The disclaimers are where they've always been, in the first chapter. This is the final chapter of 'Metamorphosis'; a continuation is already in the works, so please don't kill me for ending it here. It just seems right to me, somehow, to end this in the manner in which this closes out… Thank you to all my loyal readers for your patience and feedback; I appreciate your comments and suggestions. But you're hardly here to read my ramblings, so…

~ * Termination * ~

The steady thrum of the Dolphin's engines, usually a barely audible backdrop to the conversations held so often by its crew, was almost deafening to the small band of cyborgs gathered in the cockpit. The spacious command center seemed much larger than usual, too, though the reason for that was obvious: less than half the seats were filled.

Pyunma was seated at the helm, and his dark irises seemed deeper and bluer than the expanse of ocean stretching out into shadowed infinity before him. Only the thick panes of reinforced glass and steel serving as windows separated him from the watery depths -- and there was almost a sense that not even those truly kept the young man out of his true element.

Indeed, there was almost a regal bearing about the dark-skinned lad, a sort of serene air that was only shattered when one took particular notice of his tattered attire.

Pyunma still hadn't changed clothes. His uniform was filthy from the grime of the day's skirmishes, flecks of dirt and stains ground into the red fabric. Through the charred edges of a hole in the left shoulder peeked the stark white bandages that had been wrapped over the wounded joint.

It didn't bother him. Pyunma knew he was one of the more fortunate ones.

Seated next to him, glaring off into the darkness of the ocean instead of at the panels he was supposed to be monitoring, was Jet. Not that Pyunma felt like scolding the fiery redhead for his inattention. He already knew where the hawk's thoughts circled.

(Running away again…)

Jet didn't voice his thoughts; he didn't need to, for they made themselves clear through the firm set to his jaw, the fierce glitter in his sharp bronze eyes. The notion rankled deep within the combative cyborg, and displeasure and frustration radiated from his tense figure in heated waves.

There was no helping it. No matter how positive a spin you attempted to put on matters -- a difficult enough task in itself -- there was no circumventing the fact that they were at a serious disadvantage right now.

Nearly all of the cyborgs sported some sort of injury from the battles they'd fought. Only those who hadn't been involved in direct combat had escaped the ordeal without any physical wounds. Some had gotten off a lot better than others.

The least injured of their number -- relatively speaking -- were gathered there.

Behind the pair at the helm, seated at a station hugging the right wall, was Francoise. The only female of their team had never set foot on the battlefield that day… or, at least, not in a literal sense. Her enhancements, however, had 'blessed' the girl with a clear view of what was happening. She'd been able to do little more than monitor the progress of the chaos as it slowly worked closer to the house, slowly tearing herself apart inside at the thought of her own helplessness.

Now Francoise wondered, as she gazed into the shadows of the sea spreading before her aquamarine gaze, if her experience reflected, in some small way, the sort of anguish that Britain himself might have been going through from where he watched the fighting progress.

(No,) she swiftly decided, folding a delicately trembling hand against her chest while willing it to stop shaking. (No, I can't imagine how horrible that must have been for him… to go through…)

The light in her eyes dimmed as she dropped her gaze to the panels she sat before, thick lashes veiling the shimmering blue-green irises.

Across from her, Chang leaned back in his seat and craned his neck to look at the girl. Letting his chin fall back down to his chest with a sigh, the chef then turned toward the massive man sitting to his immediate right.

"Are you sure you're doing okay, 005?" he queried of the strongman, face screwing up with concern. "Maybe you should go talk with Doctor Gilmore, if…"

"It's alright, my friend," and Geronimo spared the rotund chef a vague, fleeting smile before his features regained their usual stoic bearing. "He has more than enough to worry over right now. I can bear this far better than the rest of our friends can."

Chang dropped his gaze to the floor then, resisting as best he could the urge to glance at the giant's right arm. The thick limb had been bandaged, covered with layers of gauze and medical tape. The chef hadn't gotten a clear look at what lay underneath, and nobody was inclined to relate what exactly had happened, but to be completely honest that sat alright with the firebreather.

He didn't want to know exactly what Britain might have done to render Geronimo's right hand more or less inoperable.

The strongman had gathered his wits eventually, and shrugged off enough of his pain that he was able to assist the others in preparing for their exodus in the Dolphin. It was clear his wounds troubled him, though Geronimo would rather die from overexerting himself helping them before admitting his weakness in this time of need.

All in all, Geronimo considered himself one of the lucky ones because he was still able to function on his own, which was more than what some of his other friends could claim…

The giant gazed toward the helm, at the pair sitting at the ship's front, and the solid set of his mouth turned briefly into a slight frown. Those two were injured as well, though both denied the seriousness of their wounds and attempted to shrug it off in the same manner he was.

That sort of behavior he could almost forgive from Pyunma, but for Jet it was another matter. Geronimo had strictly commanded the red-haired hawk to remain behind and concentrate on getting repaired. His advice, clearly, had gone ignored -- or, at the very least, reinterpreted.

But if he scolded Jet for ignoring his injuries and endangering himself in order to try and assist the others, Geronimo was well aware he would be a hypocrite. The circumstances may have been slightly different, but their primary motivations were the same.

Jet, like himself, was only doing what he thought was best for the sake of the team. That Geronimo could find no fault in.

(My friends…) Geronimo's dark pupils swiveled back to the sea as his eyelids drifted shut in silent contemplation. (We must survive this trial in the same way we have all others… Black Ghost cannot be allowed any sort of victory…)

~ * ~

Gilmore leaned back and heaved a deep sigh, allowing his exhaustion-darkened eyes to squeeze shut for a few precious moments of rest. The scientist refused to give himself much of a break, however: there was still much work to be done before he could consider taking a rest in good conscience.

When he reopened his eyes, he spared a glance over to the bassinet resting beside him. Though he was ashamed to admit it even privately to himself, Gilmore had to acknowledge that he felt a little envious of the youngest of the cyborgs.

Ivan had already done so much; the psychic had truly earned the peaceful slumber in which he now resided. There was no judging when the infant would awaken; his typical fifteen-day cycle notwithstanding, the little Russian had expended a great deal of energy over the events of the last few hours before falling asleep.

Gilmore still had a great deal to attend to, however, and his tired gaze shifted from the sleeping child to take in the other occupants of the room.

The infirmary on board the Dolphin was actually quite spacious, with room for several patients at once. Three of the cots were currently occupied, their residents also lost in the blissful freedom of pain that unconsciousness offered.

Rising to his feet, Gilmore crossed over to the closest of the three, carefully examining for anything he might have possibly overlooked in his haste to get his patients in stable condition.

Albert was the most heavily bandaged of the lot; the memory of how the silver-haired German looked when Gilmore first laid eyes upon him send shivers down the scientist's back. Surely no human could have ever survived so many deep lacerations over his body -- though it was debatable whether Albert would consider himself lucky to have survived such an ordeal.

So long as Gilmore proceeded carefully, however, there would soon be no signs of all the terrible gashes that lined his chest, arms and legs. Indeed, there should be no scars at all -- at least, none in the physical sense.

Lying in the cot adjacent to Albert's, pure white sheet pulled up to his shoulders so that it looked for all the world like he was simply sleeping, was the leader of the cyborgs. Joe's chest rose and fell with surprisingly even breaths, adding to the illusion that the lad was merely resting, the nightmare long ended.

Gilmore gazed sorrowfully upon the boy's deceptively serene face, avoiding looking down to where there was a noticeable dip in the sheets as they settled over the contours of his body.

When they'd gone to retrieve the others for their hasty departure, Francoise had scurried off for a bit without explaining what she was doing. She hadn't needed to say anything when she returned, and in fact remained silent, cradling the torn remains of Joe's right leg in her arms.

Was the limb salvageable? Gilmore had looked it over briefly, but couldn't make a solid judgement right away. He'd have to rebuild the structure from scratch, of course, but if they were fortunate he might be able to retrieve certain key parts from the wreckage that would make the reconstruction much easier.

Either way, his condition was stabilized, same as Albert's was. Neither was in particularly life-threatening danger anymore; their survival was no longer in doubt.

Gilmore only wished he could say the same for Great Britain.

The shapeshifter lay on the cot closest to the computers hugging the inside wall of the ship, nearly motionless save for the occasional shudder. His mouth and nose were covered by a facemask that provided air laced with a sedative. His arms and legs were held in place by carefully secured restraints.

Though it pained Gilmore to do this, it was imperative to ensure Britain's safety until they were absolutely certain the virus was completely eradicated. The scientist was currently working on a vaccine that would hopefully clear the infection from the transforming cyborg's system.

Sweat beaded on Britain's forehead; Gilmore placed a soft cloth over the actor's brow, absently noting how he could almost feel heat radiating through the pliant folds. He sincerely hoped this fever would break soon; that the worst of this ordeal was behind them now that the virus was apparently in remission.

Even if this was the case, however, Gilmore still had plenty of other concerns weighing heavily on his mind.

There was no judging what effect the virus had wrought on Britain's psyche. Only the former actor knew what sort of horrors he'd undergone while his body went on its rampage -- and somehow Gilmore doubted that, even if the Englishman had been conscious at the moment, he would be willing to relate just what had occurred.

Another deep sigh came from the scientist as his fingers strayed upward to gently massage his own brow.

It was all too possible that Britain would not recover from his ordeal, in more ways than one. There were too many things the scientist still didn't understand, too many unanswered questions. His research would only take him so far; in several aspects he would still be working blind no matter how much he uncovered.

His work didn't exactly lend itself to exploring the more purely emotional side of matters.

Still, it couldn't be helped. Gilmore's face tightened with resolve as he gazed back at his three patients, determined to do all he could to help his extended family. No matter what the future brought, he would continue to do everything in his power to aid them.

This was the path he had chosen in life, and one he walked gladly. He acknowledged the shadows of his own past without fear, willing to face the darkness while following the brighter road he'd chosen.

He set to work; there was still much he hoped to accomplish before his own body's exhaustion forced him into a fitful, restless sleep.

~ * ~

The plan had failed.

Cold sweat trickled down his face in rivulets. Doctor Tenkan didn't bother wiping it away.

It was a true pity that so many vital details had been left in the care of foolish soldiers and glory-blinded egomaniacs. Pity how they outranked the scientists that worked so feverishly, meticulously, to create the plans those duller minds would then screw up. In their attempts to bring down the cyborgs, the human factor was the one that most often went overlooked.

Tenkan was aware that this was where he, too, had failed.

Rising within him now was the very base instinct of self-preservation, the bestial desire for survival warring with the scientist's methodical logic and terrible understanding.

Run. There had to be someplace to escape to, some way of leaving this sterile laboratory behind and getting to the outside world, to safety, before…!

But it was an exercise in futility. The organization was everywhere, the shadow clinging to every aspect of society. Even if he somehow managed to leave this base behind, it would only be delaying the inevitable.

Even the thought of leaving the room behind faded away when he felt more than heard the faint whisper of displaced air, felt the temperature in the cold laboratory drop several degrees -- or was that an illusion caused by the faint tremor running along the base of his spine…?

It hardly mattered. In the next moment, his world reduced to the point of the cool barrel resting against the back of his neck.

"You failed me."

His commander's sibilant hiss only added to the frost that seemed now to be filling the sealed chambers. Tenkan wanted to swallow against the pressure rising in his throat, but the movement seemed pointless. Besides, it would only serve to drive the icy point at the back of his head deeper into his skin.

He should have been stammering a reply, Tenkan dimly thought, his mind casting about furiously as a million thoughts passed in the space of a breath. He should be attempting to explain why it wasn't his fault, how others were to blame for things not going according to plan. If only they'd listened, it would have been different…

But such things would have been pointless, and Tenkan had no use for irrelevant gestures.

A dull roar echoed in his ears, and for an instant the icy cold was replaced by fire ripping through his throat--

Bulbous golden eyes glowed in the dim light of the pistol firing, glittering briefly as they watched the lifeless husk sink to the floor. A black-lined cape flared proudly behind firmly set shoulders as he turned away, no longer interested in this pitiful mound of wasted flesh.

A cruel chuckle issued from Black Ghost's eternally skeletal grin. The project had not been a total loss, all things considered… but that didn't mean he felt obliged to spare that scrawny scientist's life. After all, Tenkan had not lived up to his part of the bargain, so why should he?

Ah, well; there were other projects to attend to, and more plots to assassinate the rebel 00-numbers waiting in the wings. It seemed his work was never done…