BioSynth | ONC 2021 WINNER | MM Romance | Sci-Fi | Complete

Fifteen: Thursday

Quentin didn't bother asking Clementine for specifics. She met him at the motel half an hour later, with a set of clothes and a spare bike helmet, offered him a silent hug when she saw his face and arm, an encouraging smile when he mentioned having gotten back together with his husband, and drove like a madwoman all the way back to the others. He had to give it to them; they had bravery in spades, or perhaps it was insanity: they'd chosen to lie low in a flat next to a Tracker licencing centre, of all places.

Not the worst of ideas — he remembered Ian's rant when he'd found out of the government's newest hare-brained scheme at the time: a simulation new Trackers had to pass, before paying for their licence and collecting their Nuller, that proved they were 'ready' to work the field.

They had to pay to take the test; if they failed, they paid double to take it again; if they spent a year without working the field, they had to take it again; if it had been seven years since the last test, they had to take it again even if their capture record was spotless. And then there were the kids with rich parents who took it for sport, playing it like a holosim.

Nothing but smoke and mirrors, something to satisfy the insurance companies, and a source of governmental income to boot, but the tracking signals in the simulation were actual codes. They interfered with the tracking app's ability to pinpoint a BioSynth code within three blocks of the licencing centre. Ian had been livid at the naked money grab.

Ian. Who was probably at the motel or close to it, and would find it empty. Quentin sent him a message rerouted through various hubs so it couldn't be traced back to him.

'Went to help a friend. Will tell you the details when I can.'

Just like last time, he didn't sign it. Talking to Ian about his work nexus being a liability was at the top of Quentin's priority list the moment he laid eyes on his husband again. Meanwhile, it was a good thing Ian hadn't been in the room when Clementine had arrived; Quentin wasn't sure how to explain that the man next to him, ready to help, had been Jax's Tracker, and he didn't think withholding that information with Ian around would have ended well.

The mood was sombre when they got to the flat, a pale imitation of the Maimed Misfits he'd met back at the old tech district. Jax and Clementine were the two leading forces in the group; faced with Jax's capture, she was too focused on rescuing him to play cheerleader.

The flat itself was a single bedroom. Smaller than Quentin's darkroom, one sofa taking up most of the space, a lonely sink and a minuscule portable fridge wedged right next to it, it looked as sad and worn as the Misfits themselves. There were blankets rolled up on the corner, making him suspect the Misfits had spent the last few days sleeping on the floor and trying not to step on each other's toes.

Quentin wasn't sure how to feel about the three pairs of commiserating eyes that affixed themselves on him as soon as he squeezed himself in between Alice and Xavier on the sofa; it was lovely to see they cared, but he could do without the pity. And he had questions. "What happened Saturday night? How did he get captured?"

"He didn't, not on Saturday." Clementine's her narrowed lips made a poor show of masking her fear with anger. She was the only one not sitting on the sofa, pacing the minuscule space in front of them. "He'd have been shipped off by now if he had, so at least that's good. Stupid arse got himself captured this morning."

"This morning?"

"Yeah, can you not do the thing where you repeat the last words I say and make it sound like a question?" She pulled on her hair with one of her mismatched arms, letting out a breath and slowing down her speech to a quasi-normal speed for the first time since they'd gotten here. "I'm sorry. You came to help and I'm not being fair—"