The usual disclaimers can be found back in the first chapter's header. I apologize for my bluntness in last chapter's notes; I didn't mean to sound offended or upset anyone. …Which is kind of a strange thing to say before this particular section, but…

~ * Modification * ~

The stealth-rigged transport slid into its dock without a hitch, engines whining to a halt. Its pilot quickly secured the vessel before all but bolting out into the hangar, relieved beyond words that terrifying trip had finally come to an end.

No more inhuman eyes drilling into the back of his skull! No more creepy cyborg chick insisting on keeping all the nonessential lights out on board so she could sit in the shadows!

…It was a pity lowly soldiers like him weren't allowed to wear anything other than armor while on base. The edict was supposed to help keep them prepared in the event those pesky rebels attacked: nobody wanted to be caught with their pants down. Really, though, the rule was more an annoyance than anything else, but… a decree was still a decree, and defying their commander wasn't exactly common practice, no matter how inane the orders.

Even so, he might have been a bit tempted to strip off the sweaty uniform if he hadn't known that Black Ghost was paying special attention to this base, thanks to this latest project. As it was, the grunt decided he could deal with it.

There weren't any major rules against having a cold one or three, however, and the soldier eagerly headed off toward the nearest mess hall, more than ready for some downtime.

Mimic hung back in the small vessel, still in her 'creepy dark figure' guise, surreally darkened skin blending in well with the shadows cast by the side of the docked ship. Pale peridot eyes swept from side to side, taking in the workers scattered about the indoor harbor.

Though it was difficult to tell, Mimic was frowning thoughtfully. The lone soldier's fear had been amusing enough, in its own mild fashion, but she had no real longing to discover what kind of panic her current appearance might raise with these rabble. However, she certainly was not about to walk around untransformed: while the brief relaxation of her powers was tempting, the concept of allowing such lowlifes to glimpse her real form disgusted the shapeshifter.

After a moment's contemplation, she hit upon a solution, and closed her eyes, picturing the change mentally. Ebony skin rippled and stretched; her chest broadened and flattened, adopting a dull green hue, just as the rest of her features became coarser, sharper.

When she finished, Mimic was indistinguishable from the bulky, mass-produced robots that supplemented Black Ghost's forces. The only discernable difference was that this android's eyes flashed green-yellow afterwards. One final adjustment on her part, however, shifted their hue to the typical white blankness.

Confident now that her appearance wouldn't raise any alarms, Mimic set off in search of her commander. She was aware that Black Ghost was somewhere inside the sprawling base, no doubt engrossed in his latest project… It was only a matter of tracking him down. She'd already narrowed down the list during the ride back, and had some good ideas on where to start.

(…The laboratories where I received my training should have the sort of equipment required for… rehabilitation.)

Though her stolen features were immobile and blunt, inwardly Mimic sneered. Still the mere concept of Black Ghost wasting his time and effort repairing a broken cyborg stymied her.

Why? Why bother with such an obviously defective creature? 007 was one of the accursed traitors, an unfortunate impediment to furthering the syndicate's cause.

…Even taking the rebellion's weaknesses, their laughable concern for each other's welfare, into account, Mimic couldn't fully comprehend her master's actions. If this was part of a plot to use their silly emotional attachments against them, then why the talk of repairing 007? Wouldn't he make just as effective a hostage disabled -- or dead? It wasn't as if the rebellion would learn of his 'unfortunate demise' before they were lured to their own destruction…

…At least, that was how Mimic would be playing this hand, had she gotten any say in the matter.

…But, it was not her place to decide how matters were handled. That was entirely up to Black Ghost.

In the temporary privacy of the hallway, Mimic abruptly ground to a halt. Stealing a quick glance around to ensure that no blundering grunts might witness her actions, she nodded to herself, then swiftly changed, body shrinking and contracting until she hit the ground on all four feet.

The rat darted into the comfort of the shadows, beady yellow-green eyes glinting in the dim light as it took off. This form, Mimic judged, would serve her purposes just as well: its dusky fur blended in well with the darkened corridors, and was compact enough to open up plenty of alternate passages, pathways simple humans couldn't travel as quickly or easily.

Now, to find her master -- and, perhaps, take advantage of his assumed preoccupation with his latest scheme to gather information, learn more about his plans for her pathetic precursor. Perhaps she might be able to better understand his reasoning, then, and come to appreciate it more…

~ * ~

Williamson didn't pretend to understand his commander's rationale. Or, perhaps more accurately, he wasn't very good at pretending to comprehend his superior's surreal lines of thinking.

He knew better than to dare publicly question what Black Ghost was thinking. Far better -- and safer -- to simply follow orders, keeping all doubts to himself.

Still, privately, he wondered at the reasoning behind his latest commands. He gamely followed along, and for a while had thought he understood… thought he could see where he was supposed to be going with this. But now, he'd been completely thrown off.

"Unseal it."

Despite his better judgement, Williamson risked casting a curious glance over at his commander even while keying in the command. Had Black Ghost changed his mind on how they were handling prototype 007? Why else would they go through all the trouble of setting this up, only to be told to shut things off again…?

There was no answer to be found in his commander's permanent sneer. His golden gaze was fixated straight ahead, watching, waiting to see the result of their efforts.

Shaking his head slightly, Williamson turned back to his terminal and finished typing the command, hoping matters would make more sense soon enough. This job was nerve-wracking enough even when Black Ghost wasn't giving such strange orders.

Fully aware of the scientist's doubts, Black Ghost suppressed the urge to address the man, or any other of the confused coworkers that huddled around their terminals like sheep. Admonishments for their doubts could come afterward, if this left him in a sour mood. They were fortunate: punishment would have arrived more swiftly and certainly had any of them so much as breathed a word of their doubts aloud.

Now, however, it was time to focus on the task at hand: hastening along the rehabilitation of prototype 007. Chuckling coldly to himself, Black Ghost stared into the adjacent room and waited.

~ * ~

At some point the world had faded completely, as whatever had been keeping Britain in his semi-conscious state lost its grip and enabled him to slip into sweet oblivion. His already dampened senses had blurred to the point where he couldn't distinguish voices -- not that he recognized any beyond the one he knew all too well, the one that stood out most clearly among the cacophony and added its cruel undercurrent even after words faded into dull static.

Light and color and motion had all gradually blurred together as well, before the last vestiges of comprehension finally fell away. The last image he vaguely remembered, despite all feeble efforts on his part to banish it from memory, was of bulging yellow eyes leering down from overhead, a blotch of darkness against the searing glare of overhead lights.

Then, nothing -- a blank stretch of which there was no judging of even how much time had been lost.

By this point, Britain hardly even cared that there was nothing to fill that void. Though there was a slight stirring of discomfort in the pit of his stomach at the displacement -- how much time had he lost? -- it was overpowered by indescribable relief that, for once, there were no dreams.

But now that blessed grace period was drawing to a close, horrible cognizance trickling back into his mind, dragging him back to reality.

His eyes opened to blurry, smothering pink translucence.

Feeling returned in stages, fuzzily; there was the vaguest sensation of being suspended, almost floating… not quite in liquid, but certainly far from solid. All that helped ground him in reality as he drifted between comprehension and obliviousness were the pinpricks of pain he was becoming aware of, in his wrists, his ankles, the back of his neck…

Most distressing, however, was the mask he felt clamped over his mouth and nose, and the faintest rush of air over the covered area, forcing itself inside his body along with he could only begin to imagine…

Thoughts of poison and paralyzing agents stirred him into action. At first he could barely move: there was nothing holding him down that he could feel, the pricks of pain here and there were hardly enough to constitute serious bonds, but his movement was arrested by something else entirely.

The off-color translucence wasn't just above him, it was all around, smothering, stifling, irritating his eyes until he had to squeeze them shut. Feeling tears already starting to build behind closed eyelids, Britain thrashed blindly, knowing only that he wanted up, wanted out…

One of his kicks, a desperate attempt to free himself, found the edge of whatever he was floundering in, and by using that as leverage he soon discerned which way was up. With a burst of effort he pushed upward, and the moment he felt himself break out of the surface both flailing hands shot to grip the thing covering the lower half of his face. Tearing it off, Britain gasped, gulping in fresh, untainted air.

Instinctively he sought the edge of the container, groping around blindly until one hand closed around the side, then pulled himself up against it and clung there, panting. He felt the goop he'd been trapped inside rolling down off the exposed parts of his body, though he was still mostly submerged in the tank.

Brushing it clear of his eyes with the back of his free hand, Britain blinked rapidly, struggling to gather his wits before doing anything else.

One good thing about that mask, he realized belatedly while clinging to the edge of the container, his body racked with coughs: it kept that gunk out of his mouth. Still, that was hardly comforting when he could still feel it clinging to his skin, rolling down in rivulets.

Even though the substance was odorless, his stomach still churned dizzily, and it was all he could do to hang onto the side and not fall right back into the gel. At length, he managed to get his feet underneath him, and waited for some measure of balance to return before even attempting to climb out.

When he finally moved to stand, shakily, Britain wondered if his legs could still support him. Even anchored in the peach-tinted gel they trembled; it felt as if all the strength had been drained from the lower half of his body, leaving it numb, useless…

…Or maybe it was just an aftereffect of the slimy substance. At any rate, Britain wasn't about to spend any longer in that tank than necessary, not when the only thing he knew for certain about this stuff was that it made him want to pass out.

With a faint groan of effort, he pushed upward; the gel only came up to his waist after he stood, settling placidly as his weight shifted. Swinging one leg over the edge carefully, then following quickly with the other, Britain stepped thankfully out of the slime. Still hanging onto the tank's wall for support, he took in his surroundings while waiting for his stomach to settle.

The laboratory was dimly lighted; a few bulbs recessed into the walls here and there were on, casting gray shadows across the rest of the chamber. The steel-plated walls were surprisingly bare. Looking back at the container he leaned against, Britain noticed the thickness of the base, how the wiring that had been hooked up inside extended downward. Apparently the monitoring equipment was stationed elsewhere, though unless he missed his guess, it had to be somewhere nearby…

One other oddity about the tank was the fact that, while there was a sheet that clearly fastened over the top, it was hanging off to one side. If it had been fastened in place, there was no way he could have gotten out… Nightmarish impressions of awakening to find himself sealed inside the prison, pounding against the walls danced though his mind, and Britain quickly forced them aside, trying to concentrate on more important matters, like finding a way out of this terrible place.

Surveying the featureless walls, Britain found his gaze traveling upward, until he found himself staring at the high, rounded ceiling. Strange: the dome looked as if it was a single pane of glass, though undoubtedly reinforced somehow. There was something familiar about the sight, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and had no intention of waiting around until he figured it out.

Spotting a section of the wall that looked off, a slightly upraised panel about the correct dimensions to possibly be a door, Britain took a shaky step forward, then fell awkwardly back against the tank. The floor was slick, and it just seemed his luck that he'd automatically find a nice patch of gel to slip upon…!

…But then again, considering how he'd been floating in the goop, not to mention how it still clung uncomfortably to his skin, maybe it wasn't surprising some had puddled around his feet.

Looking down to determine where it was safe to step, Britain choked back a gasp as he belatedly noticed his attire. His still-addled mind had yet to grasp before that point that he was dressed differently (probably just as well, a part of his mind that wasn't reeling in confusion noted, since this disgusting goop probably wouldn't come out of wool easily…).

Instead, a dark bodysuit clung to his frame like a second skin, padded mostly by gel that had seeped right through the fabric. It was especially tight around his chest and stomach, where thin yellow piping that ran the length of his ribs broke up the otherwise stark ebony field. He couldn't pick out any discernable seams; they ran down the length of his legs and feet without any sign of where they could be removed.

Trembling, Britain brought his right hand up where he could see it, steadying himself against the container with his other. The black fabric stretched up to cover the back of his hands and fingers, but, oddly enough, when he turned it around he found that the tips of his fingers and palms were uncovered. It was the only readily apparent break in the uniform, and Britain automatically moved to grab the edge, trying to pull it loose.

No sooner did his fingers close over the sleeve, however, than the outfit abruptly constricted, strangling his gasp as blazing agony swept through his veins. Slamming back against the container, he clawed blindly at his neck -- the collar was tightened, and he could barely breathe --

"That wasn't a very bright move, cyborg 007." A patronizing voice cut through the haze, recognizable even as pain racked his body. "You shouldn't tamper with your uniform, it could set back your recovery considerably."

The sharp, stabbing pain subsided enough that Britain was able to move again, though he could barely manage to lift his head enough to see the ebony-cloaked figure standing only a few feet away. Choking, pressing his back against the tank for support, he tried to stand, only to find another slick spot and fall back to a crouch, knees banging painfully against the floor.

A low, amused chuckle burned his ears, and Britain fought the tears building in his eyes, acutely aware how weak he looked. Not even able to stand, aching body protesting each feeble attempt at movement, the last thing he wanted to do was give Black Ghost any more satisfaction.

The commander swept closer: to Britain's fevered perception Black Ghost appeared to all but glide toward him, unaffected by the puddles of gel splashed across the tiled floor. Scrabbling for purchase, he found himself flush against the tank, the reinforced glass ice against his back.

He was hemmed in. There was quite simply nowhere to run: even if he had been able to stand, let alone move, Black Ghost blocked the only potential exit. He couldn't get past or hope to defend himself, not with his powers disabled…

"You should be grateful; all of this was set up for your rehabilitation," Black Ghost indicated the chamber with a grandiose sweep of his arm. Golden eyes glinting in the dim light, he went on, "In fact, your new uniform is actually part of your physical therapy."

Britain choked, unable to form words quite yet. But his confusion must have shown in his eyes, in the way he stared at the sneering figure, for Black Ghost nodded curtly, almost to himself.

"Allow me to demonstrate…"

And then the wrenching agony was back, and Britain crumpled, folding over as his body seemed to burst aflame. It felt like a thousand tiny needles had shot from the uniform, piercing every inch of covered skin. His lips gaped in a silent scream, the only sound escaping a strangled wail.

It couldn't have lasted more than a minute, yet each second that passed only heightened the misery, and when it ended he slumped to the floor, completely spent, scarcely able to pull air into his lungs. Over the rasp of his own labored breathing, the dull roar in his ears, he picked up on another low chuckle coming from his tormentor.

"This is a crucial step to your recovery," sneered the dark figure, moving closer until he towered over the pitifully shaking cyborg. "Your transformation ability was not destroyed by the virus; it's simply been disabled. You could control it -- or, rather, we could restore your ability to control it manually, but, for now, we have a more effective alternative."

Cold, muscular hands propped him up against the tank; Britain let out a quiet whine at the unwelcome touch, but could barely twitch in response, let alone squirm away. A frigid palm cupped the left side of his face, forcing his head to turn until his fog-trimmed gaze rested on his right arm, laying limp at his side.

"Watch," commanded the cold voice that seemed to come from all around him.

Again paralyzing pain gripped his body, only this time only his arm was affected. Britain felt his pupils shrink slightly, and he watched in mute, numb terror as the limb changed in shape, pain-gripped muscles contracting and mutating into a crude, clawed monstrosity.

"Effective, yes?" mock-queried the taunting voice. "Of course, it would be so much easier if you would just cooperate, but I'm certain you'll come around soon enough…"

(…because you have no choice,) the implied continuation of that comment remained unspoken, finished only in Britain's horrified thoughts.

A bare whimper escaped his parted lips, and instinctively he withdrew into himself, or tried to. But his body refused to respond, already worn and exhausted by the bouts of agony forced upon it. His transmuted arm reverted, the tingles of sensation soon fading back into the same anesthetize that held the rest of his body in check.

He couldn't move… hurt too much to move, anyway, hurt too much to think. Not that there was any way out of this that he could see, even if his head wasn't already throbbing, a distracting pounding brought on by those seizures.

Two fingertips brushed his chin, pushing his head up until he was staring up at his enemy's grinning visage. Britain was keenly aware of the tears trickling down his otherwise numb cheeks: just another failure on his part.

He couldn't do even the simplest thing to defy Black Ghost. There was nothing…

"You're beginning to understand. Good." There was a glint of something in his tormentor's right hand; a syringe that he laid against the exposed skin of the shapeshifter's wrist. "Rest, now. We'll continue your reeducation soon."

That promise followed him into the void, his descent preceded by the tiniest prick on his skin. Britain succumbed willingly to the drug, eager to escape back into the dreamless oblivion he had found sanctuary in before…

Black Ghost watched in satisfaction as the light dimmed from the cyborg's wide eyes, the brown pupils glossing over as his body went completely limp. Good: he had seen the growing comprehension in the shapeshifter's expression, the shreds of foolish hope falling away.

That understanding was crucial to the project's success. Prototype 007 had to be convinced of the simple truth that there was no salvation. All that was left for the cyborg was returning to his intended duties.

The pathetic rebellion had no chance of destroying this plan. Even if they had developed some sort of vaccine to combat the virus, it would be useless now. It was the suit itself that compelled 007's transformations now.

True enough that it was a crude system, with more than its share of flaws: there would no be full-body transformations so long as the suit alone was doing the work. But the simplistic forms that could be achieved -- the blunt weaponry -- would suffice for the time being.

It was only a matter of time before they found a more permanent, flexible alternative -- and by then, 007 should have come to accept his place in the organization. After all, he had no choice… not that he ever had…

Hefting the shapeshifter's comatose form in his arms, Black Ghost set him back into the container, deftly re-securing the breathing mask over his face, reattaching the wires monitoring his condition to their proper positions. The translucent gel slid off his clothes easily, without leaving so much as a film in their wake, enabling him to work quickly and efficiently.

When finished, he stepped backward, allowing the cover to slide back into place and reseal the tank. Studying the slight figure suspended back in the tank, Black Ghost once again chuckled lowly to himself, pleased.

Everything was proceeding nicely. Once 007 had recovered sufficiently from this lesson, the next session could begin. His reeducation needed to be spurred along, however, if they wanted to have him adequately prepared for the rebellion's arrival.

And the fools would come, given the proper bait… once he deigned to let them discover his location. They would come for the sake of their 'friend', hoping to rescue him… such a insipid, worthless sentiment, but well-suited to his cause.

As his cruel laughter rose in pitch, he failed to notice a slight movement from above, as a shadow near the domed ceiling withdrew back into the ventilation shaft.

The dark-furred rat scrambled away, followed by the echo of Black Ghost's cackling. It was only after it got far enough away from that hideous sound that the creature dropped out of the shaft into a darkened, abandoned room.

A shudder ran through the rapidly expanding figure, and in the space of a breath the rat was replaced by a crouching, dark-haired woman who stared straight ahead with pale eyes.

Slowly her peridot gaze tracked down to her hands, drawn to the only exposed flesh on her frame other than her head. The rest of her body was clad in a form-fitting jumpsuit, ebony shot through with yellow-gold over the slope of her chest.

The exact same type of attire that Mimic had seen her counterpart dressed in.

She remained there, glaring down in grim silence at her upturned hands, for a long period of time.