The disclaimers are all located in the first chapter. Wow, over a hundred reviews and this is only the fifteenth chapter! I'm amazed you all appear to like this story so much…! Thanks to everyone who's left their comments; I hope this installment lives up to your expectations.
~ * Counteraction * ~
(Albert's dead, isn't he…? I left him to…)
With a bloodthirsty sneer curling his lips the viral cyborg lunged to meet Geronimo's charge, both of his arms transmuted into matching sets of nastily curved sable claws. As he closed the gap he ducked low to the ground, anticipating that the giant's first swing would fly overhead and leave him open for counterattack.
Britain wished he could close his eyes, not wanting to see the results of another vicious attack. The virus driving him would never allow such luxury, of course.
He didn't bother thinking about the irony that the concept of being able to shut his own eyes had become such a fervent desire. Britain was too busy trying not to relive the horror of watching his hands nearly cut Albert into shreds.
He didn't want to remember how the living arsenal's uniform had been reduced to ribbons, exposing the fresh array of crisscrossing gashes underneath… How Albert had slumped to the ground as he released his grasp and lain still, the only movement the quiet rustle of the grass settling round his limp body…
Reaching his next target, 007 ducked underneath Geronimo's first swing, and with a quick push off the ground brought his arms upward. The claws on his right arm gave a frightening screech as they bit through the front of his target's uniform, piercing the crimson fabric and into the armored skin beneath.
His upward progress abruptly halted with a faint shudder. The virus was incapable of expressing confusion, so the transformer's facial features instead went blank. According to its calculations it should not have met resistance, and indeed, it didn't feel as if its buried claws had met any obstruction, so why…
Tilting his head slightly upward, 007 beheld the tight grimace Geronimo's face had screwed up into, and then the infected cyborg comprehended his error.
As expected, the strongman had swung – but he hadn't led with his dominant right. That hand was now clamped over the back of the shapeshifter's neck, and with a shudder pulled him out and away from the rest of his muscular body, forcing the claws free.
It was almost a pity that the virus wasn't exactly sentient, as it meant that there was no chance of the oncoming left hook cutting short the obvious sentiment of "Oh shi…"
Geronimo released his hold on the Englishman's neck and let the force of his punch carry the infected cyborg out of his grasp, then briefly touched his now free right hand to his chest while watching Britain fly backward. He was fortunate: the maneuver might have gutted an ordinary human, but his specially constructed skin only bore three shiny new scratches where the longest of the claws had struck.
Britain traveled several feet before his body neared the ground. Instead of skidding, however, he suddenly twisted his arms back so that his now normal hands struck the earth first. Contorting in a distinctly inhuman fashion, the shapeshifter pushed off to one side and landed feet first, dropping into a crouch and pivoting to face his opponents once again.
Though his facial features reflected no sign of it, inside Britain was cheering. This time, the irony in congratulating Geronimo for cold-cocking him didn't exactly escape Britain's notice, but he ignored it, preferring to briefly lose himself in the delightful feeling of sheer exuberance washing over him.
(Yes! YesyesyesyesYES! Take that stupid virus! I knew my friends wouldn't let me down!)
Black Ghost probably was going into conniptions right about then, or so Britain figured. The insane overlord must have been counting on the bonds of loyalty between the rebels to become their downfall by turning the shapeshifter against his friends. There was no way he was expecting them to rally and actually resist.
Britain tried not to dwell on the idea that maybe the tyrant would be pleased enough with the mental torture that turning them against each other like this was inflicting. He also ignored the fact that his friends' resistance could have a fatal effect on his body -- taking him out along with the virus.
He didn't care what happened to him, so long as his friends survived.
He didn't want to think of Jet, who for all he knew was still laying back where he'd fallen, bashed and broken against the cliffside. Or of Albert, dying by inches of the countless gashes covering his frame… or Joe, collapsed behind Pyunma sans his right leg.
(No more. It's not going to happen anymore. They'll stop this…)
It didn't matter to Britain what the cost was, so long as it wasn't any of his former comrades who paid the price.
Geronimo stole a glance toward where Pyunma stood protectively in front of Joe's sprawled figure. The aquatic specialist still had his gun drawn, sights set on the infected cyborg. Nodding to himself, Geronimo's dark gaze swung back to the shapeshifter as Britain straightened.
The blankness was back in full force, the only movement in his face the flick of his dark pupils from side to side, scanning the battlefield. Britain stood completely still, arms limp at his sides, posture ramrod straight as the viral cyborg studied his surroundings. What he was looking for, his opponents couldn't judge.
He wasn't going to find any opportunity; Pyunma was going to make damn certain of that. The dull throbbing from his wounded shoulder went completely ignored by the experienced soldier. He kept his grip on his pistol firm, his sights level with the shapeshifter's chest.
All it would take to end this standoff would be a slight adjustment and a quick squeeze of the trigger. Planting a nice, clean shot smack in the center of Britain's heart would ensure the infected cyborg would fall and not bounce right back up for another attack.
(…While you're at it, why not raise your sights a little? You've got a clear shot to his head too, after all… that'd be even simpler…)
Pyunma took in a hissing breath at the familiar and not entirely unexpected voice manifesting in the back of his head. His instincts were flaring up, agitated at being suppressed for so long during this debacle. Now that he was following them again, it would be simple to finish the job by going all the way to the logical end of matters…
A single shot right in the forehead. An orderly kill. A mercy kill.
He'd done it before…
Grinding his teeth together, Pyunma squashed the memory rising unwelcome from the depths of his soul. Now wasn't the best time to start reminiscing about that…
(Why not? It's the perfect time, considering the circumstances…)
Telling his subconscious to cram its comparisons, Pyunma steeled his nerve and readjusted his grip, the blaster jerking slightly in his hands.
Britain's dark gaze fixed upon him, and Pyunma involuntarily inhaled sharply at the sudden attention. The shapeshifter had snapped his head about abruptly to face him, though this time, at least, it didn't cause his neck to bend at an unnatural angle.
Geronimo, anticipating his opponent's next move, started forward at the same time that Britain began his dash toward the other two cyborgs.
Pyunma braced, forcing his feet to dig a little more into the dirt, ensuring as much of Joe was safely behind him as possible. Then, grimacing --
(Up a little and you can still make that headshot.)
-- he adjusted his sights and fired.
The thin laser beam seared through the cerulean space and found its mark, forcing Britain to almost stumble as the blast caught him square in the knee. He didn't wince at the pain, but instead seemed to smirk as he slowed, his transforming right arm falling to his side and pulsing like it was caught between forms, unable to decide between its normal shape and that of the clawed monstrosity the viral cyborg favored so much.
Geronimo closed the remaining distance between them as the shapeshifter faltered. This time he did lead with his right, thick fingers balling into a fist that he aimed toward Britain's left shoulder. Though the opportunity was there for another punch like the one he'd landed before, he wasn't too eager to risk knocking his friend's head right off his shoulders.
Just as his fist came lancing down, Britain's head swiveled to face him, giving Geronimo a clear view of how the familiar features were twisted into a demonic grin.
Geronimo's eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating at the shuddering impact that followed.
~ * ~
Francoise gasped, delicate hands flying like frightened birds to cover her mouth. Her aqua eyes widened at the newest horror they relayed for the already terrified young woman to bear witness to.
Doctor Gilmore and Jet both looked sharply toward her at the sound, but neither asked for an explanation. The shock flooding her pale features was more than enough. Jet's face hardened into a determined set as he swung his legs off the cot and pushed off.
This time, he was able to hide his wince at the much duller stab of pain coursing up his left side.
He didn't breathe a word of his discomfort to the scientist standing beside him. To mention it would be acknowledging his own weakness. Jet knew that, if he clued the doc in that the rush job resulted in him still feeling a little bit of pain from his wounded leg, Gilmore'd have him laid back up on that cot in a second and wouldn't let him leave until everything was fixed.
Gilmore's solemn expression was hint enough that he wasn't too thrilled with how he'd yielded to Jet's demand in the first place. In his opinion, the belligerent young lad was being foolish, ignoring his own injuries out of concern for his friends.
…Though Jet wouldn't exactly explain his actions in that manner, that was the obvious reason for what he was doing.
Already the hawkish boy was heading out of the room, gun in hand. The only thing keeping him from literally flying out the window was that the booster in his left leg was currently disabled. He was planning on getting it fixed after the immediate threat was over… provided, of course, they managed to emerge victorious.
Jet didn't even bid them goodbye; a curt nod of his head in Francoise's direction was the closest they got to a farewell. Then he was gone, running as fast as his newly repaired leg would allow, leaving Doctor Gilmore alone with the last two cyborgs.
Sighing heavily, Gilmore cast a furtive glance at his companions. He didn't have the heart to say anything to them; Francoise wasn't in any condition to sustain a conversation, and he didn't want to distract Ivan from whatever task the psychic infant was embroiled in.
Instead, he turned toward the computer. Jet had made a suggestion to him before, when he first proposed his brash plan to get back on the battlefield, and though he didn't agree with the young man's other actions, he had to admit this part at least was sound.
As he set down to work, Gilmore only hoped that his work toward a vaccine would not turn out to be in vain.
~ * ~
Chang had emerged from underground quickly, not wanting to spend any more time burrowing than was necessary to get past Britain. After all, he didn't know exactly where Albert might turn up, and the last thing he wanted was to miss him completely.
Now he was jogging, his own breath rasping softly in his ears as he ran, constantly looking from side to side as he ran in the hope of spotting his missing comrade soon.
It really wasn't helping that his imagination was playing nasty tricks on him, making him believe -- if only for a terrible moment each time -- that different pieces of the scenery were actually pieces of his friend, torn asunder the same way Joe's leg must have been. In passing, a fallen log here looked too much like a broken limb, a smooth boulder there too much like the top of his silver-gray-haired head.
Chang didn't want to think about it, wanted to just close his eyes and awaken from this nightmare and find everything exactly the way it was just yesterday. No Black Ghost machinations once again wreaking their lives, no virus taking over one of his best friends, and definitely no rampages leaving their rebellion in pieces…
A faint sound caused Chang to stop dead in his tracks. Could that have been the wind, or…?
Looking around frantically, he nearly jumped out of his skin when another vague noise that sounded much closer than the first rose from nearby. It was quiet, too hushed for his liking, barely audible over the whisper of the wind through the tall grass, but still -- undeniably a human groan.
"004?!" Chang looked around again, then hurried in the direction he thought he'd heard the moaning come from. "004, where…?"
He cut himself short as the answer to his question became apparent, and Chang's breath caught painfully in his throat as he found himself staring down the grassy slope a ways to where his friend had fallen.
Albert's uniform was completely shredded, and the exposed amalgamation of metal and skin underneath was not in much better condition. Gashes covered most of his torso, arms and legs, each cut lining up with the pitiful scarlet ribbons his attire had been reduced to. His chest heaved with his uneven breathing, which sounded like a labor his body was not wont to support much longer.
Somehow Chang found enough strength to get to Albert's side before his legs gave out, plopping down unceremoniously next to the living arsenal's head. Reaching out, he covered the German's left hand with both of his own, nearly crushing the fleshy fingers with his tight grip.
"Ze…004? Can you hear me?" He struggled not to panic, a battle he was rapidly losing as seconds ticked by without any response. "Come on, answer me!"
Moments of silence passed, then, just as Chang was about to descend into a full-fledged frantic attempt to shake the German into reacting, the fingers he grasped so tightly twitched and closed back over his in a faint, but reassuring return grip.
"……ze…ro…zer…o…s…six…?"
A rough cough punctuated the whisper, a grating sound that racked the injured cyborg's chest and caused Chang to wince sympathetically. But still the chef's heart leapt at the sound, soaring higher as Albert turned his head slightly, steel blue eyes refocusing on his anxious face.
"I'm here… I'm here…" Chang's breath hitched as he caught a near-sob.
Albert twitched, his body shifting to the left as his right hand made a weak attempt to push up off the ground. Without really thinking, Chang reached over and gently brought his partner's gunhand to rest on his chest, gripping both hands tightly with his own.
"Stay with me, Al," he pleaded, unconsciously slipping to the most informal version of the German's real name. "It'll be alright soon, I promise… The others are okay, okay? Pyunma, and Joe, and G-Junior, and G.B.… we're all going to be fine. We'll get through this, we always have, right?"
Albert made a little noise in the back of his throat; Chang couldn't tell if he was trying to agree or not. He wanted to believe it was the former, just like he wanted to believe what he was saying now was the truth.
"Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay. We don't have to fight any more. It'll be alright, you'll see. We'll be fine… we'll make it…"
He was starting to babble, but Chang didn't care. The important thing right now was keeping Albert from giving up, to keep him grounded in the real world instead of slipping into oblivion. It wasn't like he could take the wounded German back to where the others were fighting, even if he was inclined toward going back to fight against Britain. All he could do now was ensure that, no matter how that played out, the living arsenal wouldn't pass away in the interim.
"It'll be okay… we'll make it… somehow we'll make it…"
~ * ~
"005!" screamed Pyunma.
The grisly scene appeared to have frozen just long enough that the dark-skinned cyborg's disbelieving navy eyes could memorize all the details. The bodies of the two combatants were locked together in the same manner they had been the instant both struck.
Geronimo's skin was strong enough to repel most attacks. Britain's earlier assault had left little more than bare scratches on the giant's massive chest, hardly even visible through the corresponding rips in the front of his jacket.
But there were ways in which his strength could be turned against him -- and so it was with momentum.
Just as Geronimo had been bringing his fist forward to strike Britain, the shapeshifter had raised his left arm, interposing it between himself and the oncoming attack. Only it wasn't in the form of an upraised hand, but a sturdy lance lined with miniscule spikes, the gleaming tip pointed directly toward the center of the fist crashing down toward him.
There hadn't been any chance for Geronimo to avoid it. All he could do was take the pain as his fist drove directly into the spear point and tore down its barbed shaft, carried by his own swing.
That was how they were locked together now, as Pyunma stood gaping and clutching his pistol with now violently shaking hands. From where he looked on, he could see that Britain was smirking, a contorted version of his usual smile -- the same one he'd sported when he tore off Joe's leg.
Geronimo, meanwhile, kept the agony he had to be feeling tightly contained, pursing his lips together. Only the way his dark eyes flashed gave some clue to the pain he felt at having his arm pinned.
Behind Pyunma, Joe stirred, weakly attempting to push off the ground and raise his head to see why his protector had screamed. What had happened to Geronimo that caused the combat specialist such terror…?
Britain turned to look at the pair, and the indifferent smirk his twisted face bore seemed to deepen. With a sudden shrug he wrenched his arm free, letting it tear out of Geronimo's arm and begin reforming as he dashed toward his next targets.
"Damn!" spat Pyunma, fumbling with his pistol.
Though it had threatened to slip from his nerveless fingers in the moment he first saw Britain's counterattack, the dark-skinned cyborg had enough sense not to completely lose his grip. Raising the streamlined silver barrel in front of him, Pyunma started firing immediately.
The first shot sailed through empty space; the second struck Britain a glancing blow on the left shoulder. The third was truer, and bit deep into the same joint the last had barely missed, but the shapeshifter didn't so much as flinch, and dodged nimbly to the right, forcing Pyunma to swivel in an attempt to track him.
Then he sprang, and Pyunma cursed again, hastily raising his sights to try and remain level with the airborne cyborg.
He squeezed off another shot; it clipped Britain on his right arm only to go ignored as his upraised limbs continued to reform. Gritting his teeth, Pyunma tracked upward, drawing a bead on the rapidly descending Britain's forehead, and --
(Take the shot!)
-- hesitated.
For an instant -- only an instant -- his mind played a deplorable trick where the face of his friend was not twisted by cruelty, but a cheerful smile. For that moment, Pyunma wasn't staring into the eyes of some virus-controlled cyborg, but of one of his trusted allies, one of his friends.
Then it passed, but too late for him.
Both of Britain's hands lanced downward, the left closing over soil, the right over his neck. For a split second, Pyunma's raised gun was almost touching the shapeshifter's forehead -- then it was knocked aside as both were driven to the ground by the force of his landing.
When Britain rose to his feet, he dragged Pyunma with him, while the combat expert's blaster lay useless where it had fallen.
Reflexively Pyunma tried to claw at the hand engulfing his throat, but Britain quickly restrained him, lashing his arms to his sides with the length of his reshaping left arm. Holding his prey level with him, Britain stared full into Pyunma's face, meeting the already clouding navy irises with his indifferent black gaze.
At his feet, Joe stirred and raised dim garnet eyes to behold the vision standing over him: of the shapeshifter holding the last of his defenders up by the front of his neck, slowly squeezing the last few scraps of resistance out of him.