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It was usually a beetle. I looked it up once and 25% of animal species are beetles, so that makes sense. It was three months before they found out I could become anything else.
The lycanthropy virus was just another useless curiosity in the CIA's collection of secrets until the advent of genetic engineering allowed them to spec into other animals. Were-rats proved to be exceptionally capable spies.
I think they were trying to make birds - agile creatures that could get aerial images and fly over fences. When they thought they had accidentally specified "beetle", they thought the situation was salvageable - there were plans to sneak me into secret meeting rooms as an undetectable recording device (I would still remember everything after I turned back human, even if I had a beetle's mind during the transformation.) But those plans got scrapped after I turned into a walrus on month three. No one wanted to have to explain why a giraffe had suddenly appeared in the middle of the Kremlin.
For the first few years, doctors monitored my every move between transformations, hoping to find something in my diet, environment, or state of mind to correlate with what sort of animal I became, but it apparently is just random.
There was a flurry of renewed interest when I turned into a silver-backed chevrotain, a species of deer thought to have gone extinct two decades ago. Did that mean Brontosaurus was a possibility? There was a collective sigh of relief (or, in some cases, disappointment) when trail cams captured evidence of a surviving wild population.
These days, no one cares except my two handlers, who I'm just supposed to call Agent S and Agent M - as if I'm supposed to somehow not recognize the latter as Rob Morris from the academy, who I narrowly beat out for a position in the experimental omnianthropy program. He must realize by now that he dodged a bullet. He's much more relaxed than the uptight prefect I remember - he laughs easier, there are permanent smile lines etched into the corners of his eyes, and last year he once came in with a tie that said "WORLD'S BEST DAD" in clumsy fabric paint.
I actually don't know Agent S's real name - but I do know the names of her roommates, her kid brother, the one security guard who hates her for no reason, and every yoga instructor she'd had a crush on (she had a type). The frizzy-haired, bespectacled young woman must have had a biology background - she got really excited whenever I became a fish. After selecting the appropriate tank for me, she'd eagerly expand on the species' environment, diet, mating habits... I'd generally prefer not to know that last part, but no power on earth could stop an Agent S lecture once she got into it.
"FIVE MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT," a robotic voice filled the compound.
Protocol said I should already be sitting naked on the funnel-shaped surface they'd use to collect me if I became something small, but I had just gotten out of the high-pressure showers. I was relieved to see that my handlers were still in the airlock. Rob was putting covers on his shoes, and Agent S was stuffing her hair - teal this month - into the hood of her bunny suit.
The compound was a feat of engineering - ceilings high enough to accommodate the "giraffe" possibility, terrariums of various sizes lining the walls, and large pools of different temperatures and salinity taking up most of the floorspace. No windows, of course. (The moonlight didn't actually have to hit me. In fact, it's debated whether the fact that the virus's 28-day cycle aligns with the moon phase is just a coincidence.) I guess, on the off-chance that I became one of the larger types of whale, I would just die. The CIA would be disappointed to lose their asset, though a few scientists might be secretly happy for a chance to confirm whether dead flesh transforms back at the end of the night.
The project managers kept hoping that I'd become a bird. Using an involved "memory persistence" technique that had been developed for the program, I had spent several months memorizing the flight paths to several locations of interest. (The forces of random chance must have had a sense of humor - the only bird I'd become so far was an Adelie penguin. Breaking dozens of regulations, Rob had snuck his toddler into the compound that night, and I had been subject to delighted squeals and hours of clumsy pets.)
"ONE MINUTE TO MIDNIGHT," the speakers blared.
Rob walked in carrying an illicit 6-pack. They wouldn't open it until they confirmed they wouldn't have to drive me to somewhere within my species' flight range of a strategic location, but realistically, I couldn't fault them for preparing for the much-more-likely scenario that they'd be babysitting something in a terrarium for 6 hours.
Agent S followed, clapping her hands decisively. "Locking it in!" she announced. "My guess is carpenter ant, his is tree frog." By convention, whoever's guess was further had to fill out the month's TTRG report. It led to some fascinating discussions about, say, whether a starfish was closer to a pangolin or a harp seal. An insect was a solid guess, but -
"Really? An amphibian?" I raised me eyebrows at Rob. I had yet to experience that clade.
He made a gesture of mock-offense. "Do not besmirch the humble tree frog! My oldest is doing a project - "
The speakers cut him off. "MIDNIGHT IN THREE... TWO... ONE."
..I was surprised to see that their faces weren't growing larger and more distant, as was normal, but smaller. Their eyes grew wide with horror. The white-coated figures turned and began to run.
Prey.