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The parasite did not have a name until they met Wukong. Although the bodies they had taken over had a great variety of names, they had never been given a name until Wukong.
Mihou.
They couldn’t pronounce it right. Another imperfection among a series of imperfections that came with this new host. This body had been damaged when they had taken it over, and no amount of fixing and forced healing had made it better. They were working for it in a way they had never had to work for it.
Early on, most of them had wanted to get rid of the corpse, go back to hunting the creature that they had initially been hunting, leave this impractical body behind in the ice.
Then they had started to shift through the host’s memories, memories of powers from another world, skills they had never known or even thought possible, so at odds with the things they known.
(Later, when they have a better grasp of terms, they will explain it like so: their world was like a science-fiction movie, the host’s world was like a fantasy book. Their strengths and knowledge, technology, creatures, weapons, powers— they all differed greatly).
And they were curious about the host and the host’s companion who was somewhere else on the planet, oblivious to the host’s death. More of them switched opinions, deciding to keep the host's body for now.
So they picked themselves up, used the snow to wash away as much blood as they could, and continued the host’s mission. They collected a variety of samples, from the earth, rocks, ice, snow… All pointless things to the parasite that had spent centuries on this frozen planet.
As they completed their half of the research, they let themself grow accustomed to the body, repeating words in the hush of ice and snow. They checked their face on the ice, practiced their expressions, went through the wide range of emotions available to the host… They played with their organs, moving blood around, stopping and starting their heart, breathing, moving their tail in loops.
There was something like satisfaction to the actions. Digging through the host’s memories brought up curiosity. They were curious and the more they played around, the more they felt satisfied.
A few of them clicked in thought, there is much this host has shown us. It’s too different.
Wasn’t different good in this case? Something to break the monotonous cycle they had been trapped in for centuries. This was the point of their species, to keep adapting and evolving constantly. Like this, the new host was a treasure.
And the other one could prove to be even more of a gem hidden among the ice and dirt.
…Wukong had proven to be a hidden gem.
It’s a thought they can acknowledge now, weeks after, when they have come to a compromise with him: fix the ship and get taken with him off planet.
The ship was coming along nicely, it was just slow work. Mihou wasn’t sure why they kept getting the urge to check and recheck their work, as if a part of them remained unsatisfied no matter how much they ensured it was perfect.
…it reminded them of how their mimicry needed to be perfect, but this seemed worse because it was for everything.
Everything needed to be right. Everything needed to be perfect.
It frustrated them, and they grew more frustrated when the distress of imperfection felt heavy like a weight on their chest. They didn’t need to breathe, but these moments were a terrifying reminder of why the body thought it still needed to breathe.
They learn the trick to it. The way they can soothe the distress down before it escalates into terror that has them struggling to breathe in air they don’t need as they claw at their ears.
It’s simple really. They have to check everything six times.
Soldered some circuits? Check them over six times before moving on.
Connected some wires? Check they got connected in the right order six times.
Fixed a sensor? Check it works six times.
The pattern makes something in their brain settle neatly.
They thought it must seem strange, this new habit, but Wukong doesn’t ask about it. He’s… strangely patient about it in a way that doesn’t fit right.
Wukong usually has too much energy, Mihou wonders how he could ever stay still or slow down or even stop, so to see him wait for Mihou to finish their six checks, to not gripe about it or try to hurry them…It’s strange to them.
He’s strange.
They ask about it on one particular day where the checks are practically every ten minutes and even they have grown frustrated with their own mind, at a point where they want to claw their brain out. Yet still Wukong doesn’t voice frustration, taking it in stride.
"It's normal," Wukong admits, "and its on the tamer end of habits."
"It's a waste of time," Mihou grits out, because it is. It feels like a flaw they can't fix, something inherently wrong with this brain and this body. They have considered trying to change pieces of the host’s brain in the same way they would shift their body temperature or lengthen their fingers.
But the host's brain was a fragile thing. They feared making it worse.
They wonder if that fear was also tied to it. They shouldn't have cared.
So many of them are afraid, others cautious. The minority want to push through regardless, does it matter if we break something? If we get hurt? It's momentary.
They voice this too.
It's… strange how they have grown used to going to Wukong for advice.
"No, you're definitely not doing that or I'm banning you from the salt," Wukong ignored the annoyed clicks that followed, quietly muttering, "...it's like you've never had salt in your life."
He pointed a wrench at Mihou. "I'm not playing around, Míhǒu. If you start hurting yourself, I'm hiding the salt."
Mihou let out a series of annoyed clicks but settled for ignoring him instead. The cold shoulder was the best response for when they and Wukong came to a disagreement.
"Ignore me if you want, but I'm not backing down on this one," he doesn’t sound angry. There's an edge to his words that make Mihou's ears flick down. They ignore the feeling.
They focus instead on testing the part they just put in, flicking the switch on and off. Once, twice…
Electricity surges across the panel, short-circuiting it. They let out a wave of angry clicks, hands automatically slamming against the circuitboard in an action that's more instinctual than anything else.
There's the scrape of metal against their palms, followed by the stinging pain of injury. It's enough to curb the wave of anger for a moment as their mind focuses instead on the sudden burst of pain. They look down at the blood flowing from the injury. It pools slowly, sluggish.
A sigh from below followed by the sounds of shuffling and moving things around before Wukong has clambered up beside them, hand reaching out for Mihou's own. Mihou finds themself automatically giving it to him, not saying a word as Wukong inspects it, sighs, and begins to wrap it in bandages.
"I won't count this one, since it was just a reaction, but the next one? Say goodbye to your salt privileges."
Despite the teasing tone, there's an undercurrent of resignation to his words. As if he's already expecting more outbursts.
Mihou finds themself agreeing with the sentiment. Their brain itches in all the wrong ways. Just like the circuitboard, they could flare up at any moment.
"There we go," Wukong says, tying the bandage neatly. He taps along it for a moment, ignoring Mihou's annoyed clicks, before he lets go.
He looks at Mihou but doesn't quite meet their gaze, his fingers fiddle with the cuff on his wrist. "It's fine if it takes time."
It's not fine. Every day, their supplies dwindle. Every day Mihou ventures out supplementing their supplies with resources from the planet.
But this isn't Wukong’s planet.
There's no telling the long term effects of all this exposure. The effects from the environment Wukong and the host were not meant to survive in.
Neither of them mention it, but there are consequences looming above their heads. Still unknown.
Wukong might be powerful but he's still heavily limited, restricted by the band around his wrist. There's no telling what does and doesn't affect him.
"We will get it done," Mihou tells him. A pause. "Within the month."
They both knew it was impossible.
"And beat yourself up when you don't reach the timelimit? No way." Wukong looked at them then, hand reaching out to grip Mihou's hand once more.
"Míhǒu," he starts, fingers tracing over the bandages, a strange look in his eyes. "I'm still figuring you out, but that body, my friend's body? I've known it for centuries."
Unsaid but drifting in the space between them, I remain haunted. I know you're not him no matter how we both pretend.
The parasite isn't ignorant to the fact that these truths will someday cause issues, the tension silently growing each day. Grief is a caged beast, pacing and hungry. But Mihou is choosing not to think on it. Not right now. They will ignore it for as long as Wukong does.
"I know your body's habits better than you do," Wukong tells them quietly, fingers tracing the bandages over and over. Soothing.
Tension unfurls in their chest. Something about this soothes them, soothes all of them. The different parts grow quiet, calm, listening. Settled.
The words feel like a balm to their brain, soothing down the itch, a layer of warmth they don't know what to do with.
We can just accept it?
That's… a good idea. They lean their forehead to press against Wukong's own, mirroring the action Wukong has done before. A few happy clicks escape their throat.
Wukong froze momentarily before loosening, tension falling away as he reaches to scratch behind Mihou's ears.
Comfort is… surprisingly nice.