It had worked. Four solid hours of sleep, two in each direction, meant Quentin was back to where he’d started, feeling much more like himself. Not the pain, though. That wouldn’t let up.

He needed to close the hole if he wanted to be safe, and for that he’d need the manual, which would put him right in Ian’s path. A catch-22 if there had ever been one. He needed to take risks to avoid risks. It’d take him half an hour to get home — to get to Ian‘s home — and there was a decent chance Ian would be asleep at half past four in the morning. No time like the present.

For all his fears, breaking in turned out to be easy. Quentin didn’t test the alarm codes — Ian would no doubt have changed them and inputting the old ones would probably trigger the very alarm Quentin was trying to circumvent — but he knew what to do. Any other BioSynth would have run into trouble here. Would have assumed they could cut power to the entire block, wait for Ian to come check nothing was amiss, and then go in.

Quentin knew better.

He knew there was a backup generator, where it was, what it was connected to, and how. He also knew the exact location of the motion sensors — something Ian wouldn’t have been able to change on such short notice — and the speed at which they activated, so a falling sheet of paper wouldn’t trigger an alarm. This was where his old, newly rediscovered infiltration memories proved useful.

Quentin spoofed the closed circuit signal, so he could set the camera on a loop. Then he got in through the window and, moving at the exact speed he was allowed to, grabbed the first motion sensor, rapidly lowering his core temperature until it froze and shattered in his palm; three more to go.

It took him twenty minutes, but he was now able to move freely. As long as Ian remained asleep, he wouldn’t even know Quentin had been here — not until he needed to reach for Quentin’s manual, at least. He let the street cameras outside turn back on; he’d turn them off again before exiting but, for now, it was less suspicious this way.

His visual sensors had no need for light other than the sliver provided by the moon. They adapted to the current conditions but, even if they hadn’t, the garage was a part of his home. He knew his way around like the back of his hand.

Except for the BioSynth standing in the corner, sending Quentin’s heart racing. The BioSynth from last Friday, that Ian had caught just before they went out to dinner.

A lifetime ago.

What was it — she — still doing here? Had Ian become so single-minded about hunting him down that he’d forgotten to do his job? His fists closed tight as he bit his tongue to keep himself from making a sound. It made sense. Finding out he’d been fucking a bot for the last ten years might do that to a man, even one as duty-focused as Ian. Picturing the look of revulsion on Ian’s face wasn’t something he wanted to do now. Ever.

He was wasting time. Ian’s motivations weren’t important, and this BioSynth’s fate wasn’t Quentin’s responsibility. If he turned her back on, how would she react? Any noise she made could spell doom for both of them, and how would that have helped? No, he had to find his manual and leave; his very survival hinged on it.

The manuals weren’t on the shelf where he expected them to be, giving way to a moment of panic. Had Ian known Quentin would come here? Had he set up a trap, removed the manuals in case it didn’t go well?

Quentin scanned the rest of the shelves, heart falling with every single one that failed to contain the manuals. If it was a trap, he had to leave, but— There. On the desk, and on the floor beside it. One more thing so unlike Ian, that he’d leave work tools lying around instead of storing them in their proper place. How quickly love had turned to hatred, and how foolish of Quentin, to not be able to let go of the love he felt with the same ease.

He only realised he’d shut his eyes when the first tear leaked.

For all he kept telling himself there was no time for this, that he could mourn his old life later, being here was like shooting with no film. Like opening the chamber to find all he had were his memories, with no tangible proof there’d ever been something more.