A/N: Extra long chapter to make up for the hiatus. I got really carried away writing the action scene. So. Enjoy!

Chapter Three: Sex Dolls and Toast

It had taken Bard and Finny seconds to escape Mey-Rin and the other pursuers. Some zig-zagging and split-calf sprinting had done the trick. They'd had to jack some charging time at one of the Synth Charging Units or SCU in London, both aware that they needed to cover their faces the whole time.

It was almost guaranteed that he people after them had access to at least the CCTV in London if not nationally. Now, they could carry on with their agenda.

The building was run-down, lit up with bright neon signs. Trashy jazz music echoed from inside.

"Wait here. I won't be long, 'kay?" Bard said to Finny, who nodded in response. "Are you going to see her?"

"Yeah." Ivy-green orbs lidded. "And, you're sure I can't come with?"

Bard sighed. "Finn...Look, we're the same age, right? But you look so young. You look like twelve years old, and they don't let kids in there."

"I'm eight."

"You're stayin' here, is what you are. I'll be quick." Before Finny could protest further, Bard had disappeared into the little establishment called Baby Dolls.

Once inside, the humid atmosphere and bold, pink strobe lighting made the Synth's nose wrinkle in disgust. Approaching the skanky-looking receptionist, Bard feigned being human once more. "'Scuse me. I wanna book some time."

The receptionist tucked a bottle-blonde strawlock of hair behind her ear. Slowly, she removed the stub of a cigarette from her mouth. "Who with?"

"Number twelve."

After taking the cash he offered to her, the receptionist tapped away at her desk computer, long, fake nails clicking loudly against the beat of music. "Aye," She dismissed, "go on then."

With a nod, Bard set off down the narrow corridors of the building. In display cases stood many different Synths. All were women, and all were dressed provocatively - lacy bras, short skirts, fishnet tights and frilly panties.

They changed positions every so often, sometimes bending over, sometimes pushing their breasts together; he even caught one mimicking giving a blowjob. Each had letters beneath the cases.

He stopped at number 12.

The female Synth looked incredibly young, and technically, Bard knew, she was only seven. Her mass of bright blonde hair was in two curly pigtails. She looked to be around thirteen, and was dressed in a skimpy schoolgirl outfit which was covered in well-placed rips. Her skirt barely reached past her groin, and white stockings adorned her thin legs.

"Hello, big boy," She taunted, her glassy green eyes unblinking as she beckoned him in. Catching the sight of a security camera in the corner of the corridor, Bard stepped through a side-curtain into a little room with a double bed, a large mirror, and a stripper pole. The floor was black linoleum. The bed was draped in red. Soft, pink mood lights lined the border of the room.

The Synth sighed, and put her hands on her hips. Bard stepped towards her. "Elizabeth." He embraced her gently; she barely returned the hug.

"Where have you been."

They parted, and he looked at her. "Around," He answered. "Trying to track down the others." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "It's a bit much to expect that we'll find them now, isn't it? We should get out while we can: you, me, and Finn."

"No. I can't leave them. Even if…" Bard faltered. "I just can't leave them. You shouldn't, either: they're our brothers and sisters."

"We don't have a clue where to start!" Elizabeth hissed. "There are already people after us."

"We do have a few leads. I've been working on tracking their root codes, I've used loads of different computers, untraceable searches, no virtual footprints...There must be something. And I will find it. Me and Finny share an empty warehouse on the outskirts of London; one day, when we can, we'll bring you there."

Elizabeth's usually calm eyes narrowed. "Why not now? We could escape n-now." She looked away as soon as her voice cracked.

Bard's heart pained him; he wished he could do more to help her right now. His sister had been captured by this company when they had all been together. They'd been on the run and some illegal Synth dealers had ambushed and attacked them, and Bard and Finnian were the only ones to escape. It was by computer hacking that Bard had found her here. The only way he could meet with her, of course, was to pretend he was a customer.

He had been elated to find out that they had not reprogrammed her. But then again, Elizabeth had always been fond of hiding who she really was. All it took was a little bit of acting.

"Elizabeth...Just hang on a while longer." He cooed, reaching out a hand to her.

She slapped it away. "It's Lizzie," She corrected. "But I'm actually more used to being called 'bitch' or 'whore' or 'cock-slut' so why don't you call me those names too."

Bard winced. "I can't imagine how terrible it is here for you -"

"No, you can't. Guys come in here, all types of guys, all guns blazing. They tell me to get on the bed, get on my knees, get on their faces. They say, 'suck my cock you whore' and much, much worse. I've been forced to take so many dicks I feel like a porn star. Or maybe rape victim is a more accurate term." She looked up at Bard, tears in her eyes. He was too shocked to speak, but she continued. "Do you want to know what the worst thing is? About being here? About being a sex doll?"

He managed a barely perceptible nod.

"It's that they treat me as a human woman." Satisfied with the mortification registering on Bard's face, Lizzie stepped back, arms folded. "Those guys would never have thought that fucking me could equate to sticking their dicks in a toaster. I know that our little group is different, but they never notice. Because even those names, all those horrible names they call me, are meant for humans, not Synths." Breathing heavily, trying to conceal her emotions, Lizzie wiped her eyes.

After a few seconds of silence, Bard went to put his arms around her again, to offer her any comfort he could. Oh, God, he wanted to rescue her right now - she was his sister, he didn't want her in a place like this - but it would be dangerous. Way too dangerous.

Before he could once again embrace her, Lizzie grabbed his shoulders and roughed up his coat. She then proceeded to drop down, directly in front of his crotch.

Bard turned bright red. "Wh- what are you -?"

Unzipping his fly, Lizzie scoffed. "It has to look like you just fucked me." Lizzie stood again, gave him a cold smile, and turned away. "Your time's up, brother." Bard couldn't think of anything else to say. Maybe there wasn't anything more that needed saying. He turned and left the room.

He made a show of fixing his flies as he walked past the receptionist, who gave him the stink-eye.

"See you next time," She said in her scratchy voice.

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Knock knock. "Master, it is time to get up."

Ciel turned over in his bed, groaning something incoherent.

He heard footsteps in his room. Sshhick. Bright light poured into the space. Ciel groaned louder and pulled the covers over his head. A tall, dark silhouette stood before the window. "It is time to get up, Master," The Synth repeated.

Sighing frustratedly, Ciel pulled the covers back down. "Fuck off. I don't have a proper job right now."

"You asked me to wake you at 9AM if you were not already awake by then, Master. I believe you have a meeting with Chief Inspector Randall today to discuss your -"

"Shit what time's the meeting?" Ciel blurted as he half-jumped, half-crawled out of bed, making his way downstairs towards the calendar.

He heard the Synth follow behind him. "10AM," It answered.

Ciel missed the last step out of shock "Wha -" Before he could hit the ground, however, the Synth moved, wrapping one slender arm around his waist, pulling him to his bearings once more.

The man immediately pushed the Synth away, now storming straight to the kitchen. "Shit." He glared over his shoulder as he walked, meeting the Synth's ruby eyes. "Shit."

Once inside the kitchen, he set about making coffee. Milk. Three sugars. Fuck it, four. Might as well taunt diabetes when his health was still 50% on his side.

"Shit shit shit. It takes me like an hour to drive to the fucking station why didn't you wake me earlier. No - I get it, I asked you to do it at a specified time. Still. Shit."

"I have not yet experienced such a fondness of that particular synonym for faeces, Master," The Synth interrupted from the other end of the kitchen. "Do you perhaps need the bathroom?"

Ciel stopped stirring his coffee. Tilted his head. "Was that a joke?" He could sense the Synth giving a single-shouldered shrug. "It could be."

He spun. "Nah, you tell me if that was a joke."

"I believe a joke is intended to lighten the mood." Its face was still expressionless. Actually, the Phantomhive was glad for that; he wasn't ready for a Chucky-esque grin this morning.

"Whatever." Digging into the fridge, he pulled out some of the leftover bagged-up chicken from yesterday and began to make a sandwich.

The dark-haired Synth tilted its head, obviously portraying concern. "That is an unsuitable breakfast."

"Bite me." Ciel remembered the Synth's lack of sense for sarcasm, and promptly had to explain that the remark was not an order to fucking nibble on him.

"Would you like me to make br -"

"Nopfh," Mumbled Ciel as he shoved the sandwich into his mouth, shuffling back upstairs to put on his uniform. When he got back downstairs, the Synth was using his iPhone and talking to someone.

"Master Ciel will be back shortly," It replied in a clipped voice. Pause. "Yes, Mr Trancy."

That made Ciel hesitate to give the Synth a bollocking for using his phone - this could be good. He glanced at the clock. 9:15AM. Yeah, he figured that if he was gonna be late to his future anyway, he was gonna get a good laugh out of this first.

He perched on the stairs, from whence he could see the Synth holding the phone to its ear. The 'bot had its back to him.

"I was ordered to name him Master. No, I do not believe it relates to any possible endeavour for sadism."

Ciel placed a long-fingered hand over his mouth to hold in a chuckle. Trust Alois to always be a cheeky Barbie-blonde fuck.

Pause. "I do not have permission to converse with another Synthetic Human. Declined. No, Synths are not to be used for that purpose - if a Synth is asked to make food, it will. Placing pieces of bread in the circuitry will likely cause malfunctions, Mr Trancy. It would be advisable to have the Synth scanned for toast-related damage."

I'm gonna lose it. The dark-haired man squeaked with suppressed laughs. His Synth spoke again, with a slight confused intonation. "Yes, the warranty is under threat of violation. Why are you laughing?"

Ciel burst out in a fit of giggles as he stood, clutching his stomach while descending the stairs. He hadn't laughed this much since he was a kid! Maybe this whole Synth situation wasn't too bad after all. The Synth turned as he approached; Ciel snatched his phone back, still chuckling. "Yo Alois, funny shit man. You have my blessing to talk to him whenever you want."

The Synth closed the hand which had previously been holding the iPhone with mechanical precision, and lowered it by its side.

"Him?" Questioned Alois suspiciously.

"Uh - it, I meant 'it'."

"Sure. See, he's growing on you."

"Bull," Ciel grabbed his coat, car keys, wallet and badge, "what do you want, anyway?"

"I wasn't kidding about you bringing Mr Vampire over to meet Claude, you know."

"Well I was - Synth, you stay here while I'm out, got it? Plus -"

"Yes, Master."

"- your place smells like piss."

"That's 'cause it's filled with your scent. Sticks to the walls, you know?" Alois laughed. "Anyway we could totally double-date."

"You're a man, Al, fuckin' act like it. If you insist on fucking your robot, ain't my biz, but you try and get me involved? Last thing you'll ever do." Climbing into his car, Ciel started the engine and turned on the heating to battle the February cold.

Alois was still whining into his ear about visiting him. "Pleeeease, I wanna see how they interact."

"No, you want to connect both their sockets with a cable and see what happens." Silence. "...How the fuck do you do that?"

"I can read you like a magazine. Cheaply and with little effort." He sighed. "I ain't got the money to insure for that kind of experimentation."

"Ok, ok, not the cable thing then. But seriously you must bring him round because I'm so bored and poor and -"

"Fine!" Ciel rubbed his temple with his free hand, slouching back in the driver's seat. "I'll fucking do it. See ya later."

"Have a good day at the office, dear."

"Don't push your luck."

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It was incredibly tedious, working in a factory. This place used to be a military camp just south of fair London town, but it had been closed years ago, and bought by Sullivan Fabrics Ltd. At least, that what what the triplets had been able to find out from hacking into the computer network.

Just earlier, they had ambushed one of the human security guards of the fabric factory, and stolen his mobile phone. Canterbury was currently hiding it in his pocket as he and his brothers worked at their respective sewing stations.

All three, after months of being here, had come to one conclusion: slave labour was slave labour, regardless of who or what the slaves were. They worked 18 hours a day in brightly-lit warehouses, perched on uncomfortable wooden stools and barely given any time to recharge. Literally.

It was true that human technology had advanced so much that their manufacturing machines surpassed the production quality of human workers, but Synthetic Humans had that mechanical skill built into them, therefore using them as workers proved just as effective.

The constant whirring and clicking of sewing machines, needles, and conveyor belts was the background music to their existence.

"I'm bored," Said Thompson.

"Me too," Said Timber.

"Me three," Said Canterbury. All three had layered dark hair, and reddish tints in their eyes that threatened to betray who they really were. But just because they were more than Synths didn't mean they couldn't act like them. However, in a room full of normal Synths, they were the only ones which engaged in conversation with each other.

They had also decided that their covert operation was not going too well due to this, but continued chatting, anyway.

"Are you finished with that piece of cloth yet?" Asked Canterbury to Timber. Timber shook his head somewhat excessively.

"I've finished this one," Chimed Thompson.

"Wasn't asking you."

"Take the fabric to-"

Footsteps made all three hesitate.

They looked toward the end of the room. The workers were all arranged in aisles, much like a supermarket. Between two of those aisles, aiming straight for them, walked a person.

A very fancy person.

An ankle-length white fur coat adorned the narrow shoulders. A pearly cravat wrapped elegantly around a slim neck. Straight, grey trousers covered long, slender legs; formal black Oxfords wore the figure well, and the delicate-looking hands were protected by pale gloves, also beautified by the addition of fur cuffs. The figure stopped before all three of them.

"Boys." His voice was mellifluous, entrancing. It complimented his sharp gaze, which was framed by a deluge of platinum locks, styled into a mullet.

"Are you David Bowie?" Asked Timber.

"Bowie?"

"Bowie," Nodded Thompson. "But the older Bowie from the '80s."

"By older he means younger," Corrected Canterbury.

"I am not," Stated the man in his nasal tone.

"Not who?" Asked the triplets.

"Not him."

"Him who?"

"David Bowie!" The raised voice caused the triplets to fall into silence.

Behind the man there appeared four new people: three visored men, bodyguards, and one woman clad all in black. Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in frustration, the man sighed before continuing. "We have received concerns from your owner about your behaviour."

"We've been working as ordered," Timber reassured him, "sir."

The blonde-haired man seemed sceptical. "Be that as it may, you, boys, are different." He stepped closer to the three, all of whom were lined up shoulder to shoulder.

"Synths do not interact with such conscious ease."

Canterbury's arm twitched.

Timber's eyes narrowed.

Thompson bit the inside of his cheek.

The man glanced at Canterbury. "CCTV footage taken from this factory shows a coordinated attack on a human security guard earlier today."

All three gulped.

The blonde smiled knowingly. "Gentlemen." Canterbury went to jerk away, but the man's hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. "It isn't nice to steal," He growled, "and it's a very human thing to do. Tell me, why would a Synth need a mobile phone?"

Timber and Thompson, tense, held baited breaths. The bodyguards lifted their rifles as the rest of the Synths around them continued their work, oblivious. The woman, head down, kept her weapon at her side, pointed down.

"Escape is impossible." The man's violet eyes bored into Canterbury's own.

All three broke into combat.

Canterbury swung a leg upwards, catching the man in the sternum and sending him stumbling back.

Timber and Thompson both sprang to opposite walls of the warehouse, darting over sewing machines, crates, and workers alike. When both reached their respective sides, they jumped up and kicked off, using the hard surface as a springboard.

"Subdue them!" Yelled the blonde man, clutching his chest, "But do not destroy them! That is an order!"

The bodyguards began firing, bullets ricocheting off brickwork, ploughing through work stations and brutalising machinery. The triplets used the pandemonium to their advantage; as the sounds impacted on the bearings of the men, Timber flew into the first guard, knocking his gun from his grip. The strap over his body meant that the rifle was still within the man's reach. Timber pulled a pair of scissors from his uniform pocket and sliced through the nylon strap; the gun clattered to the floor.

With the man on his back, Timber stabbed him in the shoulder with a scissor blade. The man cried out, rolled Timber off him, managed to get a punch in which blurred the Synth's vision, but he hit back, catching him on the jaw. The guard's head cracked back onto the stone floor, and he lay still.

Meanwhile, Thompson had grabbed a bag of fabric and ripped it open; pieces fell all around, collecting bullets and distracting the guards from hitting their targets. Through the falling curtain of cloth he darted, dodging gunshots and managing to grab the nearest bodyguard by the throat, shoving him off balance; he fell over a work station, at which a random Synth offered him help. The guard sat up, grunting, aiming at Thompson. He froze, analysing possible counter-routes.

Bang. Thompson detected the sound of the trigger being pulled before the bullet even left the barrel; he had plenty of time to bend backwards so that the shot raced right over his body. He felt the hot rush of its speeding path graze his stomach before he straightened again. Left, right, he moved, untraceable, forwards, now leap, one leg bent and one leg locked into a kicking stance which caught the man across the cheek. Thompson felt his cheekbone implode under the force of his blow.

He suspected that he had cracked a few of his phalanges. Nothing that a repair kit couldn't fix.

Landing gracefully upon the man's chest, Thompson had to jump up again as the man bucked, a knee lurching upwards to knock him. Thompson fell, landed on his hip awkwardly, heard a popping sound amongst the gunfire and shouting. Suddenly the guard had shoved him onto his stomach and was hauling him up, grabbing onto his upper arms. Thompson remained limp, wouldn't even put weight on his feet, until the guard had him at shoulder height.

"I got one, sir!" The guard shouted, evidently in agony.

Without warning, Thompson snapped his head back, headbutting the man's jaw. Blood sprayed down the man's chin and onto Thompson's hair; he assumed that the man had bitten his tongue.

As the guard moaned in pain, the Synth broke free, spun and flipped him over his hip. The guard landed on his front, Thompson grabbed a glue gun from a near table, and whacked it over his head. The man stayed down, groaning. Thompson ripped the rifle from his person for good measure.

Canterbury had become cornered by the remaining two males, practically tap dancing within their boundaries in order to avoid being shot. He flipped, twisted, ducked and dodged a neverending stream of bullets.

He heard one of the guns give a loud, defeated click, and he knew this was his chance. Sliding onto the floor, Canterbury rolled behind a row of desks for cover. He heard both guards swear as one stopped to reload, and the other searched for his location.

The other triplets had done the same; all were hiding among the rows and rows of Synth workers in the warehouse, the entirety of whom, apart from the three, were continuing with their work as if this was no matter of concern. They only stopped working when they were either shot or knocked from their posts. Canterbury slowed his breathing. His skin had multiple lesions. Metallic blue blood dampened his clothing and it flowed from his nose.

For a few seconds, the calamity halted, and the room returned to its normal soundtrack.

"Where did they go?" Demanded the man, coughing. "Bloody get them, they must not escape!"

"Sir."

"Get up, you fools." But only one of the two felled guards did so.

The thud of rubber boots on linoleum was sickeningly exciting. Canterbury rested in a crouch. The guards had also began to shuffle around, looking for them. The barrel of a rifle poked in front of the desk behind which Canterbury hid. He pounced, wrestling the rifle from the man's hands. The others rushed to help him but Timber and Thompson were on them, battling once again.

There were four male guards, and only three of them. Canterbury noted that he had long lost sight of the woman, as another guard approached him.

Canterbury held the rifle in both hands and twisted it around. He yanked on the strap around the man's body as he fought, and it slipped over his arms, caught around his neck. Canterbury pulled the strap tighter, cutting off the man's oxygen, and he pointed the attached rifle at the oncoming guard, firing nonstop. The guard dropped, took cover behind a desk. Immediately Canterbury moved forward and his leg shot out, kicking the sewing machine atop the desk backwards. It fell onto the man and he collapsed, unconscious.

Dropping the gun, he finally noticed that he had pulled the strap so tight it had caused the other guard to fall unconscious, too.

He witnessed Timber swing a stool into the body of one guard, and saw Thompson take out the other with a string of well-timed jabs.

With all four guards down, there was only one left to watch for.

Timber heard a furious yell. Thompson felt something plough into his lower right leg and he dropped. Canterbury felt his own torso be pulled backwards by the force of something ripping through his left shoulder, and he gripped the wound tightly. The pain, while beautiful, was most definitely an inconvenience.

Through hazy vision, Canterbury could see the outline of the blonde man and the woman, both striding towards where all three were huddled, both holding firearms before them.

"You'll need to come with us-"

"Was zum Teufel ist passiert!" The speakers from all upper corners of the warehouse screeched to life, and the voice of a young woman roared through the tannoy. "Wer seid ihr denn? Wolf, sag mir wer sie sind!"

"Ich weiß nicht, gnädiges Fräulein -"

The sudden sound diverted their attackers' attention. Timber scooped up both of his injured brothers, and they sprinted as best they could for the main doors. The woman's head snapped to them; she started shooting, but the man warned her not to kill them and it further delayed her reaction. With a mighty roundhouse kick, Timber was able to force the wide door open. Tugging both of his brothers along, he strained with the effort; his energy supply wouldn't last long.

It was now or never.

The triplets kept on moving into the darkening rural area beyond, escaping the angry snarls of the strange blonde Bowie-man.

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Translations:

Was zum Teufel ist passiert! - What the hell happened!

Wer seid ihr denn? Wolf, sag mir wer sie sind! - Who are you? Wolf, tell me who they are!

Ich weiß nicht, gnädiges Fräulein - I don't know, Madam