All the general disclaimers are back in the first chapter.
-- Speculation --
Did the benefits of working for the Black Ghost organization really outweigh the risks?
The tricky subject rarely came up in conversations -- those foolish enough to air such concerns aloud generally disappeared afterwards, quickly and effectively silenced via reassignment. Again, the work environment made it difficult to trust one's comrades, particularly with such delicate topics.
Therefore, such misgivings were nursed in private, pushed to the back of one's thoughts to be mulled over secretly when one was alone with their work.
True, there were many advantages of working for Black Ghost: most obvious was the promise of power. You gained access to seemingly limitless resources: technology the world at large didn't realize existed rested in the scientists' hands. Incredible opportunities awaited the dedicated and the ambitious… and all that was required was to pledge loyalty to the most brilliant of them all.
Of course, not everyone had been voluntarily recruited… some of the more choice members needed to be… persuaded.
However, the loyalty of such individuals was all but guaranteed, so long as the exact terms of the agreement were met. When freedom was traded for safety -- either for oneself or one's loved ones -- the clearest part of the bargain was how much it depended on the new employee's good behavior.
Personnel who didn't need to be convinced with such extreme measures were plentiful, far outnumbering the resistant members. All most needed was the promise of such vast rewards for their services.
Once the organization took them in, however, it was only a matter of time before the less beneficial sides of the deal came to light.
The more power you gained, the deeper you were drawn in. After pledging your loyalty to the shadows, you couldn't return to the unenlightened masses. You were in it for life.
Regrets? Repressed by anyone who wanted to survive. What use were regrets now? They had crossed the Rubicon: no turning back now.
Far better to focus on the benefits than the drawbacks; second thoughts wouldn't help matters. That didn't prevent anyone from having them, of course… just kept people from discussing their new reservations.
At that moment, Doctor Kelley was developing her fair share of doubts. Something about the work environment seemed to nurture distrust and paranoia; while this was generally true, it was becoming even more obvious as of late, with the recent setbacks.
(This damned project…)
Gloved fingers pushed a clump of dusty blonde hair back behind her ear, only for it to slip back out as the scientist leaned back over her keyboard. Ignoring the stubborn bangs, Kelley concentrated on the task at hand.
Another of the test subjects was dead. This time, a malfunctioning tank was to blame: a short had occurred, the flux caught too late to salvage the cyborg inside. Unfortunate, particularly considering there hadn't been any readily apparent flaws in the subject… only a few more tests were scheduled to be run before presenting the results to the commander.
…Ideally, the testing stage would have gone on for a few more weeks at the least, but Black Ghost was not exactly renowned for his patience.
Eyes narrowed behind ebony lenses, Kelley bitterly mused, (Not that it matters right now… At the rate we're progressing, there won't be anything left to show for this cursed project except…)
This wasn't a project she had joined willingly. Her current commitment to this task had been bought -- not with promises of wealth, power or prestige, her original goals, but with the implicit understanding that her continued health hinged on her cooperation.
…However, if this alarming trend went on for much longer…
Several deft keystrokes brought up a rapid succession of windows; entering her commands, the researcher leaned back in her chair again while the computer sought out her requests. Brushing the bangs out of her grimly lined face, Kelley waited impatiently, eager to get things moving in the correct direction again.
Having to work with the remnants of a plot that had already failed in the past wasn't exactly pleasing… but it couldn't be helped now. Personal disgust was better kept private: certainly it didn't improve the situation to know that the previous permutations of this scheme had been spectacular losses in the end.
Knowing just how many deaths were connected with the projects -- the recent succession of lost test subjects almost paling in comparison with how many organization members were dead thanks to their involvement -- didn't improve her current coworkers' morale either.
Of the handful of cyborgs left over from their predecessors' efforts, only a few remained. Doctor Kelley was not about to let them fall victim to unfortunate oversights and errors. The conversion process was still touch-and-go for this line more often than not: losing individuals that had survived this far was a serious dilemma.
If they managed to lose the last ones… she held no illusions that she or any of her brethren would have the chance to work on the next batch.
Attributing it to such things as uncontrollable power outages or abrupt rejections of enhancements simply weren't good enough now. Kelley wanted more tangible reasons; something that could be dealt with accordingly and prevented…
A sharp ping signaled that the searches she'd run were finished. Scanning over the data, the scientist unconsciously hunched forward, eyes narrowing into calculating slits behind their dark lenses.
Several reports of the incident had already been filed, varying in detail and thoroughness. Doctor Kelley was hardly the first of her team who'd decided to examine the incident from all possible angles. She simply wasn't willing to accept the same conclusion the others had reached just yet.
All of her coworkers' accounts eventually boiled down to the argument that it was an unfortunate accident. While they provided plenty of theories and explanations as to what had caused the malfunction -- always certain to place the blame on someone else's shoulders, claiming they weren't at fault for the oversight -- they tended to label it the result of a mistake, a grievous error.
Kelley wasn't so certain of that. Losing test subjects to misfortune wasn't rare, sadly, but far too many incidents had plagued this project for her to write everything off as entirely coincidental.
Plus, there hadn't appeared to be anything wrong with the cyborgs who had been lost immediately prior to death… these were all subjects who had gotten past the riskiest parts of the conversion procedure. By all rights, they should have been in the clear…
Reading through the reports, Kelley got the impression that while plenty of her comrades were aware of this, most were willing to write it off as an unforeseen side effect of the primary component of the plan itself. Since it had been designed mere months before, nobody quite knew for certain what the long-term effects might be. It seemed probable there was an undetected flaw in the coding, one ultimately responsible for destroying its carriers.
…She didn't buy it. Never mind that if this were the case, everyone connected with the project was doomed the moment that suspected flaw was confirmed… and with so many people working on it, how could such a damaging bug go undiscovered and uncorrected for so long?
Even if there was a fatal flaw, that didn't explain the malfunctioning equipment and other outside errors. The more she reviewed the facts, the more Kelley suspected something else was to blame.
But she didn't know nearly enough to risk speaking her mind yet. This was a dangerous business, and considering she didn't have so much as a solid suspect in mind, Kelley knew better than to voice her suspicions.
Sabotage was almost unheard of in the organization. Petty rivalries and such things were hazardous: if they interfered with your ability to serve, it got dealt with, often to the detriment of all parties involved. So while it was conceivable somebody could have it out for one of her coworkers -- or even herself -- the thought of it going to such an extreme was almost laughable… save the fact that it appeared to be the case.
Fools and traitors had short life spans… the rebel cyborgs notwithstanding.
Still, the doctor couldn't eliminate the possibility. But before coming forward, it was imperative to gather all the information she could and figure out exactly who was behind this. Without knowing that, speaking up was the fastest way to ensure an early retirement.
Reviewing the reports was tedious work, particularly since there wasn't any sign of the sort of evidence Kelley required. The best angle of research seemed to be looking into the support equipment's failure, but, so far, that was turning into a dead end. There weren't any records of unauthorized access to the tanks (not that she expected there to be any easily detectable evidence), and the faulty vessel had been disposed of, along with its contents.
(After all, somebody figured there wasn't any point to keeping broken junk around,) she mused, more than a little embittered by the setback.
Still, she couldn't allow herself to give up. Not when her future beyond this project hinged on its continued success.
Worrying the inside of her lip, Doctor Kelley continued analyzing the files. She wouldn't permit this to proceed much further.
Engrossed in her studies, she completely failed to notice the dark-furred rodent perched in the shadows of the far side of the room. The mangy animal watched her work with pale, glittering eyes for a few moments longer before turning and skittering away.
Thunk… thunk… thunk…
The dull pounding had fallen into a steady rhythm by now. While Britain had taken longer than he would have liked to get used to the act, the shapeshifter was learning rapidly how to adjust.
That was the point of this exercise, after all: adapting.
He still wasn't sure whether it was whimsy or whatever that caused him to keep experimenting with the sword-shape. The impulse to create something unique, perhaps, or a need to have something of his own to show… something far removed from the crude, wicked permutations forced on him before.
There wasn't anything particularly striking about the weapon itself: Britain was more concerned with functionality over appearance right now. The design was simplistic, immediately recognizable with minimum attention to detail, so that it at least looked like he was holding a real sword instead of an obvious extension of his arm.
Black hilt, long, silver-steel blade that spanned almost the length of his arm again… Britain had experimented with the size and shape a little bit before settling on this, figuring it served his purposes well enough. He could always test and adjust more later, tweaking the results until finding the best combination.
The initial tests brought some interesting results, as Britain soon discovered that using this faux sword wasn't as awkward as he'd expected it to be. The blade actually felt like a natural part of his hand, and it didn't take long to adjust to the feel of slicing through the air, feinting and stabbing at an invisible opponent.
The exercise was almost calming, in some strange fashion… which was part of the reason he decided to move on once he'd gotten used to how it felt.
After all, that wasn't the point of all this, was it?
Much more important matters had to be attended to… first and foremost was becoming stronger. Learn how to better protect himself, so that he could help the others, instead of always having to rely on them…
Creating a weapon he was comfortable using was just the first step. Next came ensuring he could maintain it, use it like it was intended for.
Testing it out in a real fight wasn't an option yet. Not like he was able to ask anyone to train with him or anything of the sort; besides, this was something he needed to do by himself.
So, instead, he'd decided to work on maintaining the shape under the closest conditions he could arrange safely without tipping anyone else off.
Basically, it was an endurance test. …At least, that was how Britain thought of it.
The idea was to work on attacking an unmovable target repeatedly for as long as he could, without damaging it or losing the transformation. Breaking anything might get the others' attention, after all… and he didn't want them finding out.
So the trick was keeping the 'sword' dull enough that it didn't leave a mark as it hit the metal crate over and over again, but maintaining the same shape the whole time.
The fact that it hurt was negligible. Compared to all he'd been through already, what was a little pain? Not like the ache spreading along his arm came anywhere close to having a madman gain control of his body, or watching former friends fall to his hands…
Anything was better than drowning in icy numbness or twisting under relentless fire.
After a while, the jolts from each strike faded together, until it seemed to hurt less. Britain hardly noticed, losing himself further in the exercise. True, there was a constant throbbing along the transmuted arm, but that was to be expected, right? Just part of the routine...
…The main reason he felt anything was thanks to weakness. Once he'd adjusted further, the shapeshifter rationalized, it would probably get to the point where he'd feel nothing at all. While that was the most ideal situation, however, it wouldn't matter if it never faded away completely. …He'd simply teach himself to ignore it.
That was for the best, wasn't it…?
He just needed to keep going. Keep his arm moving for as long as he could. Ignore the way it hurt, focusing instead on maintaining the transformation. Remembering why it was so important to learn how to fight alone like this.
It didn't matter if his body screamed out for rest. All that meant was he needed more practice. Wasn't like sleeping or the nightmares that brought helped, anyway.
What finally caused him to stop was the knock on the door. Somehow, Britain retained enough awareness of the world beyond to catch the sharp, staccato tapping and recognizing what it signaled. Immediately dropping his transformation, he turned to face the door, almost unconsciously letting his shifting right hand swing behind him.
Now that he'd stopped, it was considerably more difficult to ignore the burning throb in his arm. But he couldn't acknowledge the fact that it hurt right then -- not with the door sliding open to allow his visitor to peek inside.
"G.B.? Are you in here?"
Standing before the crate that just seconds before had been the target of his training, Britain waved to him with his left hand, keeping his other arm hidden by the slope of his body.
"Over here, 006," he replied.
"Ah, there you are," and Chang smiled upon spotting him. "I've been looking for you."
"Don't tell me it's lunchtime already?"
For some reason, that caused the sixth cyborg's smile to falter. Britain flinched inwardly when he saw this, though he took care not to let it show. Letting his raised arm drop back down behind him, he leaned back against the crate, ignoring how his aching limb protested the movement.
"Actually… I just wanted to check up on you…" Chang said, stepping completely into the room.
He didn't head straight over to where the shapeshifter was, however, leaving the span of a couple boxes between them. Privately grateful for the distance, Britain looked at the chef curiously.
'I'm fine,' was what he wanted to say, but he couldn't shake the feeling it wouldn't help.
"…Well, here I am," he tried instead, shrugging lightly and putting more of his weight against the crate at his back. "Something wrong? Does the doc need me for some more tests, or what?"
"…No… no, that's not it." Shaking his head, Chang shifted from one foot to the other before adding, "It's just… you were quiet this morning, and I thought…"
"Don't worry about it."
"Huh?" Chang looked up and blinked, intelligently.
"I said, don't worry about it," repeated Britain with a faint smile. Pushing away from the metal box, he declared lightly, "There's no reason for you to be upset, 006. I'm fine, remember? Doing much better than I was…"
As he made this assurance, he absently ran his left hand up along his still-aching forearm and squeezed. The brief spike of added pain was a temporary focus, reminding him to keep his tone unaffected.
Chang didn't look entirely convinced, so Britain maintained his smile, letting it become just a touch more wistful while he added, "You don't have to worry so much, you know. We made it out alright, didn't we?"
"…I guess, but…"
"Then there's nothing for you to get so upset about, right? Everyone's safe, and that's the important thing."
Chang nodded, slowly. Britain wasn't quite sure how to interpret the look he was getting from the chef, and tried to convince himself it meant he was taking his words to heart. That was good: just because the shapeshifter couldn't take any comfort in such comments didn't mean his former friends suffered the same problem.
"Well, I'll see you at lunch, then," he said as way of excusing himself from the room, heading for the door.
"…Ah, G.B.…?"
"Hmm?" Britain paused in the doorway and glanced back, keeping his face a mask of curiosity and honest confusion. "What is it…?"
"…Nothing…" Chang shook his head suddenly, looking back at his friend and managing a slight smile. "Just don't show up late, okay?"
"Of course not!" and Britain flashed him a fleeting grin before ducking back out into the hall.
Quickening his pace, he headed back toward his room. As he walked, he kept running his hand over his arm, secretly gritting his teeth in frustration at the soreness in the limb. There wasn't any time to waste whining over it: not if he wanted to get any more practice in before lunch. After all, he needed all the training he could get right now, if he ever wanted to prove he could be part of the team again…