Disclaimers are handily located back in the first chapter, easily accessible courtesy of your local browser 'back button' feature. You know, personally, I think Mimic falls more clearly under the category of 'sadistic witch' than 'evil Mary Sue', but you're free to use your own judgement on that…
~ * Frustration * ~
The Dolphin's engines were still, the former war machine resting silently in place. The massive craft bobbed ever so slightly, courtesy of the waters that cradled it. There was almost uneasiness in the way it seemed to hesitate, prior course forgotten in lieu of the latest crisis its crew faced. This sense was heightened by the miniscule figures that darted intermittently around its extensive hull, swimming in erratic, ever-widening arcs around the submarine, scouring their surroundings in vain.
Making his latest pass beneath the Dolphin, Pyunma came to a halt, splaying the fingers of his left hand absently against the curved underbelly of the ship while heaving a silent sigh. The aquatics expert shook his head slowly, resigned, even as his marine eyes swept the vast expanse of ocean stretching out before him.
(This is useless. There's just no sign of that new enemy or Black Ghost in general.)
The muscles in his hand clenched, involuntarily, dusky fingers pressing against the smooth, unyielding hull. Pyunma could feel his jaw tightening as well, teeth grinding behind tightly pursed lips.
So the Dolphin had been invaded -- breached by an enemy they knew next to nothing about, who then slipped from their grasp after finally being found out. But how long had they been there, waiting for an opportunity… hours? Days? A week, or even…?
All they knew for certain was that this new opponent was another cyborg, an assassin with the ability to shapeshift similar to one of their own -- only now Britain was missing as well. Kidnapped, if he understood Gilmore's words correctly -- the poor doctor had been frantic, struggling to establish some measure of order after the assassin's abrupt assault.
For now, he was supposed to be trying to find some clue as to where their uninvited guest had fled, some elusive key that would hopefully lead them to their missing member and some much-needed answers.
It was a lost cause. Though he'd rushed to get out into the water as quickly as possible after learning the assassin had gotten out, Pyunma was painfully aware that it was a little too late. There was no sign of the shapeshifter, and even though he'd scoured the area three times already, he'd yet to find some concrete clue to their whereabouts.
Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, it was obvious that the intruder was long gone -- taking with them the best chance of finding out what had happened to 007.
Logic dictated that, since there was little hope of tracking down their enemy in the middle of the ocean, he should return to the deck and start other lines of investigation. Had the intruder tampered with anything while onboard? The thought of some nasty little surprises tucked away inside discretely hacked programs sent shudders down his spine, unlikely a prospect as that seemed -- the Dolphin was a fine piece of work, with plenty of safeguards set up to prevent any such tampering.
…But then, they'd also thought it to be a safe haven from Black Ghost.
Instead of swimming over to the hatchway, however, Pyunma remained where he was, gazing out toward another cyborg engrossed in his own explorations several feet away. All of their team were outfitted with technology that allowed them to communicate so long as they were within a certain distance of each other, but even without checking through that the aquatics expert was easily able to identify his companion by observing his silhouette's movements.
The nearby searcher dropped down several feet, almost swooping toward a patch of gently waving undergrowth that he apparently decided moved in some suspicious fashion. Despite the distance, Pyunma was able to see how he dug through the seaweed, forcing it apart coarsely. After several seconds of fruitless mangling, he kicked upward and away from it, with nothing more to show for his efforts than a handful of tangled moss. He cast a glance at it, clearly disgusted, then shoved it to one side, letting the pitiful wreckage drift away to fade out of sight as he returned to scanning the area with harsh copper eyes.
Watching his teammate ascend, Pyunma imagined he could almost feel disgust and frustration rolling off the other cyborg's body in heated waves, palpable despite the distance and water separating them. So far he remained silent, having yet to hail any of his comrades with news or even a grumbled commentary, yet somehow Pyunma got the impression that didn't mean he wasn't muttering to himself.
Figuring he should be the one to break the silence before the storm he sensed brewing broke, Pyunma gathered his thoughts carefully.
["…Jet."]
He saw the other cyborg pause at the sound of his name, then pivot slowly and gaze toward the dark-skinned mariner. Pyunma didn't need a clear look at the American's face to picture how his bronze eyes smoldered in dangerous, narrow slits, wild red hair stirring in underwater currents.
If they weren't underwater, Jet would already be gone. Both were aware of that fact. If this invasion had occurred on land, the fire-tempered punk would be streaking through the sky in pursuit, leaving the others in his wake, to catch up when they could.
Jet had been right, of course -- or at least his words seemed wiser in light of this latest development. They'd attempted to lie low until they recovered from that last assault, only to discover the enemy another step ahead. Black Ghost knew where they were, sent another cyborg assassin after them, and Britain…
…Gone. Just like the illusion of safety they'd nurtured for the past two weeks.
Jet had been right, but there wasn't anything remotely pleasant about that knowledge. The brash redhead wouldn't be strutting about proclaiming his superiority over the others for predicting correctly that they were making a major mistake.
It hadn't prevented this… this travesty from…
["…Let's make another sweep, just to be sure. Okay?"]
Pyunma tried to instill an optimism he didn't feel into his tone, fully aware it would do little to soothe the hawkish cyborg. Truthfully, his own words did little to comfort the combat specialist himself. The only reason he made the effort was because the entire mess weighed down enough as it was; he certainly didn't need to help by broadcasting his doubts to anyone else.
Jet remained strangely silent, but his head jerked once, the crest of his wild hair bobbing with his curt nod. Pushing away from the hull, Pyunma swam toward his teammate, resuming the search for their current equivalent to a nonexistent needle in a haystack.
~ * ~
The first gash ran diagonally along the slope of Francoise's back, a torn line from the top of her right shoulder down to the end of her left shoulderblade. The cut was uneven, deepening farther down, but through some small miracle none of her internal systems had been severely damaged -- or exposed.
Her other injury was considerably worse: her assailant tore completely through her right shoulder, practically driving through the fragile blonde in order to reach her original target. It had been close… Gilmore's left hand strayed to his throat, recalling how the sharpened tip fell just short of its target, enough that he'd scarcely dared to breathe, like that slight movement would pierce the skin.
Was it selfish, egocentric, to feel the slightest bit of relief that the intruder had not been able to reach him? The same attack that had left such a terrible wound in Francoise's back had been intended for him… he had been completely unaware… if it had hit, there was little chance he would have survived it…
Francoise had literally shielded him with her own body… His delicate little swan had nearly gotten killed, because he'd been too blind to recognize his own danger…
"…Doctor Gilmore?" Rippling aquamarine surfaces gazed worriedly at the scientist, as Francoise turned around on the cot she was seated on, legs folded primly beneath her.
Gilmore shook his head sharply. There was no time for self-loathing right now; better to work on fixing the results of the mistakes he'd made.
"…Ah, sorry about that, Francoise," he apologized, turning away. "I just have a lot on my mind right now. If you'll excuse me…"
"Of course, sir."
The pretty blonde averted her gaze to the floor, absently readjusting her loosened uniform, shrugging the part hanging off her injured shoulder back into place. Reaching back, she gingerly zipped up the back of her uniform, careful not to get the bandages swathing her chest caught in the fastener.
Her ruined scarf lay on the counter beside her bed; most of what remained was the length that rested around her neck, the ends that were supposed to trail behind having been cut short during her assault. Maybe it could be salvaged, but Francoise was tempted to just replacing it with one of her spares, and maybe buying a new one sometime.
She didn't need any mementos of that little scuffle.
Rising to her feet, she followed after the doctor, out of the room they used for single examinations into the larger infirmary. Gilmore was already occupied with another patient, but he nodded toward the girl, acknowledging her arrival.
"Are you alright, Francoise?" questioned Albert, straightening slightly where he sat in front of the scientist when he saw the blonde enter.
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you," she replied, more automatically than anything, her gaze drifting not toward the silver-haired German but to the chestnut-maned boy on the cot beside him.
Joe couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, or even look up from his lap. His hands were pressed tightly together, his shoulders slumped, even his muffler seemed to hang limply around his neck, dangling off the edge of the bed like his legs.
Helplessly Francoise looked toward the others in the room, her gaze soon lingering on the pair sitting close to the exit. Chang balanced Ivan's bassinet in his lap, gently rocking the sleeping infant back and forth. She would have offered to relieve him of this duty, but recognized that the task was a much-needed distraction for the chef.
She couldn't bring herself to begrudge him that. She would simply have to do without for the time being.
Francoise wasn't the only one watching Chang tend to their youngest member. Albert didn't know whether he was more relieved or frustrated by the sight: relieved because he'd thought the fire-breather died at the assassin's hands, and yet frustrated for the exact same reason -- he'd fallen for the deception hook, line and sinker.
(I can't believe I fell for that! I should have known something was wrong… like how she'd caught him so easily. He didn't even look hurt or anything, just… frightened…)
Yes… he'd seen the terror in 'Chang's' eyes, and couldn't recognize it as fake. He hadn't picked up on how closely the stout cyborg was pressed against his captor's body, how he wasn't being held as firmly as you'd expect a hostage would be… All he'd seen was his friend in danger.
It's difficult to think clearly when somebody close to you is in trouble -- especially when the threat is right in front of you, not quite close enough to touch, to stop, but close enough to see.
…Good thing that it wasn't really Chang, considering how they'd failed to rescue him. The intruder had killed him right in front of the pair, never losing that sickening smile.
Fake or not, Albert knew the sight of the chef with a snapped neck would stay burned into his memory for a long time.
Across from the German, Joe continued his intense study of his wringing hands, downcast garnet eyes shining beneath the shadows of his thick bangs. Albert studied the younger cyborg's face surreptitiously, aware that his thoughts traveled in much the same circles.
…Not only had they failed to save their false comrade, but 007 also…
…He didn't want to say anything to the others, but, privately, Albert wondered about the likelihood of Britain being dead. Sure, the assassin's comment to Gilmore and Francoise appeared to imply that he'd been taken away, but this was an assassin they were talking about, after all. She'd already deceived them before with her 'hostage' ploy… who was to say she wasn't lying then as well?
…No. Better to assume she was telling the truth, regardless of the circumstances. Until they could find proof one way or the other… if they found anything at all…
The doorway whispered open, allowing Geronimo to duck inside the room. The giant straightened once he crossed the threshold, allowing the portal to sweep shut behind him, aware of the scrutiny he immediately received from the others. Water dribbled down his uniform, and he moved quickly to join Chang before it could start pooling at his feet.
"Ah…" the chef began haltingly, looking up at the strongman as Geronimo took a seat beside him. "Did you…"
Glancing down at the shorter cyborg, Geronimo shook his head slowly, once, in the negative. A collective sigh, barely audible, seemed to echo through the suddenly quiet infirmary, everyone turning back to whatever tasks were before them, pretending they found sanctuary in them.
"002 and 008 are still searching," the Native American reported, more to break that awkward silence than to inform his comrades of where the pair was.
Chang bit the inside of his lip, staring down into the bassinet resting in his lap. Part of him wanted to go out and help, picking up where the giant beside him had left off, but that impulse was overridden by the sense that it would be a useless gesture. The three had been out there since the alarm ended, after they'd arrived to find Joe and Albert laid out on the floor and the intruder already gone.
If they hadn't found anything by now, then there was nothing to be found out there. That had to be why Geronimo had already returned: he figured out the truth and was simply waiting now to find out what their next move would be.
…What could they do, anyway?
The intruder was gone… Joe, Albert and Francoise had all gotten hurt, but the repairs hopefully wouldn't take too long… Already the female cyborg was up and about, assisting Gilmore in checking over the others.
…G.B. was missing, presumed captured… replaced by that enemy shapeshifter… When?
(…Before… on the bridge… It makes sense, now, if that wasn't him, but… before that…)
Recalling when he'd checked on Britain in the infirmary… -- Had it really only been just hours ago? It seemed much longer, now, like it was just another part of some insane dream… -- Chang could picture his friend sitting alone, shoulders quaking, arms folded like he was holding himself together. He remembered the deer-caught-in-headlights look he'd received when he entered, the flash of terror on Britain's wan face before he turned away, like he thought he could hide his pain from the world just by turning his back on the others, literally if not figuratively…
(…I can't believe… that could have been…)
Shaking his head, Chang gazed at the sleeping Ivan and privately wondered how the child could look so peaceful at a time like this.
(Wake up!) he thought, furiously, not quite sure whether he was actually angry with the psychic for sleeping or not yet. (You always wake up when we really need your help -- we need you now! To try -- to try and find… find out if…)
Across the room, Joe raised his head just slightly, watching through the cover of his bangs while Chang grappled with his deteriorating self-control. The fire-breather bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut, face tightening with the effort of containing the sobs racking him from inside. As Joe looked on, Geronimo quietly laid one thick arm over the back of his companion's chair, a silent show of support.
His crimson gaze dropped back to the hands folded in his lap. Dimly, Joe was aware of other eyes resting upon him -- Albert sitting across from him, Gilmore, Francoise -- but couldn't bring himself to meet their sympathetic expressions.
(I failed them. I couldn't stop this from happening. I… failed…)
Bowing his head, he felt a burning in the corners of his eyes. Squeezing his interlaced fingers together, Joe resigned himself to the only course of action available to him… waiting.
Waiting for Pyunma and Jet to return… for the accusations to start flying… for the blame to fall on his shoulders for letting this happen. He was supposed to be the leader… he was supposed to be responsible for protecting everyone…
(…Some leader I am. This team's… falling apart…)
Maybe all Black Ghost had to do now was wait, too, he mused bitterly. Maybe the rebellion was all but finished. Was it possible to put the pieces back together when one of them was missing…?
~ * ~
"W-we'll get back to the base shortly," stammered the pathetic, sweating sack of worthless flesh trembling before her. It might have been almost amusing, if it hadn't been wasting her time.
"Shut up and drive."
"Y-yes, s-si…ma'a…s-sir…"
Flustered, the hapless grunt spun back around in his seat and bent over the controls, gripping the lever in front of him so tightly he almost feared it would snap right in two. He definitely didn't want to find out how his passenger might react if that happened; but at the same time, loosening his hold might also prove a mistake, if she judged he was neglecting his duty.
She… he? …It? -- Mimic. The shapeshifter. The cyborg sitting behind him -- the demon he shared this cramped transporter with.
All he knew for certain about the cyborg's appearance was its… her? -- its eyes. Pale eyes, not quite green, not quite yellow, definitely creepy to have fixated on his back, drilling holes though his suddenly flimsy-seeming armor, into his clammy skin. It was impossible to ignore them, impossible to ignore her… same side or not, he felt like a mouse getting sized up by a cat.
The shapeshifter had boarded not too long ago, and instead of staying in the back of the craft choose to come up front, tucking itself away in a corner. She'd deactivated the lights before coming in, so that he never got a clear look -- did he really want to see? He'd tried looking at first, and sorely regretted it now, now that he'd seen the color of those horrible eyes…
When he'd glanced back, Mimic looked like a darker patch of shadows gathered in the seat, accentuated by those pale green-yellow eyes that practically glowed in the dim lighting. Even creepier was how her silhouette seemed to shift, miniscule twitches of change rippling along the edges of her seated figure, making his skin crawl just watching.
All of a sudden, his helmet felt too large and bulky on his head, his standard-issue uniform too flimsy and ineffective. He couldn't shake the feeling that, if it suited the cyborg, she could snap his neck in a second.
(…Does she even need me piloting? Doesn't she know the way to the base herself…?)
Shivering, doing a miserable job of keeping his fear controlled, he leaned further over his station and went about his work, keenly aware of the shapeshifter's burning stare.
Mimic observed the sweat trickling down the man's exposed throat; she imagined those heavy uniforms were good at trapping heat and body odor. His nervousness was almost amusing -- indeed, that was why she bothered with this little display, shifting her entire body to a dark black hue and keeping to the shadows, making tiny adjustments that resulted in her skin 'rippling'.
(Why does Black Ghost insist on keeping humans around, anyway? They're so…) She cast about in vain for a term that adequately expressed her disgust before finally settling, reluctantly, on the tried-and-true (…weak.)
Though it couldn't really be observed thanks to her latest disguise, Mimic's lips tightened together in a thin grimace. Perhaps her commander had an affinity for gathering the weak and the powerless. It would help to explain some of his stranger decisions…
Her words to the pathetic scientist who worked with the traitors and his equally wretched would-be protector came back to her: (…I shipped your broken shapeshifter off to be fixed…)
…She had not lied. That was her master's intention: to repair 007 and return him to his original function as one of his soldiers.
(…But why?! He already has an improved model: me! I'm the superior one! Why waste time on a broken-down cyborg?)
Peridot eyes flared in the self-imposed shadows. Ebony skin rippled dangerously. Her already spooked escort cast a frightened glance back at her, gulped, and turned back to stare wide-eyed at the ocean, willing his violently thumping heart to stay in his chest.
Mimic could be patient. She could wait until they arrived at the base before looking for a satisfactory answer. She was not stupid enough to ask Black Ghost outright, even as her anger festered within the same way her skin twisted on the surface.
But there were other ways to find the explanations she sought, and Mimic resolved to track them down, no matter how long it took… or who she had to hurt in order to find them.
It was only Black Ghost himself that she couldn't confront to get what she wanted, after all. All others… all others were fair game…
~ * ~
"…I'm not seeing what I want to see, doctor."
Doctor Williamson mopped his brow with a handkerchief, ignoring that the fabric was already sweat-soaked. Wringing the cloth in his hands absently, he temporized, "Y-yes, well, as I said before, my colleagues and I suspect that…"
"Suspect. Hah. What do you know, Williamson?"
(Ack…) It was never encouraging to hear the commander call someone by name, especially when it was your own. Especially using that particular tone of voice. The tissue met Williamson's brow again.
"…F-fine." He cleared his throat with a meek little cough, then turned to face his station, fingers finding the keys mostly thanks to familiarity. "The subject was previously injected with the virus in its original form, with the intention of overriding all functions pertaining to the control and execution of the transformation ability…"
"Yes, I know all that already." Golden eyes flashed. "Get to the point."
"O-of course. Ah… we b-believed that another injection of the virus would be enough to return him to that state, bu-but…"
"It isn't working. Why?"
"W-we don't know, sir. We're not even certain what disabled it b-before, so… Perhaps they created a vaccine, or…"
"Bah!" The fist slammed against the countertop with the force of a thunderclap, making his minions jump and scatter -- all save the scientist cowering before him, who jumped in place with a little, choked-off gasp. "Guesswork again!"
Williamson whimpered, dilated pupils darting about, searching for any sign of salvation, anything he could bring up to dull the blaze igniting in his commander's bulbous gaze. However, all his roaming gaze found to fixate upon was the restrained figure on the pallet on the other side of the equipment. There was no hope to be found there -- the very source of his master's growing impatience.
His coworkers were proving useless as well -- nobody wanted to risk drawing Black Ghost's attention and wrath to themselves. They scurried around pretending to be completely engrossed in their own tasks, as if they didn't notice their fuming master standing in their midst.
"W…well… we can always try administering the version we used in Mimic's creation…" he offered at length without much hope.
"Don't waste my time."
Williamson swallowed hard, mopping his forehead again with his handkerchief. No real surprise there, really, that Black Ghost sensed his doubt that such a maneuver would help. After all, they'd altered the virus considerably for that project; it didn't exactly apply for their intentions here…
"We'll move on." Black Ghost's voice was low, threatening… was the undercurrent of hatred in his voice meant for the subject or the scientists? "We'll use the back-up measures for now… but I expect to see some sort of progress on determining why this didn't work as intended, Williamson."
"…Y…yes, sir…"
The commander gave no sign of hearing his lackey's stammered response, yet Williamson had no doubt that he would return to collect what he'd requested. As his superior officer swept past, the trailing edge of his distinctive cape flaring grandly behind him and nearly striking the trembling scientist in the face, Williamson instinctively recoiled backwards, watching his boss intently, half-expecting him to lash out himself.
Despite his fears, the doctor was spared for the moment. Black Ghost's attention was temporarily elsewhere.
A few flowing strides carried him effortlessly to the tableside, allowing him a better view of the patient strapped down upon it -- and, more importantly to the cloaked villain, enabling his patient to see him standing there.
The paralyzing agent he'd injected prototype 007 with kept the cyborg from moving freely, but wasn't designed to render its victims completely unconscious. It simply dampened the body's ability to respond, making any movements he managed sluggish and ineffectual.
There was still a certain degree of awareness retained in the cyborg's eyes, however. Towering over his captive, Black Ghost noted how the Englishman's dark brown pupils focused on him and dilated slightly, his face twitching in what might have been called a flinch if he'd been capable of putting any more expression into it.
Reaching out, he ran a hand over the cyborg's chest, deftly avoiding the wires attached here and there... though he deliberately clipped one, just to see the same near-flinch play over 007's numb features.
"Soon enough, 007," he murmured, enjoying the sorrow in the cyborg's wonderfully expressive eyes. It would only be a matter of time before he would lose even that. "You'll come around soon enough…"
