The disclaimers are, for the most part, located in the first chapter; this installment has an additional warning of sorts. I apologize in advance for the blatant 004 fangirling below; believe me, you'll probably understand what I'm referring to when you read it…

~ * Intrusion * ~

Underwater, night and day were reduced to vague memories prompted by the internal clocks of the Dolphin's crew. It did make it easier for them to work in shifts; while the Dolphin did possess a sort of auto-pilot feature, nobody particularly wanted to leave the deck unmanned while they were out in the middle of the ocean. Especially when Black Ghost was undoubtedly having his forces scour the seas in search of them.

Much to Joe's disappointment, his recent injuries caused Doctor Gilmore to judge that he was better served resting and recuperating than by taking any of the later shifts. While he wasn't the only crew member forced to follow this decision -- and, certainly, it was nice to have a firm schedule for once instead of taking things as they came -- he felt more than a little guilty about being unable to serve his fair share.

Taking Albert, G.B. and himself off active duty meant their crew was cut by a third. Nobody really begrudged them their sudden lack of responsibility (although Joe was pretty certain Jet had a few things to say on the matter that couldn't be aired in polite company), but for the youthful leader the forced inactivity was a source of frustration.

Wasn't there anything he could do to help…?

Running his tongue across the inside of his teeth, Joe hesitated momentarily and stole a quick glance around the hallway. Nobody was around, though he thought he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye at one point. But when he looked more closely, there was still no sign that anyone other than him was in the corridor.

Satisfied, Joe nodded to himself, then clicked his teeth together sharply.

In the space between breaths, the brown-haired boy vanished from where he stood and reappeared past the end of that hallway and around the corner, directly in front of his current bedroom's door.

When he emerged from his acceleration mode, Joe half-stumbled, and immediately slapped both hands over his right knee as he barely avoided falling into a crouch.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, garnet-stone eyes narrowing slightly in self-directed anger.

(Took that turn too sharply… nearly kicked the wall… what's with me lately?)

Joe wasn't really eager to find out what would happen if he struck an immovable object while accelerating. If Gilmore or anyone else found out he'd miscalculated while taking that turn and nearly clipped the corner… Well, he'd be in for a lecture, that was certain.

Straightening up, Joe took a deep breath to calm himself before opening the door. He was careful not to make too much noise; after all, he currently had a couple of roommates to consider, and if either one stayed true to the pattern that seemed to be developing lately…

Just as he suspected, the room was already occupied. The bed closest to the wall and farthest from the door was dominated by a curled lump of tightly pulled white sheets; the slope of its occupant's hidden back pointed in his direction. There wasn't any sound emanating from that mass of covers, however, and Joe took a reluctant half-step toward it, lips parting slightly to direct a question to his roommate.

"Leave him alone, Joe."

Joe turned to face Albert as the walking arsenal emerged from another door. The German didn't look in the direction of either of his companions as he crossed to his own bed, gunmetal fingers loosening the knot at the back of his neck. The bright golden scarf slipped free and settled over his shoulders, and Albert wound the length of fabric in his hands with a practiced ease.

"In case you haven't figured it out yet, he really doesn't want to talk to us about anything anymore," he observed, back still turned on Joe even while he addressed him. Unzipping the back of his uniform, he instructed, "Just let him be."

Joe stared at the silver-haired German, a little startled by his cold demeanor. Albert ignored the gaping boy, knowing better than to turn and meet that pleading ruby gaze. Instead he concentrated on changing out of his normal clothes.

From the lump of covers on the bed in the corner, he heard a soft murmur, almost a whimper. He chose not to draw any attention to it.

Britain had already been like this when he arrived. Clearly the Englishman wasn't asleep, but he didn't exactly seem interested in carrying on a conversation, either. Albert had too much respect for his friend's right to privacy to try forcing a confrontation; undoubtedly that would just be painful for all parties involved.

(Still, we'll have to confront what happened sooner or later…) he demurred, pausing with his loosened shirt hanging over his arms, exposing his shoulders and most of his upper arms. Then he shrugged away his hesitation and continued pulling his uniform off, deciding, (It's his choice to make when he's ready, not mine.)

He folded his jacket neatly and laid it to one side, on top of his pleated scarf. His pants followed suit, while his boots leaned up against the side of the cabinet. Albert quickly pulled on a fresh set of pajama boxers, fully aware that somewhere behind him Joe had immediately turned away and was busying himself changing into his own sleepwear.

Albert tried not to dwell on the fact that his decidedly more robotic chest was still exposed. Time and familiarity had dulled his disgust over his markedly different appearance, yet old wounds run deep and, sometimes, can ache worse than fresher injuries.

It wasn't Joe's fault that the scientists had given him and the other cyborgs smoother, more natural-looking bodies. For 004, incorporating a full arsenal of weapons into his frame took precedence over reconstruction of his beaten old body. And considering how some of the other cyborgs they'd met had been redesigned -- 0011's sad fate sprang readily to mind -- Albert understood now that he could have fared much worse.

All the same…

Coming out of his darker musings with an abrupt shake of his head, Albert finally looked over to check on Joe, and was relieved to see that the brown-haired boy had already changed into his own pajamas and was climbing into bed. Turning back to his own cot, he gave the lad a casual over-the-shoulder wave and a curt, "Goodnight…"

"Good night, Albert, G.B.," Joe replied, nodding both to the German and over toward the supposedly already sleeping Britain.

The lights switched off, plunging the chamber and its three occupants into relative darkness. Albert buried his face in his pillow, gripping the cushion with both arms and willing himself to sleep. Joe, meanwhile, stared up at the shadowed ceiling for several minutes before finally turning onto his side and drifting off into unconsciousness.

Ironically, it was Britain who was the last one to surrender to the siren song of slumber. After hearing his roommates' breathing settle into a steady pattern, the actor shifted his weight to a somewhat more comfortable position and allowed the covers to slip off his face, revealing his tired, yet wide open eyes.

Albert was correct; he definitely didn't want to discuss his living nightmare with anyone else. He took such pains to avoid the others in his waking hours that the last thing he needed was to have all his hard work undone by coming in to be confronted by his roommates.

It certainly didn't help that Joe and Albert were the two that had the most reason out of all his friends to be furious with his unwilling betrayal.

Gilmore had no idea how his decision to have the three most injured cyborgs bunk together was affecting Britain. It wasn't an issue the former shapeshifter was about to breach with the good doctor anytime soon. There was no telling how he would react to the news that Britain couldn't even look at his roommates without remembering how he'd nearly murdered them in his viral state…

Though it hurt to see them, however, a tiny part of Britain accepted their presence and the pain it brought, even welcomed it. After all, he was certain he deserved this sort of reminder that he wasn't a part of the team, not anymore… And how could he even consider trying to put what happened behind him in the face of what he'd done?

Shuddering, Britain pulled the sheets tighter around him and squeezed his eyes shut, weakly hoping that perhaps this time slumber would afford him a temporary shelter from the nightmares that haunted his waking hours. It was a selfish hope, he knew, yet it was the only way he could force himself to sleep.

Soon after his breathing settled into a calmer pattern, following the example set by his roommates, there was a stir of movement outside the room. There was nobody left inside the chamber to take note of this, however, nor did the sleepers stir when the door slid open with a whisper. It closed shortly thereafter, cutting off the dim light from the hallway outside.

The darkness suited Mimic perfectly. The assassin leaned against the inside of the doorframe while waiting for its eyesight to adjust, using the brief period to consider what sort of form might best suit its purposes.

The security on board the Dolphin seemed strangely lacking to the shapeshifter. Was the relatively small amount of resistance that Mimic had met so far due to a negligence on the part of the crew, a severe underestimation of Black Ghost's resources? Or was it more due to the assassin's skill with stealth? Certainly they did not appear to be well equipped to handle the possibility of a shapeshifting spy, despite the fact that one of their number had the same sort of abilities…

Now, here were three members of the rebellion, caught completely off guard and helpless. Mimic could slaughter them all in their sleep, dealing the renegades a crippling blow…

Tempting as that was, Mimic could also see the risks of such a move. There were three cyborgs in the room, compared to the lone assassin… not the best of odds even taking their current state into account. Certainly, Mimic could murder one of them quickly, but which one to choose? Especially since the potential noise would probably wake the other two, and while it had the advantage of surprise, there was no real interest in sparking a direct confrontation so soon.

Even if it managed to dispatch all three, the rest of the crew would be alerted to the assassin's presence. Mimic's assignment was to deal with all ten of the rebels one way or another, but not necessarily all at once. That was only inviting disaster.

Reconnaissance, then, seemed a more proper course of action. The trick was to keep the suspicions of the rebels low. From the information Mimic had been provided with beforehand, there were a couple of forms that would not incite too much suspicion in the minds of the cyborgs should any of them happen to wake and spy someone else present.

When Mimic pushed away from the door and stepped into the room proper, therefore, the assassin's already slim figure had taken on the supple curves of the rebellion's only female member.

The false Francoise crossed the chamber quickly to the bed closest to the door, and cold turquoise eyes drank in the reposed features of the brown-haired lad resting before her.

The corners of her mouth twitched slightly: this was the cyborg who'd caused her master such grief in the past? He was barely an adult, his youthful face hardly seeming like that of a hardened, battle-smart leader.

Still, appearances could be deceiving…

Experimentally she laid her hands over his throat, slender fingertips brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of his neck. It would be so easy to ensure 009 would no longer interfere with any of Black Ghost's plans… just one quick flex of her deceptively delicate wrists, or a carefully chosen morph of her hands into something more threatening, and the renegades lose their leader…

(…Not just yet. I have plenty of time to decide a more fitting end for this… brat…)

The frigid aquamarine gaze tracked over to the silver-topped head resting against a fluffy white pillow, and full lips twitched into a deeper sneer. From this angle, the fearsome living arsenal hardly appeared to be a fraction as threatening as the amount of pure destructive power Mimic knew lay within 004. Amazing how something as simple as slumber could hide a cyborg's true nature… if, indeed, the weapons expert was anything close to what his ability dictated his personality should be like.

That accounted for two of the room's occupants: both formidable opponents in their own right, and potential threats to the assassin's well being. What about the third one, the rebel team's own shapeshifter?

Moving to his bedside, the false Francoise noted how all of this cot's sheets were pulled over its occupant, completely obscuring his body. It took a few seconds of close analysis before Mimic judged exactly which way 007 faced. Carefully the assassin peeled back the covers until she had a clear view of her fellow shapeshifter's face.

Mimic frowned. She recognized the face from the data files she had been provided with, and yet… somehow… there was a very different quality about the cyborg lying before her.

Though the former actor joined his comrades in slumber, there was none of the relaxation that had been present in 009's demeanor to be found here. In fact, Britain's face was contorted slightly, his tightly squeezed shut eyes still playing out some private horror that tore at him even while sleeping.

As the assassin watched, intrigue fluttering over her stolen features, Britain whimpered slightly and shifted suddenly, his body quailing away from the onlooker like he sensed her unwelcome presence. Though already ensnared in the cocoon of sheets he'd formed, he curled up a bit tighter, withdrawing further into himself.

This was Mimic's counterpart? This fidgety shell of a cyborg so caught up in his own nightmares that he failed to detect the very real danger she posed?

Utterly disgusted, Mimic reached out to seize Britain and force his head back to face her. She simply could not believe this pathetic creature was supposed to be her predecessor… that his existence somehow created her own!

Her hand made contact with his skin -- and the tips of her probing fingers seemed to slide neatly into his cheek, meeting surprisingly little resistance. Instead of the expected sensation of his skin underneath her fingertips, Mimic felt a surge of something else from the other shapeshifter, something that froze the assassin where she stood as a flood of new information overwhelmed her.

Britain flinched, falling still as well. He didn't roll away from her hand, but his face tightened with a fresh wave of agony, one that rooted him to the spot and prevented him from making any sort of attempt to get away.

It was Mimic who finally severed the connection, wrenching her hand free with a sudden movement and falling backwards, landing in a rather ungraceful heap.

The assassin's turquoise eyes were wide with astonishment as she regarded her hand. The fingertips still tingled from the contact they'd made, though they'd resumed the perfect shape she'd originally schooled them into when she chose this form.

They looked normal now, but Mimic was aware that, just seconds before, they hadn't been in the shape she'd chosen. Something had… changed… and…

Freed from her ministrations, Britain shied away from the side of the bed like he'd just been burned and curled up tighter, shuddering violently. The disturbed covers settled over his trembling body, shadowing the look of abject horror his face had contorted into.

Regaining control far more easily than her counterpart, the false Francoise rose to her feet and glared at the shivering Britain.

Now Mimic understood perfectly. No wonder 007 was so pathetic. His gift had been taken away, leaving the cyborg weaker and more useless than even a mere human… worse, because he'd had the power and lost it.

The shapeshifter grimaced, twisting Francoise's pretty features into a grotesque parody of themselves. His inability tainted the connection they'd shared for that brief moment, giving the assassin a clear sensation of what it would feel like to be cut off from the core of her power. The notion repelled Mimic.

Black Ghost had not given the cyborgs such gifts only to have them disabled, rendered useless. Though it made Mimic's job a bit easier to have one of the rebels already out of commission, the fact that it was her counterpart…

The master would have to be informed of this turn of events. Undoubtedly Black Ghost would be able to turn this situation to their advantage…

Casting another glance around the room, Mimic briefly debated with herself before moving over to 004's bed. The weapons specialist was still hugging his pillow to his face, his own sheets slipping off to expose his back. Mimic traced her fingers over the blunt curves of his roughly constructed frame, her right hand soon resting on the jutting edge of his right shoulder.

With a rapid movement, her hand blurred, shifting into a thin blade that plunged into the joint right where two plates met.

The sudden burst of pain caused Albert's back to arch abruptly, but Mimic extracted her hand and collapsed limply to the ground before he had a chance to stifle his cry and snap awake. The German snapped his head up and looked around sharply, but his blurring steel gaze failed to take note of anything amiss. If he did notice the innocuous white sheet crumpled next to his bed, he dismissed it as nothing important, his sleep-fogged mind failing to note that his covers were all draped over his bed.

After his head hit the pillow again, Mimic waited for his breathing to settle back into its previous steady rhythm before reassuming the stolen form of Francoise. The blonde cyborg stood, smirked coldly at the silver-haired German, then turned and headed quietly toward the door.

Just because Mimic didn't want to finish off the cyborgs just yet didn't mean she had no plans to toy with the foolish rebels, after all. The assassin would milk this assignment for all the amusement it had to offer.