She leaves the time fragment of youth with a wrench. She doesn't want to go, doesn't want to lose track of that innocent and smaller world, doesn't want to have to turn her back on creeping and pouncing and riding along on peoples' shoulders forever. It was a shelter from the falling fragments of time in the wake of the opened Clock but with the crashing storm around her she can't endure there long ([i]although...[/i])

But then the rush of fire soaks into her and, just like it did before, it hypnotizes her. She blossoms. There is no gangliness, no awkwardness, no imbalance of hormones or even lack of confidence. She grows like a jaguar - sleek and fast and already optimized for predatory hunting. It's not that she's invincible. It's that she's capable of anything. 

So she stalks the starting line as a hunter, sizing up and staring down the competition. She's painted her racing number, 012, directly onto the scales of her neck in red where it shines still-wet. She's sizing up the competition - they all feel like prey to her, all these gorgeous, fearful humans about to launch themselves into her domain of air and fire. She knows instinctively that beauty and danger are the same thing, so she seeks the greatest prey amidst the flock.