Nothing to Lose

Author's note: Do you hate this piece, love it, or are you somewhere in between? Reviews and opinions greatly needed! Oh, and I don't own the Animorphs.

You were the perfect Animorph, the one person who had nothing to lose. All of the others had people to care about them, families who would know if they left for the mall one night and never came home. You didn't. You were not alcohol or attics; you did not matter to anyone. Or at least that's what you thought.

You've seen a lot of stories about your aunt and uncle. They cry fake tears and tell the reporters how much they've changed. They say they love you and always did. They say the "time wasn't right" or there were "bumps in the road." They say everything's better now. You don't believe a word of it. If they had you they would lock you up in cage at worst and ignore you at best. You're not going back.

Every now and then, you see a birdwatcher with expensive "safari clothes" and an even more expensive camera wandering around the woods, snapping pictures of everything they see. Half the population seems to have developed a passionate interest in California wildlife, especially red tails. You're the potential meal ticket of thousands. You guess that counts as caring.

Sometimes when you know nobody's watching, you go down to the barn. Some big company wanted to buy it and turn it into a "100 Animorphs museum (and gift shop)," but Cassie put her foot down and said that it would still be used for helping injured wildlife. The day after she said that, her parents got a two million dollar government grant to rebuild, renovate, and run the burn. That's the power of being an Animorph. Then again, hawks don't have much use for seven digit checks. You don't have that much to lose.

One time, you saw a red tail in the barn. Another time, you saw a bald eagle. You told yourself not to care. Almost did it, too. She wouldn't have liked that; she always said you were human.

You saw the first Animorphs movie months after it first came out. You perched on a tree by a drive-in, just far enough away to avoid being seen and close enough to catch the dialogue from a nearby car. None of the casting seemed right: the guy who played Jake was too hyper and blond; Cassie was far too tall and willowy (You guess that's Hollywood, though.); Marco was played about a ripped, witty, tall guy who he most definitely hand-picked; Ax was a product for CGI; you suddenly sproted a pair of "geek glasses;" and Rachel was painfully, horribly weak and submissive. Everyone loved it anyway, though. They had not been there; it was not their blood or their consciousness. It was not their friends. It was just a movie.

They gave Rachel an honorary gravestone in every major cemerty in the country apart from the military ones because she never enlisted. They always have nice flowers by them, and you can't decide whether she would like that or not. You bring her a rose on her birthday anyway, one you order from a delivery florist by way non-descript payphone. In the dead of night, when everyone's gone, you morph human, and lay the flower down by her grave. You try not to cry.

You've found you believe in God lately. You're not quite sure when you started to care about heaven or forgiveness or mercy. Maybe it was one of those birthdays when you wanted nothing more in the whole wide world but to see her again. They say warriors need forgiveness or mourners need hope, and for once, at least, a "they" is right.

You find that comforting somehow to know that one day you just might find again, the only thing you every really had. Slowly, carefully, you begin to have faith that you aren't back to square one again. You had Rachel. You still do. You always will.