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

Sixteen: Thursday

"Let me get this straight." The BioSynth sat on the windowsill in front of Ian, back against the glass, legs dangling. "You had a change of heart and you have some kind of saviour complex now, out rescuing BioSynths from an unjust system? I have to hand it to you, man, that's a new approach."

Could he not sit on the bed like a non-suicidal person? Did he have to expose his back to whoever might be out there? Even with his own back to a windowless wall, Ian felt naked without his gun. To complete the incongruous picture, Ulla was busy brewing tea and humming.

"You don't... That's not what I said," Ian tried again. "I said I'd have gotten you out of there anyway—"

"—But you were looking for someone else. Yeah, I heard you. I just don't believe you."

"Believe what you will." He accepted Ulla's mug of tea, surprised to see the man do the same. "You're free to go. I switched your tracking chip. That one's blank. That was all I needed to tell you." Ian should be kinder, should apologise again for having Tracked him in the first place, for being ultimately responsible for the state of decay he was in, but he couldn't stop focusing on Quentin, even as his head felt like it was splitting in two.

He turned to Ulla, blowing on his tea just because the mug was in his hands. "You should get going, too. You have a family to get back to, and this..."

She patted his back. "I'll finish my tea first, if you don't mind. You should too. No sense rushing out on an empty stomach."

"I don't know what to do." Ian hadn't meant to say the words aloud, much less in front of the unfamiliar BioSynth, but it was too late to take them back. He'd been keeping his fear at bay, not allowing himself to dwell on the hypothetical so his ability to act wasn't compromised, but despair was overwhelming him. He'd start with the street cameras, as he always did, but that lead was far less promising that Ulla's contact's had been, and—

Something was wrong.

The man had set his mug down and readjusted his position in front of the window. It wasn't casual. He wasn't exposing himself to whatever was out there: he was blocking Ian's view of it. Hackles raising, Ian yelled, "Get down!" just as he threw his mug to the right and shoved Ulla down and to the left, towards the relative safety of the floor behind the bed.

The door burst open before Ian could get to the gun. His reflexes were good, but getting Ulla out of the way had taken him a fraction of a second too long. Five people, two wearing helmets, the other three BioSynths in various states of disrepair, spilled into the room. The first one had a gun out.

Beside him on the floor, Ulla drew hers.

And then the other helmeted figure raised his arms and yelled "Don't shoot! That's my husband!" as he placed his body in between Ian and the gun, struggling to take off his helmet with a skeletal hand Ian had kissed only last night.

Quentin.

Everyone started shouting at the same time. Ian reached for his weapon so he could regain a measure of control only for Quentin to stop him with a, "Don't. They're my friends," that Ian almost didn't hear amidst the chaos.

For all that every instinct screamed at him to draw, to protect Quentin and Ulla, he forced himself to follow Quentin's lead. It helped that Ulla was still behind the bed, ready to fire, but it was more than that. He'd agreed to work with Quentin; not to just share a life, but a fight. And Quentin had more combat experience than Ian did — he had to be ready to trust Quentin's instincts as much as his own.

Within reason.

He didn't draw, but he flipped their positions; if Quentin trusted these people, Ian would offer them his back, but he wouldn't let them have a shot at Quentin's.