The disclaimers are in the first chapter, in case you somehow managed to miss them. Another 'calm before the storm'-type installment here; sorry about that. Just preparing for what happens in the next part…

~ * Congregation * ~

A steady stream of muttered obscenities issued from the swaying, staggering figure as once again he was forced to stop and lean against the side of a tree for support. His grasping fingers first sought out, then dug into the gnarled bark of his latest temporary crutch.

His leg was acting up again. All the makeshift cast he'd fashioned was good for was keeping the gouge covered. Didn't prevent the nasty feedback that shot up his side each time he accidentally put any weight it. From his left knee down it felt like his leg was afire, and each misstep on his part stoked the blaze.

Jet cursed; why had he thought binding the leg would work? He hadn't expected it to be a magical cure-all, but he'd been hoping it would make the going a little easier. Easier than this slow process of lurching along through the woods praying he didn't collapse before he reached the next tree!

He already knew the answer, however. The simple truth was he had no choice.

Jet didn't know who he was more pissed at: G.B. for attacking him, Black Ghost for creating the virus that forced G.B. to attack him, or himself for getting caught completely off guard. No matter what the circumstances were, he couldn't believe that Great Britain of all people had just royally kicked his ass.

(Damnit, I just know I'll be hearing about that later, once all this crap has been sorted out and things get back to normal… G.B.'ll be ragging about that for months…)

Things would get back to normal, though. Jet refused to entertain any other possibility. In his mind, it was simple: first they'd track down G.B., overpower him, and haul his infected ass back to Gilmore's. Then the doc would whip up some cure, inject the shapeshifter with it, and voila! Britain'd be back to his typical annoying self in no time, cracking bad jokes and getting on everyone's nerves like nothing had ever happened.

…Okay, so Jet was enough of a realist to see the flaws in his own 'quick and easy solution' scenario. But, damnit…! Hadn't Black Ghost screwed up their lives enough already...?!

His right hand, the one that wasn't splayed against the trunk for absolutely vital support, slid down and into the pocket on the same side of his jacket. His fingers stroked the familiar curved surface of the top of his blaster. It was a small miracle that it hadn't fallen out; but then, he hadn't expected when he'd stuffed it in there that he'd be plummeting down a cliffside minutes later.

(Yeah, yeah, life's full of surprises, and most of them really suck.)

It was still there, though. Still in one piece, unlike the jacket itself. Not to mention his leg…

Jet ground his teeth together as a fresh spasm of pain crackled up his left side. The fingers of his left hand dug deeper into the bark, punching holes in the trunk: the fingers of his right curled round the base of the laser pistol. It didn't activate, however, which was good, since the resulting blast would have more or less decimated what remained of his jacket.

Feeling the weight of the gun resting in his hand, Jet wondered if he'd use it the next time he ran across his infected comrade.

(If it comes to that…)

His head snapped up abruptly; his senses may not have been as heightened as Francoise's, but his instincts served just as well. He knew with a sudden certainty that somebody was close by, though he couldn't say whom.

He had a few good estimates, though.

The gun was out of his pocket and ready in a flash of gleaming silver. Jet pointed the barrel in the direction he sensed the other was coming from.

Two possibilities were foremost in his mind. Either the new and improved psycho-007 was coming back, or Black Ghost had sent some of his latest toys to deal some more damage. If it was the latter, Jet was more than ready to pick them off the second they wandered within range. If the former…

Snarling a particularly vile, if unintelligible, word under his breath, Jet slid forward so that his back pressed up against the thick trunk. Gripping the pistol with both hands in order to keep it steady -- it was shaking just because of his injures, he angrily told himself -- he kept it level with the steadily approaching sound of footsteps and waited.

When he first glimpsed a flash of red through the dense green foliage, Jet inhaled sharply. It wasn't that he was swallowing a gasp of fear; rather, he was just bracing for the coming fight.

And when the interloper came close enough that he recognized the broad-shouldered outline, he let the breath he'd been holding out in a whoosh -- not a sigh of relief, but of mild disappointment that he'd been prepping for a fight only to get nothing.

At least, that's what Jet insisted to himself.

"G…Junior?"

"…Ah, there you are, 002," Geronimo stated, a smile softening his features as he emerged from the brush.

The pleasure that the giant cyborg gained from locating his friend was diminished slightly by the condition he was in. Geronimo's smile faded as his dark eyes roved over the hawkish boy's body, lips tightening into a thin frown when his gaze came to rest on his left leg. The scarf-turned-cast was tattered and filthy, yet Geronimo judged that it was probably in wonderful condition compared to what lay underneath.

Coming up from behind the Native American, Chang came to a dead halt when he saw the bedraggled Jet.

"What the… what happened to you?!" he blurted out, too startled to consider his words carefully.

"G.B. happened, that's what," spat Jet, bronze irises flashing with anger. Bad as the gash in his leg was, the injury to his pride seemed worse. "One minute he's babbling about not wanting to hurt anyone, the next I'm dodging Insta-blades courtesy of that shapeshifting lunatic."

(It slices, it dices, it's the new and improved pyschotic-007!) declared a snippy little voice in the back of Jet's mind. (Care of Black Ghost Industries, patent pending.)

Jet blinked, then placed a hand to his forehead as a fresh wave of dizziness swept over him.

(Damn, guess that fight took more out of me than I thought… well, that and the walk here… Okay, shut up, brain.)

Swaying slightly, Jet nearly dropped his laser, barely managing to jam it into its holster before hurriedly reinforcing his brace against the tree with both hands. Chang and Geronimo hurried over to his side, and he felt their grips supporting him before his vision cleared enough for him to properly see their worried faces.

"Jet? Are you okay?"

"Oh, sure, 006, I'm fine," replied Jet in a tone fairly dripping with sarcasm. "What's a little frickin' gash in my leg gonna do, anyway?"

"…We need to get you back to the house." Geronimo didn't sound the least bit fazed by the redhead's caustic declaration. "Doctor Gilmore should look at that right away."

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

Jet pushed away from the tree and, ignoring offers of support from the other cyborgs, started forward on his own. He took about two-and-a-half steps before unceremoniously falling to his left, injured leg going out from underneath him. Fortunately, his friends had anticipated this, and Geronimo caught him safely by the shoulders before he could hit the ground.

"Don't strain yourself!" Chang frantically scolded.

"I'm…fine," Jet grated through clenched teeth, ignoring as best he could the lightning jolts of pain coursing up his side.

"……" Geronimo shook his head once.

Without another word, the giant strongman scooped Jet up from behind. It was amazing how he could be both firm and gentle at once, carefully ensuring that his cargo's wounded leg wasn't jostled more than absolutely necessary. Hooking both of his thick arms underneath the redhead's lanky body, Geronimo stood up and started toward the house.

Jet's initial shock immediately gave way to indignation. A mortified blush started over the bridge of his nose and quickly spread, so that soon his entire face was a fierce shade of red that nearly matched his uniform. He couldn't exactly resist in his condition, so he resorted to loudly voicing his protest.

"Wha…what do you think you're doing?!"

"Taking you back home." Geronimo's explanation was clear and concise.

"Put me down, damnit! I can get there myself!"

The strongman failed to respond, keeping silent while continuing to carry the objecting Jet. The spike-haired punk soon realized that his protests fell on deaf ears, though this didn't keep him from muttering obscenities and glaring at his stoic protector.

Under other circumstances, Chang probably would have laughed at the absurd situation, or make some comment that would undoubtedly ruffle the hawk's feathers and get Jet screaming at him instead. At the moment, however, the firebreather's thoughts were elsewhere. He plodded along behind the pair, staring at the ground, turning things over in his thoughts.

(First Joe, then Jet, and Albert and Pyunma… that makes four of us that G.B.'s attacked so far… If this keeps up, then…)

Chang shook his head slowly. How was it possible that just yesterday morning, he'd been joking around and fighting with G.B. about the group picnic, and today it was increasingly looking like they would have to fight for real? There was a difference between squabbling with somebody and facing them in battle…

(…Doctor Gilmore will fix it, I know he will! I'm sure he'll come up with something… soon…)

Trying not to consider the possible alternatives, Chang scurried after Geronimo Junior and the sulking Jet.

~ * ~

Good, looks like they're on their way here, Ivan informed the rest of the team.

(So is 007,) was the thought the infant cyborg kept private. (With any luck, though, they might get here before him. He certainly isn't hurrying…)

Luck was not something Ivan was wont to trust in very often. It was a factor one could not effectively plan for or take into account; it couldn't be manipulated or created. Thus, Ivan preferred to consider more tangible influences. If they happened to be fortunate, so much the better; if not, all they could do was deal with it.

Britain was approaching the house at a steady, slow pace. Ivan wasn't certain why the shapeshifter wasn't rushing toward them at full speed, but he could hazard a few educated guesses. Britain obviously knew exactly where he was headed, so there was no real need for him to crash through the forest. Plus, after running into Albert and Pyunma before, it seemed probable he wanted to avoid alerting possible other sentries to his approach.

Foreseeing this, Ivan was making certain that Geronimo, Jet and Chang's path wouldn't intersect with the course Britain was taking. They didn't need a repeat performance of that last encounter.

Underneath his pale blue bangs, Ivan's glowing sapphire eyes narrowed slightly. Teleporting the unconscious pair to safety back home had taken quite a bit of energy, more than he'd wanted to expend. Not that he didn't consider it worth it; saving the lives of his comrades was easily worth every scrap of psychic energy he possessed.

It was simply that Ivan had a feeling he'd be doing a lot more work before this debacle was resolved… hopefully soon, and in a manner that wouldn't leave any of their number seriously injured, or worse.

Ivan grimaced around his pacifier; at the moment it was difficult for him to keep track of where Britain was. He couldn't get a firm lock on his coordinates because he couldn't establish a full connection between the shapeshifter's mind and his own.

In fact, he could barely 'feel' Britain at all. He'd attempted to explain this to Pyunma and Albert before without much success; how could he communicate to them exactly what the problem was when they couldn't experience it for themselves?

To be absolutely truthful -- although Ivan wasn't about to inform his comrades of this unless they happened to directly ask him -- if those two hadn't happened to run across Britain, he wasn't entirely certain he would have been able to locate him at all. He'd been trying prior to their discovery, only to come up with nothing.

As it was, he could track the shapeshifter, but only barely. It was like running a glitchy radar system, where only by knowing exactly what to look for and having a good idea of exactly where it was would enable somebody to locate what they were searching for.

There was a definite difference between knowing where Britain was and actually communicating with him, too. Ivan had been trying to hail him repeatedly, attempting all sorts of mental projections. He'd tried calling him by full name, nickname, and code number, crying, goading, screaming, pleading, all to no avail.

Ivan had heard Doctor Gilmore use the saying 'like talking to a wall' before, and felt it applied quite well in this situation. There was clearly something blocking him off from reaching Britain directly, a mental shield deflecting his telepathy.

It was probably another feature of the virus, he figured, for all the good that knowledge did him. Ivan wondering if anything was sinking through that obstruction; was Britain aware he was being called all this time? How much was he aware of, if anything at all?

There had been one brief flash where Ivan had felt anything concrete in return from the shapeshifter; that moment coincided with Albert's desperate attempt to save Pyunma. There'd been a burst of sharp pain, followed by a fierce rush of emotions radiating from the other -- anguish, terror, shock, fear.

He'd been hailing him for so long without any form of response that Ivan had been caught off guard. The channel he'd been fighting to establish was practically flooded for a moment, then, before he could react, it slowed to a trickle and was cut short.

That deluge, however brief, had given Ivan something to latch onto, at least. The infant cyborg had been beginning to wonder how far the virus's corruption had spread; if it was possible the infection affected Britain's mind as well. Judging from that burst, however, that simply couldn't be the case.

(It's taken the body, but not the mind…)

So how aware was Britain of what the virus was driving his body to do? If Ivan was to guess based on that short flood he'd detected alone, he'd have to say a great deal more than perhaps he should. Was he still able to see things through his own eyes?

Ivan shuddered, both physically and mentally. The concept of being trapped in one's own body chilled the young telepath to the core. While it was true he couldn't move around without levitating, just the thought of having his body do things not of his own accord…

"Are you alright, Ivan?" Francoise's sweet voice caressed his ears.

…003, do you think you could take me out of this for a while?

"…Oh, sure."

The female cyborg lifted Ivan from his bassinet and cradled him in her arms, noting with concern that he was trembling slightly. In the comfort of her embrace, however, his shuddering soon ceased. After calming down, Ivan glanced over to where the rest of their little group was gathered.

There were times where it seemed that Doctor Gilmore was nothing short of a miracle worker. It was a testament both to his skill as a scientist and the resilience of Pyunma and Albert that both were in considerably better condition now. True, their injuries had been mostly sustained from being flung around by Britain, but considering how horribly the encounter might have turned out, it was really quite amazing.

Pyunma was fully awake now, and was sitting beside Joe with his knees pulled up in front of him, arms folded on top of his bent legs. His uniform was still scuffed up and dirty, covered with chips of bark and bits of gravel, but he'd only just been brought back to consciousness and hadn't yet had time to go change. Nor did he appear to have any inclination to do so. His attention was focused elsewhere.

The sheen of sweat coating Doctor Gilmore's forehead glistened as he bent over to repair Albert's chest. This was more delicate work than what he'd had to do for Pyunma, and the slow process felt even more nerve-racking with everyone else watching him. He'd sent Joe out at one point to retrieve a fresh shirt from Albert's room; the other tunic was badly ripped where he'd been raked. Joe had returned quickly, tunic in hand, and hadn't moved from his seat since.

Finally sealing the last of the scratches, Gilmore groaned as he straightened back up, wiping his face with the cuff of his sleeve. Albert carefully sat up, absently running his left hand over his freshly repaired chest.

"Are you feeling better now, Albert?" Joe inquired, almost wincing at his own question.

The German regarded the younger cyborg solemnly with his liquid steel eyes. His gaze flicked over to Pyunma briefly, then returned to rest on Joe's concerned face.

"…I've felt better," he admitted, gingerly bringing his legs around in front of him so that he was now seated on the edge of the cot. "All things considered…"

You're lucky to be alive. Ivan might have attempted to be less blunt had he felt it worth the effort. There were more pressing matters at hand, though. You should know that somebody's coming that will try to remedy that.

He didn't bother to specify who; the others already understood exactly what he was talking about. Francoise held Ivan a little closer to her chest while the three male cyborgs glanced at one another. Gilmore lowered his gaze to the ground before closing his eyes entirely.

005 and 006 are headed back here with 002. Unfortunately, 002 needs to get his leg repaired at least before he can be any help. I don't know if they can get back here before he arrives, but I doubt that once he does get here he'll wait politely for Doctor Gilmore to finish. So… what are we going to do?

It was partly a rhetorical question; Ivan already had some notion of what the response would be. Sure enough, Joe got to his feet, garnet-stone gaze turning to each of his companions in turn.

"I'm going." It was as simple as that, Joe's voice carrying its usual quiet determination. "I have to try talking to him again, to bring him back…" His single visible eye rested longest on Francoise's face before dropping down to the child she held in her arms. "Ivan, just tell me where to go to meet him."

I'm not certain talking to him is going to have much effect, Ivan warned. It may be 007's body, but he's not the one in control right now.

"But I…" Joe closed his eyes.

"I'm going with you."

That caused the natural leader of the cyborgs to quickly reopen his eyes and look over as Pyunma got to his feet. The warfare specialist kept his arms at his sides, not bothering to brush the previously accumulated dirt off his uniform.

"You'll need somebody watching your back out there," he explained succinctly.

"That's right," and Albert pushed off the cot and stood up straight, pulling on the uniform jacket Joe had retrieved earlier. "It's better than sitting around here waiting, anyway."

"Joe…" Francoise faltered as Ivan looked up at her.

It's better if you stay here with the doctor and me, 003, the infant informed her privately. 002, 005 and 006 are going to need help when they get here, and besides…

"………" Francoise nodded hesitantly, aquamarine eyes reflecting her doubts. Looking over at the trio preparing to depart, she said, "Be careful."

"I suppose it's useless to tell you to try not to overexert yourselves," sighed Gilmore, shaking his head. "Still, try to be cautious."

"Of course, doctor," Joe nodded. Turning toward the door, he raised his hand to give a short wave to those remaining behind, saying, "We'll be back soon…"

(All of us,) he silently promised himself as he headed out with Albert and Pyunma close behind him.