See the first chapter for the disclaimer. Beware, disturbing imagery ahead… Just look at the chapter title, and keep it in mind…

~ * Hallucination * ~

It wasn't as if he'd meant to overhear Doctor Gilmore or anything; it was just a case of bad timing on his part.

He'd been instructed to get some rest, and, in retrospect, it was clear that Gilmore probably meant to just crash in the infirmary for a while. But Britain hadn't interpreted it that way. He'd taken it as more of a 'go to your room and get some sleep there' than a 'don't leave this room or go anywhere until I get back'. You had to specify these things, or people got confused!

Besides, the cot in there wasn't exactly the most comfortable bunk in the world. Britain felt he had enough of a headache to deal with already without adding the neck crick he was certain he'd develop if he slept there.

But when he'd gone to the door and heard Joe's voice on the other side… he had to admit, he was a bit curious to hear what the scientist replied. Not that he thought Doctor Gilmore would try and hide anything from him… All he wanted was to find out what was happening to him as soon as possible. He assumed Gilmore would be telling him sooner or later, so… why not hear what he was thinking right now?

Now he wished he'd interrupted. Anything was better than trying to cope with what he'd heard the good doctor tell Joe.

(I guess it's true what they say, ignorance really is bliss…)

He stared at the floor for a while, his gaze shakily traveling along the rest of his body. All the feeling had flooded from his legs the moment he'd heard the word 'fatal'. The way things had been going, he half expected to discover that they'd shifted on their own to some other form, throwing him off balance. He was only slightly comforted by the fact that his legs looked perfectly normal, a completely healthy set of appendages.

(Okay, I'm not that far gone yet. Now then… Up.)

Clumsily he stood, clinging to the doorframe for balance. It was probably best that he was alone right now; Britain had a feeling he looked rather ridiculous at the moment, an overgrown baby struggling to take its first steps. Under any other circumstances, he would have laughed at himself, the same way he tried finding the humorous side in most situations.

Funny how he wasn't feeling quite like himself.

Britain stood braced against the doorway for some time, until he was fully convinced that, yes, his legs could support the rest of his body. Then, carefully, he turned and stumbled back to the cot.

He no longer wanted to bother heading back to his own room. Suddenly, the strain of the afternoon's events caught up to him, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep and bring that horrendous day to an end.

Besides, if he left the infirmary, there was too great a chance of running into one of his friends. At the moment, Britain didn't feel up to facing anyone else. The last thing he needed was getting asked how he was doing, or how he was feeling…

Pulling one of the thin white sheets off the cot, Britain draped the sheer fabric over his shoulders like a cloak. The blanket wouldn't be of much help fending against the dread chill settling over him, but at that point, he could have cared less. He flopped down on the bed and pulled the sheet closer around his body, wrapping himself in a crude cocoon.

"I don't suppose that this all could be a bad dream I can just wake up from now, can it?" he asked aloud, a little too much hope entering his voice as he spoke words he already knew were in vain.

The silence that flooded the darkened chamber as the final word passed his lips seemed harsher than before, somehow. Britain hid the shiver he felt building in his spine with an ill-timed shrug. Pulling the sheets tighter around him, he fell back on the cot and stared at the ceiling, wishing for sleep to come and claim him quickly. Anything to free his mind from mulling over Gilmore's words.

~ * ~

The computer screen was filled with information, too much for his mind to process all at once. Still Doctor Gilmore's dark eyes scanned across the display rapidly, taking all the data in while trying to put things together.

There was little hope of a quick fix or an immediate cure for Britain's condition. Gilmore wasn't even certain yet of what exactly they were dealing with. Before he could work on a remedy, he needed to diagnose the cause of the problem.

(The whole thing reeks of Black Ghost,) he mused, briefly bringing one hand up to massage his deeply creased forehead before returning it to the keyboard to continue his work. (We get into a skirmish with those assault weapons, and suddenly G.B. starts having trouble controlling his shapechanging ability. Hardly a coincidence, I must say…)

But how, precisely, were they conducting their sabotage? Until he could figure that out there was little chance of combating the effects.

(Perhaps it has something to do with those assault pods. Could they be broadcasting some sort of wavelength -- or something that even 003 can't detect… that tampers with 007's system whenever he's exposed to it? No… that wouldn't explain why he had trouble afterwards, when we got back to the house… Unless… it could be some sort of infection, or virus…)

Gilmore sighed, eyes squeezing shut as he bowed his head. So many factors needed to be weighed, so much data to be considered before he could come to a workable hypothesis. Patience was a must if he was to be capable of finding a solution to the puzzle, especially when he only had a few pieces.

Surely, the worst part of this dilemma was all the unknown details. He understood so little about the situation, except that one of the members of their extended family was suffering and he couldn't do anything to alleviate the pain just yet. For all he knew, he was working against an invisible deadline, hoping to find a solution before time ran out and Britain succumbed to his ailment.

(I can't allow myself to think like that!) Gilmore mentally chided himself. (The thing that matters now is figuring out what it is we're up against, not wasting time wondering how much we have left.)

"Can I get you anything, Doctor?"

Gilmore tore his gaze away from the monitor and turned his head, not truly surprised to see Chang peering into the room worriedly. The stout cyborg was holding a tray with a steaming mug of coffee on it. When the scientist smiled slightly at him, Chang looked a bit reassured, and stepped inside, walking over to serve his drink.

"If you need anything else, just tell me," he instructed as Gilmore took the steaming mug from its platter. "Are you hungry? We haven't had much luck sitting down for a meal today, so I don't mind…"

"I'm fine, Chang," Gilmore replied, smiling softly over the rim of his cup. "Why don't you go on to bed? There's no need for you to stay up on my account."

He didn't bother to address the fact that it wasn't simply worry for the scientist's health that was keeping the chef there. Both were aware of it, so to acknowledge that would be pointless, and only lead to more uncomfortable lines of discussion.

Chang sighed, removing the empty tray and holding it cross-armed against his chest. He glanced at the display, taking in the rows and rows of black and white writing. His understanding of the intricacy of robotics was rudimentary at best; his specialty was cooking, creating cuisine rather than circuitry.

"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me," he finally said, slowly leaving the room.

Sipping his coffee, Gilmore let a sigh slip out. It would be surprising if either one of them managed to get any rest that night. Too many questions remained, and as he returned to studying the readout before him, he got a sinking feeling that only more would be unearthed before he came anywhere close to a solution.

~ * ~

The nightmares themselves were formless things, flashes of disorganized terror with horrifyingly vivid images burning through the rest of the jumble in places. Nothing was clear, yet mere fleeting impressions were more than enough to set Britain tossing and turning in a futile attempt to shake off the phantasms.

An active imagination. Usually having one was a blessing, a more than perfect match for his gift. But now that his transformation ability was spiraling out of control, so, too, was the same thing that so often had proved helpful in the past.

The worst possibilities that manifested themselves in the dreamscape weren't of being trapped permanently in some alternate form like a mouse or chair. Or of only transforming halfway and being stuck with claws or fangs or scales. Or losing limbs, or watching his body shift of its own accord, or even dying because of an ill-timed change or simple cellular breakdown.

The worst were the ones where someone else paid the price for his loss of control.

With a terrible sense of detachment from his own body, Britain was forced to watch as his right arm shifted into a crude mockery of an axe and buried its rough, serrated edge deep into Joe's back. He knew it must be a dream -- surely, surely the fleet-footed cyborg would be able to dodge such an attack in real life, right?

…Maybe not… not if he wasn't expected it from his own teammate.

The nightmare took on more form, a vividness he didn't desire, as twisted parodies of his friends' voices rose into shrill screams. It almost seemed sentient, like his growing terror was lending strength to the phantasm.

(So why aren't I waking up?!)

Francoise's skull was caving underneath the force of his fingers -- not his fingers, more a mutation of a vice and countless knives. Her screams had faded, replaced by a sickening rending sound and the rising shrieks of Jet and Pyunma as both lunged at him.

His body didn't even turn to face them, the only response to their team assault the thick, gleaming spikes tearing from his turned back. Britain heard more than felt their impact, and wished the nightmare would end soon. He couldn't even close his eyes, and had to behold the handiwork wrought by the creature he had once been.

A shriek was stuck in his throat, building and bulging against its constrictions as he watched more of his teammates fall to his own hands. Geronimo toppled backward, the giant's clutching hands motioning feebly at what remained of his face. A brief blast of intense heat from somewhere behind him was cut off when one arm twisted into something sharp and lanced unerringly backward. Even Ivan could only hold his barrier up for so long before the constant assault on the glowing shield pierced through.

Abruptly whatever force was driving his body fled, leaving a gasping, panting Britain staring wide-eyed at the remains of the rest of the rebellion. Finally able to move of his own accord, he was unable to do little more than squeeze his eyes tightly shut, drop to his knees, and scream.

Then his eyes snapped open to behold formless darkness. In a blind panic, Britain thrashed violently to one side, and with a crash found himself sprawled on the infirmary floor. The sheets were tangled round his body in a misshapen cocoon, and he quickly realized that one had shifted to cover the top half of his face, rendering him temporarily blind.

(It was a dream! Hah… I knew it was… of course…)

Hollow self-reassurances piping weakly in the privacy of his own mind, Britain forced a chuckle from his dry throat as he twisted, trying to untangle his sprawled limbs from the confining bedsheets. Freeing his right arm at length, he grasped the flimsy fabric and yanked it off.

When he beheld the sight of his other arm twisted at an unnatural angle and his legs half-fused together from the knee -- knee? -- down, it was enough to cause another frightened shriek.

Britain sustained his scream even while hastily kicking away from the cot and backpedaling over the floor, even after his limbs reformed into their normal shapes. His panic only sharpened as his howling continued, long after he probably should have run out of breath.

007! Calm down! G.B.!

Gradually he became aware of the fact that Ivan's telepathic voice was ringing through his thoughts; the trapped echo of his own shriek was burning at his ears. Britain fell silent, his terror losing its edge at the familiar presence.

In the following stillness, he heard the pounding of footsteps barreling down the hall. The door slid open, and Britain looked up to see Joe, Albert and Francoise standing there, the female cyborg holding Ivan's bassinet tightly in her arms.

"What happened?" demanded Albert, liquid silver eyes a fraction wider and wilder than normal as he cased the room.

It was a nightmare, wasn't it? Ivan added.

The babe's mental comment was not a private one, for the others reacted to it as well. Albert let his gunhand drop to his side, his expression unreadable. Francoise took in the disheveled state of both the room and the shapeshifter, her pale eyes filling with sympathy. Joe stepped forward and offered a hand up to Britain, but was ignored, as the Englishman righted himself. Britain gazed steadily down at the floor, finding it easier to look at than the faces of his friends.

"I… lost control again…" he offered meekly in explanation.

He didn't want to go into any more detail. The nightmare was still too fresh and vivid. He didn't dare make eye contact with any of the others, certain that their concerned expressions might be swiftly overlaid by the grisly images burned into his mind's eye.

Ivan's eyes weren't visible beneath his tousled mop of periwinkle hair, but he didn't need to see them to know both were fixed upon him. If anyone was able to detect the lies behind his statement, it would be the youngest cyborg.

…We all need to try and get some sleep while we can. Doctor Gilmore's still up working on a solution. Are you going to be alright?

"Oh, sure, I'll be fine," Britain lied with a smile.

"You sure?" Joe's single visible eye shone with anxiety. "I can stay in here or…"

"That's okay, it's okay!" Waving off his concerns, Britain motioned the others toward the door. "I'm fine now, really."

Lying through your teeth, maybe. Fine, maybe not.

Britain hid a flinch. From the lack of reaction from the others, it appeared that, at least, Ivan had kept that mental reprimand private. Maybe the kid really was tired; after all, he normally rested for fifteen days straight at a time. Whatever this problem was, it was likely going to wreak havoc on Ivan's sleeping habits.

"I'm okay now," he repeated, putting a confidence into the statement he wished he could feel. "You guys go back to sleep, now."

(Since I'm probably not going to be getting any now.)

"All…all right," Francoise finally acquiesced, though her sad tone made it clear she wasn't pleased about it.

See you tomorrow. And try not to worry too much about it, okay?

"…Get some sleep," instructed Albert, turning on his heel and following Francoise and Ivan out of the room.

"Yeah," Britain said. (Yeah, right.)

Joe didn't move to follow the others, just continued to stare at Britain with that single clear ruby eye, obviously worried. Britain still couldn't bring himself to look his comrade in the face, and kept his gaze averted to one side even while offering him weak platitudes.

"Go on, I'll be fine. I'm sure it's passed by now. I'll be okay, promise!" He smiled, trying to regain some shadow of his normal attitude. "I'm sure Doctor Gilmore will have something in the morning, so don't worry about it!"

Finally, Joe turned and walked out, the door sliding quietly shut behind him. Once he was gone, Britain sighed and slumped down on the edge of the cot, burying his face in his hands.

On the other side of the closed door, Joe sat down as well, leaning back against the sealed portal and staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. No matter what Britain told him, he couldn't find it in himself to return to his room. Instead, he chose to stay there for the remainder of the night, waiting for morning and whatever answers Gilmore might be able to offer.