Middle child.

She had a heartbeat, a crippling peculiarity in modern times. Her blood was organic and she still processed oxygen through her lungs (new humans absorbed atmosphere topically). The world was 93% water, yet she had been overlooked by the assisted evolution movement. Beaks filled with fine, jagged teeth replaced nostrils and lips (features appropriated from various birds of prey--eagles particularly). In addition to amphibious skin, new humans had a thin layer of membrane connecting each finger to the next, as well as their arms to their sides--a useful adaptation stolen from bats. These desirable advances had been achieved by splicing precise segments of animal DNA into human embryos, coupling each new set nicely with side effects from the each subsequent creature. They all donated their evolutionary gifts to the cause of human thrival.

She watched the new humans gliding overhead, every now and then piercing the muddy green-orange surface of the Paciflantic System, hunting no doubt. She scared them. She had no webbing, earthbound, brandished no beak nor claws; her softness was repulsive. She was the mistake, the before, she was a horrible reminder of how nature, left to its own devices, led only to failure.