All the general disclaimers are back in the first chapter.
-- Contemplation --
(Why did I yell at him like that?)
Britain had regained enough sense to slow down after his hasty exit; running blindly wasn't going to help convince the others he was 'fine' by any stretch of the imagination. It took a conscious effort on his part to keep from slumping over as the full magnitude of what he'd done sunk in, an effort he was hard-pressed to keep up as he neared his destination.
(Wonderful, G.B.; I'm sure Heinrich's completely convinced there's absolutely nothing wrong with you now…)
Sarcasm only made him feel worse. That didn't stop him from continuing the silent self-lecture.
(In fact, he's probably going to go tell everyone else just how well you're holding up. Won't they be thrilled…?)
The Dolphin's design made slamming doors all but impossible: the sliding frame most incorporated wasn't suited for forcing it to close faster. But then, any cathartic effect that action might have had was negated by the consideration that doing so would all but admit to anyone in the vicinity that he wasn't dealing well with this at all.
Once the doorway had sealed itself Britain fell back against the frame, sighing heavily. His eyes squeezed shut while he vainly wished he could take back what he'd just said.
But the damage had already been done. All he could do now was deal with it.
(Idiot… can't believe I…)
Albert, naturally, was completely blameless. Britain already knew he was the one responsible for screwing up. His outburst was entirely his fault.
(If I hadn't let it get to me… if I'd just walked away, then…)
…He'd have felt guilty about ignoring his friend, then. But in retrospect, it was all too clear that flat out leaving was the better option, no matter how much of an insult it was..
Plus, another part of the reason he'd stayed was because walking out would just confirm Heinrich's clear suspicions that something was bothering him. …Much better to leave Albert alone with his suspicions than to stay and end up all but confirming them.
Just like the fourth cyborg said, this wasn't working quite the way he'd hoped.
Nobody else was supposed to know he was still having trouble. They weren't supposed to keep worrying about him.
They wanted him to be perfectly okay now that the crisis was over and they'd already won. Britain wasn't able to live up to their expectations; not yet, and if this kept up, maybe not ever.
…But there wasn't any reason for them to concern themselves with that. The failing was entirely Britain's, a problem he needed to deal with on his own.
Really, hadn't they already done more than enough? After all the trouble he'd caused, it seemed amazing to him that they were willing to keep him around. Obvious enough to Britain by now he was nothing more than a burden, a hindrance, a liability: surely they saw that as well.
He'd betrayed them; unwillingly, yes, but in the shapeshifter's view that didn't change matters much. If anything, it made the situation worse. All it meant was that Black Ghost was able to control him, send him on a rampage, and Britain wasn't able to do a single thing to stop himself.
The fact that he didn't want to hurt his teammates and friends never factored in. That was completely inconsequential… didn't matter at all, didn't change what happened.
Yet they acted like that wasn't important… didn't they realize what it meant? Didn't they understand what had happened?
…Alone, cut off from the rest of the group, he was weak, completely useless. Black Ghost had exploited that weakness by turning him into the weapon he was meant to be -- a weapon capable of destroying the others.
So far, they'd been lucky. But if it happened again…
(…I can't let it happen again. Not again…)
Right now, however, his options were severely limited. The easiest and most effective way of ensuring he couldn't be used like that again risked hurting the others in the process. …Not physically, but still, that combined with how it seemed to make all the trouble they'd gone through for his sake to be nothing but a waste…
…If nothing else, he owed it to them to at least try and find another way.
In a daze, Britain pushed away from the doorframe and trudged forward. For all that he was certain he didn't deserve it, he remained sincerely grateful for the privacy having a room to himself afforded. It meant he didn't have to bother with sustaining the admittedly flimsy act he was working on for his comrades.
Another thing he clearly needed to improve, if he ever planned on one day earning a place back in the team.
(So pathetic… I should've been able to do a better job than this…)
Britain hadn't needed Albert to tell him it wasn't working out. It was already all too obvious to him, clear as the disbelief that flickered in the eyes of the others when he tried telling them he was fine.
…He wasn't sure what was more hurtful: the doubt or the hope that usually accompanied it as they listened to his assurances.
They wanted to believe it. They wanted to believe him, just like he wanted them to trust him enough to let him handle his own problems… regardless of whether or not he was actually capable of it.
(…I have to do this alone. I have to.)
Reaching the dresser, he leaned against it, staring through half-closed eyes at the way his hands pressed against the counter.
(…Otherwise, it's all been a waste of time.)
He pushed away and straightened, ignoring as best he could how his legs trembled slightly from the effort. The encounter with Heinrich had done more than enough damage for one day, so he began loosening his clothes, changing quickly though he had no real desire to go to sleep just yet.
As he pulled a top on, his elbow struck the edge of the counter, causing a dull clunk. Britain glanced back to see that one of the pictures had fallen forward. Fastening the collar of his shirt with one hand, he reached out and tipped it back upright with the other.
The photograph inside the simple black frame was a group shot, showing all of the cyborgs along with Doctor Gilmore and Professor Kozumi gathered in front of the latter's house. Britain remembered that the picture had been Kozumi's idea, as well as having them dress casually instead of wearing their uniforms.
Back then, that particular suggestion had seemed like a good precaution to take, although it didn't keep certain members from arguing that it could blow their cover. For all they knew, unfriendly eyes might catch sight of the photograph and use that to trace them back to the good professor's home.
There was another reason for it, of course: the uniforms were, at that point, a huge reminder of what they'd become. It marked them as cyborgs, supposedly meaning they were no longer human. This was the far more likely explanation for Kozumi's gentle insistence they change into more regular clothes.
Britain absently traced over the outside of the picture, where glass met frame. Even without the giveaway factor of Kozumi's presence, it was easy to tell it had been taken early on, before the group had grown more comfortable with their newfound fortune and with each other. Though they all smiled obligingly -- save for Jet, who made a point of glowering and glaring at the camera -- most of their smiles were slight, wistful, more pretended for the benefit of the kindly man who'd requested their cooperation than anything else.
The only ones whose smiles weren't noticeably faked were Chang's and his own. It wasn't conceit that made Britain count the latter: his counterpart captured in the photograph was grinning in a completely ingenuous fashion -- because, at the time, it had felt natural.
(Somebody had to help keep their spirits up,) he thought, faintly smiling at the recollection. (After what we'd gone through to get away…)
His smile took on a slightly wistful twist, then faded into a bitter line as he mused over how much easier it would be to convince the others he was alright if he was able to act like that again.
(…Too bad it's not that easy…)
Setting the picture back down, Britain scanned over the rest, a surreal mixture of yearning and disgust washing over him. Much as a part of him longed for the chance to return to such simpler times, for when he could look at his friends without guilt, that desire was violently repressed by the grim understanding that it would never be that easy.
How long had he relied on the others' support? How often had he decided to help 'in his own small way' and leave the fighting to the more powerful members?
Oh, he was decent enough with his gun when he needed to use it -- far from a crack shot by any stretch of the imagination, but he managed to hit his target more often than not -- and of course his transformations came in handy… but… Well, he tended to play things more defensively.
After all, shapeshifting was useful, but he wasn't as powerful as most of his comrades. Fighting seemed to come naturally to Joe or Jet or Pyunma; Geronimo was tougher than a tank; Albert literally had a vast arsenal at his fingertips; even Chang had his fire-breathing to ward off enemies or escape underground when the battle got too intense for him to handle. As for Francoise, Ivan and the good doctor, they didn't need to get involved directly in combat for their skills to be useful; how many times had the blonde or the child helped them evade an assault, or given them ample time to prepare for the coming confrontation? How many times had the scientist patched them up after a rough fight? And how often had they provided the key to defeating their enemies by pinpointing their weaknesses?
So, while he was more than willing to help out, Britain recognized he wasn't exactly a front-line fighter.
…Until now, that had been okay. He'd rationalized it by telling himself his abilities weren't designed with close combat in mind: he was meant to be the spy, a chameleon, able to hide in plain sight while others handled the more physical side of matters.
…That excuse didn't work anymore.
He was still a weapon, and still had the capability to kill -- Black Ghost had taken full advantage of this. All it had taken was tearing him away from the others, making it impossible to rely on their protection. Alone, he'd proven woefully incapable of resisting the enemy, and quickly crumbled.
…If he didn't learn to stand on his own, the cycle threatened to repeat itself until those he cared for paid the price for his weakness.
So… no matter how tempting it was to fall back on the support his friends kept offering… no matter how much it hurt to lie and push them away… ultimately it was for their own good.
(I have to do this…)
Britain scanned over the pictures one more time, wondering if he should put them away. No matter how hard he tried, there wasn't really any chance he could see of returning to less troubled times. Even now, looking at the frozen faces in the photographs, he couldn't help but feel twinges of regret over what he'd done…
In the end, however, they stayed put. After all, he deserved to have a reminder of what he'd lost thanks to his naivete.
Trudging over to the bookshelf close to his bed, Britain ran his fingers along the varying spines until locating the one he wanted. Crossing the rest of the distance quickly, he sat down and rolled so that he was on his back, holding the small book propped open against his chest.
As he silently reviewed the familiar cursive prose, an equally familiar ache rose and twisted in his stomach. The corners of his eyes stung, and Britain blinked irritably, repressing the annoying urge to cry.
Tears never helped. Giving in would just be another bit of weakness: another reminder why he'd fallen so far so quickly.
…That was another reason why he couldn't ever let the others know. There were certain things nobody could help him with no matter how badly they wanted to.
All the compassion in the world couldn't change the past. There was no altering what he'd done, or what had been done to him.
What point would telling them have? The knowledge would only hurt his more sensitive friends. Bad enough they knew what little they did: horrible enough Geronimo and Chang had seen him trapped in the tank, then almost completely under Black Ghost's command, unable to do anything more than cry while attacking his former allies…
He'd seen the effect that had on them. Just like he'd witnessed before how the others tended to waver when faced with his infected self, unable to fight effectively until and even after seeing he couldn't spare them the same courtesy.
Joe had been especially adamant. Joe had pleaded, calling him back, determined to save him no matter how impossible it appeared.
…Joe had gotten his leg ripped off. Joe had nearly gotten suffocated.
Britain had been absolutely powerless to stop himself.
There was no way of changing that. The only thing he could do was make himself stronger, until he was able to prevent such horrible events from repeating.
No turning to the others for help; that only undermined the whole purpose. It would be too easy to fall back into old habits then, unfairly burdening them with problems they didn't deserve.
It was his failure, his weakness, his problem to deal with. Alone…
Rolling over onto his stomach, Britain reached over and retrieved a pen from the nightstand. With a sigh, he flipped through the book until he reached the next blank page. Putting pen to paper, he started writing. It seemed the best way to pass the time until exhaustion finally won out and he was forced to succumb to uneasy slumber.
Aware the nightmares would surely return, he silently steeled himself to stay awake for as long as possible. A struggle he knew would eventually be lost, but another the shapeshifter felt was necessary to make anyway.