SynTracker | ONC 2021 | MM Romance | Sci-Fi | Complete

One: Friday

Children.

Of course the Syn had surrounded itself with children.

Self-preservation was a Syn's primary directive since the rebellion and, even before then, whoever had initially programmed these things had known to build in 'Proximity to Civilian Bystanders' as a defence mechanism. Ian wouldn't have chosen a playground if he could've helped it, but Syns weren't renowned for accommodating their Trackers' wishes.

This Syn wasn't those twins' mother, but it looked the part. It played with them, fussed over snack time, wiped away the boy's tears when he fell and skinned his knee. Capturing it here was out of the question. He couldn't use his SynthNuller, and pulling a regular gun at a playground, while not as damaging to human bodies, was still far beyond what he considered an acceptable risk.

Nowadays anyone could get a SynTracker licence. One less Syn on the streets was cold comfort in light of the civillian death toll.

Not on his watch.

Twenty years as a Tracker and he'd never harmed a person, a record he intended to keep.

He fired off a quick text to his husband, letting him know he'd be late, then turned off his holonexus. Having the Syn's dot in the Tracking app would have been welcome, but he couldn't afford distractions. As long as he could maintain a visual, he'd be okay to follow.

Fifty years since these things had supposedly rebelled and, if anyone had found the programmers behind that, they hadn't made it public knowledge. He sometimes wondered if they'd been caught and quietly dealt with, before they had time to reverse their directives. He wouldn't put that kind of shortsightedness past the government.

Whether or not they were the original architects of the rebellion, someone was still controlling Syns - why else would this one have formed a connection with a man who had no strategic value? He could only return them to their makers to be repurposed, one by one, and expect it'd eventually be the last one. A naïve hope, to see that in his lifetime; unregulated BioSynth production had run rampant during the war, and there were less SynTrackers worth their salt every day.

There were nine children, including the two the Syn had brought with it, and six adults in the park. One adult was more concerned with his nexus than with the boy he'd come with; another two held hands but never took their eyes off their little girl. Across the street to his left, a news drone hovered above a building that had been consumed in a fire the day before.

Taking in all these details was second nature to Ian - had been since his first month on the job. Anything less and he was as good as dead.

He sat on a bench to observe, and wished he could still buy the news on paper, as they did in the retro vids Quentin loved so much, so he could hide his face. The Syn had no reason to look his way, but he'd long suspected his face was programmed in every Syn's memory banks. A single glance might give him away. That or it was the vibe he gave off while on assignment: people parted in his wake as if they could sense incoming trouble.

These people treated the Syn in their midst as if it were one of their own. Little surprise, when the things had been built to resemble humans so closely they passed urine tests. Nothing, short of invasive surgery, revealed them for what they were - what possible defence could a human have from that? Ian himself had no idea how often he'd passed one on the street without suspecting a thing. The tracking codes were his only way of telling.

An errant ball spelled the end of his waiting game.

One of the children kicked it too hard, sending it high above the fence, to land at Ian's feet, just as the father of the twins arrived. Ian knew throwing it back might call attention to himself, but not throwing it when it was right in front of him certainly would. The Syn looked up to greet the man and its gaze fell on Ian. And, like all others before it, it knew.