Disclaimers can be found in the first chapter's author's notes.
-- Repression --
The only source of illumination here was the tank. The lights were built into the base of the device, imbuing the gel with a sickly glow.
That made it all the more disorienting when he was inside. Closing his eyes didn't help in the slightest -- it was bright enough to pierce through that, and when coupled with the ghastly hue of the slime, it almost felt like he hadn't shut them at all.
It crept into him, suffused him, seeping through skin and the suit that already clung like a second skin, stealing away his senses until he couldn't feel the machine forcing air into his lungs anymore.
Even now he felt it clinging to him, trickling down his face and back, a sticky film too firmly entrenched in his skin to be shaken off, no matter how viciously he attacked.
Considering who his target was, the stubborn remnants of slime were the last of his concerns.
While he didn't precisely look the part, the enhanced reflexes all the cyborgs shared enabled Chang to be quick on his feet. By all rights, he should have been able to evade most of the shapeshifter's attacks. But he wasn't even trying to dodge -- instead, the fire-wielder struggled to stand his ground, raised arms crossed in a desperate attempt to protect his face.
"G-G.B.… st…stop…"
In response, 007 struck his former comrade along the side of his head -- a glancing blow, just enough to draw blood. He could have ended this easily by now; the only reason the Chinese cyborg was still standing was Black Ghost's amusement. Britain heard the tyrant chuckling in the back of his mind, pleased with how his puppet was performing.
Trying to break free was pointless… he'd already been struggling against it for so long without any success at all… but that didn't mean he stopped. Though his abused body failed to respond to all his efforts to pull back, to turn claws back to fingers, to stop pummeling his friend… seeing the consequences of his weakness in every blow, how could he simply give up?
There had to be a way… If he could just gain control for a second, give Chang an opening to…!
…But then, that assumed the sixth cyborg was willing to strike back, let alone the strength needed to make it count.
That didn't appear too likely. Already the firebreather's sleeves hung in tatters, soaked through with darker red, matching the crisscrossing gashes underneath. Chang staggered backwards, legs threatening to give way with each stumbling step. Between faltering gasps he continued to whimper his attacker's name, like calling it enough times would end the assault.
But it only ended when Black Ghost grew tired of dragging the gruesome flaying out.
Then, with a single swift movement, 007 plunged his claws in his victim's chest. Lifting 006 up off the floor, letting his legs dangle uselessly in midair, the shapeshifter watched, unblinking, as his feeble struggles ceased. Twisting his buried arm deeper into the wound, he lowered his arm to let the body slide off.
Black Ghost's laughter echoed endlessly in G.B.'s thoughts; his anguished shrieks failed to drown out the ghastly sound.
The dream's hold on him abruptly lessened, and Britain reflexively bit the inside of his lip as his eyes flew open. Forcing himself to lay still, he stared at the ceiling while straining whether or not anyone was coming. Just because his screams always fell on deaf ears in his nightmare didn't mean his comrades would ignore any cries he might have made while caught in the dream…
Minutes ticked by in silence, doing little to ease his mind. Britain only stopped holding his breath when it became hard to do so, not because he felt remotely comfortable dropping his guard even that smallest bit.
(…Does it make any difference?) he wondered, still listening for any signs of someone coming to check on him. The silence outside wasn't as comforting as it might have been if not for what had happened just hours ago.
…Maybe he hadn't betrayed his intentions by crying out tonight, but that didn't mean that the others weren't already aware…
('You don't have to pretend you're okay.')
Sitting up, Britain looked down at his arm. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but he didn't have to see where his wrist was still reddened from where Heinrich had held onto it. Tracing the sore area with the fingers of his other hand, Britain remembered the anger his friend had shown, the ice in his voice as he told him…
(…He knows that…)
Sighing, he shook his head in self-disgust.
(Well, why wouldn't he know? It's not like I've been doing all that great a job hiding it. And if he knows, I'm sure the others…)
He tightened his grasp on his already sore wrist; the shudder of pain that sent down his forearm was an almost welcome distraction. He needed to concentrate, to figure out what he was supposed to do now.
…Well, he had a feeling what Heinrich expected him to do next: drop the act. Quit pretending he'd gotten over what he'd done, and…
(…And what…?)
…Tell them everything. About the nightmares, his attempts at training, how he needed to become stronger so that Black Ghost couldn't take over again…
(…Sure. Why not start by telling Chang how I keep dreaming about killing him? That'll go over nicely…)
Glaring down at his hands, Britain blinked to dispel the illusion that flickered before his eyes: the shadows were playing tricks, making his arms appear stained, soaked through by the darkness.
G.B. was aware it wasn't real. He hadn't murdered Chang. His friend was likely fast asleep in his own quarters right now, after another long day of keeping their little family as happy and well fed as he could manage.
…That didn't change that he almost had, before.
Gripping his wrist, he recalled vividly how Chang's neck had felt in his hand, straining with each raspy breath. Pinning him against the wall, bringing his arm back for the strike he knew instinctively would kill his friend… Black Ghost demanding he choose whether to kill 006 or have him join him in this living hell…
And then, strangely, his master's voice fell silent, cutting off in mid-sentence.
Britain wasn't aware why he'd stopped -- that hardly mattered. A chance for salvation presented itself, and he took advantage of it, the only way he could think of.
…Funny, how he'd bungled even that simple act, somehow.
It wasn't until later that G.B. found out why. Not that his companions had seen fit to tell him… he'd only overheard Jet ranting at Pyunma by chance. Clearly, the short-tempered redhead wasn't too thrilled with how lightly his partner was taking the fact that he'd nearly died at Black Ghost's hands.
…He sympathized with Jet's frustration, since that made about as much sense to him as how the rest were handling what he'd done.
If Jet hadn't attacked Black Ghost… if he hadn't distracted him at that moment… Chang would have died. 007 would have killed him.
Knowing that -- that it was only a fluke, a stroke of luck that saved him… how could the others think it was safe to take him back?!
He hadn't been able to stop it alone… ever since the virus had taken over, he'd proven nothing but a liability to the rebellion. If he couldn't take care of himself, then what was the point?
They couldn't honestly rely on luck to keep working in their favor. It wasn't fair to ask them to look after someone who needed to be constantly protected. One mistake -- likely on his part -- and they'd be fighting again, still trying to bring him back instead of just solving the problem outright.
(That's the best way to stop this, isn't it? I need to die. Then they can focus on dealing with Black Ghost again, without having to worry about…)
By this point, his bruised wrist was turning white under the pressure of his other hand. Feeling his fingernails grate against pale skin, Britain took a short, shuddering breath. His fingers clenched, twitching, tingling with seeming anticipation.
All it would take was a quick transmutation, and then…
(…And what happens when they come to check on you in the morning?)
Closing his eyes, Britain tried to calm down. For some reason, his heart was starting to pound -- (Stupid,) he thought, furious with himself. (This is the best way. I can't protect them any other way…)
(They won't see it that way. This isn't the only answer.)
(…Maybe, but it's the best one.)
(…If you die, they'll blame themselves for it.)
Britain froze at that thought, unconsciously loosening his deathgrip. After a few seconds, he sighed, allowing his hand to slide up the length of his forearm as he sagged forward, absently bringing his other hand up to hang onto his left arm in the same fashion.
Try as he might, the shapeshifter couldn't deny that his death would hurt his friends. They still saw him as part of the family… if he killed himself, they'd be upset. …They couldn't see it was better for the team as a whole to lose their weakest link.
That meant… what? Training didn't seem to be working… for all the effort he'd poured into it, Britain didn't feel any stronger, and considering the only way he'd know for certain whether he'd gotten better was facing Black Ghost again… no. He wasn't ready for that by any stretch of imagination.
(…I could tell them… everything… Let them know just how messed up and worthless I am. If I could get them to see that, then…)
Again he started tightening his grip, taking an odd sort of comfort in the way his body reacted. Something about the fact that he could feel this… could hurt himself, could cause his own pain instead of having to endure whatever someone else dealt out… there was a certain, strange freedom in it.
(They should know how much of a failure I really am. Weak, useless… pathetic. If they realized that, then… maybe they wouldn't…)
Shaking his head, G.B. dismissed the notion.
…If they knew… if he told them, or if they found out by themselves… the others wouldn't reject him. They wouldn't turn their backs on him. They… cared too much.
…Precisely the reason why Black Ghost's plot had worked so well. That monster had discovered a way to strike the heart of their little group -- tear them apart from within.
His friends probably did see the danger inherent in keeping him around… they just ignored it. Dismissed it. Refused to honestly recognize how easily he could be turned against them again…
(…So stupid… they won't…)
With a defeated sigh, Britain stopped squeezing his arms, letting them fall limp at his sides as he fell back into his bed. The limbs continued to throb where his fingers had dug in; he hoped he hadn't managed to seriously damage them while lost in his thoughts.
…As long as he hadn't broken the skin, the shapeshifter figured he'd be alright. Wounds like that were much harder to hide; he had to be more careful with restraining himself. No matter how tempting it was, he couldn't afford having to explain any cuts to the good doctor during his check-ups.
(…So what am I going to do…?) he silently asked himself, gazing once more at the ceiling.
Explaining everything to his comrades was risky; chances were, they wouldn't respond well to his solo training or the nightmares. Sure, they couldn't do anything about the latter, but it seemed likely that, if they found out how he was trying to become stronger, they'd want him to stop.
(I'm not sure if it's helping or not, but… I can't just stop without knowing for certain. It might be, and…)
…He couldn't afford to stop. Not when it was one of the only real chances he had of getting stronger on his own.
Regardless of how much the others knew, it wasn't fair to make them deal with his personal problems. Somehow, he had to make it absolutely clear this was his alone to handle… there wasn't any reason for them to get any more involved in this than they already were.
Britain didn't want to bring them all down with him. But how to make them understand that…?
Exhaustion forced him to leave such questions temporarily unanswered, his body once more succumbing to the need for rest. As he drifted off, the shapeshifter wished for a respite from the nightmares: there wasn't much hope behind it, however.
In the privacy of his own room, Ivan watched, waiting for the seventh cyborg to fall asleep before allowing himself to relax. Then the infant burrowed a little deeper into his covers, shuddering from a chill the fluffy blankets couldn't drive away.
(…What should I do…?)
Monitoring the situation in silence didn't seem like a workable option anymore: despite Ivan's hopes that G.B. would come around on his own, his condition was undeniably worsening.
He'd been invading the shapeshifter's privacy, peering in on his thoughts like that, but the self-hatred and blame he'd felt was almost punishment enough in itself. The negative emotions radiating from the formerly infected cyborg were overwhelming, sickening in their clarity and intensity.
Britain had… he'd even half-convinced himself that it was better if they rejected him, threw him out, since that would effective remove the one thing -- the one 'excuse', as he saw it -- keeping him from committing suicide.
When that horribly twisted concept came into focus, Ivan had nearly cried out from shock… almost forgotten his determination to stay quiet and started screaming at G.B., wanting to beg and plead until he never considered such a thing again.
But Britain had thankfully shied away from that thought soon after, not seriously considering it… far as he'd fallen, he still recognized how his family cared for him.
That was hardly comforting for Ivan, however. Despite understanding this, Britain still rejected the idea of turning to them for help. He still wanted to stumble through this on his own.
Ivan didn't think he could stand waiting for him to come around any longer.
If G.B. didn't decide to accept help on his own soon, Ivan would have to figure out a way to make him take it… contrary to what the shapeshifter thought, there really wasn't much choice left. Especially not if he still considered dying to be the 'best option' available.
…But how could he make him understand that? If he pushed too hard, Britain was likely to push back, harder, until he hurt himself in the process.
There had to be a way to keep Britain from rejecting help. If what motivated him was fear that his friends would just be setting themselves up to be hurt later on… fear that Black Ghost would capitalize on his 'weakness' again… If he could just make it clear that it wasn't his fault, that they wouldn't let him be taken away like that again…
…Britain seemed completely convinced everything was his fault, however. It wouldn't be easy disabusing him of that notion. G.B. had lost all faith in himself -- and since he didn't trust himself enough to risk getting close to his family again…
Though he kept racking his brain for a solution, Ivan couldn't think of any way to bring Britain back around. While he hated the thought of having to tell the rest of the team to do something without having a concrete plan in mind -- one that wouldn't involve breaching the shapeshifter's trust or hurting him in the process -- he couldn't see any easy way out.
They had to confront this situation before G.B. concluded it might be better to end this by himself, trusting them to handle the results without him.
Just the thought caused Ivan's stomach to tie itself in knots, and the psychic infant caught himself blinking back tears. Frustrated, he wrenched his eyes shut.
(Get ahold of yourself, Ivan!) he chided. (Crying isn't going to help…)
He trailed off, suddenly struck by the image of how Britain had been acting just minutes before. The Englishman's face had been streaked with tears shed during his dream… but after he'd awoken, they'd completely stopped. He'd contemplated death, even getting his family to turn his back on him, dry-eyed. …Barely restraining himself from mangling his arms, but he hadn't cried anymore.
The only time he wasn't able to hide his anguish was while trapped in his dreams. Otherwise, he did his best to repress everything -- even when there wasn't anyone around to witness it.
Ivan didn't bother holding back anymore. The youngest cyborg started sobbing, letting himself be temporarily overwhelmed by the responsibility resting on his shoulders.
Before long, he heard the door slide open, and a familiar voice called his name, worried.
"…Ivan…?"
Usually, just hearing her was enough to calm the first cyborg down. This time, however, he continued to cry, even as the light switched on, her concerned face soon appearing over his cradle and her arms reaching out to wrap around him, pull him close to her chest as she whispered reassurances.
"Ivan, what's wrong?"
Still he didn't reply. Francoise coddled the poor child, wondering what sort of nightmare had left him so frightened that he wouldn't even answer her.