The first chapter has all the disclaimers. Not that anybody really ever reads these things.

~ * Reflection * ~

"Blundering fool! What part of 'stealth mission' are you unable to comprehend?!"

Doctor Tenkan kept his head respectfully bowed, ignoring the beads of sweat that dripped from his deeply creased forehead and streaked his glasses. Though his illustrious leader's wrath was thankfully directed to another target at the moment, he hardly found it comforting to hear the commander's ranting.

That didn't mean he didn't share his leader's animosity, however. Were he a bit bolder he would have been glaring daggers at the soldier cowering a few feet away from him. The fool's eagerness to deal with the renegades had nearly jeopardized the original plan.

Ideally, his strategy included not alerting the cyborgs to their presence at all. Subtlety was the key, playing their cards without revealing their hand in it all until just the right moment.

Unfortunately, the grunt in charge of supervising the first stage of the plot found the sight of the nine cyborgs gathered so neatly together, unarmed and off guard, far too tempting.

"You were given specific orders, and yet you chose to defy them -- why? Did you really think the slim prospect of furthering your own petty ambition would justify endangering a plan that has been carefully crafted out for weeks? Did you actually believe you, moronic cretin that you are, had a chance of succeeding where so many others have failed with dumb luck alone?"

The thundering of his master's voice rose into a terrible crescendo, and Doctor Tenkan winced involuntarily as the booming culminated with a flash of violet lightning and the agonized scream of the hapless soldier. The stench of seared flesh washed over the kneeling scientist, and he was immensely thankful that his deferential posture concealed his expression from his superior.

He felt little sympathy for the deceased fool, but a small pang of anguish shot through his heart anyway, for the death of the soldier left him alone in the face of Black Ghost's anger. Bulbous yellow eyes fell upon his prostrate form, and the scientist swallowed hard, struggling against the waves of fear threatening to swallow him whole.

"I sincerely hope that your intricate plans are not derailed by that shortsighted fool's blundering."

There was no empathy in his commander's voice; the only concern he possessed was that the resources his organization had expended on this operation would bring satisfactory results.

Doctor Tenkan nodded mutely, glasses sliding down on his nose. He didn't trust his voice not to crack if he attempted any other form of reply. He was struggling simply to keep the icy shivers running along his spine from becoming more obvious. …Not that he was entirely certain Black Ghost wasn't already aware of his trembling.

The chamber plunged further into shadows as the holographic projection of his commander dissipated, leaving the scientist alone with the smoking corpse. Immediately he let out a shuddering breath, all previous self-restraint vanishing just as the image of Black Ghost had.

He took a small amount of comfort from the knowledge that their primary objective had, in fact, been achieved before the foolish recruit risked it all in that fruitless assault. Hopefully, the renegades wouldn't find any reason to suspect Black Ghost having a hand in anything beyond the attack itself.

It was several minutes before he found enough strength to stand up, and even then his legs trembled. Doctor Tenkan carefully avoided looking over to where the unfortunate soldier's body lay, turning and stiffly walking toward the exit. Cleanup and disposal of such trash was handled by experts, and he needed to continue his work as soon as possible.

The first stage was completed, and the second stage was scheduled to begin shortly. It remained to be seen whether the fool's fatal blunder would be a hindrance or, perhaps, an aid to the plot. He prayed to whatever god might be listening for the latter to be the case; he held no desire to join the soldier in his fate.

~ * ~

The ride back to the secluded cottage that was their most recent refuge was a mostly quiet one, for all of the Dolphin's passengers were too caught up in their own private thoughts for any real conversation to be sustained. The relative silence was intermittently broken by the dull thud of Jet bouncing the volleyball off the floor, an activity he kept up for only short periods of time before catching it and holding it in his lap again for a while.

Britain spent the majority of the trip gazing out the window, chin resting in one cupped palm, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the control panel before him. He was trying not to think about what had happened after the fight -- which meant, naturally, that his traitorous mind continued to remind him of how the same fingers he was tapping against the metal surface had been tipped with claws.

Having claws had been perfectly fine during the fight itself, when he'd shifted into a tiger to take down a few assault drones. But he certainly hadn't expected to still have them after reassuming his real form. It wasn't supposed to work that way…

(Maybe I'm just tired,) he reasoned with himself. (Jet did interrupt my nap, after all, so maybe I was still a bit sluggish from that.)

He told himself this, and studiously ignored that the rush of shock he'd gotten from the ball slamming into the tree right over his head had snapped him awake instantly. He also tried to dismiss the adrenaline rush he'd gotten during the skirmish.

…Besides, what other possible explanation was there? He'd never really had much of a problem with his power before, let alone made such an oversight. When the situation called for it, it was always 'poof' – turn into whatever it was they needed. Then after the disaster was averted, the villain of the day defeated, the world saved from evil, it was 'poof' again, and he was back to normal.

…It had to be a fluke. He just hadn't been paying attention, that was all. He'd changed back without thinking, and made one minor miscalculation.

(It could have been worse,) he assured himself. (At least I didn't try high-fiving Joe or Jet… though with him, that could have been karmic payback.)

No, the only thing that was hurt was his pride… and the back of his neck. That was to be expected, considering he'd nearly managed to rip it open with his claws when he'd gone to rub that mosquito bite he'd received earlier. Absently, his free hand strayed up and back again, and he hid a wince as he gently brushed the sore area. Though it hurt to touch, at least, now, he could feel the skin underneath his fingers.

All in all, perhaps the incident wasn't as bad as he'd first believed. Maybe the shock of discovering that he hadn't fully changed back was clouding his judgement. It was such a minor slip, corrected easily enough…

"…G.B.? Say, G.B., aren't you coming?"

Britain blinked, then looked over to Chang. The short chef was standing next to his seat, holding one of the baskets of food he'd salvaged, a mildly concerned look on his face. A quick glance around confirmed for Britain what he already expected; most of the others were missing, having already left the deck. The only ones left in the room were Albert, who was standing in the door looking back over at his remaining comrades with an unreadable expression, Chang, and himself.

"…Ah. Yeah," and Britain stood quickly, fighting back the heat of embarrassment he felt rising in his face.

"Are you feeling alright, G.B.?" Chang's pencil-thin eyebrows drew down over squinting eyes, staring up into the taller cyborg's face. "You barely ate anything during lunch, and…"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Britain waved off his friend's concern and grinned. "I just wasn't fast enough to grab much before the attack and all… Trust me, it's not like your cooking was terrible or anything…"

"Oh, that's good to… What?!" Chang's relieved smile faded swiftly as he realized the unspoken implication. "What was that about my cooking?"

But Britain was already to the door, slipping past Albert with an ease only one as flexible and used to evaded peeved victims of his slights could attain. Popping his head back into the room, he offering the fuming chef a huge smile and a nervous wave.

"Gotta go, toodles!" and he was out of sight in a second.

"The nerve of some people!" Chang was not a particularly volatile individual, but even the hint of an insult toward his life's work was enough to set him off. "After I was worrying about him too--!"

Albert tuned out his stout companion's continued complaining, his steady steel blue gaze focusing outward into the adjoining hall where Britain had fled. From behind him, occasional mutterings from Chang intruded upon his drifting thoughts -- grumbled snarls of 'stupid', 'thoughtless', among others.

…'Stupid', that he could give him, perhaps. However, Albert wasn't entirely certain that the comment was made completely without thought. After all, Britain was an actor, and had a knack for wordplay. Anyone who groaned at his jokes, so often rife with double-meanings and puns, could attest to that.

There was clearly something bothering the Englishman, much as he tried to conceal it behind forced grins and a glib tongue. Albert had glimpsed the faraway look in the shapeshifter's eyes, the nervous manner in which he waved off Chang's concern. Albert spent a fair amount of time mired in his own depression, now and then, so he recognized the signs in someone else quickly enough.

Britain obviously didn't wish to discuss it, however. And what better way to escape an uncomfortable topic than making such a deliberately inflammatory comment that would deflect the conversation to something else?

…Whatever the problem was, it wasn't in Albert's nature to pry. There were simply some issues that one needed to work through at one's own pace, to deal with -- or not deal with, as it sometimes was -- in their own manner. He certainly could attest to that himself…

Even so, Albert stood gazing off in the direction Britain had headed a bit longer, wondering whatever might have bothered him so about their ruined outing. Somehow he doubted it was merely frustration at having another moment of peace destroyed by Black Ghost's machinations.

~ * ~

(This is ridiculous.)

So Britain told himself as he stood in the small room, staring into the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the locked door, standing just far enough away that he could clearly see his entire body in the reflective glass.

(I'm sure it was just a fluke. I was tired, that's all it was. Having your head nearly get bashed in by a volleyball has its adverse effects, that's all.)

The unspoken words rung somehow hollow in his mind. Though his head wanted so desperately to believe his own rationalizations, there was that tiny, nagging sensation deep inside his heart that continued to cry that it was wrong, something was wrong, everything was going wrong.

It was to shut that little voice up that he changed.

Again, much as he had during the battle, Britain assumed the first form that popped into his mind: in this case, that of a man-sized serpent. He ignored as best he could the pangs of panic that set in as he started to shift: What if there was something wrong with him? What if he couldn't change back? Or worse, what if he only partly changed back, discovering he was unable to regenerate his arms or legs…?

By the time that last detail occurred to him, the transformation was already complete.

Which was definitely a very, "Oh, insert-explicative-you-wouldn't-dare-use-in-front-of-Francoise-or-Ivan" moment.

Still, it was too late for Britain to do anything about it right then. He stared steadfastly at his reflection, newly serpentine eyes sweeping along, taking in every detail, every last fleck of black patterning on his otherwise-mud brown body, coils of slender, sleek muscle concealed beneath shimmering scales.

His mouth cracked open, ready to release the sigh he'd felt building within, when a glint of something caused his breath to freeze in his throat. A shiver started to build at the base of his neck, traveling down his lengthy back as he slowly opened his mouth wider and wider -- not a difficult task, considering his newly unhingable jaw -- to behold the two curved fangs resting on the bridge of his mouth.

Britain didn't recall quite wanting those to appear. Usually, when he borrowed the form of some living creature, he kept the structure of his face as close as possible to his true shape without offsetting the balance of the rest of the body. Partly this was so he could still talk to his friends, though there was some comfort in keeping something other than his bellybutton the same about himself each time he changed.

Fangs definitely weren't part of the equation. Yet there they were, glistening from his own salvia, wickedly curved twin spears of white.

(I hope I don't bite my own tongue, I could be poisonous,) Britain thought in a haze. Then, as the tip of said tongue flicked into view, he observed, (Ah, look at that, it's forked, too.)

A weak, half-hysterical chuckle shook his serpentine body as Britain carefully closed his jaw, trying hard not to freak at the sensation of his fangs retracting up to the roof of his mouth so as not to pierce his lower lip.

Silently, he took a deep breath, counting: (Five… four… three… two… one…)

Then, carefully, he began the transformation back. Not surprisingly, the fangs were the first thing he willed away, focusing all his heart upon the thought of the deadly daggers changing back to normal teeth. Next was the tongue, then regaining his limbs, one by one.

When at last it was completed, Britain stood staring at his reflection, at the tall, bald cyborg standing before him, with no sign of the snake coiled there moments before. Opening his mouth, he leaned forward for a closer look, running an experimental finger over his teeth to ensure there weren't any pointed fangs hiding inside.

Which, considering the fact he still didn't know if his serpentine alter ego was supposed to be poisonous or not, was possibly a really stupid move. Thankfully, however, his probing finger found nothing.

Sighing with relief, Britain let his head fall forward to rest against the cool, smooth surface of the glass, bracing both hands on either side of the mirror.

(See?) he chided himself, allowing a quiet chuckle to escape his parted lips. (I knew it was just a fluke. And I bet the fangs just appeared because I was concentrating so much on my transformation that I just took it a step farther than normal.)

Still chuckling, he shook his head at his own folly. …Or, at least, he began to, turning his head slightly to the right. However, when he caught a glimpse of the patch of dark-brown skin on his wrist, half-hidden underneath the cuff of his sweater, he froze in that position. His already naturally small pupils dilated into pinpricks, and his once-self-amused chuckling tapered off into an anxious little whimper.

Abruptly he pushed back from the mirror and slapped his other hand over his wrist. He didn't immediately realize what he was doing; it wasn't until he first felt moisture forming underneath his fingernails that he realized he was scratching furiously at his skin, attempting to rip the scales off.

A gasp of horror escaped Britain as he yanked his offending hand back, staring at the damage he'd done. The scales had, in fact, vanished, though he figured that was more the result of an unconscious shapechange he'd wrought instead of his hysterical effort to remove them manually.

(Or maybe… I just imagined them…?)

Britain staggered two steps back from the mirror before sinking to the ground, his backside hitting the floor hard unnoticed. His full attention was focused upon the mirror in front of him, at the wide, frightened eyes staring him back in the face.

"What's happening to me…?" he breathed, only barely aware he uttered the thought aloud.