And it starts again… This would be the third part of the series begun in 'Metamorphosis', the sequel to 'Mimic'. Naturally, familiarity with events in both stories is necessary to understand this tale. I still don't own the rights to Cyborg 009; really, what would be the point of writing fanfiction if that was the case in the first place? Regardless, I hope people will enjoy this…
-- Aspiration --
There were certain advantages to being dead.
Or, to be more precise, there were advantages to being presumed dead, Mimic corrected herself with a tiny smirk playing across her lips.
The sly expression looked somewhat strange when taken with the rest of her current form: while it suited her true face quite well, when combined with the rather bland features of Doctor Williamson it made for a distinctly odd picture. He had not been especially attractive, nor hopelessly repulsive or disfigured. The scientist was simply… plain. Unassuming. Just another face in the crowd.
Little distinguished the man she had become from his colleagues other than the fact that he was involved in her creation. Williamson had been part of the project from day one, and it had rapidly consumed nearly all of his time and energy, becoming the sole focus of his life as it forged on.
Indeed, she mused, tiny smirk twisting ironically, it had become the be-all and end-all of his life as well.
The shapeshifter had already spent many long hours going through the wealth of information her stolen identity yielded. There was something inherently fascinating about having such intricate knowledge at her fingertips.
Self-enlightenment through the medium of exhaustive notes on one's creation… a truly unique opportunity, indeed.
Fascinating, how many different concepts and notions had been batted around. The project was constantly developing, continually being tweaked and adjusted to deal with whatever situation came up.
A test subject just died? There were plenty of others; just save the files so they can be reviewed later to learn what went wrong. And figure it out quickly, or Black Ghost is going to kill someone for it -- maybe you, if you're unlucky enough to catch his attention.
He wants to send it after them NOW? But we haven't finished all the testing… oh, hell, no, don't tell him that's not an option. Just deploy the thing and hope for the best; if it fails there are still a few subjects left…
Reconvert the prototype shapeshifter? Uh, sure, we can do that… A few tweaks to the data here, there, it's all experimental and we don't know all the long-term effects, but what the hell, they're just cyborgs…
Interesting, how their superior was able to throw any request at them and the fools scrambled to find some way to comply. So many contingency plans had been created and scrapped based on the whim of Black Ghost.
Williamson had kept notes on everything. So by reviewing his files, Mimic was able to understand everything that her project had been and could have accomplished.
Every last detail…
With all the knowledge neatly arranged before her, she picked out flaws in their various little schemes, all the little considerations they forgot to make. Ideas discarded because of the ever-changing situation were taken and reshaped to fit her desires. It was a painstakingly slow process, moving carefully to avoid detection, but the shapeshifter was unconcerned about this.
There would be no error. She was not like those sniveling scientists. She served only herself now; no dark master was going to sweep aside all her carefully laid plans on some capricious whim.
She would prove her superiority…
The false doctor's eyes shone in the dim light cast by the computer, the only source of light in the locked laboratory. A few quick keystrokes called up another window to take up most of the screen. She scanned through the filenames until she found the one she wanted to view, then leaned back slightly in her seat as the video loaded.
She had hardly been surprised to find these recordings. Her former master had truly sadistic tastes, and undoubtedly enjoyed reviewing footage of his little victories. Even if they were fleeting, in a sense… But while matters had not worked out exactly as Black Ghost had planned, it certainly didn't mean she couldn't capitalize on the weaknesses he'd uncovered and created.
All flaws must be eliminated… …or turned to her advantage… …to prove her personal perfection.
Another's living nightmare played out in high-resolution feedback before gleaming peridot eyes, and a leer of cruel satisfaction split 'Williamson's' face in two.
His spine exploded -- or that was what it felt like when the nerves along his back contracted into a burning ball. Currents of pain shot from that center as it tightened, sharpened, joined by other prickling knots forming inside his stomach and chest.
Such a shock to the system should have triggered violent spasms. Yet he remained almost motionless, barely twitching in response to each burst of agony.
That only made it worse.
Instinct dictated he move, try to escape the pain. But that was impossible. His body wanted to obey the innate desire to move, but strained uselessly against bindings tighter than chains.
Caught and bound in every sense of the word, though no rope or shackles held him down. No, his skin served well enough as his prison.
As he lay prone on his back, shaking only slightly while jolts coursed through his frame, deep laughter boomed around him, echoing endlessly in his thoughts and cutting deeper than even his physical agony. His mind offered no shelter, for his tormentor had found a way to ensure the shapeshifter couldn't withdraw into that assumed privacy.
When the phantom spoke, it seemed to come from everywhere at once, driving so deep that the words reverberated in his head.
"Why do you keep trying to struggle? You know it's pointless… It's not like you can break free."
About the only measure of control he had left was to squeeze his eyes shut, and he did so, but tears continued to slip through and slide down his face. Several spilled into his mouth, giving him further reason to choke and sputter, about all he could muster thanks to the terrible pressure in his chest.
"Hmnph…" snorted his torturer, sounding both disgusted and pleased. "Weak thing… is that all you're capable of on your own? Crying like a child?"
Icy fingers closed round his throat, eliciting a gasp and an involuntary, instinctive plea:
(No! Let go! Don't touch me!)
The frightened cry wasn't vocalized: even if he had been capable of speech at the moment he wouldn't have wanted to say anything. He knew full well that it was a wasted effort; there was no appealing to the mercy of a monster who had none.
But the phantom could hear his thoughts now, or so it appeared, and he laughed at his captive's despairing entreaty.
"Pitiful… but expected. You were never worthy of the gift I gave you… Letting you have control of such a power was a waste of time from the start. Pathetic creatures need powerful masters to keep them in line…"
Fresh pain erupted up his side when he was tossed aside, landing roughly on the cold steel floor. New tears welled and poured forth, refusing to stay back when he tried to stop them. He couldn't help it… it hurt so much…
"Go ahead and cry, my puppet… Cry all you want. It suits a miserable excuse for a cyborg like you…"
He opened his eyes, already swollen and sore, and watched through a blinding watery haze as a shadowed, cloaked figure strode away.
But that departure didn't mean he was alone, for the same voice continued to haunt his thoughts, taunting and leering, reveling in his victim's mental anguish.
(Weak… worthless… you've broken too easily, but perhaps your allies will be more of a challenge. Strange, isn't it, that they actually feel obligated to come after you… Just because you're a 00-number? Or do they find you amusing, too…? Worthless little thing…)
(…N…no…)
(The only thing you're good for is a pawn! The perfect bait for the perfect trap… and the perfect trap, too, with a little prodding…)
(…St-stop it…)
(I'll make something out of you yet, my puppet! You should be grateful…)
Great Britain sat upright with a strangled gasp, nearly pitching clear off the bed from the sudden force. After grappling unsuccessfully with the paralysis in his nightmare, regaining the ability to move was a serious jolt to his senses.
Confusion robbed him of that simple gift for several seconds longer; he stared blankly into the darkness, breathing heavily as the shadows softened into more familiar surroundings.
This was… his room on the Dolphin. Recognizing this took the edge off his terror, enabling him to regain some semblance of self-control.
Black Ghost wasn't here. It had just been a nightmare…
…No. A memory…
The covers lay in wild disarray where they had been pushed and flung aside. Britain reached back and fumbled for one without looking. Drawing the thin white sheet closer and clutching it to his chest with one hand, he pulled his knees up and sat there, shuddering.
His free right hand absently rose to cover his face, and Britain closed his eyes while gently rubbing two fingers against his aching forehead. The effort hardly helped, and his brow only knotted further when the digits drifted down to brush his wet cheeks.
He must have been crying while caught up in his dream… Britain grimaced at that thought.
(…Is that all you can do, cry?)
Black Ghost had taunted him time and again with that, but now the admonishment wasn't coming from the despot. Britain scrubbed at his face for a moment, then roughly flung the cover he'd been holding back onto the bed and stood up.
After reaching the door, the shapeshifter peeked outside before stepping into the hallway. There shouldn't have been anyone else awake at this hour, let alone waiting outside his room, but Britain figured it was better to make certain.
Right now, he didn't want to deal with anyone else's misplaced concern.
He didn't turn on any lights until he was safely inside the bathroom; flipping on the one mounted just over the mirror, he studied his reflection.
Just as he'd suspected, there were sticky tracks running down along the sides of his face: evidence of the tears he'd shed. Britain frowned, then switched on the faucet and dipped his hands into the cool water.
A few minutes of splashing and rubbing removed the streaks, but unfortunately couldn't erase the shadows remaining under his eyes. Nor was the liquid able to restore color to his skin. While it wasn't nearly as washed out as before, it couldn't be denied that he still looked a bit pale.
…Or was the improvement partly an illusion? After all, the faded-out pajamas he had on now didn't make for as sharp a contrast as the black suit he'd worn during his imprisonment…
He shook his head quickly, but was too late to drive such darker musings away. Not that his thoughts had strayed all that much from such paths lately…
Great Britain glared at his reflection. Before him stood the one responsible for nearly tearing the rebellion apart from within -- turning against his former friends because he was too weak to stop himself. A worthless, sorry excuse for a cyborg who was only good as a tool… a puppet, a pawn.
He'd betrayed everyone… the weakest link in the chain, and when he'd snapped under the pressure, it all fell apart…
…And yet they… they wanted him back…?
Impossible… there was no way they'd all forgiven him for what he'd done. He'd nearly killed them so many times…
His hands began to ache. It took a moment for the reason why to register: he was pressing them against the countertop. Recalling how he'd damaged one before while lost in self-pity -- as well as what happened afterward -- Britain immediately jerked his arms up in front of him.
Wrapping his right hand over his left, he frowned down at them, absently running his thumb over the inside of his wrist. He tightened his grasp, feeling the skin give away slightly.
…The suit had been tighter. More like a second skin, albeit one that sprouted barbs whenever Black Ghost decided to inflict more physical pain on his puppet. Whenever it activated it was like having millions of needles driven into his skin all at once, like he was being turned into a living pincushion…
…Except those wounds were never big enough to bleed. No matter how horrible it got, there was no chance of it turning fatal. Black Ghost was too careful in that respect…
His fingers tingled slightly, an altogether different sensation from the torture he'd gone through under the tyrant's care. This was just as familiar, however, simply in another way.
The change was miniscule at first: you would have to look very closely to notice the difference. It was difficult to tell how the fingers wrapped around his left wrist were digging just a little bit deeper, the tips becoming just a little bit sharper, less rounded like normal.
Britain gazed down at his hands dully, eyes dark and glazed.
Squeeze and pull. If he drove them in all the way and then yanked downward, he might be able to get to at least the elbow before getting dizzy from blood loss. Maybe he could hold out longer, since he was a cyborg… even if not a very good one… Or, perhaps, if he crossed his arms just right, he could open up both at once with one quick move.
He shifted his other hand, shifting experimentally to see if he could get a good grip or not. In the middle of turning his arms around, however, he paused, struck by a sudden thought.
…If he did this now, right here, somebody was going to come in and find him eventually. Maybe they wouldn't be in time to do anything… if he was lucky… but…
He could almost picture the scene in his head, much as he wanted to block it out: the door opening, light streaming in from outside to reveal his lifeless body sprawled on the tile floor… his unfortunate former friend first staring, comprehension sinking in, and then…
…Strangely, he couldn't think of anyone reacting favorably to it. Even though they had to despise him for what he'd done… he couldn't see any of the others looking at that tableau and saying 'Good, that idiot's finally gone…'
All he could picture was Francoise shrieking… or Joe running to his side… or Doctor Gilmore trying to revive him… or Jet shaking him and cursing and screaming to get up… or Chang crying…
Squeezing his eyes shut, Britain shook his head sharply and loosened his grip, plunging his reverted hands back into the water still left in the sink. The water was still a bit cold, but he hardly noticed, splashing more onto his face.
He felt tears forming, but fought them back. His eyes burned uncomfortably, but he didn't care.
Crying didn't solve anything.
Tears hadn't stopped the torment before… only magnified it. The virus wasn't affected at all, and Black Ghost delighted in his pawn's anguish, reminding him how powerless the shapeshifter really was.
(He was right… I'm weak, worthless…)
(…But…)
Slowly he reopened his eyes, raising his gaze back to the mirror. The face reflected there was pale, dripping wet, but not smeared with tears. His pupils had a glossy sheen, so darkened they seemed more black than brown, but weren't obscured by a watery haze.
…He had to become stronger. Just as he'd told himself after getting rescued… after failing to end it once and for all.
If the others were willing to take him back into the group… if he wanted to be worthy of becoming part of the team again… then he had to prove he wasn't useless.
He couldn't erase what he'd done… all the failures and fumbling, the mistakes and misjudgments… but maybe he could atone for all that.
There was no hiding that he'd been broken… but he could at least try to rebuild.
Only now he wouldn't let himself be weak like before. He recognized his flaws now; it was kind of hard to miss them with Black Ghost targeting all his vulnerabilities.
He had to fit the pieces back together while discarding everything that allowed him to be shattered in the first place. Otherwise… it would just happen again and again, until everyone and everything he cared about was destroyed…
Yes… this was for his friends' sake. Britain wouldn't be a danger to them anymore.
He'd already resolved not to burden them anymore with his problems. That was why he'd gone back to staying in his own room rather than the infirmary. Doctor Gilmore had protested, of course, but after discovering he'd regained control Britain didn't see any need to remain. And when he'd suggested that he'd be more comfortable in his own room, how could the scientist deny him that simple request?
It wasn't like his nightmares could be treated: they were all memories, and the last thing anyone else needed was to learn about those.
They couldn't change the past. It wasn't worth troubling them with. If he told somebody, all it would do was give them something else to worry about.
(They've already worried about me enough,) Britain told himself bitterly. (I don't want to… I won't be a problem for them any longer.)
(I can't let myself be weak anymore. I can deal with this on my own. If I can't… then why expect them to handle it for me?! That's not fair to them! And I won't… I won't bother them anymore…)
He stared steadfastly into the mirror. His eyes were still burning from restrained tears, but none brimmed around the edges. Perhaps they also seemed a bit dimmer than before… still dark, but at least filled with solemn resolve instead of an annoying fog.
(I'm fine. I am going to be just fine. I am not going to be weak any longer. I won't be useless anymore. For everyone else's sake, I can do this…)
He smiled. It wasn't bright or cheerful, or even a shadow of his old grin… more a slight, tentative expression, more wistful than anything else.
Still, it was good enough for now. Maybe it would improve once the strange tightness in his chest abated, once he got more practice with this new role he was assuming…
"I'm fine," he murmured under his breath… rehearsing. "I'm fine, guys, just fine…"
…Maybe…