The disclaimers are back in the first chapter. It isn't over quite yet… though we're close to it…

~ * Resignation * ~

"…G…g-rea…"

It hurt to talk, hurt worse to move, but Joe struggled to speak anyway, forcing his neck to support his head so that he could gaze up at those standing right in front of him. His vision was hampered both by the mists of pain and the dense brown bangs hanging over half of his face.

Perhaps it was a blessing that his blurring garnet eyes could not focus clearly; he couldn't see how Britain's face was distorted into a cruel smile, how the shapeshifter's fingers dug into Pyunma's throat leaving barely enough slack for his victim to breathe. Nor could he glimpse how the dark-skinned cyborg's navy irises, though already beginning to fog over, flicked down in his direction, reflecting more worry for his fallen leader than for himself.

All Joe could see was that Britain was holding Pyunma up off the ground, and that both of his friends were suffering.

"…G.B.…"

Pyunma's blaster lay where it had fallen, just out of reach. Joe's own lasergun was tucked safely away in its holster, resting against his hip over where his right leg should have been connected.

But when Joe willed his arm to move, his twitching fingers did not gravitate toward either weapon. Instead, he raised his trembling hand toward Britain and Pyunma, a weak gesture that might have been asking for mercy or giving it, pleading for aid or offering it.

"P…please… d-don't…"

Britain regarded him silently, his face reverting to a mask of stony indifference. Pyunma struggled weakly against the binds of the shapeshifter's transmuted hands, eyes squeezing shut as he pooled all his energy into his futile attempts to pull free. The whisper of his friend's entreaty added vigor to his attempts, yet still he couldn't muster the strength to break loose.

The virus's programming included a base system of ranking each of the rebel 00-numbers in terms of threat rating and prerogative. Prototype 009 was, naturally, considered the highest priority: his elimination was considered to be the key to bringing down the rest of the rebellion.

The main thing that had prevented the infected cyborg from taking him out immediately after snaring him was the presence of prototypes 004 and 008. The walking arsenal and combat specialist were also considered high-risk; between the former's weaponry and the latter's expertise, it seemed probable they could defeat the shapeshifter by working in tandem… Destroying their leader would likely remove any hesitation on their part towards using their abilities against their former ally.

So, instead, it chose to disable 009's acceleration mode in the most efficient manner possible and deal with the more immediate threats at hand.

Now there was no opposition to deal with. Prototype 004 had been soundly defeated and left to die alone; 008 was incapable of interfering. The potential threat of 005's strength had also been handled, for the wounds in his right arm surely rendered it inoperable, and the resulting feedback was certain to keep the giant preoccupied.

Geronimo uttered a low growl deep in his throat and moved to stand, left hand clamped over his right shoulder. The pain racking his arm was immense, and despite his efforts to block it out continued to shoot lightning jolts of agony through the rest of his body.

Britain craned his head back to give the struggling strongman what almost passed for a lazy glance, his indifferent expression only adding to the strange illusion.

His grip on Pyunma's neck went slack. Before Pyunma could draw a breath -- before his face could even start to reflect his surprise -- the shapeshifter pivoted and, in an almost gracefully smooth movement, flung the aquatic expert toward Geronimo.

They hadn't even impacted and collapsed to the ground before Britain turned back to face Joe. His right hand fastened around the Japanese lad's neck, his left curling around behind his back, supporting the boy in a mock embrace as he lifted him from the ground.

Joe winced, feeling the air slowly be driven from his lungs, but somehow found the strength to keep his eyes open. As his former friend slowly tightened his death grip on the younger cyborg, he gazed up into the Englishman's emotionless face with wavering ruby eyes.

"…G… gaah…"

His faltering attempts to speak fell on deaf ears, for Pyunma and Geronimo were too far away to hear, too stunned and injured to try and help. As for his assailant, his face began to twist into its cruel set, a victorious sneer contorting the familiar features.

And yet, despite this, all Joe could see above him was the face of his friend, the same one he attempted to speak to even as the world blurred around them.

"…G.B.……"

~ * ~

(Joe! God, Joe!)

Just as the life was trickling slowly out of the boy his body held in a cruel embrace, so too the last vestiges of hope faded from Great Britain.

What use was hope? The surest chance for salvation had vanished when the infected cyborg parried Geronimo's punch with the pointed tip of what was formerly his arm. If the strongest of their number hadn't been able to defeat him, and even Pyunma's shots failed to strike their mark, how could those that remained possibly survive?

Albert was probably dead by now. Jet as well, for all he knew… and it seemed Joe, Pyunma and G-Junior would not be long in joining them.

That left… who? Chang probably couldn't prove much of a threat, and though Francoise was a decent shot with her gun when she needed to be, could either of those softhearted cyborgs actually succeed where their stronger teammates had failed? Ivan was only a baby, and Doctor Gilmore, unless he happened to have some ultra-secret cyborg-eradicating bazooka stashed away in his lab that nobody knew about, certainly wasn't capable of offering much resistance…

If they didn't stop him, then what? All his friends would die, and Black Ghost would likely sweep in to pick up the pieces. He'd spend the rest of his existence serving the shadow origination, helping them secure their new world order, a worthless shred of the dead rebellion locked away inside a cyborg puppet…

(…No!)

Pulling all that remained of himself together, Britain concentrated on one single thought, in the vain hope that it might reach those he cared for and let them know his final wish.

(I want to die! Please, everyone, forget about trying to save me! Just let me… just let me die!)

~ * ~

…G.B.?

Every muscle in Ivan's tiny body tensed as a single thought stabbed through to his mind. The mental voice was shrieking, distorted by anguish and hopelessness, yet somehow he was able to recognize it. The connection he had been fighting for exploded, the barrier ripping away like silken curtains in a gale.

Ivan heard Britain's request, and the infant shuddered with horror at the realization that he was pleading for death.

Then he felt the shapeshifter slipping away again. Britain had no idea he'd been received; the effort was nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to give his friends permission to end his suffering before resigning completely to his fate. The youngest cyborg could feel though the weakening link Britain's submission, how convinced he was that this was the best he could accomplish, his only recourse allowing himself to slip into oblivion…

No you don't! I'm not losing you again!

Furiously, Ivan focused solely upon the wavering link, dropping all other tasks in his concentration. He wasn't paying any attention to the battlefield anymore; his fight was here, and if he lost this connection now, it would be impossible to restore it.

007! 007! G.B., answer me! I'm here for you!

For a terrible moment, there was only silence. Ivan gathered his strength in preparation to give one final mental shriek, ready to expend what remained of his energy in this one task. Then, tentatively, a soft, incredulous whisper echoed from somewhere within the void.

[(…I…Ivan…?)]

Jubilation washed over the Russian infant, for suddenly he could feel Britain's spirit again, could all but see it flickering uncertainly through the shadows obscuring the rest of his body. Ivan hurtled toward that, engulfing the actor in a mental embrace as the connection solidified.

G.B.! I found you!

Disbelieving astonishment washed over him, radiating from all that remained of the shapeshifter as Britain comprehended the fact that the youngest cyborg was actually able to speak to him. The sensation of that mental contact was almost blissful for Ivan, after spending so long trying to break through, but he quickly clamped down hard on his own raging emotions.

Save the celebrating for after we get through this, G.B., he chided, though his words were actually directed more toward himself. Now, let's see what we can do about that vi…

[(Kill me.)]

What?!

[(You have to! If this keeps up, Joe will…)]

Though the connection, Ivan could almost see things as Britain did, through the shapeshifter's own eyes. A clear vision of Joe's face loomed large in his thoughts; already the lines of agony in the boy's face were beginning to smooth over with the serenity of impending death.

Ivan's heart leapt with fear, yet he forced himself to remain calm, intent upon ensuring that his friends' suffering would come to an end in a different manner.

G.B., calm down! If you help me, I might be able to bring the virus under control!

[(Might?)] Britain sounded completely despondent. [(If it just might, then it probably won't. Ivan, please… if you won't do it, then just tell them…)]

With that, he started to slip away again, back into the icy pit of despair. The connection between them faltered, weakening with his disheartenment, and Ivan frantically poured still more energy into keeping the bond true.

G.B., you can't…

[(It's too late… too late…)]

Rage flooded through the Russian infant. After all he'd expended trying to reach his friend… after all the horrors the others had suffered fighting him while trying not to harm the shapeshifter… everything they'd gone through to rescue him… Britain had given up. He wanted to die. He didn't want to live with the horror of what the virus had done -- was doing to his former comrades even now, as Joe languished in his grasp.

A part of Ivan understood. A part of him sympathized. Yet that part was overwhelmed by the blaze of outrage welling from inside, fueled by all the frustration of watching the others fight while he could do little else to aid them.

How dare you!

His anger was like a white-hot spear, and he could almost feel Britain quail as it pierced him to the very core of his being. Though Ivan recognized what he was doing and tried to stop, the fury boiling inside, having finally found a focal point, would not be denied its chance to manifest.

Joe and the others have been going through hell trying to save you, and now you're telling us to just give up?! Forget it! I didn't spend all this time trying to contact you just so I could tell them that they have your permission to kill you!

Britain whimpered, or gave the mental equivalent of it, and the pitiful sound cooled the edge of Ivan's anger. The infant cyborg felt a sharp pang of remorse: his outburst definitely hadn't helped matters. The former actor had already been through so much, and now any sort of exuberance he'd felt at regaining contact with one of his friends was torn asunder by his harsh recriminations.

There wasn't any more time to waste on apologizes, however, and Ivan forced his tone to remain calm and controlled as he spoke again.

007. I'm going to try and disable the virus from inside, but I need your cooperation. You have to fight back and reclaim control while it's weakened. Do you understand?

Britain didn't answer; if it wasn't for the connection Ivan would have thought that perhaps he wasn't able to hear him. The incoherent anger started to fester again, but this time Ivan was able to keep it contained.

007, if you don't try to fight back now, there's no way this will work. The virus will just keep using you to hurt the others.

[(Ivan… I… I left Albert to die, and I killed… Jet, too…)]

You don't know that! Ivan was stunned, belatedly realizing that Britain had no clue that the flight specialist was alive, if not unhurt.

[(But… I can't… I can't…)]

He broke off into a wail, and suddenly Ivan's attention was refocused on what the horrified Englishman was watching: his hand tightening around Joe's neck, his other arm keeping the already helpless young man secure.

Joe!

Temporarily abandoning his efforts to convince Britain to try and rebel, Ivan turned the bulk of his talent against the virus, attempting to bring it under control from the inside. As if aware of the rebellion, the infected cyborg seemed to put more strength into his hold on the leader, intent upon finishing his task.

Dimly, Ivan could hear Britain sobbing quietly. He wanted to scream at the actor for assistance, but didn't dare divert his attention from combating the infection. If his slip-up cost Joe his life, the Russian child knew he'd never be able to forgive himself.

But without support, his chances of bringing the virus under control before it was too late for their leader were ebbing away just as quickly as the Japanese cyborg's life.

Then an explosion of sharp, biting pain ripped through him, and Ivan reeled, momentarily stunned.

For an instant he thought, crazily, that the virus had some sort of defense against even this sort of assault, and he'd fallen victim to a failsafe prepared by some savvy programmer.

Then, as his mind cleared and things returned to focus, Ivan realized that the pain hadn't been his at all -- instead, it came from Britain.

The virus was capable of forcing the body it controlled to act despite whatever injuries it collected. Though Pyunma had shot it several times with his laser, it blocked out most of the pain from those wounds, rerouting it instead to reach the last shreds of the original occupant.

However, the blast that had torn into his left shoulder now not only aggravated its prior wounds, but had actually been concentrated enough to tear a hole through the pliable joint beneath. The red fabric was torn completely away, exposing a smoldering, rough-edged gash where the laser had burnt through.

The virus was still incapable of expressing emotions, but the shapeshifter's eyes seemed somehow colder and harsher than before as he stared past Joe's pale face, over the quaking shoulders of his victim, to behold his assailant.

Jet was half-crouching, heavily favoring his uninjured leg, where he'd arrived on the battlefield. He steadied his pistol with both hands, arms rigid, glaring over the glowing barrel at the shapeshifter and his helpless leader. Under the shadows cast by his spiky orange bangs, his sharp copper eyes practically glowed with hatred.

He was, to put it mildly, completely pissed off.

The only thing preventing him from getting a better shot -- or firing again and again until his enemy fell and never got back up -- was the fact that most of the shapeshifter's body was concealed behind the weakened cyborg he was choking. The best he'd been able to manage was that clear shot to his shoulder.

And now the infected cyborg was aware of his presence, so his chances of getting a better shot seemed slim to none.

Still, Jet kept his gun trained on the transformer, watching intently, hoping for an opening. If his opponent made any sudden moves -- if Joe died in that hideous mockery of an embrace -- then the hawk was going to kill him.

[(…J…Jet…?)]

Ivan tensed at the soft whisper from Britain. With a sudden, sickening clarity, the youngest cyborg realized that everything hinged on how G.B. reacted to this turn of events.

He'd been begging for death, and now here was Jet, completely willing to oblige his request. Britain had to be aware of this; it was written all over the redhead's face, was evident in how he held his blaster.

Ivan didn't dare say anything, though a piece of him privately shrieked that he needed to try and convince Britain not to take that path, simple as it seemed. Any words from him might be the impetus needed to bring him back from the edge of oblivion -- or send him into it.

For a second that, for the Russian infant, seemed to stretch into eternity, there was only silence in the void. Then, hesitantly, without a sound or word to the psychic cyborg, Britain made his choice.

The bond between them faltered, then solidified once again, and as a new sense of determination and hope that wasn't born from his own mind grew within Ivan, the child felt a brief burst of euphoria.

Right… Don't give up, G.B. I won't either…

Strengthened by the fresh resolve, Ivan concentrated all his remaining energy. In his mind's eye, he pictured the virus as a veil, a barrier enshrouding his friend's spirit and cutting him off from within, ensnaring him within the prison of his body.

Then, with a burst of effort, he pierced to the heart of that web and tore it apart, brushing it aside and forcing it away.

He couldn't destroy the programming outright, but with the support of the rightful owner of this vessel, was able to restore enough control to Britain to disable the worst of the virus's intent.

There was no sound to accompany it, no physical sign of the silent struggle, yet Ivan felt a burst of utter triumph as the infection curbed and caved under his relentless pressure. He pushed it back as far as he could, willing the accursed thing to shred and shatter, breaking apart like spiderwebs.

Then, as the last of his power ebbed out of him, Ivan slumped forward in his basket, completely exhausted. The connection ebbed away, this time released of his own free will, for he had no more strength to sustain it.

"001?!"

Doctor Gilmore caught a glimpse of Ivan's sudden collapse, and pushed away from his computer, rising to his feet. Francoise looked up sharply as well, aqua irises shimmering with fresh tears as she turned to stare at the child. Before either could rush over to the bassinet, however, Ivan managed to muster enough wisps of strength to offer both his reassurance.

I'm… fine, doc…

"Ivan, what…?" Concern filled Gilmore's voice; the infant's telepathy was so faint it seemed more like a whisper than anything else. The child was only managing the barest touch of minds, and he wondered what on earth had debilitated the poor babe so.

…fine… just… help… the others… recover…

With that half-formed request, Ivan fell into a deep slumber.

~ * ~

Britain's body was shaking violently, raked with vicious shudders, and Joe slipped from nerveless fingers as his hands reverted to normal, falling limp at his sides.

It was the opportunity Jet was waiting for. Finally, he had a clear shot…!

But something stayed his hand. Instead of firing, the red-haired hawk merely stared at the convulsing shapeshifter and wondered what the hell was happening. It looked like he was having some sort of seizure -- was this because of the virus?

Joe slumped to the soft grass, his single leg folding beneath him. His head started to loll forward, then suddenly he blinked, some form of awareness returning to his dull garnet eyes. Fuzzily, through the clearing haze of his vision, he gazed up at Britain as the shapeshifter trembled.

The Englishman's legs gave out, folding at the knees suddenly, and he fell, nearly collapsing directly on top of the brown-haired lad. As Joe stared, comprehension beginning to dawn on his pale face, his gaze fixated on Britain's face.

Britain met his eyes directly for a moment, and for the first time in too long, Joe saw emotion -- life -- filling the shapeshifter's eyes.

Then they closed, and Britain sagged forward in a boneless collapse, his head landing roughly on Joe's shoulder.

The impact sent a painful jolt through the younger cyborg's body, but it went completely ignored by the boy.

Instead, as somewhere behind him came the sound of uneven footsteps and Jet's voice rising in a flurry of questions, Joe buried his face in Britain's corresponding shoulder and let the tears he'd felt building slowly in his eyes fall.