I don't own Cyborg 009 - they belong to Shotaro Ishinomori and all those people.
It was supposed to be a simple mission.
It wasn't even a mission, really. They were just scouting, to make sure that the area they stopped in was secure. It was simple and easy and not even really necessary, given Francoise's powers, a just-in-case precaution, something they've done hundreds and hundreds of times before.
So why did it turn out so wrong…?
It was just him and Joe – Francoise and Pyunma were checking out the opposite side and Jet, must to the American's dismay, was laid up with a nasty leg injury (-"Why is it always the leg?" Jet had gripped as they headed out.-). The others were preparing their temporary shelter, as their powers weren't very useful for scouting purposes (-though Geronimo did have a knack for reading nature, but really, four people were enough for some simple scouting.
Britain regretted not taking the Native American along.-)
If it hadn't been him with Joe, the weak one, the one who liked the action, but rather leave the fighting to the others, the one who never really used his powers full potential in battle because he never occurred to him that he needed too, because the others were already doing a bang up job, the one who, perhaps, put too much faith in the ability of others, then maybe things would've turned out different, better, and Joe wouldn't be-
It's all my fault…
They had heard them before they saw them – the tell-tale mechanical buzzing of those annoying drones that Black Ghost loved so much. They were just drones – Britain had lost count of how many of those things they had destroyed. They were embarrassingly weak.
And yet, they managed what no one else had done before.
It was a lucky shot. If it had hit anywhere else, it would've had been a minor injury, one that could be shrugged off in favor of continued fighting, one easily fixable by Gilmore, one that would've been forgotten about almost as soon as it was gone.
But, instead, it had hit Joe's heart.
Britain remembered seeing Joe, that achingly characteristic look of confusion look on his face, hand half to his chest, fall. For just a moment, one terrible moment, time seemed to slow and the sounds of battle faded until all he could hear was his own pounding hear beat (-nonononono not Joe please not Joe-!).
The drones descended onto Joe's fallen form, one after the other, like ants covering a kill, until he could no longer see the teen. Britain rushed forward (-Joe! Joe!-) desperately, transforming into anything, anything, that could hurt the metal shells of the drones, clawing, punching, destroying until every single one was a smoldering wreckage on the ground.
But it was too late.
(-uniform in tatters fluids leaking out and pooling on the ground cybernetic limbs broken and sparking feebly eyes blank unseeing chunks of flesh missing a gaping hole in his chest,in his head-)
Britain collapsed by Joe's side, crying and shaking (-why Joe?-), desperately hoping that this was a dream, that this wasn't real (-why not me?-).
But it was (-why couldn't have been me?-).
A light breeze blew through the clearing, ruffling Joe's hair and the tattered remains of his uniform and a terrible, wonderful thought occurred to him.
Why can't it be him?
Britain stared at his hand (-uselessuselessuseless-) and watched as it slowly shrunk, becoming slimmer, the skin darkening slightly, until it was no longer his hand. He studied it blankly.
(-it could work, everyone knew about Joe's past, and no one would press him for details, and Gilmore kept blueprints of all the cyborgs, and he knew Joe, would he acted, how he would react, how he interacted with the others, how he thought and how he fought-)
He let the change travel through the rest of his body and stood up, getting a feel for the difference in weight and height. He brought out his gun and, with only the slightest hesitation, fired until nothing but dust remained. He watched as the dust gently blew away with the wind.
(-I'm so sorry good-bye Joe-)
Joe turned and walked away.
I'm a horrible person~