Cloverfield wakes in a strange place. Oh, this again, she thinks, and takes stock. The sky, pale blue, cloudless, empty. The air, breathable, dry, cold. Ground, rocky, sterile, also cold. In the distance, what could be the sound of waves. An ocean? No guesses, but her heart leaps lonely in her chest. She dreams an instant of white foam, salt flecked, pelagic depths. She dreams herself tiny, quick as pressure change.
She shakes herself out, numbers the parts of her body. More legs than normal this time. She thinks she might be huge. Hard to tell without anything to compare herself to. She dreams D2, D3, Tedwar, creatures with teeth like knives. Not home, but… She longs herself back in familiar places.
No rings she can see. She settles herself as best she can and starts stumping along, one eye cocked for… anything, really. The ocean, danger, a way home. Cloverfield has been centuries in her wandering, and she has grown tired, so tired, of never knowing where she is, or what she’s about to become. In her mouth the watery taste of coconut, in her brain the cold spark of revenge.