I had to really work at keeping the 'predator' part of me from showing too much though I knew I couldn't hide all of it or all the time. So the people in that shelter, or whatever it was knew I was dangerous and potentially deadly.

But they took me in. Even knowing that they took me in.

I was told more than once that the person talking with me had seen real monsters, and that I wasn't one of those, though I couldn't understand that. I was a purely white skinned thing who lived on blood, and had the fangs to get it. I didn't look close to human other than my shape and still these people took me in, tried to help me even when they had to know I was potentially their death.

Simple acceptance can often be harder to take than anything else. I didn't know how to deal with it. These people knew what I was and they just decided to do all they could to help me. A lot of them had seen me draining the blood from meat they had around, but they simply shrugged it off and kept trying to help me.

What could I do? I accepted their offered help. The alternatives would have been more than I could bear.

“There you go.” Teresa, who had deided to help me with makeup grinned. As if I really cared about all that 'looking good' stuff girls got from guys. But looking in the mirror my complexion was more human, at least from the neck up. I was still pale, but with the foundation and blushes (I had no real idea of what those were at the time) I looked like a human who hadn't been out in the sun much. Except for my eyes. Those white orbs would never be taken for human.

“Here.” Teresa handed me a pair of sunglasses. “Put these on.”

With those, I looked pretty human.

“Contacts could fix the thing with your eyes.” Teresa told me. “But we don't have that kind of thing here.”

What I saw in the mirror was a pretty, no beatiful, woman wearing sunglasses. I took off the glasses and turned away from that vision. I was female, obviously, but why did using makeup and looking attractive send that sense of absolute wrongness to me?

“Honey.” Tersa told me softly. “We all know something was done to you, and you don't look like you used to. But try and work with what you've got instead of trying to fight it. You may have been plain, or ugly, or just not a girly kind of gal before, but now you're fucking gorgeous. Learn to work with that. Learn to deal with it. You are what you are, and we can't change that now. Neither can you.”

“I'm what?”

“Gorgeous.” She ran yet another nail to hammer down what I might have been before all this. “You would make most women jealous, and Hell, I'm jealous. You. Are. Fucking. Beautiful. You'll attract attention wherever you go, so get used to the idea now.”

“But.”

“No buts dear.” She flatly told me. “You are what you are, even if you weren't that way to start with, and even all white like you usually are, you are simply, beautiful. Kind of weird, but beautiful.”

“But.”

“No buts here.” She told me flatly. “You are one Babe, as the guys say. So get used to it.

“Learn how to use that to your advantage.” She went on.

“Beauty is power, dear.” She went on. “Looking like you do, you could get any man to do whatever you want them to if you know how. And you very certainly have that. In abundance. Face, form, you have a really great body, and attitude. All you need now is the attitude. And the moves, you walk like a truck driver.”

The obvious question there led to lessons on how to not only walk, but sit. Sheesh.

“I was a guy, Teresa!” I shot back, then had to sit back and work that one out. I was obviously female, and with a figure that men would really enjoy just looking at. So how could I have been a guy?

“All the more reason for you to learn these things.” She grinned. “I've known more than a few transsexuals and every one of them needed to be shown a few things to look real. I don't mind doing it for you.”

So, I spent the next few days learning how to walk, gesture, and even sit. Crap. But I did seem to be stuck as I was now, so learning that would help me blend in. Especially with the makeup, which I practiced several times a day. Do you have any idea of how hard it is to take a completly white canvas and make it look alive? Everything had to be very even, without a spot of white showing through. Putting that stuff on my hands was interesting.

But with the right clothes and that, I could pass for human. If I wore sunglasses. Which is kind of weird if you do it at night.
Can't win 'em all, I guess.

My hair refused to take dye at all, and also grew back any time it was cut. Now that was annoying.

We figured out I could pile that mass of hair up, put it in a bun and wear a wig if the wig was 'big' enough hair-wise, though.

Ah well, small victories are still victories, right?

At least I keep telling myself that.

In time, I might even believe it.

“Hey Zeph.” He called to her and as she turned to look at him, he smiled. “Looking good there.”

“So I've been told, repeatedly.” The odd woman let out a sigh, shrugged and nodded, then surprisingly grinned. “Well you did tell me it would be best to blend in, right?”

“Yeah, I did do that, didn't I?” He shook his head and grinned back before pointing out. “But your hair is still kind of strange.”

“Won't take dye,” She shrugged, “and grows right back if I cut it. Just another weird thing about me I guess.”

“True.” He noted while thinking that she was moving with more grace and confidence than she had a few days ago. “Your gestures, walk, mannerisms are all getting better, too. You used to look a bull dyke with a Lot of problems but now you actually appear feminine.”

“I know.” That idea seemed to bother her for a while, but she shrugged it off, tilting her head and giving him a half smile that was almost Mona Lisa-like. “Teresa told me I moved like a big male truckdriver, and she's been coaching me over the past few days.”

Zack refrained from telling her that her body, her form, and her presence seemed designed for sensual feminine gestures, walk, and other things he didn't even want to think about just then. “It's working. You look pretty much normal now.”

“That's the idea, isn't it?” She asked with an air of innocence that was disarming even though he had heard her story, all of it, that she remembered.

“Yup.” He nodded and gave her a smile. “You could go out in broad daylight now and no one would give you a second look, well amend that you'd get second looks, and probably more because you are one beautiful woman. But I hope you get what I mean there...”

“It's okay, Zack.” She laughed, actually laughed just to do it and that was another milestone that neither of them really paid that much attention to at that moment. “Teresa and her cronies are constantly telling me that I'm 'Fricking gorgeous'. Just something I'll have to learn to deal with along with everything else.”

“Yeah.” He nodded and forced himself to breathe evenly before going on. “You are, and you will.

“Any more flashes of memory lately?” He changed the subject to avoid uncomfortable ideas.

“No.” She shook her head in frustration. “All I get is that place and some faces I can't put names to right now. The nightmares bring some of those back, but I really wonder if regaining them is worth the mess.”

“They're in there.” He shook his head. She had been sleeping in a place far away from others because of those nightmares. She was fast, and strong enough to be dangerous when she first woke from one. She had quite literally torn one the dorm rooms to pieces the first night and nearly killed the people who rushed in to see what was wrong. That saddened and angered him. Not for the first time he wondered what kind of monsters could do things like that to another living creature. “Maybe the nightmares are how they're trying to get out?”

“Maybe.” She softly admitted then shook herself. “I just wish they'd do it and be done with it. I don't want people being afraid of me, Zack. I don't want to hurt anybody.”

“We know that.” He soothed while moving up close enough to take her hand and repressing a shudder at just how cold that hand was against his own warmth. “You're doing good here. The memories will come or they won't, but you're starting to fit in around here and not as many people as you think are afraid of you anymore. A little cautious, probably, but definitely not afraid.”

“Progress.” She almost spat out.

“Yes it is.” He countered and pulled her into a hug that she first stiffened at then just kind of flowed into much to his surprise. “It really is. Give yourself time, you only remember being as you are for several weeks. You'll learn, and more importantly, when you're ready, I think you'll remember.”

“Oh, I hope so.” She whispered. “I do hope so.”

He let out a sigh of relief when the locker at the downtown bus station he had set up much earlier was undisturbed. Removing the beat up suitcase it contained, he appeared as casual as possible while heading for the restrooms.

One inside, he entered one of the stalls and winced at the smell and general nastiness but made himself ignore that. Changing out of the nondescript clothing he'd been wearing he put on the even more ragged and dirty looking things in the suitcase, then checked that the emergency funds were all there. They were, and he took out a small bundle of bills, removing a few and putting the rest back in the suitcase. He knew that it wouldn't do at all to have more than forty or fifty dollars on him where he was going and even that could be dangerous if someone found out but this time needed a bit more than that. He put a twenty in the beat up running shoe on his right foot and the other hundred and fifty was stuffed into his underwear, uncomfortable as that was. The twenty was for the shakedown artists and muggers. That would hopefully keep the rest intact if they went past finding the five in his pants pocket.

A bit of grime artfully applied to his face gave the appearance of a beard shadow, if someone didn't look too closely, and the same greasy, nasty stuff rubbed in his hair darkened that and gave it the unkempt look that most of the denizens in this slum had.

The smell of sweat didn't have to be faked. He'd been sweating in fear for the past two days and hadn't showered so it would build up and linger. On his way out, he'd buy a cheap bottle of something alcoholic and douse himself with it just to add to the disguise.

Satisfied that he was as scruffy looking as he could be without more time and real dirt, booze, and sweat, he emerged from the restroom, made sure no one was paying attention to the apparent transient bum he was trying to look like, and put the suitcase back in the locker.

He made himself remember to abandon the confident stride he was used to using, stooping his shoulders and shuffling like any other beaten down inhabitant of these slums. Getting that perfected had taken time, and some nearly dangerous near encounters while he was watching his models, but now it wasn't simply out of interest or future planning. Now it was real, very real. So the defeated slump, the uncertain gait, the lowered eyes nearly came naturally. If they didn't, Taggert would find and kill him.

“What do you mean you've lost him?” Hines almost shouted into the phone.

“Sir.” Taggert calmly responded. “Stewart took one of the vehicles and told us he was headed back to the Zoo to retrieve some information we needed. And no he didn't go alone. Hodges was with him. We haven't found him either.”

“Car jacking?” Hines wondered aloud thinking that would solve the problem just as well.

“Maybe.” Taggert answered doubtfully. “Stewart hadn't showered in a couple of days, like the rest of us to fit in, and was more nervous than he should have been, while seeming too familiar with the area at times.”

“Why didn't you just get it done and blame it on a mugger before now?”

“Our priorty is Zephyr, sir.” Taggert calmly responded. “Stewart was a secondary concern. I think he got rid of Hodges some way and sold the vehicle to some chop shop.”

“Then find it, and where he went after that.” Hines ordered.

“Easier said than done, sir.” The unperturbed answer came back. “Don't worry we'll find him but there is mission priority to consider here.”

“Any sign of her?”

“Not yet, and that's a little troubling.” Taggert answered. “It tells me she's found help of some kind or is a lot smarter than we thought.”

“She has to have left some traces.” Hines answered in frustration. “A creature who needs blood to survive wouldn't go that unnoticed, even in that hell hole.”

“So far she has.”

“She'd stand out in any crowd.” Hines answered.

“Not if she figured out to use makeup, and only go places at night.” Taggert snorted. “We've had six false alarms on sightings since we've been here.”

“What did you to with those once you questioned them?”

“Don't worry about it, Hines.” Taggert answered without a trace of emotion. “It's taken care of.”

“Just find her.” Hines answered without saying the rest of the order, which Taggert was already well aware of.

“We will.” The black ops veteran assured him.

“Then get rid of Stewart, wherever he's gotten to.”

“All part of the deal, boss.”

Hines did not miss the almost contemptuous emphasis on that last word.

“Just get it done, Taggert.” Hines felt a chill along his back as he went on. “You have no idea of just how dangerous her being on the loose is.”

“For the world or for you?” Taggert asked then laughed. “We'll find her.”

“You keep saying that, but where are the results?”

“Patience, sir. She's gone to ground and is hiding a lot better than anticipated. We're checking the old haunts of the person she was before, and those are the most likely to be where we'll find her. These things take time.”

Hanging up the phone, Hines wiped the sweat off his forehead and cursed the arrogant bastard who had been selected as head of the project's security.

“This is turning into one huge cluster fuck.” He said into the empty office.

Stewart getting away like that was bothersome. If Hodges ever turned up it wouldn't go well for him.

That sanctimonious prick Hines almost enraged him, and Taggert had visions of ripping the man's throat out. With his teeth. That idea kind of shook him but also excited him.

Not the death thing, it was the lack of control on his part that was bothersome.

Stewart was an annoyance, and Taggert remembered how the man had smelled. Somehow he knew that underlying scent couldn't change, so finding and eliminating that would would only be a matter of time, too.

But that white eyed bitch was a problem. He felt her presence, somewhere nearby, but was unable to pinpoint it.

And she had left not the slightest trace behind. Not even some derelict found emptied of blood in some dark, noisome alley.

She was getting help.

When he found her, the ones helping her would die, too.

Running his tongue over his longer, and sharper canines, Taggert knew that killing that freak was very important to the rest of his life.

And he would need to do something about the urges to rip someone's throat out and drink the blood that would result from that.

It was a different feeling, urge, need, but not so different that he didn't understand it. Taggert was and had been a predator since he was a child.

Besides, anything he did, could be blamed on the white bitch.

The Hunger was rising, the need, and he saw no reason to deny it.

After a few minutes thought, and some small resistance because doing so could endanger him, Taggert went hunting for the first time.