She hates you without knowing you. You can't help it, it amuses you. Even when you were still human, even when you were born and raised in the 15th Century, you had no room in your mind for self-righteous indignation. Normally you wouldn't give someone like her the time of day, but your curiosity gets the better of you this time. Identical images. Perfect physical copies, even if the differences between the two of you go right down to the way you hold and carry yourselves. She's upset, but it's not fear- you'd smell it on her as easily as if it were fast evaporated perfume. No. You tilt your head to the side and she eyes you cautiously, knows she's outmatched and that gives you a sense of satisfaction- even if it doesn't erase your irritation, after you've pinned down what is troubling her. Scandal. She's scandalized at sharing a face, a body with you. How quaint. You remember being this innocent, but at her age, your own innocence had already faded. No. Not faded. Ripped out of you. The fleeting instant where you felt almost protective of her, as if she were the same baby you held in your arms over five hundred years ago, is immediately stamped out in the following second by jealousy. You're not jealous of her- though neither of you are original copies, as it were, she's certainly the weaker specimen. Less strong, less cunning, less sexual, less experienced, less open minded. Less everything. She's a lesser version of you. But you're jealous of what she has. The boys who onced loved you. Friends, family. The certainty that no one will tear away her infant child from her arms, screaming as she barely gets a glimpse of her face. Suddenly, it's your turn to burn with hatred, but something compels you to respond when she speaks to you. Baby. That's what you fully absorb that she is. She's a baby and it's almost cute. You quirk your mouth slightly to the side in a smirk when you whisper back, softly with no hint of animosity or threat in your voice. You run your finger across her collarbone just to hear her breath hitch, and her pulse quicken. "You're asking all the wrong questions," you whisper. Her full lips- yours? No. Definitely hers. They're full and slightly glossy and you look for the twitch when you touch her. Her scent is sweet, misleading in a sense, and one of your twisted ideas- the one you knew would cross your thoughts the moment you met her, surfaces in your mind. Isobel called it genetic curiosity. You know it's so much more, and the reason you can't help the physical contact. More than anything though, you want to see that look on her face, the one that attempts to mask her curiosity, the one that mirrors your own, with shock and indignation. She herself may have been boring, but you on the other hand, were definitely going to have fun with this one. No. Fun wasn't the right word, but you did not know this yet.