentin, the Nuller and the determined set of his jaw leaving no doubt as to his intentions, and Quentin’s fight-or-flight response kicked in. He’d never want to fight Ian. Flight it was.

His body seemed to know what to do, how to zigzag instead of allowing Ian a clear line of sight, how to never be outside the safety zone of people. He could tap into both endurance and speed he hadn’t known he’d possessed before the crash, putting some much needed distance between them; for a few minutes he allowed himself to be comforted by the foolish notion that he’d escape a confrontation with the man he loved.

But the twinge in his chest had given way to excruciating pain, and no amount of mentally adjusting his receptors would make it fade. There was a physical control inside him, right next to his on/off switch, clearly not made for BioSynths themselves to access. He put away thoughts of why such a thing would have been built into all of them as he held a hand to his chest, as if he could keep the hole from widening through willpower alone. Breathing was becoming hard, and what good was being a fucking bot if he still had to breathe?

He’d never make it like this. He took another left, running blindly, hoping to lose Ian somehow.

A dead end. The street was deceptively pleasant and wide, but it lead nowhere. There was a guardrail by the sidewalk at the end, serving as a belvedere of sorts, and he couldn’t turn back or he’d run right into Ian. Below him, parallel train tracks stretched as far as the eye could see on either side, a promise of freedom. Accessing the web for the schedule required no conscious thought.

And then he knew what he had to do.

If he timed it right, he only needed to stall for ninety seconds. He stood by the guardrail, helplessly watching as Ian closed in. hoping against hope the train wouldn’t be late. Just another thirty seconds. The Nuller in Ian’s hand glinted in the winter sun as he sped closer and closer. Ten seconds. Quentin took two steps left, using a couple as cover. Two seconds. One.

He jumped.

Pain exploded as he hit the car’s roof, but he couldn’t give into it. He had to figure out how not to fall. He had to— Instinct kicked in again, his memories offering one more ability Quentin didn’t know he had. He lay flat on top of the train and magnetised his entire body; there’d be no risk of falling off now.

Just a risk of passing out from the blinding pain.

At the guardrail, Ian looked on, helpless to follow.

Quentin had meant to get off on the next station, but he was in no condition to do it then. It took him three stations just to get his breathing under control, and another two to feel like he’d be able to walk.

Ian had his tracking codes. Ian was the one hunting Quentin. His husband wanted him dead.

And, if Quentin didn’t manage to get his manual, Ian might just get his wish.

By midnight, Quentin was too exhausted to go on. He’d been wandering the city since his run in with Ian, constantly on the move, most of his energy redirected to the tendrils of pain radiating from his chest; hoping Ian wouldn’t be able to get to him if he didn’t stay put. It had worked as intended, but that had meant no opportunity to recharge, and what good had it done him? If Ian showed up in front of him now, he could probably take Quentin in even without a Nuller, for how much strength he had left.

He knew his tracking chip would be off during sleep — a feature designed to give BioSynths a fighting chance, in case Xeygh cracked their codes during the war — but if Ian saw his signal go dark and stay dark, he’d be onsite faster than Quentin could wake up.

Hoping he wasn’t signing his own death warrant, Quentin purchased a long-distance train ticket, adjusted the hoodie to obscure as much of his face as he could, settled in by his window seat, and slept.