Mike went back into the main room. Half a second later, Isabeau came out, in a freshly foul mood, more than ready to leave, and not willing to discuss options.

  It was dark enough, I was bored enough, and desperate enough to get out of the house, that I risked venturing outside. I slipped down the stairs, keeping an eye on the downstairs tenant's door. Ready to sprint back up, should she come out. No such disaster.
  Outside, I leaned against the brick of the building and peered down the side of the wall. There was a light on in apartment 1A. 1B had their bathroom light on... nope, it just got turned off. Across a good sized expanse of lawn, was Saint Luke's Nursing Home. I could only hope that I was too far away to be seen clearly, or, if I was, I would be chalked up by the reporting staff as dementia. I actually felt sorry for the elderly person that saw me, as the doctor prescribed Prozac, or Seconal, or Lithium or whatever it was that he wanted the pharmacist to dispense.
  I slipped quickly to my car. My other choice was to cut through a single line of pine trees into an open field. Crouched down by the driver's door, I was hidden by a mangled red Contour, blocking me from being seen in apartment 1A. Not that they were even bothering to look. My main concern was Saint Luke's. If any of the staff came out for a smoke break. I'd be caught for sure.
  In the driver's seat, it was I had thought. My thick tail was painfully cramped and at an odd angle. But, if I put the seat back all the way down and sat as far forward as possible, it was tolerable for short trips. I felt like the epitome of Asshole for going ballistic over not being able to drive. I forced my higher self to count to ten before it beat the shit out of my inner kit.
  I avoided the busiest streets. Grand Avenue segued into Antelope Avenue, then it was a short jaunt through the countryside along 56th Street, clear over to 17th Avenue on the other side of town. West on 35th Street, which turned onto Camelot Drive. I stopped the car at a dead end on the western edge of town, with its winding roads and near-million-dollar (and a few over) homes spaced acres from each other. I was near the hike bike trail. I left my car, praying that it wouldn't be towed, and went for a walk down to the trail, the same one that I wrote about in 'The Culling Incident'. Difference being that it was nowhere even remotely near as crowded as I made it out to be in that story.
  As I walked the path, listening to frogs, crickets, and nightbirds, and drawing down the moon and the stars, I had to chuckle. Here I am, a River Otter walking along a footpath, when there's a perfectly good canal right next to it.
  Perhaps if it wasn't the dead of winter I would have considered a swim.
  Sitting on my coat amidst the man made forest of Cottonwoods and Pines was something I hadn't done in a long time, and it was the perfect place to think without thinking.
  I really wish I had read Kafka. There might be some clues in that story as to what I should do. Closest I had was Whitley Streiber's The Wild, and I doubt that staring at people would turn them into Otter-Furrys. At most it would disturb them...
  ...Twice they had come by, and twice I had greeted them with violence.
  This was not how a River Otter was supposed to act. This was not how I normally acted, but who was I? I had changed physically, that much was true, but had I changed mentally? Was my psyche still my own?
  "Fine! We were here when you needed help and you turned us down! If I needed help, I'll expect you to treat me the same as you have treated us!" The projectionist that ran my mind's eye seemed to have an obsessive compulsive disorder. It kept playing this same scene over and over and over and over and over, ad insanitum.
  My mind, free to roam where it pleased, wandered unbidden into the dark recesses of usually quickly quelled thoughts.
  I imagined the help she'd needed in the past. The time the man in her old dorm hall was unhealthily infatuated with her. The times she had had violent, physical fights with her old boyfriend. the time I rushed down to the glass blowing kilns at insane speeds because I had heard there'd been an accident and she'd been burned with molten glass. The time she'd been in a car that rolled over and hadn't been wearing her seatbelt... and here I was... What if she needed me now? What if she was burned? Or bleeding? Dead. Or worse? Images grotesque and horrifying robbed me of even the lightest relaxation for hours on end.
  There were whispers in the forest, and people milling about. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it was critical, judgmental. I couldn't see them walking about, but I could hear their footsteps.
  They re out there, accusing me, heaping guilt upon me and feeding off of my own guilt.
  There! A flash of someone!
  No! Over there!
  Wait! There!
  Faint, distant glimpses, like being inside and looking at a reflection in a window at night from a distance, the figures like something out of Edward Munch's The Scream. Even the nocturnal creatures sounded pained and pleading. The trees were black, and seeped blood, the blood of someone I cared about.
  And here I was. Perfect. Unharmed. This was not fair! Why should I go on unscathed while all around me was scarred and bleeding! What right do I have to be like this! I had no right to be! I fucking hate myself!!
  "Fuck you!! Do you hear me? Fuck you!!" I ripped out a section of fur, not feeling it. "Fuck you!" I growled as I bit at myself, drawing blood with my sharp teeth, leaving specks in the snow freshly upturned by my thrashing about.
  I looked like the tail end of Fight Club where the main character is shown on the security cameras beating the crap out of himself.
  Have I gone mad? Perhaps, but if no one can agree on the requirements of normal, how can they say I'd gone 'mad'? How can there be 'madness'?

  Mary Vellen had had a long day at her firm's library studying research for a lawsuit she was prosecuting. She'd already put in a half day over her normal eight to six day. All she wanted to do was to just get home.
  Something tall, dark, and inhuman cut off the shine from her headlights. She hit the brakes, but she still connected, causing whatever it was to fly over the hood of her sporty red Mustang Convertible. She slammed the gearshift into park, hit the hazard lights and dashed around to see what it was illuminated in the red and flashing orange of the tail lights. It wasn't moving. She wasn't sure whether to call Animal Control, the FBI, or SETI.

  My head felt woozy from the multiple messages of pain my brain was receiving. Flipping out like that was probably the worst response I could have taken.
  "I'm sorry." I whimpered, more from shame than pain, "I'm sorry."
  Mary Vellen immediately scratched Animal Control from her choice of who to call as she reached for the cell phone and dialed Emergency.
  "Emergency dispatch, how may I help you?"
  "This is Mary Vellen, I'm on Cottonmill Road, next to the Cedar Hill Estates turn off, I've hit something, someone."
  "Is the person still alive, are they okay?"
  "Yes, but, he's in very poor shape! Please send an ambulance!" In the background she could hear a second dispatch officer sending out an amublance and a cruiser to her location.
  "Okay, can you administer any first aid?"
  "I wouldn't know where to begin! He -- he's --"
  "Okay, just relax. Do you have a blanket in the car?"
  "No my car doesn't have enough room for one!"
  "Are you wearing a coat?"
  "Yes, a long wool trenchcoat."
  "Perfect. We want to prevent shock by keeping him warm, can you lay the coat over him?" Mary was already doing this as the dispatcher was instructing her to.
  "Is his face pale or red?"
  "He's covered in fur, how am I supposed to know!"
  "Can you see his nose?"
  "It's black!"
  "Are you sure? It's not dirt or something?" Mary could see the lights of the emergency vehicles as they wound their way around the curves and dips of Cottonmill Road.
  "Yes I'm sure!"
  "Ma'am, I need you to remain calm."
  "I'm as calm as I can be! Nevermind! ... I'm sorry, thank you for your help. They've arrived."
  "Okay, you take care now."
  "Goodbye." They both hung up.
  "Alright ma'am?" It was a young crew-cutted rookie. "Can you please step towards my car so ca-hrist!!" The EMT crew shared the cop's reaction when they first saw the bloody form of the huge, bipedal River Otter. If it weren't for years of ingrained standard procedure, they probably would have gotten back into their vehicles and torn away in a cloud of tire smoke muttering to themselves: "I have not seen what I have just seen I have not seen what I have just seen I have not seen what I have just seen..."

  Laura looked at her watch, then outside.
  "I'm going to the college to check my mail." Mike got up.
  "That sounds like a good plan." Isabeau grabbed her black bookbag/purse.
  "I need to write my sister." With their being only two blocks away from campus and parking at college being the nightmare that it usually is, they felt it was best to walk. At the end of the block, Matt ran to catch up with them.
  "Hey Isabeau? I called your place again. Vicki answered, but Perry's not there."
  "Good, do you think I give a fuck?" she snapped.
  "If he's acting this way, don't you think that it's all the more reason to help him?"
Isabeau considered and discarded a dozen replies before she settled on, "Shut up!!"
  Matt held his hands out in appeasing defense. "Hey, I was just trying to help."

  Sitting at a college library computer, Mike pulled out the list and typed in the address http://www.witchvox.com. It was an insanely huge site for earth based religions, full of numerous, twisting links to other WitchVox pages. Immense help in studying Pagan and Wicca related subjects, but of no help for sudden onset of Anthropomorphism.
  http://www.draconic.com, after he put in the name and password required for the discussion list, was of no help either. Other than some jealous "Dragons" who envied and respected a few people who had turned into actual dragons.
  "Hey look at this." Isabeau, Laura and Matt read over his shoulders.
  "Huh, so a few people got turned into dragons?" Matt said out loud, as if needing the confirmation.
  "That's what it looked like."
  "Huh, interesting," Laura said, then turned back to her own computer, unsure of what else to say. Draconic was of no further use.
  http://www.belfry.com was also useless, being only a site full of anthropomorphical comics and a site full of lists of furry related stuff, and links to other furry sites. http://www.flayrah.com held a big clue on their top story in the Furry category.

Sometime around Noon Pacific, One Mountain, Two Central et. al. hundreds of subscribers to the Transformation Story Archive Talk list were radically, and drastically altered to a more animalistic appearence. -- for more, click here.

  Mike clicked this, and it took him to a whole slew of professional reports on 'The Epidemic Sweeping the World'.
  "Is, has he ever mentioned anything about a Transformation Story Archive?"
  "No, he wouldn't put his stories on the 'net for some ass to steal and claim as their own."
  "I think he may have. Everyone on that Archive was struck with the same condition he has." She snorted in reply, then rolled her chair over to take a look.
  "Oh Gods, what perverted, demented, life-sucking list has he gotten himself into this time?"
  "You really hate the internet, don't you?"
  "I'm sorry,but I've lost too many people to the lure of that stupid thing. Talking with someone online isn't socializing. These people don't know how to socialize. If you took the screen from them and put them face to face they'd go into shock. Looks like I'm going to have to retrain him all over again..." She rolled away, with a flash of blackness. Laura left the room feeling extremely uncomfortable from it.
  Mike went to Hotmail next, and typed in the first name and password. Junk mail, as was the next. The next held information regarding Celts and Ancient Egypt, the fourth one Therianthropes, the next Ireland. Another was for RPGs. One held artwork. Isabeau glanced over.
  "What the hell? That's Cu's e-mail!"
  "I know, I snagged this when you were in the bathroom. Who were you yelling at in there?"
  "You're a butt! ... No one, I just needed to yell." Whether he could tell she was lying or not, he let it drop. "Aradia?" she said with shock and disgust, "I thought he dropped that list years ago!"
  "Why?"
  "He wanted to light a prayer candle for some wanna-be-I've-seen-'The-Craft'-so-I'll-do-what's-trendy-Wiccan," she searched for a word, "bitch, because she's going onto the net and looking for pity points for her 'dying mother who was in a car accident'. We got into an argument over it and he promised to drop it. Wonder what else he lied to me about?" She turned back to composing a note to her sister, her brother, and her best friend Heather in Kansas City.
  Mike composed a message to Aradia --

{Forgive me but I've hacked into K-Teunth's e-mail, (If you must know he had his password on a piece of paper.)} I'm a local friend of his. He's become quite sullen and violent, and we need to know what do with him. He's one of the hundreds on the TSA List who have changed as I'm sure you've seen on the news. He's brooding in his apartment right now, save for when we try to visit him. Then he becomes extremely feral and viscious.

Any advice? Please respond ASAP!

~Mike K.

  He highlighted and copied this, then sent it.
  The last address was the one that contained Peregrine's TSA List, and it was flooded past full. A quick perusal of the subject headings didn't surprise him. They all dealt with the changes the list members had gone through. He sent a message to the list. The same one he had sent to Aradia, save for "Cu" replacing "K-Teunth".

  Imzodi and Meta weren't going to bed until ten in the A.M. As they sat there in the middle of a game of Chess -- Meta's turn -- he moved his Queen's Bishop to King's Knight Five.
  "Imzodi, your turn." Imzodi was ignoring him. "Imzodi?" He looked up to see what on the television had preoccupied Imzodi. On the screen was a shot of Good Samaritan Hospital covered with a deluge of reporters and police. Then the camera cut to an inside view of a hospital hallway, focusing into a room. A room covered in EKG's and IV poles and all sorts of monitors. Neither of them could mistake the huge River Otter furry for anyone else, laying on the bed in the middle of it all. It was Peregrine Dobhran.
  "I'll call Isabeau, you get the car ready?" Imzodi ran this plan by Meta.
  "Sure," Meta nodded, and got his car keys out. Imzodi went to the kitchen. He dialed Isabeau's number, but, no surprise, she was fast asleep. He got the anwering machine.
  "Isabeau, this is Imzodi, I'm at 903, I just saw the news, Perry's in ICU, do you want us to pick you up or --" There was an awful screeching and whining as Isabeau fumbled with the phone and the answering machine.
  "Hello?"
  "Yes?"
  "Can you swing by and pick me up?"
  "We're leaving right now."
  "Good, I'll be waiting outside." She hung up. All fog from lack of sleep gone. All her dark, Peregrine-is-a-complete-asshole thoughts vanished. He was in intensive care and that could only mean the worst.

  Isabeau, Imzodi and Meta navigated the revolving doors of the front entrance to Good Samaritan Hospital, but not without a minor, comedic scene between Imzodi and Meta.
  "Mooks." Isabeau replied, grinning. The receptionist wasn't at the triangular shaped desk across from the gift shop, so Isabeau turned right to go down a short hallway to the inpatient processing area.
  "Yes?" The woman behind the cubicle-desk asked with practiced kindness.
  "Can you tell me which floor Peregrine Dobhran was on?"
  "One second please." She filled in the given information, paused, her eyes going momentarily wide. "Can you give me that name again please?"
  "Peregrine Dobhran. First name: Peregrine. Last name: Dobhran."
  "I'm sorry, but we are not allowing any visitors into Mr. Dobhran's room, er, how is it that you know him?"
  "I'm his fiance, hopefully soon to be wife."
  "Well, congratulations." She had heard dozens of such claims from people all morning, all trying to get a peek at the dark-furred oddity. These three, however, had known his name, so she gave them some benefit of the doubt. Still, rules were rules, and her job was her job.
  "Can you at least give me the floor?"
  "I'm sorry, I can't do that either." Isabeau looked fit to rip the computer monitor off from its desk anchoring and bash her head in with it.
  "Is," Meta spoke up.
  "What?" she snapped. Meta positioned himself so his face wasn't in view of the woman at the computer.
  "Let's just go. We tried, we failed." His grin held an entirely different answer.
  "No, Meta. I am not leaving until I see him."
  "Isabeau, walk away from it."
  "Godsdammit Meta, I --" Now she caught the grin. "Fine, you're right, let's go." Imzodi was totally lost, but followed them back into the main lobby. "You better have a damn good reason for making me walk out like this," Isabeau hissed.
  Unfazed, Meta waited three seconds before replying casually, "I saw his room number on the screen."
  "You what?!" Isabeau hoped no one had heard her outburst. "You what?" she repeated more quietly.
  "The screen was angled so I could read it partially."
  "So what is it?!"
  "427." Isabeau tried to remember how the hospital was laid out. Not that anyone would ever be able to figure that out.
  "He's on the fourth floor. You can be a bunch of freaks and take the stairs, I'm taking the elevator."
  They stepped out of the lift car into a T-shaped hallway with an L-shaped hallway off to their left. According to the small hallway placards, the lower 400s went left, while the upper 400s went right.

  Tiffany, the inpatient receptionist, walked to a back room where there was a board with forty-seven marks on it, like a prisoner counting the days. She put in three more marks, smiling. Her guess as to how many people would try and see the creature was getting closer to the as yet unofficial answer in the betting pool. Sitting back down at her desk she picked up a stack of papers, straightened them out and started transferring information from paper to screen. She got in half a page before eight men in NBC suits approached her. One of them flashed a federal ID. At least she assumed it was. The letters F.B.I. in large blue letters were, to her, a tip off.
  "We're looking for a River Otter, bipedal, involved in an accident?" Scared, Tiffany simply pointed.
  "A room number might help, ma'am."
  "Oh. Oh! 427, fourth floor, then to your left." As the men walked away, Tiffany found herself in bad need of some asprin, a cigarrette, coffee, and a fainting couch.

  "427, his door's right here." Isabeau pointed to the wall plaque. Timidly she entered to small room, not sure if he was asleep, drugged, or in a coma. Hoping deeply for the best she clasped his paw in her hand.
  I was adrift in a pleasant drug-dream which was jarred into shattering by the light carress upon my paw. With a somewhat quiet, sharp intake of breath, my eyes fluttered open. Goddess! It's her!
  The fact that she was here filled me with remorse.
  The fact that she was here filled me with hope.
  "Hey," I muttered. She gave a small start as she squeezed my hand. "I'm sorry I --" She cut off any apology with a hard, deep, long kiss.
  "Um, if you want we can wait out in the hall," Imzodi replied feeling rather out of place.
  Isabeau broke off our reunion long enough to say, "If you want to."
  The two of them turned only to be blocked by a man in an enclosed enviromental suit. Actually, eight men.
  "It's best if you stayed." Any of us would be hard pressed to say, out of the four of us, whose eyes were widest. I wasn't sure how hard I shook as my mind raced but, no, I had more reason to be strong than to cower in terror.
  "How long were you with the subject?" one of the suits demanded.
  "A few minutes, possibly longer," Imzodi replied. The two fore-suits glanced at each other.
  "Damn, that's long enough."
  "What is going on here?" It was a medical professional.
  "This does not concern you, doctor."
  "I beg to differ, I'm a veterinarian, this man is my patient!"
  "Veterinarian?"
  "That is correct."
  "So it's changed that much, then?"
  "Yes. I have his records, if you want I can make a copy of them."
  "That would be of immense help."
  "I'll get them right away."
  "Hold." The vet stopped, awaiting further instructions. "You've been in contact with the subject. We don't need you risking further infection in this hospital. No telling what caused this."
  "Understandable, but I've ran tests of blood, skin and saliva samples on myself and have found no ill effects."
  "All the same, we'll have to move the subject."
  "But he's not stable yet! To move him could be fatal!"
  "Look we're the United States fucking Government, when we say move him, you move him. You got that?"
  "But --"
  "No one knows what caused this, or how it's transferred or even if it's transferred. You want to go down in history as aiding a pandemic, it'll be on your conscience, vet." The vet slumped in defeat.
  "Very well then." He looked at us apologetically.
  "Rhys, Davies, take this man to the records room, have him make copies of the subject's records."
  "Yes sir."
  "Where are you taking him?" the vetinarian asked.
  "We have a truck outside that will take him to a helicopter, then a plane to a remote Center for Disease Control. That is all you need to know." Great, I was a subject, an it. This impersonality was getting unnerving. From my experiences of movie watching, I judged the metallic, pistol shaped device to be a hypo-gun, probably filled with a tranquilizer.
  It's not always a good thing to be right.

  When next I came to, I was in a stark white room. The view of overhead lights cut off by men in NBC suits. Next I noticed I was strapped down, then that the pain medication the hospital had given me had worn off a long time ago. But, this was no where near as painful, or as shocking as when one of the men drew a scalpel firmly down my sternum and abdomen. He started using a bone saw on my sternum as I felt others mucking about with my viscera.
  I wasn't sure how long I uselessly screamed before I blacked out one last time.
  Are Isabeau, Meta, and Imzodi with them? If they suspect that they may have caught something from me then it's possible that these people may have, Lord and Lady, please! No!!

  Over some coffee in the break room, one of the suited men remarks to another: "I must say this is most fascinating. These vivisection subjects have been immensely helpful in our understanding of treating the other changelings and dealing with those they've come in contact with."

  I wasn't even sure my eyes had opened, yet I felt like I was awake. I was staring at a soft, white ceiling, with soft fluorescent lights being blocked by men in NBC suits.
  Yes, I gave quite a start.
  To put it in less Victorian terms, the sight scared the fuck out of me. The sight of curious, yet impassive human faces behind plexiglass shields pressing in on me was, a bit much.
  "Hey, please, back away a bit?"
  "Sorry to scare you like that Mr. Dobhran." The man by my left hip gave an apologetic nod and a smile. The simple statement and gesture was an icebreaker to me.
  "S'alright." I would have sat up, but the lightest attempt bought dizzying waves of whitewash across all of my senses. The suited man and woman on my left parted to allow Isabeau and Meta. Imzodi came through by my right. Laura was at the foot of the bed.
  "Really now, road grime isn't your color." Isabeau 'advised' me in a playful manner. I couldn't think of a comeback, so I just gave a smile.
  "Now, Mr. Dobhran, or do you prefer Perry?"
  "'Mr. Dobhran' will do for now."
  "Mr. Dobhran, you do realize that we will have to move you?"
  "To where?"
  "It'd be government paid, and it'd be for the best as we have no means of testing to see how you came to be this way and if there possibly is a cure." I wasn't about to tell them there was a side of me that didn't want to be cured. However, the side that was afraid of the violent social ostracism had its ears perked up.
  "And this would be done at?"
  "The CDC in Colorado." Colorado, Mel, Ravens Moon Coven.
  "CDC?"
  "Center for Disease Control." Neither my Fiance nor our three friends with her had environment suits on.
  "What about them?"
  "Them who?"
  "The four you see in here without suits on." The agent gave me a look that said 'Eh, so I'm an idiot.'
  "They'd have to come to. It's for the best." I shot Imzodi a dirty look. Outside my window was the rooftop helipad, and the helicopter was warming up for a flight. We waited in throbbing, whipping silence until the helicopter took off.
  "Well Mr. Dobhran?" a tall, broad-shouldered man at my shoulder prompted.
  "Just, uh, out of sheer curiosity, what if I say no? I mean, it's not like I could put up much resistance as it is, but..."
  "Well, in that case, we'd quarantine this room, possibly this whole building, and see what develops. Mind you this would be with no medical interference, that could hamper the data on how the disease works. Or, we could take you out in cuffs under arrest for obstructing code CDC-427A Chapter 3, Paragraph 43B."
  "Well put. Were you an understudy for Tommy Lee Jones?"
  "Naah, I've always been partial to Morgan Freeman myself." I would have laughed harder had it not hurt so much. I liked a person who could take a zing, and throw it right back at the original user.
  "Um... could I speak with my friends? In private?"
  "Sure." The first suited man to reply to me waved the others out of the room, then left himself. After the door closed, I looked again at Imzodi.
  "You knew that they wouldn't cut me open?"
  "Well, yeah, I had a pretty strong idea they wouldn't."
  "Why the hell didn't you tell me?! All of this," I indicated my car-smacked body, "could have been prevented!"
  "What proof would I have given you?" I had no response other than to lay there with useless words hanging out of my mouth.
  "Point taken. You can call them back in." Laura opened the door.
  "He's ready." Five of them entered the room. A minute later, the last two came in wheeling what looked like something from the fervid imagination of Stanley Kubrick. Now, I've seen incubation chambers for infants born premature before, but uh, folks, never one quite this large!
  "Can you hear me in that thing?" I asked.
  "That we can." I was sorely tempted to make a blowfish on the plexiglass top that was closed over me, but... naah.

  The trip to Colorado was uneventful. To my recollection, events ran thus: Ceiling, door, ceiling, door, sky, helicopter, ceiling, et al.
  After non-invasive, passive observation, which allowed me to heal and to sleep -- not that I needed the sleep, but there was jack else to do -- they ran tests and diagnoses and procedures. Everything from Acid tests to The Wrinkle Test. There was a shitload of diagnosis groups under every possible documentation system from ALERT to SOAPIER. They ran every conceptual model and every theory, from their own standard textbook to Hippocrates to Da Vinci to Nightingale to Watson. They checked my Functional Health Levels According to Gordon, looking into everything from my energy field to my spiritual well being. They ran me through Doenges and Morclassi Diagnostics from my Activity tolerance (which was embarrassingly low) to my learning and cognitive skills. They had tests and Diagnostics for animals, females and infants that they ran on me. Half the time I had the feeling they entered my room and pulled some random bullshit test out of their ass. They were leaving nothing to chance, save for the integrity of my skin. If I recieve one more needle, my skin's going to fall off.
  In the end, they found that I had a low activity of tolerance, could swim like a rock, had two cavities on my back molars, and had species identity disorder. But seeing as they couldn't confirm my species either, this last item was ruled as a moot point. My hypermetabolism was off the chart for a human, but rather low for a Mustelid. This resulted in a reaction time that they, and I, seemed fascinated by. It also meant that I felt overly warm while my testers had goose bumps from the A/C. I had an altered nutrition level. Before that I had been eating less than I should for my increased energy level, and had been feeling groggy and dazed as a result of it. I had a personal identity crisis due to a Stage IV Biochemical Change, a risk for post trauma response, a somewhat low self-esteem, a risk for low social interaction, and social isolation. I had mild ochlophobia and vertigo, and a fear of ostracism and persecution. Pretty much the same as before, save for a few new developments from my new body. None of it however, was considered as a risk to others.
  The worst of it was, I couldn't have caffeine anymore. Also, the pheromones of female River Otters had a chemo-physical reaction in me, but fortunately no psychological reaction. I wouldn't have minded that test had they not performed it while my significant other was present.

  "...despite our most thorough efforts we are still in the dark as to what could have caused these transformations. And, why such a large scale of differing species, and from people of differing backgrounds. The disease, and I'm beginning to doubt it can be called as such, acts quickly, leaves massive, permanent affects and is not contagious in anyway. Nor have we seen signs of foreign bacteria, virii, or traces of biotoxins in any of the test subject's blood, urine, or stool samples. This is recording double oh, oh, three, four, five, two. Nadya Ferlinghetti, end of week two." The start of her sigh was recorded as she clicked stop. She tapped the capped tip of her pen against her incisor as she tried to force her train of thought into a different track. The question of finding a cure isn't the concern now. We need to focus on social introductions. He hand moved nearly a full second slower than her mind did, resulting in sloppy handwriting as she tried to catch up with herself. Hunger told her it was time to go home and fix supper. She placed the notebook and tape recorder into her cabinet and locked it. After passing through triple redundant disinfectant stations, she was on her way home.