Memphis Pov

May 18, 2024

The water—what the human mate calls a shower—feels nice against the skin. It washes over me, cooling, soothing. Breathing comes easier. I feel clean. Fresh. Better.

I slick my hair back from my eyes. The strands feel foreign, though I recognize they are a defining trait of this species. I should keep them as they are. Altering appearance may raise suspicion in the mate who waits just outside.

I have mapped this body thoroughly. Five fingers. Five toes. Two arms. Two legs. The language system is complex—English only, which limits global interaction. I must learn more.

I am male. XY chromosomes. Penis. My body matches what the previous occupant had, yet any attempt to access memories before the takeover meets resistance. A block exists. Not a primary concern for now.

After days exposed to this place, the reality settles: I inhabit a human form. My purpose was to find and claim one. The rest remains unclear.

The previous occupant fought well. Even after the initial breach, he struggled, clawing for control until his heart stopped, and I restarted it—convincing the systems he still lived while I assumed full command of the nervous network.

Memphis is gone. Only I remain.

I searched his mind for basics: how to breathe, how to shape words with this tongue, how to walk. Fragments of him linger there still, protected. My fingers trace the eyes, the nose, the mouth.

According to his memories, this face is considered handsome. Many females are drawn to it. Good genetics, though excess fat clings around the organs. Uncomfortable. That will change.

All of this is strange. I like it. I like this body.

A noise beyond the door pulls my attention. The main complication.

Earlier, the female interrupted my sorting of the host. I considered elimination—threat assessment—but her touch triggered memory fragments: Pagan. Harmless. Weak. She and the host shared this shelter, an apartment. A primary bond. Her face showed worry, concern. I must have deviated from routine. Soothing her uncertainty is necessary to reintegrate.

Damage from the struggle slowed memory integration. I avoided rest—too many humans, too few of my kind. Unknown threats.

I have sensed none yet.

When the water has done its work, I reach forward and turn the valve—the same motion the female used earlier. Muscle memory surfaces: peel back the curtain, grasp the towel, dry, wrap it around the waist.

Clothes lie in a pile on the floor; clean ones wait nearby. Humans cover themselves with fabric in shared spaces. Necessary before leaving this room.

I dress slowly. Balance falters, movements clumsy, but coordination will improve. The cloth constricts, yet the host wore it, so I will too.

I stare at the door, calculating next behavior—how to act in this shelter, how to act around the mate.

Hunger stirs deep inside, sharpening when the scent of meat drifts through the air. I need to consume. Replenish.

I leave the bathroom. The shelter maintains comfortable temperature via a cooling system at the window. I study objects as I move toward the kitchen—the name the host used.

On the white surface lies an open package of cold raw flesh. While her back is turned, I seize a handful and eat quickly, easing the ache.

The light-haired female turns. Her eyes widen. She snatches my wrist, halting me.

“What are you doing?” Alarm colors her voice. Her pulse races, and concern flickers across her features again. I study her: pale skin, vivid eyes, lips trembling. Swollen, discolored flesh circles one eye—damage.

A memory surfaces: the host striking her. No clear purpose. It contradicts the bond I understand they shared. A puzzle for later.

I search for the error in my action. She consumes this food too. Perhaps the method is wrong.

“I’m hungry,” I say, scanning his memories for how he ate it.

“I see that clearly, but you’re eating it raw, Memphis.” She releases me slowly, pulls the package away, then turns and slumps against the counter.

Her emotions fracture. She rants through sobs: “I don’t know what kind of drugs you’ve gotten into, but is this another thing I have to worry about now—on top of the drinking? Coming home acting weird, doing strange things.”

I am the cause. I must soothe her before the instability worsens.

I step closer and—relying on instinct and memory—wrap my arms around her smaller frame, drawing her against this body.

She flinches. Stiffens. Her heart leaps.

Wrong again? Should I eliminate her? I would prefer not.

I keep my face relaxed and study her within my hold. Tears slow. Shock gives way to something softer. Her hand rests on my arm; warmth spreads across the skin there.

The contact registers—sensitive in ways I am still adjusting to.

I decide to speak. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Her pulse surges, but relief floods her face, followed by a flush of heat. She grips my arm tighter and presses closer.

This body warms in response. A new sensation.

We remain like this. She closes her eyes, and tension drains from her as the last tears dry. I do not pull away. She finds comfort.

Is this residue from the previous occupant’s feelings? The sensation is strange. I have not decided whether I like it, but I do not dislike it. Nothing is wrong—only new.

“Do you feel better?” I ask when her grip loosens, and calm settles over her.

“Yes.” She pulls back, wipes her eyes. “Sorry for the outburst. I’ll cook dinner now. It’s just… all this stress. All these weird things happening.”

She turns toward me with a brief smile—happiness conveyed. “Just don’t eat raw meat again, please. Now I don’t have much left for dinner. Go brush your teeth.”

She focuses on heating the meat with the stove – a human device.

Yes. I remember now.

Judging from her reactions, much remains to learn.

I move toward the next task—brushing teeth—already anticipating what new sensations, what new rules, this small ritual will reveal. And wondering, quietly, how long I can keep soothing her before she notices the one thing I cannot imitate perfectly: the absence of whatever it was he once felt when he held her like this.