Refer to the first chapter for the disclaimers. For those of you upset with me after reading this installment, please try to remember that it would be very difficult for me to continue should you happen to kill me. With that reminder, please… ahem… enjoy…?

~ * Disconnection * ~

There was no need to hurry; he would arrive at his destination soon enough. He passed the time by scanning his surroundings for any sign of pursuit or surveillance. There was always the chance the renegades would come to meet him rather than wait at their refuge.

It was pointless for them to hide, for he knew exactly where they were located. All of the host's thoughts and memories were accessible to the virus driving the body.

The targets would not flee. They would never choose to leave one of their own behind, no matter the circumstances. Even if they were to withdraw, it would be a simple matter to track them -- assuming they didn't return on their own.

This was the only use he had for emotions: they would drive the remaining rebels insane, and prevent them from fighting at full capacity.

All that remained of the original owner of this vessel, the one that would force them to pull their punches, was the disconnected, disheartened spirit. The virus had overridden the body, yet the mind remained.

This was not a problem, for it -- he -- lay ensnared, cut off, a prisoner locked within himself. The one who had taken such pride in calling himself 'Great Britain', 'G.B.', '007', was nothing more than a mere passenger. He would witness firsthand the destruction of the cyborg rebellion -- at his own hands, if not his own will.

Though his voice had been ripped from him -- the virus was not programmed to induce any sort of speech, for what good were simple words on a battlefield? -- Britain was still capable of thinking. He was perfectly aware of what his body was doing, despite his incapability to feel anything. He could still see though his own eyes.

It was strange… thanks to the disconnection, it seemed almost as if he were floating in some dark void. His only link to reality lay in what his eyes relayed… and in the occasional bursts of feedback during combat with the others.

He had felt the shuddering impact when his claws grazed Albert's chest, rending through the crimson fabric. He had felt his arm engulf Pyunma and lash the aquatic specialist to a tree. He had felt himself seizing hold of Albert as well and slamming him to the ground.

There was another facet to this feedback, one he had only recently become aware of: when the others injured his body, he could feel it. This had become apparent courtesy of 004's laser knife slicing cleanly along the length of his arm.

The wound had already sealed itself; apparently the virus also handled regeneration to some degree. Britain hardly thought anything of this, however, for he was far too distracted by other aspects of the event.

Albert had… attacked him. Albert had attacked him to save Pyunma from getting killed by him. Britain comprehended that, of course, but a part of him was still hung up on the fact that the German had actually used one of his weapons against him.

He'd noticed, when he first started assaulting the pair, what happened when Albert landed. He'd glimpsed his knee popping open, and how the steel-eyed cyborg immediately forced it shut. He'd seen how Pyunma kept restraining himself from drawing his blaster, going against his instincts.

It alternately relieved and horrified Britain to see them taking such pains to avoid hurting him. Sure, if they attacked him with everything they had and didn't hold back, there was a chance he'd die, but…

…If the alternative was to watch those he cared for perish at his hands…

…What happened, anyway, when a cyborg died? Britain had wondered about the subject for some time, though he hadn't the heart to broach the issue with any of the others. Such discussions were bound to quickly drop into the depressing, after all.

Now that he was cut off from any kind of contact other than what torture the virus chose to relay, however, Britain felt there was little left to lose in considering the topic.

For all their cybernetic upgrades, Britain was certain they still retained their humanity. That was never up to debate in his view. So perhaps it was possible that, when their bodies took enough damage that they could never be salvaged, they were able to pass on the same as any normal human would.

(Were 0010+ and 0010- reunited forever after Joe defeated them?) he wondered, almost idly. (Did 0011 regain his old body? I'm certain that 0012 was reunited with her husband, if there's any justice left in this world…)

(…And… if I happened to die today…)

Britain was almost shocked at how nonchalantly the thought came into focus. Dimly, he figured that he should be terrified at the notion; certainly he was scared enough of death that he was willing to fight Black Ghost alongside his comrades to prevent his untimely demise…

(…But… I'm not just fighting to protect myself, then. I know that, if I ever let Black Ghost defeat me, the others would be in danger too. We're stronger as a team, and have stood up against him for so long…)

Suspended in the void, without any fighting to distract him, the only feeling Britain was still capable of was his emotions. They were all he had left to sustain him. The icy sensation of depression was swelling deep within; it was something he was becoming increasingly familiar with as this nightmare wore on.

(…We're not a team anymore, are we? I've already hurt four of my friends… How could they see me as anything other than an enemy?)

There was a basic flaw with that reasoning, and in his heart Britain understood it. Yet, faced with the increasingly likely concept of facing his friends and allies in a duel to the death… he couldn't help but find the thought of losing to be infinitely more preferable.

(I… I want… to…)

His thoughts were cut short when his body's steady pace came to a sudden halt. He didn't feel himself stop so much as abruptly notice what lay before him.

Outwardly, his body gave no sign of the burst of turmoil that racked him within. There was no muscle twitch, no flash of recognition in his coldly staring eyes, no echo of the quiet gasp of despair Britain gave inside.

(Joe…)

~ * ~

Sometimes it seemed to Joe that fate had a very odd sense of humor.

Following Ivan's instructions, he, along with Pyunma and Albert, had decided to intercept Britain in an open field, not far from the house itself. According to Ivan, it was a preferable place to conduct their combat for several reasons, not the least of which was that it kept them from having to worry about maneuvering around a bunch of trees.

Just yesterday afternoon, Joe had used that same sort of reasoning against the assault pods Black Ghost had sent. He remembered seeing Jet luring a sizable amount of the weapons into the field so that they were easier to take down. He'd found it easier to fight them in the open as well.

Despite this, that battle had not ended so well in the long run. Certainly they had brought all of the pods down, but compared to what they now faced…

A breeze that was far too light and cool for his current mood kicked up, causing his bright yellow scarf to billow up and outward like a flag. Coupled with his straight posture, arms close to his side, with Pyunma standing in a similar pose behind him and slightly to his left, and Albert to his right, he probably cut an imposing, almost heroic figure.

Such a thought never occurred to the boy, however. His attention was solely focused on the figure that emerged from the woods at that moment.

Impassive marble eyes scanned slowly, deliberately, from one side of the field to the other before returning to lock with his ruby gaze. Behind him, Albert and Pyunma shifted their weight slightly, the latter keeping one hand hovering over his blaster while the former flexed the fingers on his right hand unconsciously.

Britain showed no astonishment at seeing the pair he'd fought standing before him whole and unhurt. Had the virus been capable of feeling concern, there would still be no cause for the useless emotion. After all, he had dealt with them before and nearly ended their part in the rebellion; he would do so again.

The silence hanging over the valley save for the soft whisper of the wind was almost maddening. Pyunma's fingers twitched; his instincts upbraiding him for not drawing his pistol. It was such a natural reaction for him to respond to an obvious threat by having his gun ready, yet he resisted. It wouldn't help the situation at all.

It almost didn't matter that the threat came from somebody he'd fought alongside for so long. He'd used the blaster so often when fighting against Black Ghost and their minions that it felt like almost a natural extension of his hand.

But if Albert, who he noticed was also struggling not to bring his right arm up and train the sights of his five-barreled gunhand on their opponent, could resist the impulse to prepare for another skirmish, then so could he.

Joe paid little attention to the silent struggles of his two partners. Shimmering garnet eyes searched the face of the shapeshifter for any sign of his old friend.

(This… can this really be G.B.? He looks so…)

The complete lack of emotion on the transformer's face, the neutral expression his features were composed in -- if such a look devoid of anything could be called an 'expression' -- was a horrible sight for Joe to behold. He was used to seeing what Britain was thinking clearly written all over his face. The actor always broadcast his emotions so clearly that the loss of those now was all the more terrifying.

Instead, Britain regarded Joe now with a cool detachment. All his glassy black eyes saw was an enemy cyborg… a prototype who had rebelled against the master and would be dealt with as such. A traitor…

"007… G.B.," Joe corrected himself.

Raising one hand, Joe carefully reached toward his former ally, though the distance between them was too great to be spanned by the length of his arm alone. He took a step forward, while his companions hung back, watching silently and waiting to see how this gambit would fare before reacting.

"G.B., it's…"

(Good to see you safe,) he wished to say, only his lips refused to allow such a barefaced lie to pass them. Britain was clearly not safe; he needed assistance badly, but what in the world could they do for him?

"…Please, come back to the house with us," he tried starting again. It was difficult to keep a tremor from entering his voice as he promised, "We'll have Doctor Gilmore look at you, and he'll find a way to… we can help you, I swear it."

Britain still didn't react, standing silently regarding the leader of the cyborgs with his glassy black eyes. He wasn't attacking, however, so Joe latched onto the hope that what he said was somehow registering.

"Listen… G.B.… I don't blame you for what happened before. It wasn't your fault. All we want to do is help you get through this. We'll find a solution… and then things can go back to the way they were, alright?"

It was hard to keep from babbling, to keep the words from rushing together the same way they did in his racing mind. But Joe was certain he was being received. He had to be; the thought of anything else was too crushing to bear.

"Come home with us, G.B.," he requested, still reaching invitingly toward the shapeshifter. "Everything will be okay, I promise…"

~ * ~

It was a pretty speech, Ivan thought, but who knew if it was making any impact.

Behind the infant cyborg's bassinet, there was a flurry of activity: the rest of their wayward group had just arrived, and Jet was arguing futilely with the others about the extent of his injuries. Only the stubborn redhead would find the thought of getting his wounds treated while others fought to be insulting, especially in his sorry state.

At the moment, Geronimo had managed to pin the lanky punk to the bed, each of his massive hands engulfing one of the aerial specialist's shoulders. Jet cursed as he struggled feebly, wishing he could just dart past the others and out of the house. Only problem with that was the fact that his left booster was more or less useless, along with the leg it was in.

Minor detail.

The important thing to him was that Joe -- that idiot -- was out somewhere facing off against Britain with only Albert and Pyunma with him. He'd gathered that much from what the others were saying. But he knew for certain that there was no way those three alone would be able to handle the infected shapeshifter.

After all, he'd been felled pretty handily, right?

"There's no way… we have to face him together, or…!"

"Stop struggling!" commanded Gilmore, using a tone of voice he sometimes seemed to use exclusively when dealing with Jet's stubbornness. "You can't go anywhere in your condition, you can barely walk as it is…!"

"Jet, please," Francoise pleaded, aquamarine eyes shimmering with concern. "Don't think about anything other than yourself right now. I'm sure Joe and the others will be just fine."

(Feh… Yeah, right.)

Chang stood back awkwardly, staring at the floor. He wasn't really needed to deal with Jet; he wanted to do something to help, but what else was there? He didn't know enough about chemistry to work on some sort of antidote while Gilmore was busy repairing Jet's leg, though the thought had occurred to him nonetheless. He could probably leave the house, actually, and go to…

…But he didn't want to leave, because there was only one place where he could offer assistance, and Chang wasn't eager to join in that particular aspect of matters.

(I don't want to fight G.B.… I can't…)

He knew Jet would call him a coward had he been able to read the chef's mind. Would the others be capable of understanding, or would they be disappointed in him… see him as being too weak to do what was right, to act accordingly…?

(But what… what is right, now…? What are we supposed to do…?)

Chang had no clue that his mental anguish was strong enough that Ivan was able to feel it clearly. The Russian cyborg briefly considered responding, but decided against it. He didn't have a satisfactory answer for his question.

Instead, Ivan refocused upon trying to elicit a response -- any sort of response -- from his virus-driven comrade. That would surely prove a key to bringing this nightmare to an end, even should Joe's continued pleas prove fruitless…

~ * ~

He could understand Joe perfectly, of course. The problem lay in the fact that he had no way of expressing it.

Inside the prison of his unresponsive body, Britain was silently screaming, shrieking out desperate responses despite the fact only he was capable of hearing himself. Hot, bitter tears would have been rolling down his cheeks had they only a chance to form. He didn't even have fists to drive uselessly into the barrier holding firm between him and his friends.

(I hear you, Joe… I'm here… You can't…)

Time was running out; he knew that at any moment his body would take advantage of Joe's refusal to attack and turn it against him. Though there was no chance his words would be heard by those he wanted to hear, Britain screamed anyway:

(Don't waste time on me, Joe, please! Just k…)

Cutting himself short with a broken sob, Britain retreated further within himself, phantom tears falling as he tried to curl into a ball and vanish. Over and over again, he murmured a hopeless mantra.

(…too late… it's too late…)

~ * ~

"…G.B., please…"

Joe fell silent when he saw the Englishman shift his weight slightly, from one foot to the other. Behind him, Albert and Pyunma tensed, both nearly losing the battle with their warrior instincts. It was only through sheer force of will that kept either cyborg from readying their weapons.

But Joe suffered from no such lapse. Instead, he took one step closer, still reaching out toward Britain hopefully.

Then the earth beneath his feet exploded.

Joe stumbled, started to scream, then snapped his mouth shut and bit down hard on the trigger concealed in his back tooth.

Time slowed to a crawl -- at least from his perceptive.

Springing into the air, Joe got a clear view of what exactly was happening, something he couldn't have grasped so easily were he not able to see it frozen in this manner. His chest ached painfully, and he felt his spirits sag just a little as the hope that he'd been nurturing that his words were ringing true sputtered and faded.

"Oh, G.B.…" he sighed, voice heavy with disappointment -- aimed at himself more than the shapeshifter.

From his vantage point in midair, Joe could see clearly what he hadn't been aware of before. Britain had not merely been standing idle listening to his words; he could see now that part of the shapeshifter's body had burrowed underground, taking the shape of a thin, serrated edge. The ground exploding up from underneath him had been caused by him suddenly yanking that limb upward, planning to snare the leader from beneath while he talked.

Albert and Pyunma, meanwhile, were also beginning to spring clear; Joe could judge that much when he looked toward them. Both had been taken unaware by the attack as well, but since they weren't the primary target of the underground assault, they weren't in immediate danger…

Looking back toward Britain, Joe frowned, resolve gleaming in his single visible ruby eye. In a flash he stood before the transforming cyborg, emerging from acceleration mode and seizing 007 by the shoulders.

Now that he stood face to face with him, Joe could see just how dead and emotionless Britain's eyes were. The glass marbles failed to even reflect astonishment as their owner comprehended that the leader of the cyborgs now stood directly in front of them, their noses just inches apart.

Instead of shuddering and backing away, the way his body wanted to, Joe gripped the Englishman tightly and stared fully into his face.

"You have to fight this, 007!" he shouted, shaking the former actor out of desperation. "We'll find a way to beat this, so just hang on…!"

Joe's eyes widened when he felt Britain reach up and clasp his hands over his. His first impulse was to return the grasp, to try interlocking his fingers with those of his poor friend's and try to keep the connection alive.

Then the tortured screech of metal tore the air.

The garnet irises dilated, but remained solidly fixed on Britain's impassive face. With a slow, deliberately fluid movement, the bald cyborg extracted himself from the younger man's grasp.

"009?!" Albert screamed somewhere below, attracting attention to himself.

The detached black gaze swiveled to fixate upon him. Britain raised his arm, allowing the incredulous German and his dark-skinned companion to gaze upon what dangled from his hand.

Then, suddenly, he flung Joe back down toward them. The brown-haired youth's body rolled down over the grassy slope, coming to a rest at Pyunma's feet.

It felt to Albert like his knees were about to give out at any minute. All he could do was stare. Not down at the gasping, shuddering boy that lay at his feet, or at the shocked expression of his other companion.

His disbelieving silver-blue gaze was locked upon Joe's right leg, which still remained firmly clenched in Britain's raised hand.

Even as he watched, the shapeshifter tightened his grip, causing the already bent metal to screech as it was mangled further. Wires dangled haphazardly from inside torn fabric and flesh, and it was all Albert could do to keep standing as his body refused to allow him the small courtesy of looking away.

Finally, tossing the ruined limb aside, Britain gazed down upon the three cyborgs. His detached gaze settled upon the suffering Joe, and -- though Albert prayed he only imagined it -- his mouth seemed to briefly twitch upward into a sick mockery of his former companion's typical grin.