The first chapter has all the disclaimers you need. …You know, I could have been evil and ended this part on a real cliffhanger, but decided to tag on that final section anyway. So… eh-he-he… please don't kill me.
~ * Confrontation * ~
The majority of Black Ghost's followers was comprised of shortsighted egomaniacs and fools.
Doctor Tenkan was becoming painfully aware of this at the moment as he attempted to argue with the latest moron put in charge of helping execute his project. The sable-haired general glowered down at him from beneath bushy black brows drawn down over beady brown eyes.
"Please, learn from your predecessor's mistakes!" he pleaded despite knowing his words fell upon deaf ears. "There is no reason to go on the offensive yet, not when we only need to confirm--"
"The longer we allow those cyborgs to run around free, the worse it makes the organization look!" The general's tone was unctuous, a finer match for his sour looks than his silken finery was for his heavyset frame. His hands were steepled together in the fashion that seemed to be so popular for figures of authority in shady organizations, fingers drumming against each other as he queried, "Why should we allow them to remain in their little hideaway and continue to be a thorn in the side of Black Ghost?"
"But the success of direct assaults in the past have been marginal, and always resulted in their escape and elimination of whatever we send against them. For achieve our goals in this operation, we must exercise caution…"
"Bah!" One fat-knuckled fist crashed down upon the desk separating them, nearly spilling the contents of the brimming mug beside it over the polished steel surface. "If anything, we must go further on the offensive now that they have already destroyed several of our remote-control assault pods!"
"B…but the mission calls for subtlety. We must not let them know…"
"They already know that Black Ghost is involved! But they won't be expecting a second attack now, not on their own refuge!"
A dangerous gleam had entered his superior's narrowed eyes, the final sign to the scientist that he had lost this argument. Not that he had harbored much hope of winning: greed and stubbornness were also common traits among members of the shadow association.
So Doctor Tenkan nodded silently. He gave no vocal agreement with the altered plan, allowing control of the second stage to slip out of his hands into those of the obsessed general. Turning on his heel, he shuffled out of the room, leaving the fool to his self-glorifying plans and ultimate fate.
Another instinct that was often found in employees of Black Ghost -- including Doctor Tenkan himself -- was that of self-preservation. This was also commonly referred to as "covering one's own ass". In the eventuality that his superior's modifications for the second stage backfired, there was no doubt that the rash commander would be punished for his transgression, just as his predecessor had.
Doctor Tenkan refused to dwell on this fact. It was far better and safer for him to proceed as normal, preparing for the third major stage while praying that whatever occurred with the impending second phase would not completely wreck the entire project.
If everything was blown… then he would not need to worry about anything else for long.
That was no source of comfort, so he pushed it out of mind. No use thinking about what he couldn't control.
~ * ~
The reflection before him rippled, and Britain blinked once, wondering fuzzily for a second what else was going wrong with him. Then he comprehended the fact that the door was moving slightly as someone on the other side went to open it, causing the mirror mounted upon it to move as well.
Light streamed in from the hallway outside as the portal swung open, and Britain stood quickly before the intruding brightness could illuminate his body. He didn't particularly feel like attempting to explain away to whoever was entering why he had been sitting in nearly complete darkness with his knees pulled up against his chest facing his reflection.
A broad-shouldered figure stood in the open doorway. Britain recognized the other person even before their hand found the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the chamber with halogen-induced brightness. He winced involuntarily and shielded his face with one hand: his eyes did not appreciate the abrupt change after adjusting to the dimness.
"Hey, G-Junior!" he greeted his unexpected guest. "What brings you here?"
The giant cyborg nodded politely in his companion's direction while stepping into the room.
"Chang sent me to tell you that dinner is almost ready," he reported in his deep, even voice.
Britain blinked. That was new. Usually, he'd be hanging around the kitchen or dining area around this time, bugging and laughing with Chang. Strange how he'd lost track of the time like that. He felt a twinge of guilt: the fire-breather was nice enough to send someone looking for him even after he'd used an insult to make his escape…
"Okay, I'm coming," he replied, striding toward the doorway.
"…Where did you get that?"
"Huh?" Britain stopped cold and gave his comrade a blank look.
"Your wrist…" Geronimo intoned simply, dark eyes fixated on the shorter man's arm. "Where did you get those marks?"
Britain felt all the color flood from his face as his own gaze rolled down to rest upon his right hand. The skin was still scraped raw, thanks to his earlier bout with delirium when he'd noticed the mud-brown scales remaining there. Though the snakeskin was gone, there was still visible damage -- not enough to break the surface, but there was a visible patch that had clearly been raked over or scratched.
It took only a moment for him to regain his balance, however. Covering the offending wrist with his other hand, Britain quickly tweaked his sleeve back into place while offering Geronimo an abashed laugh and a lopsided smile.
"Oh, that! I just scraped it during the fight, that's all! Nothing serious…"
He hoped his laughter didn't sound too nervous or hysterical as he squeezed past the looming cyborg and out of the room. He could feel the strongman's steady gaze follow him down the hallway, though Geronimo himself made no move toward him. Britain waved back at him before dodging around the corner, making certain to use his uninjured hand.
Geronimo watched him go in silence. With his strength, it would have been a simple task for him to keep the Englishman from leaving had he seen fit, yet he chose not to, instead mulling over things in the privacy of his thoughts.
Britain was lying to him; of that he was certain.
There was no way he could have sustained those injuries during the fight. Even if it was remotely possible that Britain had been thrown or knocked aside in such a manner that he landed on his wrist, the damage from such an occurrence would surely have been far worse than a small patch of scraped-off skin. Besides, the wound looked far too fresh: as if he had only received it a short while ago.
The most likely explanation, then, was that Britain had either banged it against something and was too embarrassed to admit his blunder… or the wound was self-inflicted.
Neither answer was exactly satisfactory. Geronimo valued honesty most highly, and would prefer an admittance of some simple mistake than some half-hearted cover-up.
However, he knew that Britain was aware of this. Geronimo was fairly certain that if the shapeshifter had indeed hurt himself by mistake, he would have admitted how to him. While Jet or perhaps Chang might have harped about it, the noble Native American would never do such a thing. He wasn't the teasing type.
The alternative possibility, that the scrape on his wrist was self-inflicted…
…It was not a likelihood that Geronimo found at all comforting. What could possibly motivate Britain to hurt himself, even in so minor a manner? He could think of no reason, and found the prospect most troubling.
He would simply have to discuss this with Britain later, the first chance he got. Whatever the problem was, there was no way he was going to stand silent and allow one of his friends to come to harm by any means.
Even if… no, especially if it turned out that Britain's injury had been dealt by his own hands.
~ * ~
(It can't be just a fluke thing. The claws, the fangs, the scales…)
Unconsciously, Britain covered his scraped wrist with his other hand, tugging his sleeve up higher. He had a sinking feeling that Geronimo hadn't bought his excuse; heck, it had sounded pretty pathetic to him even when he was blurting it out.
(I should talk to Doctor Gilmore about it. After dinner…)
His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the blare of an alarm. Britain stopped dead in his tracks at the grating wail, a few very choice words coming to mind. He recognized the most likely cause for the alert, and grimaced when his suspicions were confirmed by Ivan's mental voice ringing loud and clear over the blaring noise.
Hate to be the bearer of bad news, everyone, but it looks like Black Ghost is sending us some company…!
(Perfect. Just… bloody… perfect.)
His hand went from his wrist to his holster, and Britain was glad that, at least, this time around he had his blaster on him. At the moment, he didn't exactly feel like shifting into anything for the sake of yet another skirmish with Black Ghost.
Perhaps, in fact, it would be wiser for him to avoid taking part in the battle altogether. But that was hardly a workable option. This was their home, after all, and there was no way he could simply stand back and allow any minion of Black Ghost to invade this place.
"Where are they, 001?" he shouted aloud.
Following Ivan's telepathic instructions, Britain evacuated the house as quickly as possible and headed off to where the babe claimed their uninvited guests were located. He wasn't entirely surprised to see telltale bursts of light and smoke come into view as he neared the area, or a flash of fiery red, orange and yellow sweeping through the blue expanse overhead.
(There's Jet,) he noted, scanning the field for signs of whomever else had already managed to arrive. (Joe's probably here, even if I can't see him… ah, he must be somewhere over there, thank you, random exploding doom pod. That missile means Albert's somewhere nearby…)
The dark gleam of sable metal glimpsed from the corner of one eye was all the warning Britain needed to turn and shoot down the oncoming enemy drone. A wry smirk twisted his mouth as the smoking husk toppled to the ground, exposed circuitry sending sparks scattering across the ruined steel.
"Excuse me, I'm trying to think here," he deadpanned.
Not that he expected anything from the shadow organization to give him the slightest bit of courtesy, of course. From the looks of things, Black Ghost had deployed considerably more of his little toys this time: he counted at least sixteen more rising into view just now, and that wasn't counting however many were already engaged in combat.
At least this time there were more than just three cyborgs against whatever odds. The sector where he supposed Joe was doing his thing had a good portion of assault pods dropping to the ground, and Jet was zipping around nearby taking out his own fair share. He could finally see Albert now, crouching behind a rock and using his machinegun hand to snipe the opponents closest to him, and the flashes of laserfire coming up just now signaled Pyunma's arrival.
That left Geronimo Junior, Francoise, Ivan and Chang still unaccounted for, though it seemed likely they might be staying close to the house…
Even as he was noting these things, Britain was running to one side, strafing the area with his blaster. Experience on such battlefields taught him how to keep one eye on his nearby teammates and the other on the closest opponents. It wasn't really a talent he enjoyed having, or one he'd ever expected he would need to develop, before…
He wasn't completely focused on the battle, however. A tiny fraction of his mind was devoting itself to keeping up a constant reminder like a small chant in the back of his thoughts: (Don't change into anything. Don't change into anything.)
Which, considering just how much of his actual practicality in a straight fight hinged on his transformation ability, was making things difficult to say the least.
It had become a reflex to some degree, a natural response. Britain didn't really know how much of that was thanks to whatever 'reprogramming' that Black Ghost might have tried administering to him. It wasn't exactly a point he chose to dwell on all that much.
So consciously telling himself not to transform, instead of picking some useful shape and 'popping' into it, was a minor distraction. Britain didn't really realize just how much it was distracting him until the shot from behind connected.
The blast came fast and hard enough that he wasn't immediately aware what happened. There was just an explosion of sharp, stabbing pain on the lower right side of his back, and the sensation of pitching forward. He might have screamed, or maybe shouted from surprise, he wasn't sure -- but his mouth was definitely open when he plowed face-first into the ground. Choking, coughing from a mouthful of dirt and grass, he struggled to push up, hearing through the haze descending over his scenes the rumbling and whirring of the hovering weapon closing in on above.
(Quick, change to a mouse or -- no!)
Squashing the impulse to shift to something small and hard to hit, Britain dug his right hand hard into the ground and pushed off, rolling to the other side. The laser bit into the space where his head had been seconds before, so close that he could hear the high-pitched wail of displaced space. The pod, hardly deterred by its miss, turned to face him again, and Britain sensed a few of its friends were likely to come join the party at any moment.
"007! Move!"
Was that Jet or Pyunma that screamed at him? It hardly mattered; Britain obeyed his teammate's command as best he could, pushing away and staggering backward as lasers tore funnels before his stumbling feet. Indecision seized his thoughts even as his body reacted by backing away as fast as he could without changing.
(What now, what now what now?! Should I shift, is it safe will I--)
His back met cold metal, and Britain freaked, spinning and firing immediately. But it wasn't fast enough to avoid the counter blast coming from another pod, the one that bit deep into his right shoulder. This time he knew for certain he screamed -- his own pained cry ringing in his ears as he stumbled.
Another laser blast seared over his knuckles, forcing the gun to drop from his hand. Britain made a clumsy grab for it, missed, and had to roll desperately in the opposite direction to avoid the shot aimed for his head.
"007!"
"Hang on, we're coming!"
That first cry sounded like Albert, but was it Joe who was telling him to 'hang on', or maybe Pyunma? Britain couldn't tell: the back of his head had struck something much harder than gravel or dirt… had he fallen onto a stone? Or maybe the hull of one of the wrecked pods? Whatever it was, it hurt like hell, and he could hardly focus…
"Shit! Get away from him, you bastards!"
That was definitely Jet; had to be; it sounded like it was shouted from quite a distance away, probably somewhere overhead. Besides, he tended to be the one most inclined to using profanity…
Everything was blurring too much; Britain could hardly get his bearings. He was still flat on his back, he knew that much because he could feel his hands pressed up against the dirt, scrabbling vainly for some purchase. His legs refused to work, and his arms weren't being of much help, either.
The blackness intruding at the edges of his vision would have been welcome, and he would have given into it gladly, except he had a sinking sensation that if he did so it might not be possible to wake up. Especially if the big, fuzzy-edged black thing looming over him was any indication…
"…o-seven! Zero-ze…"
He couldn't think, couldn't focus enough to shift into anything even if he'd been completely confident he could control it. He wanted to move, needed to move, but couldn't will the strength to his stubborn limbs.
There was a point of light forming in the approximate center of the floating-thing taking up most of his vision. Britain knew what it most likely was, and that there was no way that he'd possibly be able to avoid it. Even if he'd had full command of his senses and powers right now, at this close range, how could…
A terrible, wrenching pain shot through his body. It was like every muscle, every cell abruptly burst aflame all at once. If he screamed, Britain himself wasn't aware of it. His entire world was reduced to a moment of twisting, wrenching agony, and then -- sweet, blissful darkness…
~ * ~
"G…G.B.?!"
Francoise stared straight ahead, unable to believe what she'd just witnessed. Her enhanced senses were sharper than anyone else's, so even though she'd been a distance away when it happened, running after Geronimo and Chang as they charged toward the battle…
"003? What happened?"
Both men had stopped running when they heard her horrified gasp and saw her skid to a halt, and both looked back at her now with concern in their eyes. Chang in particular looked stricken, and she felt a flash of guilt.
"What happened? Is 007 hurt?" he asked.
The raw emotion he saw in her pale aquamarine eyes -- the obvious conflict, like she didn't know whether or not to confess whatever it was she'd witnessed -- did little to assuage his rising feelings of unease. He'd been upset by Britain's earlier dig at his cooking, to be certain, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of his friend being injured. And from the expression on Francoise's face, Chang was getting the distinct impression whatever had just happened was more than a case of some minor damage.
"I don't…know," she finally whispered lamely, in a lost, confused tone of voice.
"…We should hurry," Geronimo soon prompted, making good on his words by turning and picking up his sprint where he'd left off.
Francoise and Chang rushed after him, both distracted by their own confused thoughts. Chang desperately wanted more information, but got the impression that he wasn't going to be finding out anything from her just yet. Obviously, he'd have to see what they came across and try and figure things out from there…
By the time they reached the battlefield, however, Chang got the impression that the fighting was more or less finished. The only sign of the invaders Black Ghost had sent were the scattered, split, smoking hulks of broken and battered assault pods.
He'd hung back with Geronimo, Ivan and Francoise to protect Gilmore, but now only the youngest of the cyborgs remained with the scientist. They'd decided to come and try to help when it became clear just how large and close together the intruding forces were. Now, thought, it appeared they were too late to do anything other than help clean up…
Chang's train of thought was completely derailed when he saw the others huddled in a group. He hurried over to join them, breath catching in his throat when Geronimo stood up with a limp, unconscious figure in his arms.
"G.B.?"
All he could see was the top of his friend's head; the rest of his body was obscured by Geronimo Junior's thick forearms. But he could see the solemn expressions on the faces of the rest of the cyborgs, from the worry clear on Joe's face to the pent-up frustration and rage flaring in Jet's narrowed eyes.
Francoise, however, was not looking in the same direction as the rest of the group. Chang was surprised to see her face averted, and followed the path of her gaze to the remains of one of the Black Ghost craft sitting at her feet.
(What in the…?)
The assault pod was completely mangled, easily worse off than the other wreckage within sight. It definitely didn't look like the familiar work of one of their blasters, either. The formerly smooth sable metal was pockmarked with dents and puncture wounds, and seemed to be filled with holes. The strangest part was how small each gap was: too small to possibly be bullet holes, almost more like thousands of needles had been driven into the craft with enough force to pierce all the way through to the other side and continue moving unimpeded.
Staring at the ruined craft, Chang could only wonder what it was he'd missed… and what, exactly, Francoise had witnessed that caused her to look so pale and horrified then, and still vaguely frightened now…