Chapter Seven – Zeth
Chapter Seven
Zeth
I flow over the ground, my body spread thin and liquid across the asphalt.
This form is as natural to me as breathing, maybe more natural than the humanoid shape I wear to blend in with the world.
Every particle of my being stays connected, aware, moving together with purpose.
I am not scattered, I am whole, just in a different state.
The textures underneath me register with perfect clarity – rough asphalt first, then the smooth concrete of the sidewalk with its hairline cracks running through like spider webs.
I flow over cigarette butts ground into the pavement, dried gum turned hard and black, and the grooves between concrete sections where dirt has compressed over years.
Each texture is distinct, and I feel the sharp edges of scattered gravel, the oily residue near a storm drain, and the warmer patches where the sun has been beating down all afternoon.
Nothing sticks to my matter even as I sense every detail, and my body repels debris while cataloging everything I pass over.
I chose this approach intentionally. Wren is supposed to be alone in the motel room, and no one can see a seven-foot symbiote walking up to her door. The Kyzers could be watching already, and I will not compromise her cover before the mission even begins.
I reach the door to room fourteen and slide under the gap at the bottom. The worn rubber weather stripping brushes against me, and I sense decades of dirt compressed into the threshold, and feel the slight downward slope of the floor inside. Then I am through, pooled on the stained carpet.
I pull myself back together. The process takes only seconds, but I am conscious of every moment.
My molecules condense and reshape, drawing inward and upward.
Legs form first, because I need stability, then my torso, arms, and head.
My eyes take shape last, and suddenly I am seeing instead of sensing. The dim motel room comes into focus.
Wren stands a few feet away, staring at me with her mouth agape.
“How...” she starts, then stops. “You... Oh, when you said...” She trails off again and shakes her head. “I didn’t quite picture it.”
Her voice wavers between confusion and awe. She looks at me like I am something impossible that just happened right in front of her eyes. Then she pulls herself together, her shoulders straighten, she clears her throat, and the wonder disappears behind her professional mask.
“I’m sorry about this situation,” she says, gesturing around the small room. “I hadn’t expected Captain Holt to throw us into a motel room so soon.”
Frustration edges into her voice. Things are moving too fast for her, I can tell. She needs more time, more space, and definitely more control over what’s happening.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “This is the mission, after all. I expected it eventually.”
I look around the room properly now. It is cramped and worn down in the way cheap motels always are.
Stained carpet, peeling wallpaper, and a single bed dominates the small space, taking up most of the room.
It looks old, the mattress sagging in the middle, covered with a thin comforter in a faded floral pattern.
Two flat pillows rest against a scratched headboard made of fake wood veneer.
A small dresser holds an ancient television, and the bathroom door hangs slightly crooked in its frame.
Barely any floor space remains between the furniture.
“It’s true we should have had more time to train and plan,” I add.
I want to ask her why she never texted or called. I waited for her to reach out, and checked my phone constantly over the past few days. I wanted to text her a hundred times but stopped myself every time. I thought it was better to give her space and let her make the first move when she felt ready.
But I don’t ask. I can see the distress on her face, the tight set of her jaw, and the way her hands keep moving restlessly at her sides.
My eyes land on the single bed again, and heat rises in my chest. How am I supposed to resist her in this space?
How can I be so close to her but still maintain the distance I need to stay professional?
I can already imagine the bed groaning under my weight, how small the space will feel with both of us in it, and how her scent will fill the air between us.
“I need to get out,” Wren says suddenly. “Walk around, pretend like I’m trying to find work.” She grabs her jacket from where she tossed it on the dresser. “You can stay behind and get settled in. I’ll just go for a walk.”
She is already moving toward the door.
“Absolutely not.”
She stops and turns to look at me. Her eyebrows pull together.
“From this moment on, I’m your bodyguard,” I tell her. “I won’t leave you alone. Not for a second.”
“We can’t be seen together,” she argues. “It will blow my cover.”
“Then we need to merge.”
The words hang in the air between us. She goes very still.
“This won’t work if we don’t merge,” I continue. “You know that.”
She starts to protest, backing away slightly. I can see the fear shining in her eyes again, the same fear I saw in the training room.
“Is there a problem that prevents you from merging with me?” I ask her directly.
I keep my voice gentle but firm. She needs to hear this.
“I’ve merged with many humans and monsters over the years,” I tell her. “The process isn’t painful at all. I’ll be gentle, and I will respect you.”
“How will you respect me when you have access to all my thoughts?!”
Her voice rises, frustration exploding out of her. Her face flushes red, and her hands clench into fists at her sides.
“There are things I don’t want anyone to see,” she says. “It’s not unusual. All people have secrets, intimate thoughts they hide. It’s not easy to give someone access to all of it.” She takes a step toward me, anger making her bold. “So how dare you say the process is simple?”
I understand now. She is afraid of letting me in, afraid of what I will see and know about her. This is not about the physical sensation of merging. This is about vulnerability.
I take a step back and raise my hands slowly, showing her I have no intention of forcing anything.
“Yes, I’ll have access to everything,” I say quietly.
“But I’m a professional. I’ve learned over the years how to detach myself, how not to pay attention to my host’s thoughts and feelings aside from what matters for the mission.
” I hold her gaze. “I won’t invade your mind.
I won’t push to see more. I’ll let your thoughts glide by without focusing on them.
That’s what I can offer you, an assurance that I won’t pry and I won’t judge. ”
She breathes heavily. Sweat beads on her forehead, and she looks at me with despair in her eyes, and I hate that I am the cause of it. The silence stretches between us. I wait, not wanting to push her further.
Finally, she nods.
“Now what?” she asks quietly.
“Sit on the bed,” I tell her. “Let’s take a moment and calm down for a minute.”
I go into the bathroom and fill a plastic cup with water. The faucet sputters before the water comes out. I bring the cup back to her and she takes it with shaking hands and drinks half of it down.
I sit beside her on the bed. The mattress dips dramatically under my weight, and the springs creak in protest.
“I can’t let you go out today,” I tell her gently. “I can’t let you out of my sight until we merge and I can be with you at all times. While we’re in this room, we don’t have to stay merged. But if you want to go out, we have to merge.”
She sets the cup down on the nightstand and looks at me.
“Then let’s try again,” she says. “It has to work, right? I just have to let you in.”
But she shudders as she says it. Her whole body tenses.
“We can take things slowly,” I offer. “How about we just lie in bed together, side by side? We only merge our fingers, then our hands. We pull back when it’s too much, so as to give you time to adjust gradually.”
She considers this, then nods.
“That could work,” she says. “I need time. I’m grateful you’re taking things slowly.”
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. I climb further onto the bed, trying to be careful. The mattress sags even more under my weight, and I settle on my side, trying not to take up too much space.
I reach out and gently pull her to lie next to me. She lies on her back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Her body is rigid and her hands fold on her stomach.
We lie there for minutes without speaking.
I watch her profile – her straight nose, her determined jaw, the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.
She is beautiful, and I let myself think it now because she can’t hear my thoughts yet.
I notice how she trembles. Not from cold, but from nerves.
I hate that she is so nervous. I want to make this as easy for her as possible.
“Is it okay if I touch your hair?” I ask. “So you get used to me a little. To my proximity.”
She nods without looking at me.
I reach out carefully and thread my fingers through her long red hair.
It’s so soft, sliding through my fingers like silk.
The strands catch the dim light from the bedside lamp, and I marvel at the texture of it.
Her hair smells of coconut and vanilla. The scent fills my lungs and makes my chest tighten.
I brush her forehead gently with my fingertips. She shivers at the contact.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper.
She does. Her eyelids flutter closed, and I continue playing with her hair, letting the strands slip through my fingers, watching the red catch the light.
I touch her skin here and there. Her shoulder, where I feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her shirt, her ear, tracing the shell of it and feeling her breath hitch, her neck, running my thumb along the side and noticing how much warmer her skin is there.
Goosebumps rise on her arms, and I see them spread across her skin. Humans are fragile creatures. They are very sensitive to the world around them, and very guarded. Every touch and sensation registers strongly with them. I trace her collarbone and feel her pulse racing under my fingertips.
This is all very intimate. I am aware of that.
But it doesn’t compare to how intimate it will be when I pour myself under her skin, when I spread through her nervous system and feel everything she feels.
This is necessary. This is me helping her adjust. Intimate doesn’t mean erotic.
I tell myself that even as my body responds to her nearness, to the coconut and vanilla scent of her hair, and the soft sound of her breathing.
I would love to know every little thing that goes through her head, every thought, every fear, and every desire she keeps hidden.
But I will respect my promise. I swear to myself that I will be detached no matter how hard it may be.
When I merge with her and gain access to everything, I will let her thoughts glide by without digging deeper.
I will not pry. I will not invade her privacy more than the merge already does.
I run my fingers through her hair again and let them trail down to her neck. She bites her lower lip.
Heat shoots through me immediately. I watch her teeth press into that soft flesh, and my cock hardens in response.
I try to think of something else, try to look away from her lips, but it’s no use.
I can feel my cock beginning to emerge from between my thighs, pressing out from where it stays nestled inside my body.
I only pray that Wren will not open her eyes and look at me.
I try to focus on her hair, on the gentle touches, on anything except the way her lip looks caught between her teeth.
I am doomed.
Completely and utterly ruined.