The Symbiote

Nathan Cryogen was a cold man. When Nathan's boss fired him for allegedly doing law-breaking experiments with the human mind, Nathan stomped around his studio apartment in circles; when Nathan couldn't pay the rent and begged an extension out of his ancient landlady, Mildred, he took a silent bus ride out to a chilly, deserted state park in western Massachusetts and kicked snow until his feet started freezing; when the world invented smartphones, Nathan bought one eventually, but he glared at the clerk who sold it to him.

Nathan had been unhappy for most of his life and on the day he walked into the local 8-Bits and Bobs, and bought his smartphone, he'd come to the store after Mildred had informed him with a wagging finger and judgmental gray-blue eyes that he was at the end of his extension and he'd better come up with money from somewhere because she wasn't a fan of kicking people out of places.

Truth, Nathan had decided in the aftermath of getting fired, was a commodity. And like all commodities, it had a price, it had buyers, and it had sellers. Some commodities, Nathan explained to any of his couch cushions that would listen - which were all of them - were not worth selling. It was purely coincidental, he would say to his favorite plush burgundy cushion, that some commodities are truth and some commodities are not worth selling. And thus, he would say, turning his head slightly away from the cushion and watching in his peripheral to ensure it wasn't planning on leaving, some truths are not worth selling. To not sell is to not tell.

The cushions never moved on their own and this particular burgundy cushion was not an exception. It was, however, square-ish and pointed on the ends in a plump way that caused it to lose balance if you brought the right kind of airflow near it, so Nathan liked to rush by it once in a while to pretend that it had a mind of its own.

Nathan was in love with the mind, but even more than the mind, he was in love with having a place to live. So he didn't tell Mildred that he had six hundred dollars in his bank account - a month's rent exactly - and instead begged for the extension, knowing that her mind had a hard time with kicking people out of places. He had fully intended to pay her when the extension was over and had fully intended to have made a lot of money before the deadline came.

Neither had happened. Instead, he was sitting on the sidewalk outside 8-Bits and Bobs, trembling, with a brand new phone in his shaking hands. He was shaking because it was fifteen degrees outside and he hadn't worn any gloves. He'd stopped wearing gloves after the entire palm of both ripped open - it seemed like a waste of time to bother his hands with.

He made a cushion of his pulled up knees, to protect the phone in case he dropped it, and scrambled to open the back of the phone, going for the sensitive SIM card that he'd wanted all along. He'd paid six hundred dollars for the phone, on the dime, and skimped on the smiling clerk's offered coverage plan because he didn't have six hundred and twenty two and banks were good at figuring out what commodities people were selling, even if the people weren't enthusiastic about sharing them.

With a quiet gleam in his eye, he removed the SIM card and stared at it in wonder. He tossed the phone to the side without a second thought, pocketed the card, and with the remaining coins in his pocket, purchased a bus ride back home. There was no jingling in his pockets when he walked inside and locked the door - only the weight of a tiny piece of metal, with staggering potential locked within.

He set the special lock in place because he knew Mildred would hear his footsteps and come to talk. He had no interest in talking - not tonight. And if all went as planned, he wouldn't need to talk to her about the rent anymore.

Holding the SIM card reverently, he laid it atop his immaculately straightened bed cover and held there for a moment, drinking it in. Einstein, he thought. Edison, Tesla, and the guy who started Abercrombie and Fitch. And now me. Deftly, but with shaking hands, he got out the chest from under his bed and pulled out the chip with his life's work sitting on it. It was crazy to have your life on a chip, but his boss had given him no other choice; the equipment hadn't belonged to Nathan. The data chip was the only thing he had owned. That and the idea, but Trevor Marsupian would never understand the work he had rejected.

Or, thought Nathan, with a glimmer of mischief in his eye, maybe Trevor will understand one day.

With a deep breath, Nathan grabbed the two-pronged wire that extended from the data chip and plugged an end into the SIM card. The other wire he bent his head down to reach and touched it to his forehead.

Several things happened at once: A jolt, a man flying backwards, and a rap on the door. Nathan rubbed his forehead gingerly, feeling singed skin, and pulled himself up off the floor. The rap on the door came again, only this time Nathan heard it. He glanced at the bed, panicked, and scrambled over to the electronic contraption. There was a thin plume of smoke emanating from the data chip. Cursing, he dragged it and the attached SIM card off the bed, and stuffed them both in the metal chest, shoving it under the bed. He stifled the spark of a fire on his covers and breathed heavily, as the rap came again.

Mildred. He'd been planning to ignore her. Why did it feel like such a strange idea now? She was out there, he was in here, and there were multiple locks between them. He closed his eyes and immediately, a vivid image of her hand going for the door pasted itself across his vision. His eyes flashed open and he stared at the world around him, thankful that it was still there.

His eye caught his favorite burgundy cushion and he whimpered. With each passing second, he was feeling more and more guilty about ignoring Mildred. He whispered at the cushion, "I have to answer the door. I'm sorry. I know you don't like guests."

Now that the decision was made, he felt a surprising amount of energy. There was a spring in his step as he unbolted the door and swung it open, face to face with his landlady. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"May I come in?" she said. Mildred never needed to say a lot. Her stance spoke volumes.

Nathan nodded, swallowing, and closed the door softly behind her. She turned on him in the small space and as their eyes connected, Nathan felt a rush of images stampede at his conscious mind. Mildred sitting in a doctor's office, staring at an oak desk. The doctor speaking to her calmly, telling her she had six months to live. The image yanked itself away like a picture stripped from the wall and Nathan looked at a puzzled Mildred.

She put her hands on her hips in that particular way of hers and scowled. She opened her mouth to speak, but Nathan got there first.

"I lied to you," he said in a rush. "I spent my rent money on a phone. I had it back when I asked for the extension."

Mildred's scowl gathered a few more wrinkles for support, "Can I see the phone?"

"I stripped out the SIM card and threw it away," said Nathan. Then, with a heady rush, he added, "I've always known you were gullible."

"Get out," said Mildred. Her eyes watered, but he wasn't sure whether it was age or exhaustion. "If I ever see you in this building again, I'll call the cops on you."

Nathan gulped and nodded, feeling weightless. He grabbed his ratty coat, his ratty gloves, and ratty hat, and walked out the door into the cold evening air. For minutes, he just walked, with no idea where he was going. He'd never been sure what would happen when he connected the wires. The invention was supposed to give him insight into the minds of others in a way that he could use to his advantage. He hadn't expected to get thrown back like he was touching a lightning rod during a thunder storm, but the experiment had done something.

Mildred is going to die in six months. The thought touched him in a way that seemed impossible and he lurched into an alleyway, burying his sobs amid the littered, dirty streets.

As the evening lengthened and the temperature dropped, panic began to set in. He knew he needed to find a place to sleep where it was warm, or he'd perish in the night and wouldn't that be a way for the next Abercrombie and Fitch guy to go. Swallowing a mixture of his pride and a parched throat, he walked up the tiny steps to the nearest apartment on the block and knocked on the door. For a few moments no one answered and Nathan considered leaving. He couldn't wait all night to see if anyone was inside.

Then footsteps came from inside and as the door swung open, Nathan was hit by an image of a young woman, in her late twenties like himself, seeing a disgusting retch before her. The image yanked itself away and he saw through his own eyes the disdain written on her face.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," said Nathan. He took off his hat, unsure why it seemed like a good idea when his head was already cold, and did a little bow. "I need a place to sleep for the night. That's all I ask, ma'am, and I'll be out of your way."

The woman licked her lips. She was a short woman with straight black hair, sunken brown eyes, and the sort of body that had probably endured some shame for being too skinny. Nathan began to reach out, not with his arms, but with his mind, probing inside her, searching for something that could help him survive the night.

"I'm sorry," said the woman, "but no."

As she moved to shut the door, Nathan found it. There was a spark of something. A spark in her to take him right there. She was single and dreamed about an encounter like this, but it was too much for her all at once. It was too real. Nathan prodded at the spark and felt it retract in an instant, like a hand pulling itself from fire.

The door stopped, midway, and slowly, bit by bit, it creaked open all the way.

"I have a guest bedroom," she said faintly. "I'll show you to it."

Nathan nodded, not wanting to lose hold of the moment, and followed her to the room. It was a quaint, wooded room - part of a quaint, wooded house that gave the feeling of being inside a log cabin in the woods.

"I miss the country," said the woman, as if to explain away her taste in design.

"I'm Carla, by the way," she added, reaching out her hand.

Nathan shook her hand and gave her his name. She held on. An image smashed across his vision like a speeding train and he jumped. The image slid away as quickly as it had come; slipped out of his memory and mind faster than any thought he'd known. But he was looking at her differently now.

"I apologize," she said, her finger unconsciously circling his hand. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"It's no problem," said Nathan in a husky voice. He went into a coughing fit, his throat begging for water. Carla rushed off and brought him a glass with eager hands. He glugged it down, thanking her, and met her eyes as she went for the glass to take it back. Another image slammed across his vision, but it didn't shock him this time and it didn't slide away as fast. He caught a glimpse of her pale body pressed up against his own, her back arching, visible above tangled, white sheets.

I want you, he thought. The thought felt foreign. This isn't like me. But then, what was like him? He'd been pushed to the edge, thrown out of house and home. All that remained was survival. Survival is not taking advantage of someone's desires. She's willing though. I pushed her to this. Time and space seemed to stand still and wait, as he battled himself, struggling to overcome the feelings pressing in on him.

With a final clash of will, a frightening realization came thundering forward. I'm part of her now. It didn't seem possible. He'd wanted insight, not... symbiosis.

"Sir," said Carla, breaking through his thoughts, "you've been holding onto that glass like it's the last drink you're going to have on this earth."

"It's Nathan," he said absently. Then he blushed and loosened his grip. "I'm sorry, I just lost my home. I'm a little out of sorts."

She laid the glass on an oak dresser and turned back to face him. Her face fell. "I need to apologize for something, sir- ah, Nathan. I only invited you in because it's a fantasy of mine to... to..." She wrung her hands and choked on the words.

Nathan stared, still trying to process the realization of their connection.

"Oh god, what am I saying," she said, turning a deep shade of red, "Please, uh, show yourself out in the morning. Lock the door and please don't steal anything." She turned to go.

"Wait," said Nathan. "I don't understand what's happening," he said, glad that it was true. Some commodities, he thought, but the rest of it went blank. It was as if that part of him had disappeared. As if it had never been there at all.

"What I'm trying to say is," said Nathan, fumbling for words, as the truth seemed to push at him with every syllable. "I like you too. No, that's stupid. I want you to ride me until we pass out."

Silence fell on the room and Nathan felt sure he'd gone too far. He should have taken the bed and shut his mouth. He should never have come in at all. This was getting out of control.

Carla stood stock still, frozen in place.

"I'm going to walk to my bedroom," said Carla, slowly, carefully, as if there was a gun pointed at her head. "If you aren't in there within five minutes, I will lock the door and I expect you to be gone in the morning. If you are there..." she trailed off and her whole body shuddered. "If you hurt me, I will make sure you die in the coldest alleyway in the city."

With that, she stalked out of the room.

Nathan breathed a sigh of relief. Five minutes is all he would need to distract himself for and the problem would go away. He would never have to see her again. Whatever connection he'd made would probably break and he could focus on getting a real place to sleep. Maybe he could get a job at the bank. His finance degree was still sitting unused from when dad had made him get it.

He shook his head and rubbed his forehead, trying to shake the feeling that was oozing into every part of his body. He could still remember what his dad once said. Banking is a real man's profession. You can work in a lab and be a fraud, or you can work at a bank and keep your last name. That's how it works.

"That's how it works," Nathan whispered to the wooded room.

"I'm a real idiot," he said aloud to the room, "I can kiss Abercrombie and Fitch goodbye. I'll be like Ronald McDonald if I'm lucky. A clown. Girl throws herself at me and I act like I'm Saint Nathan. I'm a liar, that's what I am. I'm a liar."

He kicked at the dresser and the glass came careening downward. Nathan watched in horror, knowing he couldn't stop it in time. Knowing he'd just broken her glass. Knowing he'd have to ask her where the broom was. The crash was muted and distant, but the realization was not. He marched right out of the room, turned around to go back, turned back again, stomped the floor, ran to her room, and knocked on her door.

Carla opened it a sliver and stuck her face out. "Five seconds. That's what you were down to."

"I don't," said Nathan, "I mean, I do, I mean, I broke a glass. I need to know where, uh. I need to..."

"Shut up," said Carla. She opened the door and pulled him inside, pressing him up against the wall and planting her lips on his.

Images burst across Nathan's vision in quick succession, competing with the physical sensation of her lips and tongue. He groaned, drifting in and out of consciousness, as her hands traveled up and down his body. What am I doing? He grabbed her hands and pushed her back a bit, trying to grip the ground with his feet.

Carla looked at him with searching eyes, her lip trembling. More out of passion or fear, he couldn't say.

"It's too much, isn't it?" said Carla.

Nathan nodded slowly and tried to get his breathing under control.

She hovered in front of him, then looked down at his hands which were still holding hers and flushed bright red. "This is a lot for me too. I... I'm not like this."

"It's ok," said Nathan, forcing a nervous laugh, "we're both overdoing it then." He met her eyes and an image came flying at him. He pushed back at it and held it in place, straining.

"I'm sorry," said Carla, "I shouldn't have done this. I'm taking advantage of you." She hung her head.

Nathan struggled with a pileup of images as he tried to concentrate on the woman looking crushed in front of him. "No, it's..." he decided not to say what came to his lips. I influenced you. He let go of her hands and pulled her into a hug. Her body was warm and trembling through her clothes.

"I want you," said Nathan, "I really do." The images hung at the edge of his mind, prodding to get in. "I'm just scared."

"So am I," whispered Carla.

"Let's just take it slow." An image slipped past his defenses and Nathan gasped. It was an image of Carla, a younger Carla but unmistakably her, crying in a corner as a drunken monster loomed over her. Nathan squeezed back tears and felt his legs go out from under him. He was glad they'd been hugging or he probably would have collapsed on the floor.

Instead, she noticed him slack and caught him, guiding him the bed and laying him down on his back. She hovered at the side of the bed and brushed an idle strand of hair away from his face.

"I'm so sorry," said Carla, "I should have made sure you were fed. I'm a terrible host."

"No, it's ok," Nathan tried to protest, but his muscles felt weak and when he tried to raise a hand, it was shaking. "Maybe I better have something." He nodded off for a moment and when he came to, she was sprawled on the edge of the bed, with a tray of soup and a spoon ready. She lifted the spoon to his mouth and he gratefully slurped it up.

The warmth radiated throughout his body and he smiled, feeling a wave of gratefulness at having found this woman.

"I would like to sleep tonight," he said, "here, if that's ok with you."

She giggled and shifted slightly. "I'm not going to make you freeze to death."

Nathan frowned, "You were ready to before though, weren't you?"

Her gaze grew cold and her hand froze with soup on the spoon. An eternity seemed to pass in silence. Then, finally, Carla broke it. "You're different."

"I'm no different than any other homeless man," said Nathan, who wasn't about to encourage her to see the homeless as disgusting.

"But you are," insisted Carla, her hand still balancing the soup in midair. She frowned and then added, more strongly this time. "I know you are."

"How do you know?" said Nathan.

Her hand trembled slightly and a drop of soup dirtied the rustic covers. "I just know, Nathan." She put the soup on the nightstand next to the bed and leaned into him. "Every second I'm in your presence, I find myself trusting you more. I can't turn it off or stop it."

Her eyes widened and she looked like she was on the verge of tears. "If you're doing something to me, please don't stop. Whatever it is, I'm in love with it and if I were to lose it, I think I would be like a ship at sea that loses sight of the lighthouse. I won't know what to do with myself, Nathan. I'm so scared, but I want you to hold you and I want you to tell me everything is going to be alright."

Nathan held her and told her everything was going to be alright. He didn't know what else to do and what he was afraid to say was that every time she trusted him more, he wanted her more. It was like a feedback loop and they were both stuck in it, with no way out.

Her hands trembled as she helped him out of his clothes and her quiet sobs filled the room when she buried her face in his chest. He patted her on the back, awkwardly at first, but soon he was caressing her back and moving his hands all over, pulling at her clothes. She lifted her tear-stained face long enough to let him pull her top off and soon they were both naked and cold, crawling under the covers for warmth.