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.
I pass through security and show my MSA credentials to the agent at the desk. She barely looks at me, which is better than the alternative. Some humans stare, and some look away too quickly, and I’m never sure which reaction is worse. I take the elevator to the third floor and follow the directions Captain Holt’s assistant gave me over the phone. Conference room 3-B, second door on the left.
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 whotakes 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.
