Poptart

She wasn't born like this.  She was born into a natural body, with no cybernetics.  She remembers the smell of grass, the feel of the sun on her face, the ripple of her fur beneath the wind.

She was still a child when the accident occurred.  She has dim memories of it - a flash of light, a shrieking noise, and the wailing of her mother.  She remembers being wheeled through the lab, the hum of the fluorescent lights as they passed by overhead, the beeping of the monitors, the curt, clinical talk of the doctors and nurses.

She woke up in a new body.

They told her how lucky she was.  She was still alive, after all, and they'd managed the neural transplant as cleanly as possible.  Nothing had been lost.

Everything had been lost.

It took time to get used to her new form.  Smaller than the other protogens, forever trapped in a prepubescent form.  Too often she forgot her new strength, crushing cups into fragments of glass, ripping doors off of hinges as she tried to open them.

But with time, and therapy, she mastered her new form.  Her therapist helped her pick out new finishes and dyes for her fur and cybernetics.  It made the process of adjustment so much easier.

Now she volunteers at the same hospital, helping survivors of accidents like her own.  She programs in a smile onto her facial display, waving and giggling at the kids in their beds.  Some are lucky enough to keep their own bodies.  Others only need one or two prosthetics.  She talks with them and keeps them company, remembering the kindness of the staff from her own operation.

And for those who wake up in a new body - like she did - she's there to let them know they're not alone.