(( OOC: This is the night after Sonya/Doug imprinted on Sara in Rural Improvements. I intend this as a power-development solo thread, but if you feel like joining it drop me a PM and we’ll chat. ))

It feels odd, wearing her own body again. She hasn’t done that since… well, she’s not entirely sure when the last time was. That conversation in the Void hadn’t been quite the same thing… that was more like not wearing a body at all. (And while she’s not stupid enough to fail to realize that this body is no more the real Sonya than it is the real Teresa or the real Doug, that remains something she refuses to think about too carefully… she has to be somebody, after all, and “Sonya” is the best available candidate.)

The thing is, this is also the first time she’s set out to deliberately take on a form that might be ridiculously dangerous, so she’d figured it was best to keep things simple. At least, as simple as this crazy mutation of mine gets.

Granted, she doesn’t know for sure it’s dangerous. All she really knows is that ever since she and Sara touched hands, Sara’s template has been struggling to manifest itself, which she’s never experienced before. Even with Slate, which had been an unusual experience in itself, it had been more a matter of his template being active in her mind. With Sara, it’s… different. The template isn’t talking to her, it’s not trying to manipulate her… it just wants to exist. But if it’s this strong in my body, what is it going to be like in hers?

I will subdue it, she thinks, with a confidence born of an emotionless, analytical frame of mind that feels both remarkably familiar and completely alien. It has virtues of use to me.

Which is true, but… odd.

But the truth is, she knows perfectly well she’s already decided to try on Sara’s template before it fades, which is why she’s come out here into the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, wearing her own body and a suit of perfectly ordinary clothing she won’t miss if it gets lost somehow. She’s going to do it, she’s just dithering.

So… OK, then. Let’s do this thing.

After all the hesitation, the transition is absurdly easy… more a matter of getting out of its way than of willing it to happen. She is aware of her limbs stretching, her clothes tightening and tearing, her bones twisting into inhuman shapes, her skin breaking out in fur. At the same time she is aware of the world changing: smells and sounds becoming sharper, the darkness around her becoming merely dimly lit.

She is least aware of her own awareness changing, of course. As she becomes more focused and purposeful, she also comes to consider that normal; as she becomes more centered in the Now and less concerned with the past, she becomes less able… or at least, less inclined… to compare her past and current selves.

Within a matter of moments, Sonya is gone beyond recognition.

What remains is a hunter.

Her first quarry is a vole foolish enough to bolt in fear at her transition. That one, she takes quickly, kills with a paw on its neck, and consumes with dispatch… filling, but not satisfying.

The second is a squirrel she takes more time with, chasing for a mile or so before it dies of exhaustion. Disappointing. That one she doesn’t even bother to eat.

The third, though… the third has potential.

He’s half a mile away when she hears his footsteps, running, crashing through underbrush. He’s a few blocks away when she smells his gun, recently fired, still reeking of powder. By the time she picks up his breathing and heartbeat, she’s practically on top of him, and he’s stopped running, apparently confident he’s escaped his pursuers.

She approaches stealthily to a tree-trunk a mere ten feet away and observes her prey carefully. Young, athletic; his breathing is already returning to normal, his heartbeat staying within a healthy range. Good. Nervous, alert, gun at the ready. Even better. This promises to be sport.

She could take him in an instant, of course: snap his neck as easily as she runs her claws across his chest to mark him. But that would end the hunt too soon. Her intent is merely to hurt him, give him a taste of fear and pain, engage his attention. She is gone again before he can even fire, behind a trunk and up a tree.

He runs, foolishly. Even more foolish, he looks over his shoulder for pursuit. She flanks him, cuts him off, trips him… he manages to keep his weapon, but she pins his wrist to the ground before he can bring it to bear. She lets him reach into his boot with his free hand, lets him bring out the knife as he looms over her, lets him slice her with it… then enjoys the look on his face when she heals the wound.

A single, precise clawswipe leaves him bleeding freely in the same place he attempted to wound her, and then she’s gone again. She’d meant to give him some time before resuming the chase, but instinct sends her after him the moment he runs. His breathing is ragged, now, and the trail of blood he’s leaving behind is impossible to miss. It’s almost over.

The end is disappointing. He doesn’t even fire off a shot before she crushes his wrist, and his last breath is a whimpering attempt at a plea for mercy. Pathetic. She rises, ready to seek new prey, when her body is taken away from her.

---

It has been quite some time since he last wore his own form, white and hairless and neuter, but he does not notice it. He has a task to perform.

He is not whole, yet… this, he knows. Further repair is necessary. The primary will remain in charge, and will remain ignorant of him. This is decided. But she is inadequate, both in body and mind. She invites threats she lacks the power to withstand. She seeks friendship. It weakens her. It puts the mission at risk. This is unacceptable.

He does not know what the mission is. He has not known in some time. This is troublesome, but right now it is irrelevant. There is always a mission; to complete it, he must be whole. To finish repair, he must survive. To survive, he must not allow the primary to remain weak.

This new template is interesting. He had deleted its intelligent aspects, allowing it to emerge purely as atavism, to evaluate its capabilities without interruption. It is powerful. It is purposeful. But it is not suitable. It can survive in the current environment, but it can not thrive. It cannot infiltrate.

However, it has capabilities of use. He can perceive them now, their biological roots spread out before him – the strength and speed and senses and, above all, the clarity of purpose of a hunter. The willingness to kill, the refusal to surrender, the drive to primacy. He can use these things.

It takes time for him to extract those essences, still more time to splice them into the templates of Sonya and Teresa. When he is done, he takes the form of the dead man at his feet, strips his body, dons his clothes. The front of the man’s shirt is bloodstained and shredded; it will draw more attention than a bare chest. He discards it.

---

Sonya returns to consciousness – or, more accurately, Sonya’s consciousness returns to her – in a stranger’s clothes, in front of the trunk where she’d stashed her gear before starting this experiment. That startles her.

Nobody has touched it since then. She knows, because she can’t smell the traces of anyone else’s presence. That startles her too… not that nobody has, but that she can tell the difference.

There’s blood under her fingernails. It isn’t hers. Here, both the fact of it and that she can tell are startling.

She throws the man’s clothes away without further thought, and resumes her old garb.

Tomorrow, when she wakes up, she will be aware of her enhanced strength, speed, and senses, and of the other oddities of this moment. But, somehow, none of these peculiar facts will retain much of a grip on her attention… as if she already understands them, and the reasons for them, and has decided it’s nothing for her to worry about.

Which she does, and has, though she is not yet allowing herself to remember it.