Disclaimers are, once again, located in the author's notes for the first chapter.

-- Observation --

The blaring alarm and flashing lights were proving to be no help whatsoever in solving the problem they announced. The cacophony actually hindered their attempts to handle the crisis, drowning out commands and making it extremely hard to concentrate on reading the reports piling in.

Finally, one of the scientists punched in the code that shut off the alert. Once the sirens ceased wailing, the clacking of keys and buttons filled the room, as workers plugged away desperately at their terminals. Undercutting this lighter, sharper racket was a stream of thin beeps, the rhythm of which became increasingly uneven and longer with each passing second.

When the beeping ceded to a single, monotone note, the frantic typing ground to a halt, as one by one the scientists recognized the folly of continuing. Soon the discordant chord was the only thing breaking the oppressive silence that had fallen over the chamber.

"…The subject is unresponsive. Cause of death appears to be a terminal malfunction."

The dark glasses worn by all the scientists did little to hide the way several cast grim, knowing glances at their comrades. Some of the less guarded let out hushed sighs at the pronouncement, slumping over their stations in defeat. Others merely set their jaws and glared at their screens, still searching for some clue to why this disaster had taken place.

Every last one wondered how they would be able to place the blame for this incident on the shoulders of someone else, should Black Ghost choose to punish them for this failure.

A couple glared at the stasis tube that dominated the chamber, furious at the limp figure suspended inside, entombed in pinkish gel and wires. In their callous reasoning, the experiment's failure fell solely on those lifeless shoulders. Other cyborgs had survived the same procedures; it couldn't be helped if this one was flawed in some fashion.

…However, Black Ghost was rarely appeased with responsible parties that were already deceased. Somebody else would have to pay for this lapse.

Already consumed to varying degrees with the need to protect their own interests, the scientists filed from the room in small groups. Few spared so much as a backward glance to the deceased subject still trapped in the tube. Others handled disposal of such refuse; they had more important matters to attend to, such as concocting excuses or checking other projects.

After the last of the technicians closed the door behind him, the laboratory was cast into near-total darkness. All of the equipment was shut off, since there was no life left to sustain in the tank.

Eventually, the doors slid open again, allowing someone to wheel a disposal cart into the chamber. He waited for the portal to seal itself before approaching the tank, pulling his burden behind him.

Callused fingers rested against the smooth glass, and the man hunched forward to get a better look at the defective cyborg inside. The gel cast everything in garish shades of peach, making it impossible to accurately judge what color the short-cropped hair was, what shade the already paling skin had been.

None of those details mattered now. What was once a living being, a cyborg who'd already lost their original identity, was nothing more than so much garbage. Just another waste of resources and potential… Already they were forgotten, consigned to destruction while attention turned to other subjects.

"Perfect," the worker breathed, eyes turning to narrow slits of glittering green that studied the useless cyborg intently.

Silence was a severely underrated form of communication.

It wasn't necessary to spell out your intentions word by word, or blurt out every last thought and feeling. Such displays were much better suited to the stage, where overwrought and wordy expositions sometimes seemed all but required to drive the point home to the audience.

More often, what people didn't say was much more telling than what they did.

Not a single word had been exchanged since Albert had come across Britain tucked away in one of the quieter rooms so often used by the team for relaxing during the stretches between skirmishes with Black Ghost. The German cyborg saw no reason to break the silence just yet.

Instead, he had merely sat down on the couch across from the shapeshifter and waited. Watching.

Britain hadn't acknowledged his presence yet… or, at least, hadn't given some clear signal he was aware of the fourth cyborg's arrival. Albert knew better, of course. The Englishman wasn't so mindless of his surroundings that he hadn't noticed his approach.

It was simply that greeting Heinrich would lead toward a need for some sort of conversation to break the silence… born more from the shapeshifter's old habits than any real desire to have one.

Pretending he wasn't there was rude, perhaps, but maybe it was slightly less rude in his mind than just getting up and walking out of the room. That would be the quickest way to avoid any sort of awkward situations that might crop up if both stayed.

Making it easier to stay silent for the moment was the book Britain was holding so tightly and close to his chest. That was what he'd been looking over before Albert's arrival, and his primary excuse for failing to give the other man so much as a nod since then.

From where he sat, Albert was able to make out the title embossed on the front cover, and wasn't terribly surprised to recognize it as a Shakespearean work. He could also tell that the last thing on Britain's mind right now was rereading through the well-worn copy of 'Macbeth'.

Oh, he pretended to be deeply engrossed in the work, flipping to the next page every few minutes, but Albert could see that he wasn't really focused on what was written there. The only purpose it served for him right now was an excuse, a dodge, a way to avoid contact with him.

That was fair enough, he supposed. He saw no real harm in humoring the shapeshifter. Heinrich had even picked out a volume from the shelf and pretended to read himself, all the while observing how Britain struggled not to react.

…For the shapeshifter knew it was all an act, feeling the full weight of his companion's steady, tireless gaze. Calling him on it would only undermine his attempts to avoid confrontation, something else he was painfully aware of.

He shifted uncomfortably, turning to the next page and trying so hard to hide the furtive glance he flicked in Albert's direction that the German almost felt sorry for him. The shapeshifter had to recognize that he was caught in a trap of his own making, and the fastest way out would be to get up and leave -- something he didn't appear ready to do just yet.

He couldn't help thinking that Britain was doing a wonderful job of trapping himself just like this.

For all his efforts, it was no secret that the seventh cyborg wasn't completely recovered from his ordeal. Everyone knew this, though they remained largely divided on how exactly to go about remedying the situation.

They wanted to help, but Britain wouldn't allow it. Every offer they made was turned down, with the same gentle insistence that it wasn't required.

To say this was frustrating would be a woeful understatement.

Since their attempts to guide him along were thus far having no effect, they were stuck on how best to handle his continued refusal. Geronimo had already stated several times that perhaps the best course of action left was to wait it out, until G.B. had come to terms with matters enough on his own that he felt comfortable coming to them.

Jet, meanwhile, was at another extreme, all but washing his hands of the whole mess and stomping off to sulk/train/brood. For all his blustering and storming around, however, Albert was inclined to believe his apparent neglect of the shapeshifter's situation was nothing but an act. He had a feeling that Jet would've been much happier confronting Britain directly and forcing everything into the open all at once.

As tempting as the thought was, however, Albert sensed a much softer touch was needed. That sort of straightforward approach, while promising to get to the core of the problem quickly, threatened to tear the already damaged G.B. apart in the process. He held no desire to see Britain reduced to more of a raw emotional wreck, and judging from how Jet hadn't actually followed through with this tack yet, figured the redhead felt exactly the same way.

The rest remained caught between these two extremes, not wanting to risk hurting their friend any more than was necessary, but uncomfortable with the concept of leaving him alone. There was no stifling that inner urge to help him through this, no matter how many times their attempts got turned down.

It was a pity, Albert mused, that they weren't able to call in outside assistance. He occasionally wondered how Britain might respond to therapy, though it was a moot point considering the particulars of their unique situation.

No matter what Britain said, it was clear he needed some form of help battling his personal demons. Right now the only progress he seemed to be making was a slow retreat further and further into himself.

Even if he hid his grief and anger and sorrow so deep within that the others couldn't see it so readily, he was likely to discover it wasn't quite so easy to pull himself back out of that pit. The darkness would just keep dragging him back down, until he either accepted a hand up or succumbed entirely.

With the others around, the possibility of getting the outside help he so desperately needed wasn't going to expire. Albert was more concerned that Britain would choose the other option.

Finally deciding to take a bit of the pressure off the shapeshifter's shoulders, Albert set his book down on the table between them and leaned forward slightly.

"G.B."

Britain jolted -- there was no kinder way of describing the little twitch he gave at the sudden breach of the silence -- and turned eyes that were just a little too wide and fearful to be guileless toward the German.

"Ah…"

To his credit, he didn't attempt to justify his extended lapse in acknowledging Albert's presence by saying something to the effect of 'sorry, didn't see you there!' That would have been such a barefaced lie that even Heinrich wouldn't have been able to brush it off easily. Instead, the Englishman fumbled with his tome before setting it down, letting his gaze settle on the much safer surface of the table.

Albert let the silence hang between them again for a bit, studying how Britain shifted his weight and tried not to be completely obvious about looking for some way out. Privately he hoped that, once no form of escape presented itself, G.B. would be the one to pick up the thread of conversation he'd cast out.

Even if he tried to weave some method of retreat with his words, just getting the shapeshifter talking would hopefully be a step in the right direction. Cutting himself off from that form of self-expression had to be trying for the former actor, no matter how he tried to pretend he wasn't having any problems.

Britain just stared at his hands, folding them in his lap and kneading his fingers against each other, and said nothing.

In the end, Albert had to break the stillness again, much to his displeasure. Folding his arms together, he leaned back in his seat and fixed Britain with a knowing look.

"This isn't working, G.B."

Brown irises flicked briefly toward him, clouded and guarded, before falling back to his wrenching, twisting hands.

"Don't think we aren't able to see it. I know exactly what's going on…"

That got him a visible flinch, as Britain ducked his head just a bit more in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the flash of pain playing over his face.

"There's no reason for you to keep doing this. All you're doing is making it harder on yourself than it has to be."

The interlocked fingers were digging into the skin hard enough to drain away most of the color in his hands. Albert noticed this and frowned.

Reaching out, he started, "You're going to hurt--"

Britain yanked his hands away before Albert could finish that thought, not allowing him to touch. Letting his arms fall back to his sides, he returned the German's stare in silence. …Trying so hard to hide the conflicted desperation and fear and want warring so clearly for dominance that Heinrich almost felt guilty for noticing.

…Almost.

"…Look… All we want to do is help you through this, G.B. I understand how you're feeling, and…"

Britain's gaze dropped to the ground, and he muttered something so low under his breath that Albert wasn't able to make it out. The fourth cyborg raised an eyebrow.

"What was that?"

"I said…" the shapeshifter abruptly pushed out of his seat and stood. "…I really don't need any help right now. I feel fine, and…"

"G.B."

(That isn't what you said,) Albert thought, but didn't say, rising to his feet as well and narrowing his eyes slightly at his companion.

"I'm getting really tired of this," he grated out instead. "Just saying the same thing over and over again won't make it true…"

"But it is true!" Britain snapped his head up and glared at him, sudden anger flashing in his eyes. "It's over, you guys defeated Black Ghost and saved me and everything's okay now! There's no reason for everyone to keep asking after me and saying I'm not alright when I keep telling you I am and don't need your help anymore!"

A part of Albert wanted to pounce on that declaration and point out how much of a lie it was, but the fourth cyborg couldn't find his voice right away. In that brief outburst G.B. had shown more life and emotion than he had since the first incident with the virus.

It wasn't just shock over that keeping him from rejoining, however. The unexpected passion in the Englishman's voice informed him that, for all the lies inherent in his denial there was a certain amount of truth coached in his words.

From Britain's point of view, there wasn't any reason for his friends to keep worrying about his personal problems. He honestly didn't want them getting any more involved than they already were.

…But there was a considerable difference between what Britain wanted and what he probably needed more than anything else right now.

The anger drained out of Britain more slowly than it had come, leaving the shapeshifter turning increasingly pale and wide-eyed as what had just happened registered. He pulled back like he'd just been struck, though Albert had yet to make a move toward him. For a moment he looked incredibly vulnerable; it ached terribly just seeing the horrified realization playing over his face.

Then his gaze dropped to the floor, breaking the contact just enough that Albert was able to move again.

"G…"

"I'm sorry!"

Britain spun on his heel and fled before Albert could react. In truth, part of what kept him from reacting in time to stop the shapeshifter was indecision: he wasn't certain keeping G.B. there would help in the long run.

He could give chase, grab him, keep him from running, but couldn't do anything to prevent him from withdrawing mentally. It was already too late, now: after lashing out like that Britain was hurriedly forcing everything back down, bottling it up, terrified over what supposed damage letting it out had done.

Even if he insisted it hadn't hurt anything, Britain wouldn't believe him. He wouldn't be able to believe that right away.

…Brief as it had been, Britain's little outburst had given him a bit of insight into what the shapeshifter was thinking. It remained to be seen just how useful this would turn out to be, but for now, it was something mildly positive to latch onto.

Judging from how Britain had reacted afterwards, Albert sorely needed a way to put a slightly brighter spin on the situation.

The German looked down at the table, at the abandoned script lying next to his own book. He pressed his lips into a thin line, mulling over the whole mess. Annoying as G.B.'s repression act was getting, he sympathized with the shapeshifter's point of view. This was terrible enough for everyone else to deal with; he didn't particularly like the implications of how much worse it had to be for Britain.

…If their situations had been reversed, and he was the one faced with having to live with being turned against the others, would he have had the strength to shake off the depression and guilt and move forward…?

Albert didn't trust himself to answer that question honestly.