As always, the disclaimers are back in the first chapter notes.
-- Conviction --
He hadn't quite figured out the balance yet.
If Britain thought he could get away with it, he would have gladly hidden away from the others until he felt confident enough in facing them again. However, he recognized that if he tried that right now, it wouldn't be long before the rest of the team sought him out, dragged him out of hiding and forced him to stay where they could see him.
…Never mind that was the last thing he wanted right now.
If it helped ease their concerns, he was willing to join them… but only after ensuring everything that might hurt them more was hidden safely away, buried so deep that they couldn't see it.
…That was what they expected, right? That was what they wanted from him… to pretend he wasn't hurt anymore?
…Well, that was alright, anyway… he didn't want them to know he wasn't okay.
He didn't want to disappoint them. …Didn't want… to hurt…
But even though he'd already decided that, Britain still found it hard to stay around the rest of the team for very long. One could only feign nonchalance so long when surrounded by those they'd betrayed, after all.
Another restless night had passed, and having put in his appearance at breakfast that morning, the shapeshifter found he didn't have the will to remain in close quarters with any of his comrades. So he'd slipped away, pretending not to notice when Chang started to call out to him. The sixth cyborg had cut himself off anyway, just watching as he walked away.
It hurt, a little, but the sting was numbed by relief that he'd escaped without having to risk another uncomfortable conversation.
(I'll find a way to make it up to him, later…)
For now he found solace in one of the supply holds. By shifting through the cargo and setting aside the empty crates, Britain was able to pretend some sort of usefulness to the others. While that deception didn't work on himself, at the very least, he was giving himself something to do.
Their supplies were running a bit low, he noticed as he moved from stack to stack. It was hardly surprising, given how long they had been roaming around the ocean since their hurried departure weeks before…
(And we all know whose fault that was…)
A too-sharp tug on the edge of a box, and gravity brought it toppling into his unready arms, causing Britain to flinch and stagger under its weight. Thankfully it was one of the empty ones. It only took a few seconds for the shapeshifter to recover, and he grimaced at his own blunder while carrying the crate over to where he'd placed the other empty containers.
Setting it down, he glowered at the carton, though he was more upset at himself than the heavy box. Even if it had fallen, he doubted he would have been badly injured: cyborgs were built to survive much worse than wooden crates landing on them.
That didn't mean it wouldn't have hurt. Plus, if any of the others discovered this little slip-up, it would just give them more excuse to keep a closer watch on him -- 'for his own good', of course.
His hands balled into fists, then relaxed as he suppressed the brief surge of frustration.
Why was he getting mad at them? This was his fault. His weakness caused all this to happen.
(They're just trying to help… that's all… they don't know any better…)
(…I'm not worth it.)
Britain closed his eyes, fighting down the pressure rising and twisting in his chest. His fingers folded into his palms again; this time, however, he didn't try to hold back the harsh wave of anger. This time he was directing it toward a much safer target.
(None of this would've happened if I was stronger. It's my fault he was able to use me against them. I couldn't fight him, so…)
Black Ghost's voice echoed through his thoughts, accompanied by the skull-faced commander's horrible laughter. Though it was only a memory -- Britain wasn't so far gone to lose grasp on what was real and what was remembered -- the shapeshifter couldn't keep from shuddering.
(Worthless cyborg… always needing your 'friends' to save you…)
(I shouldn't… I shouldn't rely on them so much.)
(The only reason you can fight now is because of me! I'm giving you my strength, my puppet…)
(I should've been able to resist… but I couldn't. And he… made me…)
(Don't worry about your friends; they'll be joining you soon enough… if you don't kill them first…)
(…Traitor… the only reason I'm not a murderer too is they're all so much stronger than me… But then, I couldn't even kill myself!)
A choking, bitter laugh escaped from him, and Britain straightened with some effort, reopening his eyes. His gaze settled on the crate in front of him.
He almost didn't register the tingling sensation spreading along his right arm. It crept down to his hand, suffusing the inside of his fist until the white-knuckled fingers loosened slightly.
Britain watched in silence as his forearm rippled and morphed. He didn't need to react to the changes he wrought.
His fingers spread apart to accommodate the weapon forming in his palm. As the bar lengthened, they closed over it once again, melding seamlessly into the handle. Some whim caused Britain to twist the appendage, darkening it and shaping it until it wasn't so obviously a part of his body.
A muted pop sounded when the transformation completed, leaving the shapeshifter holding what appeared to be a simply fashioned sword.
Britain turned his arm back and forth, studying the weapon, a strange curiosity shining in his eyes. In truth, he wasn't entirely certain why he'd chosen this shape -- other than the simple fact that he didn't want to use claws or anything of the sort right now.
(I've handled prop swords before… and this really isn't all that different. Just another fake…)
His lips pressed together in a thin, humorless smile at his own whimsy. It didn't last very long.
(…Except that this one…)
Britain swept his arm about, testing the weapon welded to his hand. It felt… odd, to say the least. The blade looked real enough, the fake steel almost shining as he moved it around, yet retained feeling. It wasn't exactly unpleasant so much as… new.
He'd read of countless warriors for whom their sword felt like a natural extension of their hand, but that old saying held a rather different meaning for him.
(…I wonder if Heinrich…)
The seventh cyborg silenced that thought before completing it, shaking his head at his own stupidity. It certainly wasn't like he could ever ask Albert about that, which would be the only way to learn the answer, so…
His gaze returned to the crate sitting in front of him. The empty container was sturdily built, thick wood reinforced with bolts of steel. An impulse tickled the back of his mind, and Britain studied it thoughtfully, idly waving his hand about.
They did have plenty of boxes just like this one in storage… it probably wouldn't matter if a few were broken, right?
(…No, I shouldn't.) His arm dropped back to his side, and Britain shut his eyes again. (Who am I kidding? Pretending to be some sort of silly fighter…)
The weapon in his hand shuddered, and started to shrink back… but then paused in mid-shift.
(…I'm supposed to be a soldier. I'm supposed to be someone my friends can depend on. …But I'm not. I wasn't…)
(…I have to become stronger and learn to stand on my own. If I can defend myself, then the others won't have to worry as much… or put themselves in danger because of me…)
He raised his hand in front of him and looked down at the sword he was holding. Fake, and silly, maybe, but… so was he. It was a part of him, after all.
Absently, he ran the thumb of his left hand along the edge of the blade. As he traced the length, it seemed to stiffen under his touch.
…A weapon, just like he was meant to be all along. Even though it was fake, he could still make it sharp enough to…
(…To what?)
An image flashed into being, and for just a moment, Britain could see himself reversing the blade and driving it into his chest -- the perfect sheath for a sword created from his own flesh. He flinched and shoved the notion away, quickly rejecting the suicidal impulse.
…Yes, that would be easy. Yes, it was tempting. But the same problem he'd found before still remained: reconciling how his friends might react once they discovered his death.
(I don't want to hurt them anymore. They went through so much to help me… I can't let them down like that.)
(…That's why I have to do this on my own. I have to prove they didn't waste their time. I have to make myself stronger…)
Turning his attention back to the empty box, Britain brought his arm back in front of him, the raised blade quivering almost expectantly. Feeling it flex, he frowned and concentrated, trying to will as much strength into the transformed limb as possible.
(I could get used to this,) he assured himself. (I can. It's silly, but it's a start, at least, isn't it? I can practice, and learn some new tricks, and surprise the others someday -- show them I don't need to be protected. I can defend myself just fine…)
He sized up his target as best he could, trying to focus on the concept of slicing the crate in two. If he lashed out fast enough, and struck hard enough, he figured that was easy enough to accomplish.
(Everything starts somewhere. All I have to do is keep trying. Maybe with time I'll be able to fight like this, and…!)
His arm blurred as he brought it sweeping down in a wide arc. Just before it struck the crate, however, the shapeshifter's eyes shot completely open.
Just for an instant, he was cast back to before: instead of the storage hold, he was back in Black Ghost's lair, surrounded by robots and slashing his way out, ripping into metal with his bare hands --
(How is this any different?!)
His arm cracked against the side of the crate with a nearly deafening smack, an electric bolt of pain coursing up the softened limb. Britain hissed through hastily clamped shut teeth and yanked his arm up against his chest, completely dropping the would-be sword shape.
His forearm throbbed incessantly, the skin burning underneath his other hand as he rocked back on his heels, choking. He had to bite down hard on his lip to keep from sobbing, violently forcing down the urge to cry out from the shock. Trembling, he glared down at the container, which seemed none the worse the wear for his aborted attack.
He didn't cry. He held back the tears that threatened to fall, angrily berating himself for even considering it.
(Idiot… idiot… you're moving too fast, weakling… What makes you think you can improve like this?! Why do you think you can improve at all?!)
Hunched over his aching arm, feeling the bruised skin underneath his fingers, Britain almost didn't hear the door slide open.
Swallowing a gasp, the seventh cyborg spun around to face it, instinctively folding his arm behind his back so that his visitor wouldn't see it. He blinked rapidly, grateful that the shelves lining the walls gave him a few extra seconds of grace period before the newcomer stepped into view.
"Ah… 003!" he called, keeping his voice as even as possible.
The pretty blonde glanced over her shoulder at him, then smiled, softly. She turned around, and Britain's heart lurched when he spotted the infant cradled in her arms. Hiding a wince, he crushed the burst of absurd fear as best he could.
"…001," he amended his initial greeting with just a bit less confidence.
(001…) A flash of cold terror shot through him, crystallizing with the thought, (He could know everything I've been trying, everything I've been thinking, just like--)
It wasn't fair, he knew, and he hated himself for even thinking such things while trying to lock it away, just like everything else wrong with him.
"We were looking for you," Francoise was saying, her smile taking on a slightly sad twist.
(Why?)
He didn't actually ask that, of course, already knowing the answer: they were worried about him. They were still uncomfortable with the thought of leaving him unattended.
"I've just been checking inventory," he heard himself reply. Leaning against the heavy crate behind him, he gave it a pat with his left hand and added, "We're running low on a few things, but overall we're doing alright with supplies."
"Mmm."
Francoise nodded in absent agreement, but Britain could tell from her thoughtful expression that she wasn't really interested in his report. Involuntarily he tensed, struggling to keep some semblance of a calm demeanor.
He still wasn't too comfortable around any of the others, but, when it came to these two in particular, the shapeshifter found himself especially uneasy. Both were remarkably perceptive, thanks to their unique enhancements, and Britain couldn't help but worry that the slightest twitch on his part would betray everything.
If they figured out what he was doing -- assuming they didn't already know – would they want him to stop? …Would they make him stop?
…A horrible thought, and one he despised having about his friends, but try as he might he couldn't shake the feeling. …If they thought it was for his own good to stop him, then…
"…G.B.?"
"Hmm?" Britain blinked, starting shamefully with the sudden realization that he was being addressed. "What is it, 003?"
Francoise simply looked at him for a moment, and he fought down the urge to shift under her piercing gaze. The blonde's aquamarine eyes shimmered with a sympathy he didn't feel worthy of, heightening his discomfort.
"…Really, you don't have to keep doing this."
He wanted to tell her the exact same thing, to assure her and all the others that they didn't have to concern themselves with his problems. He kept silent, however, fearing he might blurt out too much in front of those terribly kind eyes.
Bad enough he was worrying about Ivan plucking the thoughts from his mind and telling everyone the truth. Horrible enough that they might already have some idea of what he'd gone though. They didn't need to know anything else -- didn't need to bother with what they couldn't help.
Francoise was speaking again; he only caught bits and pieces of what she was saying. Despite his best efforts to listen, the shapeshifter kept reading between the lines, thoughts traveling in far darker circles than what she intended him to hear.
"…Please, you have to understand that it's not your fault…"
(But it is, Francoise…)
"…Nobody blames you for what happened…"
(They should. They probably do, even if you're too sweet to admit it. Why wouldn't they…?)
"…We've all been so worried…"
(…It might happen again, because I'm so weak. I'm a liability, a burden…)
"…You've been so quiet lately, and it seems like you're avoiding us…"
(…because it hurts just seeing you and knowing I could've killed you -- almost killed so many of you…)
"…I wish you'd just talk to us. Please, let us know how you're feeling…"
(No, never. I can't do that.)
"…we can help you…"
(I won't make you.)
"…G.B., please…"
Britain refocused on her face, and was alarmed to see just how close the female cyborg was to tears. Her turquoise eyes shone with painful compassion. In the cradle of her arms Ivan shifted slightly, regarding the shapeshifter underneath the veil of his pale blue hair.
"…003…"
He hesitated, wavering, then offered the pair a faint, reassuring smile.
"You don't need to worry about that. If I ever need to tell you guys anything, I will."
"…Really, G.B.?"
Francoise pinned him with a searching, hopeful look, and he knew without looking that Ivan was giving him the same sort of scrutiny. Carefully he retained his smile, praying the infant wasn't probing his thoughts.
"Yeah, I promise."
(…It's not really a lie,) he consoled his aching conscience. (It's just I don't need to tell the others anything. Not if I'm going to work through this by myself…)
Even with that self-assurance, it was suddenly a bit too painful to stand there faced with the naked hope in the girl's pensive expression.
"Now, if you'll excuse me…" he pushed away from the crate, successfully repressed the urge to wince as he shifted his sore arm. "I was finished here, so…"
Francoise didn't move right away. For a moment he thought maybe she was going to call his bluff, or Ivan was going to pipe up with a mental chiding that he knew the whole truth of the matter. Then, slowly, she turned and stepped aside, allowing him to head for the exit.
It took a great deal of effort for Britain not to speed up, even after reaching the hall. If he started running, Francoise would either see or hear it, giving the whole game away. So he forced himself to walk slowly, heading back in the direction of his room.
He needed a bit more time to think before he had to show his face to his friends again.
Francoise stepped out into the hall just as he reached the corner, and he paused long enough to wave back at her. From this distance, he was spared having to see clearly her sad, thoughtful expression, allowing him to smile a bit more convincingly as he bid her farewell.
After he turned the corner and stepped out of view, her gaze lowered to the babe in her arms. Ivan was almost sitting upright, facing the direction Britain had gone, whatever expression his chubby features might have been schooled into hidden by his pacifier. The psychic infant was completely silent, lost in his own thoughts, not quite willing to share them with his caretaker just yet.