The disclaimer can be found in the first chapter. Um… sorry to disappoint, but while I have nothing against slash pairings, I'm not planning to use any in this series. Gomen to those of you who were hoping for it…
~ * Irritation * ~
"When are we going to stop hiding and actually do something?"
Pyunma favored his ranting companion with a cursory glance over the top of his book.
"When we're ready," was his succinct response, dark marine gaze quickly returning to the crisp black lettering.
Jet snorted, far from satisfied by the sorry excuse for an answer. All they'd done lately was run and wait and hope they didn't run into any Black Ghost flunkies. He was sick of it!
It wasn't like Jet couldn't understand why they'd needed to take to the Dolphin and set out. Though he hated to admit it, G.B. had done a pretty good number on most of them before they managed to take him down, and naturally Black Ghost would love to take advantage of their weakness…
But that had been weeks ago -- well, actually, not quite two weeks yet, but still…! They'd gotten repaired; Pyunma no longer had a hole in his shoulder, G-Junior could use his arm again, Albert wasn't looking like he'd been blindsided by a pissed-off lion, and Joe had a brand-new leg! Not to mention his damaged booster had been neatly repaired and wasn't any worse the wear for being put off…
The only one who hadn't been fixed up good as new was G.B.…
But that wasn't Jet's fault, or Doctor Gilmore's, or anyone's -- except, of course, that damned Black Ghost.
Jet ground his teeth together, copper eyes blazing underneath the fiery spikes of his wild bangs. In his mind, Black Ghost was the only one responsible for the hell they'd been through, this latest incident just another bid to ruin their lives.
But he couldn't do anything about it while trapped in this glorified fishbowl! This wasn't solving anything at all! They should be looking for clues, figuring out where the base of operations the shadow organization had launched this plot from, then blast their way in and get some much-needed answers…
It wasn't the grandest of plans, maybe, but at least it was immediate, and they'd actually be doing something other than running away from their problems.
(So what if G.B. can't fight. Like we're really going to make him come battle with us when he could just get hit by another copy of that damned virus?!)
His eyes narrowed into glittering slits of bronze, hands clenching into fists that he kept rigid at his sides.
(…Least he can't have a relapse if he can't transform…)
Why did everyone else seem so convinced that 007 had been cured of the virus? It wasn't like Ivan had thought to explain exactly what the hell he did to knock the shapeshifter out in the first place before going sleepy-bye himself.
All they had to go on was G.B.'s word… what little they'd coaxed out of him. The only thing the Englishman really said concerning the incident was that Ivan saved him by attacking and destroying the virus with his psychic powers -- and that was about the extent of what he related of his experience.
Doctor Gilmore had run some tests, and was still carrying on a few more concerning the latest problem that had cropped up, but the scientist assured the rest of the team that it did, in fact, appear that the virus had been destroyed.
Jet wasn't totally convinced. To blindly trust that everything'd been resolved just with one major psychic shock courtesy of their resident telepath… how naïve could the others get?
It wasn't like things were completely back to normal. G.B. was pretty much a polar opposite of how he'd been before. Slinking around the Dolphin, avoiding the rest of the team whenever he could, rarely meeting their gaze for more than a few seconds, always acting so goddamned guilty…
He was sick and tired of the whole damn thing! It wasn't like anybody was blaming G.B. for what happened; Black Ghost was the one responsible for the stupid plot! They all knew the virus was the one forcing him to attack them; even Jet hadn't ever claimed it was the actor's fault! The only one convinced otherwise was Britain himself, and the way he crept around like an unwelcome guest was getting on Jet's last nerve…
(Get me off this damned ship and let me go after Black Ghost! I need something to tear apart for this…!)
For now, however, the only target his fist found was one of the walls, as he turned and drove his knuckles against the reinforced, curved surface. It wasn't half as satisfying as punching out the lights of some hapless soldier would have been, but, unfortunately, it would have to serve as an unsatisfactory alternative for now.
Pyunma glanced up from his book again, studying the fuming redhead with no small amount of distaste. While he could sympathize with Jet's fury, having more than a few matters he wouldn't mind resolving with good old-fashioned violence, brute force wasn't going to help them here.
Pyunma understood too well the value of knowing when to race off to face the enemy and when to hang back and tend one's wounds. While the physical side of their injuries were mostly healed, the blows to morale and spirit were more damaging, and needed more time and care to mend. The combat specialist understood this, and respected this.
That didn't mean he had to like it.
His navy gaze returned to his volume, but Pyunma nudged the bookmark free from its previous resting spot and tucked it carefully into place between the fragile white pages. Shutting the paperback, he set it aside. The tales of high fantasy and magic-wielding heroes would keep for another time when he didn't have his own short-tempered comrade to deal with.
"Come on." He stood, meeting the frustrated hawk's glance with a steady stare. "I'm going to get some sparring done; you in?"
His intent was obvious; a few rounds of one-on-one combat would burn off some of the excess energy and hopefully take a bit of the edge off both men's anxiety. Still, Jet accepted with a nod and a smirk, bronze eyes flashing with anticipation.
"Sure, if you don't mind losing," he replied, lacing his fingers together and cracking his knuckles with a slight flex of his wrists.
Pyunma just smirked back at the cocky American, folding his own arms over his chest. He didn't have to toss back some brazen taunt to inform Jet that he wasn't expecting to lose easily. Shaking his head slightly, the aquatic expert followed his partner out the door and towards the training area.
~ * ~
His hands slid up the length of his forearms, pressing the thick weave against both his palms and the hidden limbs. The tops of both sleeves fell away from his hands, not quite long enough to cover his fingers, especially when he moved them like this.
…Why couldn't he seem to get warm enough?
He'd been lucky enough to find this sweater; while he liked certain deeper hues of colors like green and blue, Britain didn't normally have a taste for extremely dark, drab clothes. But he knew that darker colors trapped heat better than lighter ones, and this was the heaviest, darkest sweater he'd been able to locate.
Britain would have gotten some gloves, too, except for the fact that he didn't have any on hand. Albert probably had plenty, and if he asked might let him borrow a pair, except…
-- there was 004 writhing in his grasp, bound by ropes that once had been his fingers and now were turning into flexible edges that tore into his uniform and the flesh underneath --
His fingers convulsed, tightening impulsively around the woolen sleeves with such force that the tips dug into the skin underneath. Screwing his eyes shut, Britain took in several heaving breaths, sucking air into his lungs with badly contained gasps until the memory subsided.
It took a few minutes before he judged it safe to reopen his eyes and risk a quick glance around. The hallway had been deserted before, he was certain of it, but…
No, he was safe; none of the other cyborgs were in sight. Britain sighed and looked down at the floor, leaning slightly against the wall for support.
His arms hurt a little where his own fingers dug into them, but he didn't loosen his grip for a while. In a way, the pain was comforting: it was something to feel other than simply cold… or numb.
It wasn't as bad as it had been, really. Before, when the virus was controlling his body, the only sensations he felt were after-effects, echoes of the blows he dealt to his former friends. There was also occasionally pain from their counter-attacks, but even though that was magnified by the infection, rerouted to him in full, it hadn't been nearly as bad as feeling…
-- Joe's throat in his hand, the already injured leader's breath coming in ragged gasps as his grip gradually tightened --
…But it was okay now, because it wouldn't happen again. It couldn't happen again because he couldn't transform anymore.
…He couldn't fight anymore.
Britain wandered aimlessly down the hallway, staring mostly at the floor. He looked up only briefly now and then to ensure no one else was around; he half-expected Joe to limp round the corner and spot him, or Jet to storm by with one of his deadly glares ready.
The others had talents beyond the scope of the abilities Black Ghost had 'bestowed' upon them. People like Joe, Jet and Pyunma brought their own styles of fighting to the fray beyond their powers of speed or flight or… swimming really, really well. The compassionate Joe was a natural leader; the fiery Jet was streetwise and could hold his own in a flat-out brawl; Pyunma was a swift thinker with a knack for quickly gauging a situation and coming up with sound strategies.
Even those who weren't natural fighters were crucial to their team. Chang was a wonderful cook, of course, and Francoise was always so kind and sweet. Geronimo seemed to be perfectly attuned with nature, and little Ivan, when he was awake, always provided some fresh observations on life from his point of view. Doctor Gilmore kept them all healthy and helped them in ways he couldn't even begin to describe; words failed to express just how much they owed the scientist.
And Britain? He didn't see how his years in the theater would be much help to them now.
He'd tried, before, to help keep everyone's spirits up when he could. Though Britain wasn't a starry-eyed optimist -- actually, he tended toward cynicism, albeit lightened by humor -- he tried to look on the bright side of things, for his sake as much as for the sakes of his new family.
In a way, it was almost like his old theater group; just a band of fellows up against the world, admittedly on a much grander scope than he could have ever imagined back in London. If anything, he had thought the bonds were a little tighter, considering that they had to trust each other with their lives.
Those ties didn't seem nearly as strong as they once had.
More and more, Britain wondered if he was currently a hazard to the team. Not an immediate threat, anymore, in the sense that he wasn't on a virus-induced rampage, but…
…If he couldn't shapeshift, he couldn't fight.
He didn't even have the standard-issue cyborg three-in-one laser pistol anymore; his was currently in Gilmore's care, to be returned after this latest issue with his malfunctioning ability was worked out. If Black Ghost did attack, he couldn't be expected to fight in his condition, or so the good doctor had ruled.
The others didn't trust him with his gun anymore.
Probably rightfully so, if Britain was to be brutally honest with himself. The thought had occurred to him that there was a simple way to bring an end to his problems.
But even if he had the means, following through with that concept seemed pointless. It wasn't like it was the only way to prevent him from hurting the others again -- he didn't have the capacity to possibly hurt them anymore.
Gradually, he became aware of muffled noises coming from one of the doors further down the hall. Though Britain had a sneaking suspicion what was causing the familiar sounds, when he reached the doorway itself, he couldn't resist cracking it open a few inches to peer inside.
Just as he expected, there was another training session taking place. Though he didn't slide the portal open all the way, Britain could see enough of the room as it was, and could clearly see Pyunma and Jet getting a little combat practice.
Neither man was armed, though both were clad in the same bright scarlet uniforms. The closest thing they had to weapons were their own fists, which was more than enough for each of them. Jet was moving constantly, not flying, at least, not with the assistance of the jet boosters in his heels, but still gliding around his opponent all the same.
Pyunma, meanwhile, was scarcely moving at all, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back as he watched his opponent carefully, gauging his moves.
It wasn't like the two were blindly trading punches or engaged in some overblown deathmatch. The punches they threw were mostly feints or jabs that were quickly blocked -- a test of each other's reflexes and reactions more than anything else.
Watching them practice, Britain remembered how he couldn't hope to match their raw skill at combat. Theirs was a natural talent, they were young, agile, strong…
-- but he'd beaten them anyway, beaten them into the ground and proving he could match their skills just by transforming his body the way they never could --
Tearing his gaze away from the duo and clumsily pushing the ajar doorway shut, Britain turned on his heel and ran.
It was pointless; he couldn't escape what he'd done, and yet just the fact that he could run, that his feet obeyed his desire to flee even though there was nowhere he could run to, not while he was on this ship…
It was understandable that he couldn't pay attention to where he was going, and so didn't see Francoise until after he all but slammed into her.
"Oh!" she cried out, instinctively catching herself with a hand against the wall.
"Ah, s-sorry, I didn't…" he blurted, reflexively, staggering back from the impact and staring in horror at the female cyborg.
"No, it's okay…"
There was nothing but sympathy in Francoise's pale aquamarine eyes as she gazed at him, regaining her balance without a second thought. Britain quickly dropped his stare to the much safer target of her arm, studying the way her slender fingers splayed rested against the doorframe of the room she'd just entered from.
He'd caught in the middle of something, moving from one task to another. Francoise worked very hard to help keep matters on the Dolphin running as smoothly as possible… and he he'd gone and interrupted her, almost knocked her down.
"Sorry, I…"
-- Remembered his nightmare very vividly, for it was real enough, so much he could swear he felt the girl's skull fracturing beneath his fingers, all her enhancements completely useless and crumbling under his tightening grasp --
Shaking his head suddenly, Britain mumbled an unintelligible apology and darted around her, careful not to brush up against the startled lass as he squeezed past. He heard Francoise start to cry out, some weak attempt to make him stay and talk to her, but ignored it, knowing it would only lead to more troubles.
He couldn't talk to anyone about it. It was his fault, anyway, for letting the virus control him. All his fault…
Slowing down in the safety of another uninhabited hall, Britain folded his trembling arms against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.
Yes; he deserved to feel this cold, somehow; he deserved to be constantly reminded of what he'd done. The others suffered at these hands, his hands, and while he hadn't wanted to hurt them, that didn't mean it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for him.
It was selfish to wish the cold would go away, even for a little while…
~ * ~
"Sir! Sir!" A trembling techie stumbled into the laboratory brandishing a printout, quailing when his master's yellow gaze immediately fell upon him. "A report just came in; they've found the rebels' ship!"
The scientists who hadn't yet paused in their work at the technician's entry froze, all eyes coming to rest on the dark-garbed figure of their commander as he turned fully away from the monitoring chamber. Black Ghost's mask was set in a permanent death's head grin, but the deep-throated chuckle that boomed from his throat made his reaction all too clear.
"At last," he almost purred.
With a flourish of his cape he turned to address the room at large, his voice carrying clearly and reverberating off the laboratory's walls.
"We begin at once! Prepare the cyborg for release! It's high time those traitors met my newest creation…!"
There were no protests, though few of the scientists were thrilled with the idea of sending their precious project out without a few more tests, a couple more last-minute checks. Black Ghost had handed down the order, and they obeyed without question, knowing it was their necks if they disobeyed… or if their perfect assassin failed its mission because of some oversight on their parts.
All they could do was hope, pray, and prepare to send their creation into action.
