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

Epilogue

The epilogues can be read in any order, but, chronologically, this takes place before SynTracker's epilogue.

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They'd locked Quentin inside the bedroom with malicious intent. Worse, to add insult to injury, Ian had been the one to lock him inside the bedroom. It was Symons day — one more thing Jax hadn't been kidding about — and there was something going on, in the briefing room that doubled up as a living room, that Ian didn't want Quentin to know about.

The bunker was decorated with every allusion to Symons they could think of, from holo lights to 3D schematics. Ian's contribution had been to hang each tracking chip he'd replaced, now short-circuited and harmless, from the ceiling. A reminder of the freedom they'd been fighting tooth and nail for, but also of how far they still had to go.

Ian was always thoughtful in every gesture. He didn't think Quentin noticed, so Quentin pretended not to. But his nexus was loaded up with books on bot construction and repair, as if he'd set himself the task to learn more than just chip replacements. He hoarded every reference on code he could find, had written everything he knew about every model and shared it with all of them, had resigned himself to staying in the bunker for safety until they had at least one more human who knew how to operate the chips.

Quentin was the one going on dangerous missions now, meeting fellow BioSynths they came across on the web, tracking Trackers and rescuing their captives, hitting installation teams whenever Ulla's contact had a way of letting them know what was happening. Ian never brought it up but Quentin knew was eating him up inside; this wasn't what Ian had envisioned when they'd promised to do this together. Quentin wanted to wrap his arms around him and tell him it was enough every day; that he didn't have to carry the burden of guilt any longer.

He knew it wasn't his place.

Forgiveness would have to come from those he'd wronged, or from within.

Were they redecorating the entire bunker while Quentin was locked up in here? He swore all he could hear was furniture being dragged.

Quentin's files had no memory of ever setting up this bunker or the corresponding cover identity, but he had to hand it to himself, he'd chosen well. Though he didn't see it as his bunker, the Misfits didn't not see it as his bunker, so they'd tentatively agreed to share and call it their bunker. Jax continued his incessant search for Mia with no results so far, but there was a dissonant note to his obsession, something Quentin couldn't quite pinpoint.

Ulla dropped by every so often, with tips and intel, or sometimes just to visit, her partner and their children in tow. She didn't think it'd be healthy for children to grow up below ground, so had declined the offer to join them.

He supposed he couldn't fault her there.

She'd been the one to make this possible, to alter her appearance and pose as the legal owner. For all Quentin had been afraid the two halves of his world could never coexist, Ian and the Misfits had settled on mutual respect; Jax took it a step further and actively liked him, something that pleased Quentin to no end.

Photography was the one thing missing from his life.

Ian had set up a darkroom in the bunker for Quentin, but Quentin had only been there once. He knew it was pathetic and ungrateful, but his left hand made it hard for him to both take the shots and develop the film, and... No, that was a lie. Plenty of others had done it with just the one arm. Quentin hadn't gotten over its loss enough to try yet. To relearn and then go on as if nothing were amiss.

Yet to reclaim some of his identity as a BioSynth — to go on those missions, weapon drawn, to contribute to the fight he'd turned his back on for far too long — without having his photography to fall back on made him feel empty; made him think he'd never be complete.