Chapter Three – Zeth
Chapter Three
Zeth
The FBI building in downtown Los Angeles is nothing like the places where I usually work.
Most of my jobs take me to back rooms in warehouses, and private gyms where fighters train away from prying eyes.
This place is all glass and steel, and it’s clear you’re being watched from the moment you walk through the door.
My last job ended two weeks ago. I merged with an underground fighter who needed to win matches for sponsors who’d placed heavy bets on him.
The work was straightforward enough, and the pay was good.
I spent a week merged with him, enhancing his strength and speed, healing the damage between rounds, and making sure he could take hits that would’ve put a normal human in the hospital.
Then I took a few days off to recover and let my body rest after all that violence.
It wasn’t the worst job I’ve taken. The MSA doesn’t have strict moral codes, as long as the clients pay what’s asked and add a bonus.
I’ve seen humans do far worse things than fight for money.
I’ve experienced worse myself, back when I had no choice about who I merged with or why.
So, I’ve learned to be neutral about the work, to take the jobs that come and not think too hard about whether they align with some abstract sense of right and wrong.
The MSA is one of the few organizations that will hire symbiotes without prejudice.
Society in general, humans and monsters alike, still treat us like we’re dangerous or untrustworthy.
Parasites, some people call us, even though we’re legally recognized as people with rights and protections.
The MSA welcomed me when no one else would, so I’m grateful for that, even when the jobs are questionable.
This job is different. High-level, contracted by the FBI, and I’m the only symbiote currently working with the LA branch. That’s what the MSA director told me when she called yesterday. Government work, she said, and they specifically requested me. I didn’t ask why. I just said yes and showed up.
But there’s one detail that’s been sitting in my gut like a stone since I got the assignment: the client is a woman.
I haven’t worked with a woman since I joined the MSA a few years ago.
My clients have all been men, mostly because men are the ones who need what I offer: strength, protection, enhanced combat abilities.
Women don’t usually hire bodyguards like me, and when they do, they choose someone else, someone who doesn’t look like a monster.
I stop outside conference room 3-B and take a breath. Then I open the door and step inside.
She’s sitting at the far end of the conference table, and the first thing I notice is how small she is.
Not fragile, just compact, like all her energy is contained in a frame that doesn’t waste space.
Red hair pulled back from her face, blue eyes that lock onto me the second I enter the room.
She doesn’t look away or flinch, just studies me with the kind of intensity that tells me she’s cataloging every detail, reading me the way I’m trying to read her.
There’s something about the way she holds herself that makes me pause.
Her shoulders are square, her spine straight, and even though she’s sitting down I can tell she’s the kind of person who takes up space without apologizing for it.
She’s small, but there’s nothing soft about her.
I can see the strength in the set of her jaw, the sharpness in her gaze, the way her hands rest flat on the table like she’s ready to push herself up and move at any second.
I’m fascinated by her immediately, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s not what I expected. Maybe it’s because she looks at me like I’m a problem she’s solving rather than a monster she’s tolerating.
I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.
Charcoal-gray skin that doesn’t reflect light, silver markings running through my body like veins, creating patterns that shimmer slightly when I move.
Completely black eyes with no pupils, no irises, just solid darkness from edge to edge.
No hair anywhere, smooth skin that makes it obvious I’m not human even when I’m trying to pass as one.
I’ve spent years studying humans, learning how they move, stand and gesture, trying to mimic them well enough so that I don’t stand out more than I already do.
But I know what I look like. I’m proud of my body because it’s strong and capable, because I’ve survived things that should have destroyed me, but I also know that humans usually find me unappealing.
Human women, especially, tend to keep their distance if they can help it.
I make myself walk to the chair across from her and sit down, putting the width of the table between us. We’ll have to merge eventually, but for now, the distance feels necessary.
She breaks the silence first.
“So, you’re Zeth Thessian.”
“And you’re Wren Hayes,” I say.
“That’s not my name. But it’s the name you’ll use, and it’s the only one you’ll know. This is a highly classified job.”
I nod. I’ve worked classified jobs before. The MSA is good at discretion, and I’m good at keeping my mouth shut.
“How do you think we’ll work together?” she asks.
The question is direct, no preamble, no small talk. I appreciate that. I don’t know how to do small talk anyway.
“We’ll have to merge,” I say. “I’ll integrate with your body, spread through your nervous system, weave into your muscles.
When I’m merged with you, you’ll feel me like a second identity living under your skin.
I can enhance your strength, speed up your reflexes, heal injuries, and protect you if something goes wrong. ”
I see her fingers tighten against the table.
“Will I be able to read your thoughts the way you’ll read mine?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “The connection goes both ways, but it’s not symmetrical.
I’ll have full access to your thoughts and feelings because I’m integrated with your nervous system.
You might hear my thoughts sometimes, catch glimpses of my emotions, but it won’t be as complete.
It’s an intimate process. Unfortunately. ”
She echoes the word, and there’s something bitter in her voice.
“Unfortunately.”
I can see it now – the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself too still. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want me.
“I can see you’re not excited about the prospect of working together,” I say.
“I’m not.” She doesn’t soften it or apologize. “I believe I’m capable of doing this mission on my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”
The word stings more than it should. I’ve been called worse things than a babysitter but hearing it from her feels different somehow.
“I’m not just protection,” I say. “I’ll also act as a messenger between you and the FBI.
I can leave your body and travel undetected, slip through small spaces, move quickly without being seen.
Anything you learn, any information you gather, I can bring it back to your handler fast and efficiently. ”
She leans forward.
“How fluid, exactly? What does that mean?”
“My body is adaptive organic matter. I can compress myself, reshape my form, slip underneath doors or through gaps in walls. I’m as fluid as water when I need to be.
I can travel long distances without being detected, which means you won’t have to risk communication devices or meeting with your handler in person. ”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her processing, weighing the advantages against whatever objections she has. Finally, she nods once, a sharp movement that suggests she’s made a decision she doesn’t like but can’t argue against.
“That will make the mission easier,” she admits.
We sit in silence for a few seconds, and I try to figure out what to say next.
This isn’t going the way I hoped, but I’m not sure what I expected.
She doesn’t want me here. She doesn’t trust me.
And I can’t blame her for that. Most people don’t trust symbiotes, and even the ones who hire us usually treat us like tools instead of people.
She lets out a breath that sounds tired.
“How will this work? Should we merge now?”
“There’s no rush,” I say quickly. “We can establish a day and time to meet and start testing the waters, training together. If you want, it can be somewhere you feel safe. Your home, maybe.”
“No. The training facility here at the field office is perfect. Downstairs. It’s secure, and we’ll have privacy.”
“That works for me.”
“We should meet this evening. Eight o’clock. Let’s get it over with.”
Get it over with. Like merging with me is something unpleasant she has to endure. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that this is just a job.
We both stand up at the same time, and I reach across the table to offer my hand.
It’s instinct, the kind of thing humans do to end a conversation, to acknowledge an agreement.
But she just stares at my hand like it’s something dangerous, and then she bites her lower lip, and I realize she’s not going to take it.
“I need to talk to Captain Holt,” she says, and then she’s moving, walking past me toward the door.
She doesn’t quite run, but she’s moving fast enough that I know she wants out, away from me. The door closes behind her, and I’m left standing there with my hand still extended, feeling like an idiot.
I lower my arm and breathe in slowly. The air smells like her now that she’s gone, and underneath the scent of shampoo and soap, I catch something else. Nervousness. Fear.
She’s afraid of me.
I’ve worked with plenty of people who were afraid of me at first, who saw me as a necessary evil or a tool they had to tolerate. But this feels different. She looked at me like I was a threat, like touching my hand might hurt her.
I would never do anything to make her uncomfortable.
I would never hurt her, or push her, or take anything she didn’t freely give.
That’s the whole point of the laws and regulations around merging, the consent protocols that protect both hosts and symbiotes.
I’ve spent years proving that I’m trustworthy, that I’m a professional, that I’m not the kind of symbiote who takes advantage of hosts.
But she doesn’t know that. She just sees what everyone sees: a monster who wants access to her body and her mind.
The meeting didn’t go well. I can admit that to myself as I stand alone in the conference room with her fear still lingering in the air.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should tell the MSA to find someone else, someone she’ll be more comfortable with.
But even as I think it, I know that’s not an option.
If I back out, she goes in alone, and the thought of that makes something twist in my chest that I don’t want to examine too closely.
I leave the conference room and head back toward the elevator, passing agents in suits who glance at me and then look away. I’m used to that. I’ve been getting those looks my entire life, the ones that say I don’t belong here, that I’m something to be tolerated rather than accepted.
But for some reason, getting that same look from Wren Hayes hurts worse than all the others combined.
I’ll meet her at eight o’clock in the training facility downstairs. I’ll explain the merging process again, answer her questions, and try to make this as easy for her as possible. And maybe, if I’m careful enough, and professional enough, and keep enough distance, she’ll stop being afraid of me.
I don’t let myself hope for more than that. Hope is dangerous when you’re a symbiote. Hope leads to disappointment, and disappointment leads to the kind of hurt I spent years learning to avoid.
But as I step into the elevator and the doors close, I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me with those sharp blue eyes, studying me like I was a puzzle she needed to solve.
And I can’t stop wondering what it will feel like when we finally merge, and I have access to everything she’s been hiding behind that fierce, guarded exterior.