As always, the disclaimers can be found in the first chapter.
~ * Preoccupation * ~
"…Let's just get this over with."
Gilmore shot his patient a startled glance over the counter and tray resting between them, but Britain expected it and avoided eye contact by focusing on the needle he was inserting into his wrist. Maybe it wasn't the best time to say anything, considering how he'd fallen into the habit of speaking as little as possible when with the scientist or anyone else, but he pretended not to notice his momentary slip.
The all-too-familiar beep of the monitor started up, and Britain tuned out the steady rhythm while his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Last night had been rougher than even what was now usual for the former shapeshifter.
Vividly he recalled it -- an explosion of white-hot sensation slicing through the blanket of cold detachment from reality that dominated his dreams. Though it was a change from the numbness he was growing accustomed to, it was hardly welcome -- if anything the sudden contact was painful, a blast of paralyzing venom spreading through his veins like wildfire and holding him fast.
It hurt… burned more than anything he'd felt before.
Even after the phantom touch faded, the feeling of being trapped remained. Despite being aware this had to be a nightmare, Britain found he couldn't rouse himself from it, instead spending the night fearing its return. It was like he'd been hopelessly ensnared in a spider's web and, after being bitten once and immobilized, was waiting for the spider to return and finish its work… a reprieve that never came.
What was worse…the cold lack of feeling that dominated his waking hours, or the promise of that caustic caress that threatened to swallow what remained of him whole?
"…ro-seven?"
With a blink Britain came back to reality, refocusing on the concerned face of his caretaker gazing over at him. Startled by the realization that he'd become so caught up in the memory of his nightmare that he'd tuned out reality, his guard slipped further and he made the mistake of making eye contact with Gilmore. Immediately catching his mistake, Britain snapped his face away and stared steadily at the floor.
His correction wasn't fast enough: for a moment the scientist got a clear glimpse of the torment the actor had been trying to keep concealed. Gilmore immediately frowned, his aged, paternal visage darkening as his concerns appeared to be justified.
"Are you feeling alright, 007?" he queried; privately he wished that some less trite phrase would come to mind so that he could more accurately voice his concerns, but, sadly, he never had possessed much of a gift with words.
Glancing downward, he noticed that the needle still jutted from Britain's wrist, continuing to relay its stream of useless information to his computer. Once again, his patient had inserted it himself, but now it had shifted slightly. Gilmore winced and reached down to disentangle it.
"Here, let me help you with…"
Since his attention was focused on the needle, he only barely caught sight of Britain snapping his head up and shooting him a terrified look, the color flooding out of his face when he saw the scientist about to grasp his wrist.
"No!"
He yanked his arm back so sharply that he nearly caught Gilmore in the side, the sudden move taking the good doctor completely off guard. It also completely dislodged the instrument, needle and wire clattering against the tray as both fell onto the counter. It lay there, temporarily forgotten, while Gilmore goggled in mute astonishment at his patient.
Britain clasped his other hand over his wrist, holding both almost protectively against his trembling chest while staring steadfastly at the floor …Like he didn't dare return Gilmore's gaze now, for fear of… something he didn't want to explain.
Finally, mumbling some half-discernible apology, the Englishman jumped from his seat and hurried from the infirmary, leaving Gilmore staring thoughtfully after him. The door slid shut automatically after he darted into the hallway, cutting off the hard stare that Britain felt burning into his back.
(Stupid,) he berated himself. (Stupid stupid stupid. Now he definitely knows something's wrong – oh, like he didn't know before -- but I don't need him worrying about me… like he should be worrying about me… after what I…)
His pace slowed to a plod as Britain organized his thoughts. The panic of the moment was fading, replaced by a wave of guilt as he recalled the startled look Gilmore had given him.
Great. Now Doctor Gilmore had another reason to wonder about his condition besides the obvious… the one problem he couldn't cover up…
He hadn't meant to scare him. It was just that when he saw the scientist reaching over to grab his hand, to pull the needle out for him, a possible connection between his dreams and reality clicked into place:
…If the illusory touch in his nightmare could burn so horribly…
Britain didn't want to test it. Probably it was cowardly, and probably he deserved to suffer if it turned out to be true, but…
So he'd yanked his arm back instinctively, giving poor Gilmore quite the surprise in the process, and decided to get out of there before any uncomfortable questions could be asked. He definitely didn't want to go into why he'd acted that way with the well-meaning doctor, because whether his theory panned out or not…
…He didn't want to know the answer. He didn't want to know what the scientist would do… how he, or the others, would react…
The more he thought about it, the more Britain convinced himself that it made perfect sense. Of course the virus couldn't have simply disabled his transforming ability and rendered him useless to the team… That wasn't painful enough. But if just touching somebody else could burn so badly, then…
A quick look around told Britain he was in luck, for once: nobody else was in sight. He was free to sink to his knees, lean against the wall, and relieve the pressure building and twisting inside by allowing himself to cry. Still, he bit his lip and tried to muffle the sound, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to himself.
Nobody else needed to know… nobody else needed to pretend sympathy… He didn't want that… he was sure he didn't want it… didn't deserve it…
~ * ~
If there was one drawback to being able to change form at will, it was that it burned up a lot of energy, especially when sustaining one for long periods of time.
Fortunately, there was an easy solution to that problem, and Mimic had not had an especially difficult time finding where the renegades stored their rations. The hardest part was choosing the right moment to slip in and take what it needed without risking notice.
Of course, it helped that Mimic took the form of one of the cyborgs, just in case somebody happened to walk in while he was rummaging through the refrigerator. Since they all dressed in the same uniform, it shouldn't even be a problem if the cyborg he was imitating popped in, so long as they didn't see his face first…
Mimic tossed the apple he had 'borrowed' into the air and caught it easily, combating the urge to whistle cheekily to himself. Nobody would think anything of it if they happened to spot him, and who knew: they might even be reassured by the sight of their young leader in such a cheery mood…
(What ignorant fools,) Mimic mused, lifting the juicy red fruit to his lips.
He opened his mouth to take a bite, then grimaced and tossed his head slightly, trying to flip his bangs out of his face.
(Why does the brat have his hair like this? Doesn't he want to see where he's going? What an annoyance…)
Mimic attempted to bite into his apple again, only to taste the ends of his bangs slipping right back into his mouth the moment he opened it. Rapidly losing patience, he roughly shoved the thick brown locks aside again and held it there, finally sinking his teeth into his prize.
(Ahh… Note to self: give 009 haircut, then kill him…)
Chewing the mouthful of pulp, Mimic perked his head up as the first faint echoes of approaching voices reached his ears. Feigning nonchalance, the doppelganger reclined against the wall and took another bite of his apple, all the while straining to pick up the strains of conversation.
Silently the assassin mouthed a curse against the fruit pressed to his lips: this was a potential problem. Thanks to video feed from spy cameras and the like, Mimic had a good grasp on what each of the rebels sounded like, enough that the assassin was confident he could imitate them if the situation called for it. He didn't hear the brat talking, but there was always the chance he was tagging along with his friends…
Pity he wasn't equipped with 003's super-sensitive hearing; that would have been nice to have at the moment.
His instincts said 'don't risk it; just meld with the wall and wait for them to pass'. Unfortunately, that also meant he'd have to drop the apple. He doubted even these unwary fools would fail to notice a suspicious lump in the wall, and he couldn't flatten the fruit along with his body…
The voices were drawing nearer: so far Mimic had identified only two voices, neither of which belonged to 009. Though there was always the chance he'd somehow missed him…
Mimic bowed his head and bit another chunk off his apple. Surreptitiously, he slid his body so that he was pressed a little closer to the wall, glaring through his bangs in the direction the voices were approaching from. Inwardly he braced: if 009 did round that corner, he'd have to shift immediately into someone else before they noticed his presence.
(…003's probably the best bet. Her body type and hairstyle's close enough to his that the change shouldn't attract attention…)
The speakers were almost upon him, their voices coming from just around the corner. Mimic chewed quietly on his snack and waited, ready to change at a moment's notice.
"…getting really sick of it! How long's G.B. planning on dragging out this pity party of his?!"
Jet emphasized his query with a huff, bringing down his foot a little harder as he rounded the corner and continued storming down the hall. The irritated redhead didn't even acknowledge 'Joe's' presence, too caught up in his rant to his companion to notice the brown-haired cyborg leaning against the wall.
"I mean, it's been almost two weeks!" he threw his hands up in the air for a moment before letting them swing back at his sides. "I haven't even seen him around all that much; he's always sulking around somewhere anymore. When's it going to sink it that it's just Black Ghost's fault, damnit?!"
"We have to be patient," instructed Pyunma, keeping an even stride alongside his fuming partner. The aquatic specialist remained calm and collected, making Jet seem all the more tempestuous in comparison. "We can't rush things…"
"I can't stand it! What's it going to take for him to get it?! We're not mad at him or…"
"Really?" Pyunma glanced sideways at Jet and raised an eyebrow. "You sound pretty mad right now."
"That's different, damnit--!"
As Jet's voice rose with poorly restrained anger, the pair continued down the hall and farther away from where Mimic stood. The assassin made no move to follow; instead he watched them with narrowed ruby eyes, slowly eating his snack while turning over their conversation in his head.
…So they weren't taking the disablement of one of their number very well. Understandable. What good is a cyborg soldier who cannot fight…?
As he expected, Black Ghost had found his earlier report of conditions on board the Dolphin most enlightening. Already his commander had issued new orders concerning his plans for the rebels, courtesy of the communications link built into the shapeshifter's uniform. It piped instructions directly into Mimic's ear, a method even the hypersensitive 003 couldn't yet detect.
By now his nibbling had reduced his apple to a gnawed-up core. Idly Mimic turned it over in his hand and tightened his fingers around it until juice and pulp began to ooze over his clenched fist.
In truth -- though he knew better than to question his leader publicly -- Mimic found this latest addendum to his assignment curious. Why did Black Ghost issue such a command? It hardly seemed worth the time and effort it would take.
True, Mimic had no desire to rush the job, but that was because it seemed unlikely he would receive such a challenging assignment after these renegades were dealt with. Not to mention the fact that so many had failed before that it seemed idiotic to underestimate them…
…And yet, Black Ghost's newest orders appeared to be, in essence, doing just that.
(Why? What is he thinking…?)
Mimic shook his head in disgust, paying little heed to the sticky mess dripping from his balled-up palm.
It was not his place to question the master's plans. Clearly Black Ghost was going to turn events to his advantage, showing just how much control he possessed over matters. Mimic just didn't understand yet how things pieced together.
Why would anyone so useless…?
Gritting his teeth, brushing his sticky hands together absently, Mimic turned back to exit the room. Perhaps gathering more intelligence on these rebels would give him more insight on his leader's reasoning. He had specific orders to follow, but would have to wait for an opportunity to present itself before he could act…
(…Or create an opportunity…)
Turning this over in his head, Mimic pushed the door open and stepped outside, hesitating only long enough to wipe off the sticky handprint left behind with the sleeve of his uniform. He certainly would not be caught underestimating the renegades, regardless of his commander's apparent inclination to do the same…
