The first chapter has the disclaimers, for those of you interested. Hey, I didn't get as many death threats as I thought I would for the last installment…! Guess that means I won't have to worry about being seriously threatened for this one… at least, I hope not…

~ * Perception * ~

Francoise trembled, aquamarine eyes brimming with sudden tears. Shakily, her lips formed words, the faintest of whispers passing through, yet even that grated on her sensitive ears.

"…J…Joe…?"

"What happened?!" Jet demanded, almost managing to sit straight up despite Geronimo's huge hands clamped over his shoulders. "What's going on? What'd that idiot do now?!"

His near success with righting himself probably had much to do with the fact that Geronimo was distracted from his task of keeping the injured hawk relatively still. The giant's attention was focused on Francoise instead, his stoic face lined with worry.

"What happened, my dear?" Gilmore prompted, noting with concern how pale the female cyborg had become.

Fumbling for a chair, Francoise couldn't immediately bring herself to answer. She slumped down into her seat and covered her face with both hands, choking back sobs. It took a few minutes before she was able to look up from her tear-soaked palms to meet the gazes of the rest of her friends.

"…Joe… G.B., he… his leg…"

She stumbled over the words, not quite able to relate the horror she had witnessed through the curse of her enhancements. Ivan was unable to help her, for the youngest cyborg was too engrossed in his efforts to contact Britain. Gilmore was preoccupied with his work on Jet's leg; although he wasn't currently focused on it, he couldn't move away from the cot to go comfort the poor girl. Jet and Geronimo couldn't help, either, for obvious reasons.

It was Chang who ended up stumbling to her side, awkwardly laying an arm across her quaking shoulders.

"Francoise… what…" he faltered, uncertain he wished to know.

"…He ripped off his leg, Chang!" blurted Francoise, giving her friends an anguished look. "He tore his leg off!"

She descended into wretched sobs again, burying her face in her hands, while the other cyborgs and the scientist struggled to comprehend this information.

There was no confusion on who, exactly, had torn off whose leg. Though it was a horrifying prospect to consider either way, the thought that Joe could be driven to such a violent action was far more impossible than that their infected comrade…

"Damnit…" cursed Jet weakly, pushing up to find renewed resistance from Geronimo's gentle but firm hands. "…Knew that idiot would…"

"………" The strongest cyborg closed his dark eyes, and seemed to briefly contemplate something. When he reopened his eyes, Geronimo squeezed Jet's shoulders for a moment before releasing him and standing up.

"…Chang."

The stout chef looked over and, already guessing what his partner was going to do, nodded reluctantly. Gently covering Francoise's hands with his, he looked straight into her watery eyes and nodded.

"…Don't worry," he promised softly, "everything will turn out alright."

The blonde gazed at him, silently questioning just who he was trying to convince with his words: her or himself. Awkwardly Chang looked away, turning toward Geronimo as the giant rose to his feet and strode toward the exit.

"W…wait!" Now that he was no longer being restrained, Jet easily pushed up and swung his feet off the side of the cot, failing to completely hide his wince as the inside of his injured leg hit the bed. "I'm…"

"You'll remain here and get the repairs you need." Though Geronimo spoke softly, his tone left no room for argument. "006 and I can handle assisting Joe and the others by ourselves."

"…Yeah, and I bet Joe figured pretty much the same thing when he went off to 'help' 007 in the first place," muttered Jet under his breath.

To his credit, however, the spike-haired cyborg did remain seated on the cot instead of pushing farther. He didn't lie back down, but he made no further move to try and force his way after the others. Geronimo exchanged a quick glance with Chang, and both nodded once, then headed out the door.

Doctor Gilmore mopped his furrowed brow with the back of his hand. The room was just getting emptier and emptier; out of everyone who had been gathered there that morning, only four remained. One was currently out of action due to the gash in his leg, their only female member was disconsolately staring off into space, and the youngest of their number's mind was elsewhere.

"Hey, Doc."

Gilmore turned; Jet's sharp bronze eyes glittered dangerously under his fiery bangs. It was a sure sign that the hawkish lad was plotting something, and the scientist gave a resigned little sigh.

"What are you up to, Jet?"

"Listen, we don't have time. Just patch up my leg so I can walk on it, and I'll be out of your hair in…"

"What do you mean?! You can't be planning to…"

"Hey, we can't waste time arguing!" Jet interrupted, glaring the doctor down. "Joe's already been hurt a lot more than this little scratch, and from the sound of things, it's only gonna get worse. I'm not gonna tie you up working on this when everyone else needs your help! We can get back to it later, after we've sorted this crap out!"

"…But, 002, if I…"

"I know, I know, I won't be able to use the booster, blah, blah, blah. I've fought using only one before! Just seal it up so I can walk, then get to work on a cure or something for that damn virus!"

Gilmore met Jet's harsh stare for a few more seconds, then bowed his head with a sigh and a tired nod. The grounded flyer smirked, but there was no pleasure or sense of victory in his tight expression. He flopped back down flat on the cot, eager to get the gash in his leg sealed up and be on his way.

Francoise stared in horror as the scientist set to work, then averted her shimmering blue-green eyes. Had it really come to the point where they had to cut corners and possibly endanger their health more than it already was?

The image of wires snapping and muscle ripping flashed before her gaze, and Francoise squeezed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block it out, or at least stem the tears she felt welling at the vivid memory.

And all the while, Ivan sat silent in his bassinet, broadcasting a telepathic signal in the hopes that it would be received by the infected cyborg.

~ * ~

Outwardly, 007 was smirking.

Inside, Britain was screaming.

When he'd first felt the shudder of metal and sinew bending and breaking in his hands, Britain's first thought was (Oh God, I'm killing him.)

Joe was face to face with him, the desperation lighting his bright garnet eyes slowly dying out, replaced by agonizing realization. But still, even as his face twisted with pain, the vaguest spark of hope remained. G.B. got the fleeting impression that somehow, his leader understood he had no part in what his body was doing, and already… forgave him for his action before it was completed.

Then he'd felt something give way, heard the terrible screech of what he held being torn asunder, and found himself shrieking accompaniment, convinced he was killing the poor lad.

It was only after Joe was tossed aside, back down to where Albert and Pyunma stood staring, that Britain comprehended that he hadn't murdered him. …Yet, anyhow.

But the fact that he was still holding what remained of the Japanese cyborg's right leg wasn't exactly a comforting alternative.

He'd wrenched the limb almost completely out of its socket; from his vantage point above the others he could see how only a few haphazardly dangling wires and strands of other materials hung out from beneath the flap of the poor soul's jacket. The rest of the mangled limb lay where it had been tossed aside, tattered and useless.

The mere concept made Britain wish he was still capable of fainting. That would have been about the extent of his reaction had he witnessed such a horrible thing from any other perspective. And the fact that he'd been the one to…

His body began to move again, and all G.B. could do was pray that, at least, the others would finally stop holding back now that it was clear there was no way he could afford them mercy.

~ * ~

Britain was advancing again, taking slow, measured steps toward the cluster of three cyborgs at the base of the grassy slope.

Albert raised his right hand, metallic fingers straightening and locking together as he held his arm out toward the shapeshifter. The gesture seemed almost the opposite of how Joe had stood with one hand offered hopefully toward his friend.

But now the result of that kindness lay at his feet, gasping and shuddering.

Carefully Albert stepped around Joe, positioning himself between the injured cyborg and the transformer. Behind him, Pyunma knelt over his fallen comrade and struggled to keep composed. Panic wasn't going to solve anything.

"Hang on, Joe, I'll get you out of here," he promised, whispering both to keep from being overheard and to keep his voice from cracking.

Joe responded by moaning lowly. His face was tight with pain, and even though Pyunma struggled to find a medium between carefulness and speed as he hastily propped the younger man against his side, the Japanese boy continued to groan.

The combat specialist couldn't keep a few shudders of his own from rippling down his spine as he laid one of Joe's arms along the back of his shoulders and gripped his back tightly. He tried not to look at where the missing leg should have been, and avoided glancing over to where what remained of the limb lay now.

"Ze…ro-zero-e…ight…" the youth managed to grate out between gasps.

"Don't talk," ordered Pyunma.

"B…but…" Joe attempted to look around, but could barely raise his head. His thick brown bangs hung limply, completely obscuring the right side of his face. "…G…"

"I'll handle 007," Albert called over his shoulder, risking a swift glance back at his comrades. "Get 009 out of here, 008!"

Pyunma nodded. Joe coughed and gritted his teeth, redoubling his efforts to move. But his already badly damaged body refused to respond, and it was all he could do to hang off of Pyunma's side as the aquatic expert turned him away.

Albert turned his full attention back toward Britain; the shapeshifter was still walking slowly toward them, and didn't appear to be concerned by their actions at all. Quite the contrary, for his formerly neutral features seemed to have frozen in the cruel grin he had assumed after separating Joe's leg from the rest of his body. One side of his mouth quirked a bit higher than the other, a crooked little smirk that, combined with the glassy sheen of his contracted pupils, made it clear there was no trace of their former friend to be found here.

Albert almost missed the lack of expression now.

Behind him, Pyunma gave a quick little hunch of his shoulders to ensure Joe's weight lay comfortably against him. Then, holding the younger man close to his side, he broke into a run.

Britain's right arm snapped upward, stretching and lengthening, then split the air with a vicious crack as the tapered whip-point streaked at the fleeing pair's backs.

Steeling his nerves, silver-blue eyes narrowed with concentration, Albert opened fire.

The first round of bullets tore into the ground just at 007's feet, tearing neat little holes in front of his boots. Without flinching -- without losing the same fiendish grin -- the infected cyborg sprang backwards, folding his legs up beneath him then snapping them out rigid inches before impact, nailing the landing perfectly. The tip of his whip-arm curved backwards then shot forward again, this time arcing toward the German's head.

Rolling to the side, Albert hit the ground running directly toward his opponent, still firing, his shots gouging the grass out from under Britain's blurring feet. He was moving too quickly for him to hit -- or perhaps his aversion to the concept of hurting someone he'd fought alongside was affecting his aim as well.

Abruptly the Englishman dropped down. The suddenness with which he fell caught Albert off guard, and he stopped firing, wondering if one of his bullets had struck home.

The grass rippled, and from the spot where Britain had fallen something sleek and scarlet and swift shot out across the field.

Startled, Albert's steely eyes widened as he vaguely comprehended that it was some sort of wildcat -- though his fur was a bloody hue not often found in nature.

(Animal forms now…?!)

The beast bounded along, crimson fur undulating with each graceful stride. Its finely shaped paws were rapidly closing the distance between the feline and its prey… not the astonished German, but the pair of cyborgs trying to flee the field.

"008, 009, watch it--!" warned Albert.

There was no way he'd get close enough for his machinegun-hand's range in time. Dropping to a crouch, he snapped his knee open. The rocket spiraled forward with a trail of thick smoke in its wake.

Hearing the wail of the missile, and the rapidly approaching footsteps of the predator, Pyunma risked a glance backwards. For a moment all he could see was the white flash of the feline's bared teeth, the gleam of hooked claws extending toward his back.

Then a violent burst of smoke and flame flooded the air as the rocket struck the soil between them. The blast was almost completely underneath the springing shapeshifter's belly, and the false feline was flung backwards by the force, losing control of his transformation.

For an instant, Pyunma perceived through the shock, he got the fleeting impression that Britain's reverting hand was reaching toward him in a pleading rather than threatening manner.

But the moment swiftly passed, and as the dust began to clear from the missile strike and Joe stirred and moaned softly beside him, Pyunma shook his head, turned, and kept running.

Albert was running, too. He couldn't help it; his heart lurched painfully when he witnessed Britain's reverting body being flung by the blast. He forced himself to stop a safe distance from the point of impact. Fearful for his friend's safety or not, he wasn't about to make the same mistake Joe had.

Britain lay flat on his back, face turned away from where the German stood. The front of his uniform was singed. From where he was, Albert could see that the trailing end of his scarf had been crisped off, hanging in tatters.

With a sudden lurch the transformer righted himself, getting to his feet. His head twisted around so that he was staring directly at Albert, briefly contorting his neck at an unnatural angle. The rest of his body followed, pivoting with a creepy smoothness.

His callous black eyes boring holes into the silver-haired cyborg, the rest of Britain's features slowly rearranged into the horrible smirk he'd worn before. It almost seemed like he judged Albert's aversion to it and adopted it accordingly.

Then he lunged, forcing his former partner back into their murderous dance.

~ * ~

Black Ghost was pleased.

The obnoxious leader of the rebel 00-number cyborgs was no longer a major part of the problem. His acceleration mode, once the pride of their scientists only to be turned against them, was effectively disabled.

What good was a speed demon who couldn't run?

His pleasure could be heard in the chilling echo of his laughter through the base. Micro-cameras were recording every detail of the skirmish, relaying what they captured back to nearly every monitor in the lair in real-time.

Doctor Tenkan didn't know how far the broadcast extended beyond the scope of his chambers. It was possible the video feed was being routed to other key secret areas so that more loyalists could enjoy the live combat. More likely, however, Black Ghost was holding back on that until every last one of the cyborgs was either dead or no longer a threat to the organization.

As for the scientist, his attention was actually focused less on the fight and more on the data readouts before him. Though the skirmish played on in the background, he continued to work tirelessly, monitoring the situation from all possible sides.

Elsewhere in the base, the commander in charge of seeing the operation through to the end -- the latest in the line of soldiers assigned to this project -- tapped his fingers impatiently against the console he sat in front of. Though he joined the cheers of his allies at the sight of prototype 009 being torn apart, his brow was now lined with worry.

Prototype 009 may have been dealt a telling blow, but it appeared that he and prototype 008 were on the verge of outdistancing their infected comrade. The shapeshifter had turned his deadly attentions toward the walking arsenal, leaving the pair free to flee the battlefield.

That couldn't be allowed to happen. It would be his head if the project failed now…!

Quickly, the general began keying new commands. The accursed leader of the cyborgs wouldn't escape on his watch…!

~ * ~

Pyunma did not possess an acceleration mode of his own, but his experiences prior to capture by Black Ghost had given him a much more complete set of combat instincts than could be easily programmed. He'd been forced to carry wounded comrades away from immediate danger even before his conversion.

He knew what he was doing, so he retained enough awareness of his surroundings to recognize the familiar high-pitched wail of a charging laser before it sliced through the air.

But there wasn't enough time to dodge, and he had to settle for pushing Joe to one side while twisting his body in the other direction.

The shot tore through his left shoulder, and Pyunma winced from the sudden pain even as he thanked the stars that Joe's head was no longer resting there as it had just seconds before.

Hitting the ground hard, he rolled, snapped his legs up underneath him, turned and fired, his own laser cutting a thin blue beam through the crisp air.

The gutted assault pod dropped to the ground, smoke billowing from the melted gash that bisected it cleanly across the front. But even as it fell, Pyunma could see several more of the large black hovercrafts rising from behind. Sunlight glinted off the smooth ebony hulls of at least a dozen floating weapons as they spread out to surround the two cyborgs.

Pyunma crouched protectively beside Joe, gripping the shaft of his blaster with both hands. He spared a quick glance down to his partner; Joe lay on his side, remaining good leg curled up beneath him, body racked with shudders. The Japanese youth's own laser pistol remained in its holster, for there was no way he could aim reliably in his condition, let alone fight.

Gritting his teeth, Pyunma aimed at the nearest of the assault pods. His eyes narrowed into challenging slits, navy blue irises churning like storm-tossed oceans, as if silently daring his foes to try and harm them. To do so would be courting their own demise, for he wasn't about to let his friend down.

The black tide of weapons paused only a moment, quivering in place, before descending on their quarry.