The disclaimers are located back in the first chapter. Okay, so the last few chapters have been kind of slow, I admit, but it was setting up for a lot of important events later on. And, of course, a lot happens here, too…

~ * Delusion * ~

The day simultaneously dragged on and fled too quickly for Britain; his self-imposed isolation made it difficult for him to judge the passing of time with a great deal of accuracy. For someone who was used to whiling the hours away entertaining his friends, the stretches of silence became longer every day. Yet, at the same time, he was adapting to the new schedule, becoming more accustomed to the art of avoiding human contact.

His sense of time blurred further as his body attempted to adjust to the changes in routine. Some adjustments turned out to be much easier than others were.

Britain was mildly surprised to find out he didn't feel as hungry as he once had, though he wasn't eating as much as he once had. Since he no longer ate with the rest of the crew, he usually sneaked something from the kitchen whenever his body absolutely demanded some form of nourishment.

He didn't like risking it, however, because of the high chance of running into Chang there.

Chang would've thrown a fit if he'd known what his former friend was doing. One good look at the actor's haggard, pale complexion, and he'd undoubtedly figure out exactly what was going on. The chef would likely go ballistic, exploding into a heated tirade about how important a balanced diet was to maintaining one's health, how vital it was to ensure you had good nutrition and take care of yourself…

(…it doesn't matter anymore.)

More than anything, Britain felt tired. He wasn't sure why he felt so exhausted when he really wasn't accomplishing anything other than hiding from the rest of the team. Maybe it was just due to his difficulty sleeping.

His last nightmare still festered in the back of his mind; Britain shuddered at the memory of that illusory caress and absently touched his cheek. It had seemed so real…

…But, there was still more comfort in the thought of rest than could be found here. Great Britain had enough nightmares to deal with while awake, enough that he was willing to risk returning to that illusion than a confrontation with any of the other cyborgs.

Britain trudged back to the room he shared with Albert and Joe, taking his time to ensure nobody saw him along the way. Thankfully, he somehow managed to reach his destination without much difficulty; experience taught him which hallways tended to get the most traffic, and he was able to avoid running into anyone else.

To his relief, his luck seemed to be holding up nicely, for he opened the door to find neither of his roommates waiting inside. Britain hadn't expected them to be there; both had their own daily sessions with Doctor Gilmore to monitor their progress, and neither felt inclined to avoid the others the way he needed to.

Too exhausted to bother changing out of his clothes, not even bothering to switch the lights on, Britain flopped down on his bed in a decidedly undignified matter. Rolling onto his back, he studied the ceiling for a while, trying to organize his thoughts.

(…Has it really only been about two weeks since… God, it feels like it's been so much longer than that…)

(I…really don't belong here anymore, do I? It's not like they really need me around… I can't do anything to help, and…)

(…Why… am I even staying here…?)

He took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly, closing his eyes and turning onto his side, pulling the thin sheets over his shoulder.

(…I should just leave. I'm not doing any good here, and…)

(But…)

(I don't… want to go…)

Britain reopened his eyes slightly; from where he lay the Englishman had a clear view of Joe and Albert's empty cots. Albert's bed had been neatly remade, the sheets pulled tight and tucked into place; by contrast, Joe's looked like he'd only taken a few seconds to shove everything into some semblance of order. It seemed kind of strange to him, somehow, that the fastest one of their number didn't always take the time to straighten up.

For a moment, Britain actually smiled, picturing his roommates hustling about that morning before heading out the door. But the happy expression faded quickly as that image was overlaid by the memory of both lying injured at his feet, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably, pulling his covers tighter over his slightly trembling body.

(I don't want to leave… but… what I did to them… I can't ask them to forgive…)

His own circular thought patterns caused Britain's head to start throbbing, and he made a valiant effort to push the issue out of mind and focus on getting the sleep he so desperately needed. Better not to think about it -- what sort of solution could he come up with, anyway?

(…That's part of the problem,) he reflected dismally, adjusting his covers in an attempt to get as comfortable as possible. (Maybe I don't want to know the answer…)

Gradually his breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm. His last conscious thought before his exhaustion won out was the dim hope that, this time, there would be no dreams, just simple, harmless oblivion.

It was quite some time before anything else in the room stirred.

The door slid open nearly soundlessly, admitting a single figure into the darkened chamber. The portal sealed itself behind him, without any impetus from the silent cyborg. In the dim lighting, his short hair glimmered silver, a fair match for the shimmer of steely blue eyes.

He didn't reach over to flip the lights on. Mimic found the darkness very convenient.

His spying had thus far already yielded a wealth of information that the files the assassin had been given before this mission lacked. True, it was mostly details concerning the cyborgs' personalities and activities, but there was no judging how pertinent it might yet turn out to be.

For example, Mimic already had a rough idea on how to proceed based on what he had been able to gather concerning the current situation on board the Dolphin. In a way, he was almost disappointed; there was less challenge than he had hoped, for it seemed a great deal of the work had already been accomplished -- unintentionally -- for him.

Still, his disappointment wasn't about to keep him from capitalizing on that advantage.

Crossing the room quickly, careful adjustments enabling him to practically glide across the floor without making a sound, the silver-haired shapeshifter soon stood over his weaker counterpart. Pale steel eyes narrowed with unconfined loathing; again Mimic wondered at how it was possible for someone like himself to be related in any small fashion to such a worthless excuse for a cyborg.

(Useless… absolutely… worthless…)

He brushed the bulky metal fingers of his right hand over the sleeping actor's brow; Britain visibly flinched at the fleeting touch. Mimic's already thin grimace tightened into a sneer. His arm shifted so that the tips of his fingers were pointed directly at Britain's forehead.

(Pity I can't actually fire; it would be interesting to see how far he would splatter…)

However, such a temptation would have to go ignored, regardless of the limits of his ability. Mimic had his orders.

His faux-gunhand, though incapable of duplicating his borrowed form's ability, had other uses. Mimic let it drift down to one side, bringing his other hand up to rest just across from it.

Then he brought both down to rest on either side of Britain's face, his fingers digging into the skin.

Once again, his hands seemed to meet little resistance, and the same sensory overload surged into the assassin's system. He felt Britain stiffen at his touch, face twisting with agony, and a feral sneer contorted Mimic's stolen features in response.

He could feel it -- that sense of connection and yet disconnection at the same moment -- the feeling of being cut off from his own powers, a core part of his being blocked away. Just the concept was torturous for Mimic to consider -- yet he refused to let go, aware that whatever suffering he felt from the blockade was certainly worse for its host.

His lips curled back in derision, steely eyes glowing with hatred. Yes; he wanted this pathetic excuse for a cyborg to suffer; the mere concept of his wretched existence wasn't nearly horrible enough. This -- mockery -- of everything Mimic was and could become -- didn't deserve to live.

…No… death was too good for this pathetic creature. 007 needed to suffer… and Mimic was determined to ensure he felt all the agony and pain something as useless as a broken cyborg deserved to feel for every moment of their worthless life.

"Inferior piece of junk," he snarled, in a voice almost too filled with hatred to be recognizable as belonging to 004. His form rippled and stretched, the muscles of his back thinning out into billowing extensions that almost looked like wings. "You shouldn't even be allowed to exist…"

~ * ~

…The spider was back.

Britain whimpered as his subconscious wove a vivid tapestry from his hallucinations, spurred on by the increasing blurring of the lines between reality and illusion. Though a tiny part of his mind struggled to hang onto the notion that this was nothing more than feverish imaginations, a single brush across his face that seemed too real to be insubstantial was enough to shatter his grasp on that conviction.

In his frightened, chaotic mind, it all seemed real enough, a plausible extension of the nightmare he was already ensnared in real life.

The web was real, just as genuine as the touch that already spread a terrible heat over his face, like the rush of some monstrosity's breath. In his fear Britain fancied he could almost smell the rancid odor, and he weakly attempted to turn his head away, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

But it was useless; the webbing bound him so tightly he could barely move, trapping his legs and arms so firmly he couldn't hope to budge them. Britain's feeble struggling intensified as he felt the spider's fangs slide into his cheeks, pumping white-hot agony into his body. He jerked convulsively, feeling the poisonous blaze spread into his chest and lungs, choking him, and bit down hard on his lip to contain his scream.

(…It's no use… I can't…)

His body sagged back down as the fight suddenly drained out of Britain. What was the point? He couldn't possibly escape in his condition; even if he hadn't already been trapped, it was only a matter of time before something happened. He couldn't defend himself anymore…

(…Maybe… I should… give up…?)

The burning was still concentrated mostly where the fangs penetrated his skin, but Britain knew it was only a matter of time before it consumed him. And… then…

(………won't it be over…?)

(…Then…)

(…maybe…)

(……it won't be so…)

He let what remained of his breath in a sigh, feeling the first vestiges of calm steal over him as the thought came into being. His body was still burning from the poison entering his veins, but, somehow, the pain didn't seem as horrible anymore, because at least it would be coming to an end soon…

"…I won't let you go that easily."

The low snarl came from directly above him, and Britain's eyes immediately snapped open from shock. It wasn't simply surprise from hearing somebody else's voice; rather, the fact that he recognized it.

Despite the heat continuing to spread through his body, his vision retained enough focus for him to see clearly what towered over him. His pupils shrank immediately, eyes widening, and the urge to scream rose back in his burning, constricted chest.

The arachnid looming above balanced on eight spindly legs: the front two braced on either side of his head close enough that he could glimpse a fringe of hooked black and gold fur covering the towering shafts. What he'd thought were fangs were actually hands, but they dug so deeply into his skin that Britain couldn't judge if they ended in fingers or claws.

What caused a rush of frigid anxiety to wash over him and briefly stem the blazing agony in his veins, however, was the sight of bulbous golden eyes staring down at him from above a leering skeletal grin.

"You are mine, cyborg," the ghastly visage purred, leaning in closer until all his captive could see was his cruel smile. "You will never escape… not even death can save you…"

He clamped down harder, hands pushing farther under his victim's skin, and Britain opened his mouth to scream. But the sound came out muffled, as suddenly the cocoon already binding him down span itself tighter, engulfing him from head to toe.

But his captor's hands remained buried in his skin, slowly pushing deeper as Black Ghost leisurely set about his torture.

Shrieking against the webbing covering his mouth, Britain tried to squirm free, but his thrashing did nothing to disturb his bindings. Black Ghost's poisonous embrace threatened to tear him apart from inside, but now he held no illusions about the pain ever ending. It would never stop…

~ * ~

Francoise clawed at her ears as she stumbled after the others, though she knew Albert and Joe had already outpaced her. The closer she got to the source, the worse her headache intensified, but even though she knew they would do their best to put a stop to it, she had to at least try and do something herself…

It was strange how a cry could sound so muffled and yet so strong at the same time. She knew if it didn't stop soon she was likely to go insane -- but how much worse was it for the one making that noise?

It was no big surprise that Joe reached the door first; his fist banged against the portal while his other hand fumbled at the front, raising his voice in a worried shout:

"007! Are you okay?!"

His only answer was the echo of his own knocking, accompanied by another dull, smothered shriek from inside.

Then Albert was beside him, the silver-haired German throwing his shoulder against the door. It buckled open, nearly falling clear of its track, and Joe all but threw it to one side so they could get inside.

For a moment both could only stare, taken aback by the sight of their roommate thrashing and buckling wildly on his bed, completely entangled in his sheets. What stunned Joe the most was how Britain had somehow managed to get entirely wrapped up in the thin white covers; from the way he was twisting about, he thought that there should have been at least some progress in freeing himself. Instead, the sheets seemed to cling all the tighter to him.

"G.B.!"

Albert got to him first, and Joe glimpsed the side of the German's left hand shining as he grabbed at the tossing Britain. The outside of the sheets immediately ripped, and Albert quickly sheathed his knife before the actor's wild thrashing carried his side right into the laser blade.

By then Joe reached him, and between their efforts both managed to uncover Britain. The covers fell forgotten to the floor as they attempted to rouse their friend, Joe trapping the Englishman's hands with his own while Britain clawed at the air.

Britain's shrieking had mercifully ceased by then, dropping to a frightening whimpering. It sounded almost like he was forming words, but too soft and garbled for them to understand.

"G.B., wake up! Come on!" he coaxed.

Albert seized Britain's shoulders and forced him down against the cot. He was still jerking about, but his thrashing lacked energy, all the fight draining out of him now that his bindings were heaped on the ground. Still, his eyes were screwed shut, and he continued to murmur fearfully under his breath.

"Oh, man, G.B.…" whispered Joe.

As the panic of the moment ebbed away, the young leader was getting a clearer view of just what sort of state the former shapeshifter was in. Britain's complexion had drained of nearly all its color, his face haggard and drawn with fear and exhaustion. His dark clothing made his skin seem all the more washed out in comparison. Though he'd finally stopped thrashing, his body continued to tremble, whether from terror or cold Joe couldn't judge.

"Good heavens, what on earth happened in here?!"

Joe turned around to see Doctor Gilmore stumbling into the room; through the open doorway he could see Francoise and Geronimo in the hallway beyond, the former leaning against the latter. All three looked just as worried and concerned as Joe figured he probably did.

"…I don't know yet," he admitted, looking back at the shuddering Britain, garnet eyes filled with turmoil. "He looks like he's in pain, but…"

"…Let's get him out of here," Albert said at length, raising his carefully impassive glassy gaze to meet Gilmore's. "Obviously we need to find out more about what's going on…"

"……" The scientist nodded at length, already serious eyes darkening with concern.

Albert lifted Britain off the cot; the actor's trembling abruptly ceased when his weight settled into the German's arms. Kicking off the sheets that had settled around his legs, Albert carried him out of the infirmary with Joe's assistance, the brown-haired lad staying close to his side and regarding the unconscious actor worriedly.

Joe hesitated at the doorway, letting the others go ahead of him to the infirmary while he looked back into the room. His gaze rested briefly on the pile of discarded sheets, then he shook his head and followed after the others, sliding the door shut behind him.

As soon as the portal sealed itself, the covers quivered and lurched upright, the stark white fabric shooting through with color and arranging themselves into stolen features. Mimic hissed, clapping both arms tightly over his side, cold steel eyes reflecting pure rage.

(Damn 004!) he thought furiously, feeling his wounded side.

He'd barely been able to maintain the concentration required to stay in his disguise after that rough treatment. Only the fact that he knew his mission and life would be forfeit if he dropped it enabled him to muster the strength needed to keep his borrowed form.

Even now, after abandoning it for a safer, more human form, his side still felt like it'd been ripped open. It would hold well enough, but all the same, to be injured before he'd even revealed himself…!

(He'll regret that! Damn…)

Mimic lurched to his feet, schooling his thoughts together as the pain slowly receded. It wouldn't do to tip his hand now. He'd done enough for now; he could recuperate while waiting for the rebels to fulfill the next part of his plan for him.

Fantasizing about what awaited 004 after he completed his master's latest orders, Mimic began shifting into a new form, ready to leave now that he'd accomplished what he'd intended here for the moment.