“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 travelundetected, 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.
