As before, the disclaimers are back in the first chapter.

~ * Preparation * ~

Silence hung over the Dolphin like a shroud, bleak and suffocating. The former warcraft remained where it had stopped hours before, simply because there was nowhere to go. It wasn't as if the crew had no destination in mind: in truth, they knew exactly where they wanted to be headed, exactly what they wanted -- no, needed -- to be doing.

Unfortunately, nobody had any idea where to go.

This was not as huge a discrepancy as it sounded. The 00-team wanted to start off in search of their missing member, but had no clue where 007 was. Sure, they understood that Britain must have been taken to one of Black Ghost's bases, but which one? How far away was it, where was it hidden, how could they get inside…?

Nobody on board even had the slightest idea which direction it was in, and that was why the massive ship stayed where it was, ponderous and awkward.

While several steps had been taken to ensure the craft wasn't completely defenseless -- its radar scrambling systems were working perfectly, its hull prepared for any assault, its crew already working in shifts to ensure they wouldn't be caught off guard -- they were fully aware it had already been compromised. Black Ghost knew exactly where they were.

It almost seemed like the Dolphin was waiting to be attacked. To some degree, perhaps that was true: it wasn't as if there was much they could really accomplish at this point except wait for their enemy to make its next move.

There were precious few moves they could make at this juncture -- and what should have been one of their most significant and possibly vital moves was unfortunately unavailable at the moment.

Ivan still hadn't woken up.

It was understandable, Doctor Gilmore had stated. The telepath had exerted himself a considerable amount during the previous crisis with Britain. He'd used his powers to destroy the virus controlling the shapeshifter, something the scientist hadn't thought possible.

But then, there was a great deal he'd thought impossible in the past only to be proven wrong… some of those revelations being considerably less pleasant than others.

There was no need to panic, Gilmore had insisted. Sometimes it was surprisingly easy for them to forget that, for all of 001's cerebral capability, he was still just a baby. He needed rest to replenish his abilities, and after what he had accomplished before, who could judge how much longer it would take?

They must remain patient, Gilmore had soothed. It was impossible to rush Ivan's recovery. Even if they were capable of rousing the infant from his sleep, did they really have the right? There was no telling what effect that might have, especially if he was more drained than they thought.

All they could do, the doctor had sighed, was wait and prepare in the meantime. Ivan always woke up when he was needed most, he reminded everyone. They had to trust in him, and spend whatever time that passed in the meantime getting ready for the coming confrontation.

And there would be a battle, of that there was no doubt. There was no telling exactly when and where it would take place -- or even what exactly they would have to face, or who they would have to fight… but it was coming. It was only a matter of time.

So it was not particularly strange, despite the late hour, that one of the cyborgs was working out inside the training room, instead of monitoring the bridge or resting, or trying to rest, like the other members of the rebellion.

The lights were turned down, and in the dimmed chamber shadows danced and darted in distorted mimicry of his movements. Occasionally, the silhouettes sharpened, becoming clearer as he swung at the air, but this shadowplay went unobserved.

The blazing copper eyes saw only his phantom opponents, along with other things that added fury to each thrown punch, every tense jerk of his limber body.

Patience was not Jet's forte. He had never claimed to have much of the so-called virtue to spare -- really, didn't claim to have it at all. True, he could tell when it was a good idea to hold back or hold off -- sometimes -- but that didn't mean he particularly liked it or wanted to, not if he could help it…

He hadn't wanted to hide in the ocean for two weeks and counting following the incident with 007 and the virus from hell, but he couldn't help that.

He'd wanted, sorely, to give G.B. one good whack over the head and force him to see that nobody blamed him for what happened, but the others wouldn't let him.

He'd wanted to find Black Ghost and/or whoever was really responsible for the whole virus escapade and beat the ever-living crap out of them -- and blow up the base for good measure -- but didn't know where they were, and nobody let him go off to actually look.

He wanted that simple privilege more than ever now that they'd discovered a spy on board -- a spy that had gotten away, damnit! -- and learned one of their own was gone. But, still, he was refused.

Jet wasn't completely blind to why. He understood the reasons, and while they added furor to each vehement swipe he took at the blank space before him, Jet also had to admit, privately, that it made sense. Unfair sense, but sense all the same.

If they went charging off half-cocked into the unknown, it would only hurt matters. Blind anger wasn't going to guide them to wherever Britain was being held now; it wasn't going to help them deal with this new shapeshifter and whatever else Black Ghost had in store for them; it wasn't going to fix things. All it would be was a waste of time and energy.

Doctor Gilmore had said to be patient. Wait for Ivan to wake up. Have patience… patience…

…Patience had landed them in this situation in the first place.

A particularly vicious swing, and Jet spun on his feet, following the momentum of the punch and letting it carry him in a half-circle before lashing out with his other fist. Glaring into the gloom of the sparsely lighted chamber, he formed a picture of an opponent in his mind's eye: a blotch of onyx, sickly white smile and laughing golden eyes bright against the gray backdrop…

A low growl resounded deep in his throat, and the redhead's next punch shattered the skull of his imaginary adversary, quickly followed by a series of increasingly violent blows to the empty space that remained.

Anything was better than picturing who they were more likely to face, when Black Ghost finally made his next move. Just because Jet had accepted that possibility -- heck, more of a probability, a coldly logical next step -- didn't mean he had to acknowledge it right now.

…Having to fight Britain, if or when it came to that, was better left to bitter reality. For now, Jet preferring fantasizing about pounding Black Ghost directly.

Eventually, exhaustion from the day's events would finally catch up with the aerial specialist, and he would have to succumb to sleep. But until that point, he would spend every scrap of energy he had left training, beating up shadows in a futile attempt to ease the frustration gnawing away inside.

~ * ~

Williamson held a certain amount of respect for Doctor Gilmore.

His regard for the rouge scientist was a closely guarded secret, one he never committed to writing or recording in any form, since that could only be turned against him should anyone else discover it. It remained locked away in his most private of thoughts, never spoken aloud, never entrusted to anyone else, for it wasn't as if his peers were the most honorable fellows.

It wasn't born from any sort of admiration on how the doctor had escaped when he did, taking so many samples of the syndicate's most powerful technology along. In truth, there were actually several accounts and rumors what exactly the relationship was between Gilmore and the 00-team: whose idea the escape had been, which ones were more willing than others, how they had managed it and so on.

There were several of his colleagues who still subscribed to the 'abduction' theory: Gilmore had been strong-armed into aiding the cyborgs in their escape. According to them, the scientist was kept mainly as insurance, reduced to little more than a tool that could repair them if they got injured.

Yet that theory didn't quite explain why the cyborgs hadn't figured out by now how to work their own repairs and rid themselves of their human baggage.

That was why Williamson didn't subscribe to that explanation, and a large part of why he retained so much respect for his rouge comrade. In his estimation, the elderly man was very brave… not simply for trying to flee the Black Ghost, trying to resist his plans, but also for remaining with the cyborgs for all this time.

It completely mystified him, for he couldn't understand why Gilmore wasn't scared stiff of his creations.

Williamson definitely couldn't say the same. The product of his latest project, the cyborg codenamed 'Mimic', had a habit of completely petrifying him.

Even now, sealed away inside her tank for recovery, she unnerved him. Though her compartment was of the same make as the one 007 had been confined to, the equipment exactly the same, seeing the former rebel in the same position hadn't inspired the same sort of unease he felt now, watching the cyborg he'd helped design rest.

Maybe it was because he didn't get the same impression of vulnerability. After all, from what he understood, prototype 007 was hardly able to defend himself anymore, thanks to the aftereffects of their commander's previous scheme. Remembering the earlier display the rebel shapeshifter had given, when Black Ghost decided to demonstrate the capabilities of his new uniform prematurely, Williamson mused that perhaps it wasn't so strange that he didn't feel threatened by his presence.

But Mimic hardly looked helpless, even suspended in the translucent gel with wires attached to her body. Perhaps that was because it was a familiar position, one he'd seen her in since her creation.

Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that he was about to disturb her slumber. Black Ghost had just requested the female shapeshifter's presence: the next stage of the plan was about to begin, and he wanted them as witnesses to his triumph.

Unlike the area set up for 007's containment, the equipment that controlled the tank was placed in the same room: partly for closer observation, and partly due to space constrictions in the laboratory. Williamson definitely would have been more comfortable observing her awakening from a safer distance, but, unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it.

Black Ghost was waiting on them.

That helped spur the scientist into action more than anything else, and he rapidly entered the codes that unsealed the tank. As the top detached and slid to one side, carried by a motorized railing, Mimic immediately began to stir. Though a mask was fitted over her nose and mouth for breathing purposes, no drugs were used to help keep her under control. She got in and out of her own free will.

Pale green eyes flashed open, and wires pulled free unnoticed as the shapeshifter got to her feet with a fluid grace her counterpart hadn't displayed. Of course, Mimic was far from disoriented or confused by her surroundings.

Unerringly her gaze slid to where Williamson stood quaking at his post, her body swiveling to face him. The scientist was immensely relieved by the tiny detail that the machines helped conceal most of his body from her at this angle, for his knees all but knocked together at the sight.

The cyborg's dark hair hung in thick, glossy locks glued close to her scalp courtesy of the slime. The peach substance dripped from her plastered bangs and into her face, yet she didn't so much as flinch as it trickled down her exposed skin. Her bodysuit, slick from the same gel, glistened in the stark light.

"Bl…Black Ghost requires your attendance, cyborg Mimic," he forced a measure of authority into his voice, mentally cursing himself at his slight stumble. "In Training Hall 412."

"…Understood."

Mimic nodded once, curtly, and stepped out of the tank. She crossed the laboratory to the doorway, then paused there and looked back toward the scientist, expectantly.

"Coming?"

It was not so much a question as a command. Swallowing hard to relieve the lump in his throat, Williamson nodded quietly. He wasn't certain, but he almost thought he caught Mimic's lips spreading into a thin smirk when she turned away.

In a perfect world, the cyborg would have been following obediently behind her creator. Instead, Mimic led the way, shifting subtly as she walked into the ebony-skinned, glowing-eyed shadow she preferred using rather than her true form. Williamson filed behind, surreptitiously wiping his brow from time to time, wishing he wasn't too scared to have his back to the shapeshifter.

~ * ~

Like many of the larger, more vital rooms of the base, Training Hall 412 had an observation deck incorporated into the structure. There was a large window in the center of the restricted chamber, overlooking the exercise chamber, framed by the panels running along its bottom and monitors along either side. Cameras were placed in strategic locations, allowing activities conducted inside to be observed from several angles, helping the observers determine any potential problems in the soldiers' practice.

It served Black Ghost's purposes particularly well now because he wanted to be absolutely certain his system had no flaws. Not that he had any reason to believe his plan wasn't perfect, but there was no harm in running a few tests first.

Besides, it would help to break his puppet.

A shivering figure crouched on the floor of the massive chamber below: with the proper stimulus from Black Ghost, 007 stood. His movements were stilted, rough, because he wasn't yet used to the system, but the commands that pulsed through his veins thanks to his new uniform would not be ignored.

Britain stared at the floor. It was about the only resistance he could put up, since the suit wasn't hooked up to control how he moved his head. Already the corners of his eyes were beginning to burn, and he hated himself for it, aware Black Ghost probably enjoyed watching him cry.

He hated himself for it, but couldn't stop them from coming, any more than he could resist the harsh tugs that spurred each move his body made.

(Weak,) his thoughts chided harshly, bitterly. (If I was stronger, I wouldn't be here… If I'd just gone ahead and…)

Pain gripped both arms, contorting them, shaping as his new master pleased. Britain could feel the change taking place, unable to stop his fingers from lengthening, tapering off into hooked claws, the rest of the limbs hardening and tightened in preparation.

It stung, but not as badly as the knowledge he couldn't do anything to stop it. His arms were locked into place, remaining held rigidly at his sides. He wanted to fling his hands away, or at the very least use his new claws against himself -- already he felt them pricking the sides of his legs, but couldn't stir them enough to even drive them further inside, enough to…

Mocking laughter boomed in his skull, deafening, and Britain's desires shifted to just wanting to tear his ears off, block off that horrible noise. But still his body refused to move, and somehow he thought that it wouldn't help, anyway. Nothing could stop that terrible sound…

A sudden pounding rose from behind, and his body pivoted to face it, left arm extending out to greet the source with a vicious slash. Metal shuddered and tore asunder, and the bisected torso of the robotic soldier collapsed at his feet.

Before he could take a breath, or even think of closing his eyes, Britain was spinning to face the next, then the next two, then the next three. There wasn't any time to really think, yet somehow his actions registered, probably since each was preceded by a twinge of pain, an impetus forcing the desired reaction.

His chest felt too tight, his attacks weren't his own, he moved of someone else's accord, yet Britain didn't scream right away. Instead, the horror built and festered inside, somehow restrained despite the tears he felt building, the twisting in the pit of his stomach that wasn't spurred by his controller.

He didn't scream, not until his transmuted hands closed over an android's skull and twisted. Feeling the wires snap against hid exposed palms, suddenly acutely aware of a viscous liquid coating his skin, he felt a shriek finally tear from its constraints.

And still, even as he gave in to the terror of the moment, the fighting continued, the severed head dropping from his grasp so that his claws could tear into new targets.

The scream soon fell to a moan, since the jerking of his body kept him from catching his breath long enough to sustain it. Instead, it was soon replaced by a soft, almost keening wail, a constant undertone to the clamor of the continued slaughter.

In the observation room, the trapped echo seemed to rise above the more muted sounds of combat. Williamson, clustered together with a handful of his compatriots, heard it at his station and suppressed a shudder.

According to the readout, the shapeshifter wasn't injured. Everything was functioning as expected. But still, if he had to judge from that low sobbing alone, Williamson would have thought the cyborg to be seriously wounded.

Stealing a glance over at the shapeshifter tucked away inside the booth, Williamson saw no reaction whatsoever from Mimic. Peridot eyes were fixed directly on one of the monitors, flickering in the glow from the display. Her face remained unresponsive, even a bit cold, as she listened to her predecessor's quiet whimpering.

Privately, Williamson wondered if it was possible Doctor Gilmore was able to stand being surrounded by so many cyborgs all the time simply because they were the first wave. The prototypes seemed considerably more human than the improved versions that followed…

The commotion from below faded, the test ending with the dispatch of the last robotic drone. Satisfied, Black Ghost eased his hold just enough to let 007 slump to his knees.

He didn't need to keep his control tight at the moment, since there was really nothing for the shapeshifter to accomplish now. If he did anything that could be interpreted as an escape attempt, real or imagined, he could reestablish control instantly and punish him.

But 007 didn't seem inclined to such a foolish maneuver, anyway. Instead, crouching amid the shattered wreckage of his opponents, the bald cyborg continued to weep softly, the sobs wracking his body gaining a bit more force now that he was able to catch his breath.

He was already broken.

Black Ghost snickered, pleased. Exactly as he'd expected.

"Mimic."

The female shapeshifter looked sharply toward him, yellow-green eyes still reflecting the light of the screens she'd been watching.

"Yes, master?" came the soft, reverent query.

"Prepare to return to the Dolphin. I believe it's about time to invite the rest of our guests."

"As you command."

Mimic bowed low, then turned smartly on her heel and marched off, face a tightly composed mask. Nobody could judge from her lack of expression the storm raging inside. After her departure, Black Ghost turned his attention back to the crumpled form below.

All was going according to plan. He couldn't wait to see how the rebels reacted when they learned what their former teammate had become…