The disclaimer is in the previous chapter; yay for not getting sued!

~ * Examination * ~

Doctor Gilmore rose early that morning, as he had for most mornings following that horrible day where the rebels had been turned against one another. A steaming mug of coffee warmed his hands and helped to drive the weariness from his bones, though it did little to relax the lines of worry marring his face.

Over the course of their underwater flight, Gilmore had spent the majority of his waking hours repairing the cyborgs. Out of their entire team, only Francoise, Chang, Ivan and himself had escaped physically unscathed.

Considering how the Russian infant had fallen asleep shortly after the situation was defused, his psychic energy spent, Gilmore wasn't entirely certain he could count the child among the uninjured. However, there was nothing the scientist could do to rouse the baby; Ivan would wake up on his own after resting as long as it was required.

Only twelve days had passed since the incident. Ivan normally slept for fifteen days straight. There was no reason to worry just yet about the sleeping child, and after all he had accomplished during that horrible day, Gilmore was inclined to simply allow him to rest.

As for the others, some repairs had gone swifter and easier than others.

Pyunma had, perhaps, fared the best of the team. His uniform had taken far more of a beating than he had, the worst of his injuries a hole that had been burned into his left shoulder by a laser. This was simple enough to repair, though Gilmore performed a cursory check of the joint underneath just to ensure it hadn't been damaged beyond the superficial. Thankfully, it checked out to be fine, and Pyunma was clear to return to the bridge and oversee the Dolphin's course.

Jet had been a bit more difficult, despite Gilmore knowing exactly what his injury was and how to repair it. The most trying part of that was convincing the stubborn lad to come get his leg fixed. Jet repeatedly insisted that he wasn't having any problems, that he could walk just fine, thank you, and shouldn't he be more concerned about the others first?

Finally, after ensuring that the others were completely stable and well on their way to recovery, Gilmore managed to get the hawk to submit to the repairs he needed. The good doctor was simply thankful that Jet hadn't injured himself worse in the meantime, and that it was a relatively easy operation to mend his shorted-out booster.

Geronimo Junior had one of the more severe injuries: a well-executed trap left his right arm almost completely inoperable, the inside shredded from having a spear driven up the length of his forearm and wrenched out. The strongman bore this grievous wound in his usual stoic manner, never once breathing a word of his discomfort to the good doctor.

Gilmore didn't know whether to be more thankful or annoyed with the gentle giant. There was no need for G-Junior to play the martyr; he had enough difficulty dealing with Jet's stubbornness as it was! True, the fiery redhead was far more vocal about his refusal, but the basic concept driving their behavior was the same.

Even Geronimo's injury, however, paled in comparison with the rest of their wounded.

From what he gathered from the others' reports, Albert had actually faced off one-on-one against Britain in an attempt to buy Pyunma and Joe time to escape and regroup. That definitely explained how the 'living arsenal' had ended up so badly trashed; surely had anyone realized how badly he would fare they would have done everything in their power to assist him.

When he first caught a glimpse of Albert's condition after the battle ended, Doctor Gilmore was completely stunned by how extensive his wounds were. Terrible gashes lined most of his body, leaving his uniform in shreds. The outfit was completely unsalvageable, but thankfully, the German had hung on long enough for the scientist to save his life.

Doctor Gilmore wondered if Chang's presence had anything to do with that. The fire-breathing cyborg had been the first to discover Albert in this horrible state and had stayed by his side, encouraging him not to give up and promising that things would turn out for the best in the end.

The scientist took a sip from his steaming mug and shook his head slowly. He only hoped that it turned out the chef was not making empty promises when he convinced Albert to stay conscious.

The reason that Albert had taken on Britain solo in the first place was because, by that point, their leader had already taken a serious injury and could no longer assist in combat.

An error in judgement had cost Joe his right leg. The viral Britain had ripped the entire limb free from its socket, effectively disabling 009's acceleration mode and ensuring the younger cyborg would be incapable of interfering with his continued assassination attempts.

Though this had not been the extent of Joe's wounds -- he also suffered several scrapes and gotten tossed around quite a bit, not to mention nearly being asphyxiated before things were brought under control -- it was definitely his most serious. The boy spent several days confined to a cot before Gilmore had a replacement limb completed and grafted on. Since then, they had been taking it slowly, testing the new appendage under controlled circumstances.

There was no judging when Black Ghost might rear his ugly head again, after all. Gilmore wanted to be absolutely certain they were in the best possible condition before that happened. The last thing they needed was to face him at partial strength, considering all the other advantages the dark organization possessed…

…Which brought his thoughts back to Great Britain and his condition.

Again Gilmore shook his head and sighed heavily. To be certain, the shapeshifter had fared the worst of the lot. There was no disputing that fact. Though the Englishman was remaining uncharacteristically quiet about what exactly he had gone through, Gilmore already knew enough about the situation to recognize how trying the ordeal must have been.

Britain couldn't simply act as if nothing was amiss, his talent in such fields notwithstanding. In fact, he wasn't attempting that sort of fruitless deception at all…

The doorway behind him slid open with a barely audible whoosh, and Gilmore turned to watch the bald cyborg meander into the room. The elderly scientist smiled, an attempt at being reassuring that went completely ignored by his one-person audience. Britain barely glanced his way, offering nothing more than a cursory wave in his direction.

There was no trace of G.B.'s former glib manner and exaggerated flair. He took his seat across from the doctor quietly, eyes downcast and carefully averted away from his companion. Between his behavior and drab attire -- a dark sweater and pants combination that seemed better suited to someone like the shy and quiet Albert -- the actor seemed little more than a shadow of his old self.

The scientist's smile gradually faded, and he shifted uncomfortably before turning his attention to the task at hand.

"…Well, shall we get started, then?"

The prompt failed to even warrant a nod from the former actor. Gilmore would have found it almost annoying if it weren't for the fact this scene had already played out several times before. He could hardly fault Britain for his lack of enthusiasm.

Still, the tests needed to be run, and data needed to be gathered.

A tray rested on the counter between them; Britain picked up its contents gingerly, careful not to prick himself with the needle prematurely. Automatically Gilmore started to reach forward to help; his outstretched hand went ignored, and the Englishman inserted the sharp instrument into the back of his wrist without so much as flinching.

It was Doctor Gilmore who winced, involuntarily. It wasn't exactly advisable to let one's patient handle the setup of equipment like this.

More disturbing to him, however, was the Englishman's lack of protest. He hadn't applied anything to deaden the area where the needle was inserted, simply stuck it in without batting an eye. At least he hadn't outright jabbed it into place: that would have been a sure sign that one of the possibilities the scientist feared was true.

As it was, Gilmore could only wonder, and consult the data he gathered in hopes of uncovering more pieces of the puzzle.

Now Britain did look at him, expectantly, and this time it was Gilmore who averted his eyes to the computer display. He hated this sense of awkwardness between them, the disconnection he knew loomed between the rest of the team and the formerly goofy, formerly happy-go-lucky shapeshifting cyborg. It definitely didn't help the situation any, and Gilmore had the sinking feeling that the longer things went unresolved, the further apart 007 would drift from the others.

Quickly he pressed the familiar sequence of keys, bringing up the desired readout. The thin wire that stretched from one of the ports in the computer terminal to the needle embedded in his patient's arm relayed the required data, an up-to-the-second readout of the cyborg's diagnostics.

"All right, 007, I'm ready to proceed whenever you are," he prompted.

Britain nodded, once, and the corner of his mouth quirked upward slightly into a faint imitation of a smirk. Apparently some private joke had just occurred to him. But nothing close to that weak glimmer of humor touched his dark eyes, which continued to bore into the scientist.

"What do you think, Doctor, a cat today, maybe?"

Gilmore did not reply. Britain didn't expect one, however. He nodded again, seemingly to himself, keeping his head bowed when his chin brushed his chest.

His right hand, the one from which the wire protruded, fell down to his stomach, and with a swift, practiced movement he pressed down hard on his bellybutton.

Absolutely nothing happened.

The only sound in the chamber was the faint whirring of equipment, the steady blip of the computer as it continued its readout, informing its user that nothing out of the ordinary was occurring with the cyborg it monitored.

(There's nothing out of the ordinary unless you happen to know that something's supposed to be happening,) Gilmore reminded himself as once again a pang of disappointment shot through him, the same way it had for each morning they came up negative. (Nothing…)

The maddening part of it was that, while Gilmore knew exactly what was supposed to be happening and wasn't, the why eluded him. Why wasn't the transformation triggering?

His studies of the virus, posthumous as they mostly turned out to be, had revealed some disturbing truths about how exactly it went about its work, along with a partial explanation of how this must have occurred. After initial introduction into the body, the infection spread quickly, overriding all basic functions.

As part of this takeover, it disconnected the ability to manually trigger a transformation. It only made sense to do so, ensuring that the victim would be completely unable to counter whatever the virus then forced his body to do.

But the virus had been destroyed before it could fulfil the rest of its programming, first through Ivan's psychic efforts and later through the vaccine Gilmore himself constructed. Hopefully the treatment he'd administered had flushed what remained of those shattered webs clear of 007's system: they certainly didn't need any other surprises popping up.

While the virus itself had been dealt with, however, Gilmore had no idea how to remedy this little problem it left behind.

How could he 'reconnect' the ruined programming when he didn't fully understand just how the virus had rendered it inoperable in the first place?

Everything checked out clear; there were no obvious flaws to be found despite the fact that something had to be failing somewhere. It was like an invisible wall had been erected, blocking the ability to effect a transformation somewhere along the line without visibly obstructing the flow of data.

Gilmore was, by nature, a fairly patient man. Experience had long taught him that little was to be gained and much more to be lost by rushing through matters without gathering as much data as possibly and carefully weighing decisions.

Yet that didn't keep a teeny, tiny part of the scientist from wanting to slam his fists down into the keyboard and let loose with a string of curses that might have made even Jet blush from shock.

That more violent impulse was kept reined in by the good doctor, however, and he settled instead for a deep sigh and sorrowful shake of his head, sympathetic gaze traveling once more to settle on his patient.

Britain was already rising to his feet, pulling the needle from his wrist with a practiced ease. He didn't comment on the results, but his thoughts were, for the most part, clear enough to Gilmore at that moment.

G.B. hadn't expected it to work.

Why should he have? It hadn't worked the morning before, or two days prior, or any of the times they had conducted this test following that first attempt. Back then, Gilmore had been completely shocked by the results, or lack thereof, and the former actor…

…Even then, Britain hadn't acted too stunned by the revelation that he could no longer control his shapeshifting ability.

Gilmore didn't know what to make of the Englishman's lack of reaction. Was it simply a case of where too many shocks over too short a period had rendered him temporarily immune to such things? After all the other horrors the virus had put him through, did he regard this final hurdle as no big problem?

Or… was he relieved?

Gilmore studied the cyborg closely as he left the room, until the doorway slid shut behind his retreating form. There was no hint of relief in his resigned expression or careful movements… but then, the scientist was finding it practically impossible to read anything into what the once expressive actor was thinking or feeling.

There was always the possibility that he wasn't even trying, that Britain didn't want to discover what was keeping his shapeshifting from functioning properly. If he didn't want to have it anymore…

The concept was astounding; out of all of the cyborgs, G.B. had always seemed to adapt the most easily to his new 'gift'. The ability to change shapes as he pleased was a good fit for the talented actor, and one he always appeared to enjoy showing off even when not coping with Black Ghost's latest machinations. He'd adjusted well…

…And then the virus came and turned everything around, setting Britain against his friends and leaving him a practical opposite of his former self.

Gilmore's face fell into his hands, his fingers digging into his furrowed brow while he pondered the issue. So much had changed over the past few weeks, following what should have been a simple restful outing, that it seemed almost obvious that facet of Britain's personality could have also changed.

However, Gilmore refused to believe that Britain was deceiving him, unintentionally or otherwise.

(I'm second-guessing myself,) he chided himself mentally, (imaging things. Instead of creating new problems out of thin air, I should be focusing on the ones that already exist. The answers are right in front of me, I'm sure of it…)

He only prayed that he would find them in time, before other, very real concerns came storming back into their lives.