Well, I still don't own the rights to Cyborg 009… which comes as no big surprise, right? This would be the continuation of 'Metamorphosis', my first fanfiction for Cyborg 009. If you haven't read though that already, then this will make very little sense, so it's best to finish that first.

~ * Premonition * ~

The project was being rushed to completion, much to the dismay of its supervisors.

The order had been issued nearly two weeks ago, though the project had already been in development before then. An offshoot of a proposal initially made by one Doctor Tenkan, it had been stepped up following his termination after his primary assignment ended in failure. Before then, it had been mostly experimentation -- testing to see if what he suggested had any real merit.

After all, it sounded nice on paper, but could it work in principle? The morphing technology had been developed primarily for usage in reconnaissance missions, to enable a cyborg to gather information undetected.

It had merit, Black Ghost soon declared. There was no such thing as a cyborg that was incapable of using its powers to kill; that was the intention for all their meshes of machine and man.

And when Black Ghost gave his opinion, everyone accepted it as law.

So the testing had begun, using mostly hastily constructed test subjects to gauge the effects of the virus before developing a final version. There had been errors made, casualties of the project, but that was to be expected. The road to achievement was always lined with minor delays.

Finally the virus was judged ready for release, and the latest attempt to destroy the renegades was well under way.

However, the tests had yielded some interesting results, and many working on the project saw the most obvious way to further apply the data they had obtained. The virus unlocked an exciting new facet of the shapeshifting ability that begged to be explored and exploited.

And so the new project began in full force: development of the perfect assassin.

This cyborg would be created using both the transformation ability and the virus from the beginning, a melding of technology. In this manner the scientists hoped to create a clean merging, the infection becoming a vital piece of programming rather than something introduced later on to control other problems.

After the original project failed, Black Ghost appeared personally to them and informed the team that he expected swift results. He already had more plans to deal with the rebels, a plot which required the use of this wonderful assassin they promised.

Since then, the project had gone from an interesting sideline to the be-all and end-all of their work in the shadow organization, the single thing to which they devoted their time and energy.

Already several members of the original team were dead, terminated whenever their leader judged his scientists were not dedicated enough to their work.

Most of those deaths coincided with the loss of several of their specimens. A malfunction here, a rejected operation there, the simplest mistake usually ended in a fatality or two. A scientist died for every subject lost.

Yet those who remained or were rerouted to the project found hope in the fact that one of the subjects was shaping up to be very strong indeed. Nobody was certain exactly what had gone right in this case that went wrong with others, but dared not question it. For this cyborg was a lifeline, the only chance they held for seeing this assignment become a success.

There were still being others developed, in case this one also failed for some reason, but the wisest among them realized that, should that occur, they would never see the project to completion.

Black Ghost already judged this one as the fittest; the tyrant often visited the laboratory to check up on their progress, and singled out this survivor as the one he favored. Occasionally he would stand before the tube in which the cyborg was being held while the workers scurried about their tasks, running one black-gloved hand over the smooth surface of the glass and chuckling deep in his throat, making low comments to himself on the progress.

Soon, he told them, soon they would unleash their precious child, their wonderful perfect assassin, upon the unsuspecting rebel 00-numbers. Soon, while they were still weakened from their previous encounter, before they emerged from hiding from their own free will… They would track them down first and strike!

Black Ghost had waited long enough. He could wait a bit longer, but only at the cost of more blood from his lowly subordinates. Weaklings and fools, the whole lot of them; holding up progress! They held no place in his new world order…

Running his fingers over the delightfully frigid glass, peering at the cyborg known as prototype 'Mimic' through his own reflection, Black Ghost chortled and planned his continued ascension to power while behind him foolish scientists attended to their life's work.

~ * ~

There are times when people become so entrapped by illusions that they fail to see them for what they are, and times when they can see clearly through the fantasy their subconscious weaves. For Joe Shimamura, it was one of the latter times. He was fully aware he was dreaming.

Of course, the fact that he was suspended in a completely black, featureless void may have had something to do with it.

The youthful leader of the renegade cyborgs looked around slowly, hoping to pick out some sort of break in the darkness surrounding him. Even though he knew it was a dream, it was a strange sensation all the same: he almost would have labeled it floating, except that there wasn't really any feeling of being in midair at all. Still, he couldn't feel any floor beneath his feet, either, though he supposed there must be something there considering the fact that he wasn't falling…

(That or gravity doesn't apply in dreams either.)

He turned his head from side to side, dismayed with how the darkness seemed to stretch out into infinity. Joe was rapidly beginning to wish that he'd just wake up if nothing was going to happen: how boring it would be to have to wait through this all night!

…Then again, he probably wouldn't remember it in the morning so long as nothing happened. Besides, given some of the nightmares he'd been presented with in the past, maybe this wasn't such a horrible way to spend his rest after all…

Of course, his subconscious probably took that as a challenge, or at least that was the first thing to occur to Joe when he caught a flicker of movement just out of the corner of his eye.

Turning around, Joe blinked, and even as a tiny part of his heart sank with the knowledge that this probably wasn't going to end well couldn't help but speak, his voice sounding small against the black expanse:

"G.B.…?"

If Britain overheard his query, the shapeshifter showed no sign of it. The former actor had his back turned in the direction of his young leader, his attention focused on something concealed by the slope of his body. He wasn't dressed in the vibrant red-and-gold uniform that all the cyborgs usually wore into battle, the same attire in which Joe himself was clad. Instead he wore a dingy gray sweatshirt and darker gray slacks, the dull clothing blending into the shadows enough to blur his outline.

They didn't suit him at all.

Joe wasn't certain if he was actually going to say that, or if something else motivated him to open his mouth, for the words died on his tongue before he could speak.

Britain turned just enough that Joe was able to get a clear look at what he held cradled tightly against his chest. The silver barrel shone brilliantly against the drab gray wool. The blaster appeared the only hint of light in the darkness, the curved metal glittering like a sliver of the moon.

The actor turned the shining pistol over in his hands, drinking in the light with empty eyes for several moments before resting the barrel against his chest.

"No--!"

Joe bit down hard on the trigger in his molar, already stepping forward before his acceleration was activated.

…Only the mode failed to activate, and his left foot shot unimpeded through space.

"Whoa…!"

Joe floundered, not quite spinning in midair, but not exactly moving at all. He attempted to correct his lost balance with another step, but his other leg refused to respond -- and, when he looked down, there was only empty darkness where his right leg should have been.

"What…?!" he gasped, cutting himself short and looking desperately toward his friend.

The commotion had gained Britain's attention; the actor met Joe's frantic stare with an emotionless gaze.

No… that wasn't quite true. While his facial features were composed into perfect neutrality, his eyes were filled with a terrible sadness, projecting to the helpless young cyborg a complete sense of resignation.

Then they closed, and the muffled whine of a laser shot shattered the darkness.

"……" Joe's mouth gaped, but he still couldn't find his voice. The scream was wedged in his throat, a needle of agony cleaving his heart, but before he could force it to the surface, the shadows shifted.

Britain's body had been pitched backward by the contained blast, the hole in his chest barely visible through the darkness. But now he halted suddenly, as if falling back against something -- or something else arrested his progress.

As Joe stared, a hand gradually became visible in the darkness, fingers wrapping tightly around Britain's right arm. The black digits slid smoothly up to the actor's wrist and gently disentangled his grip on the laser, allowing the gleaming pistol to fall and be consumed by the shadows.

There was a presence behind the shapeshifter -- no, draped around him, almost, so close to be his shadow. From where he watched, helpless to act, Joe could see more features manifesting; another hand wrapping over Britain's chest, spread fingers pawing at the edge of the ragged wound. He saw Britain flinch at the touch, a slight tightening around his eyes, though the rest of his face remained impassive.

His eyes, though, locked upon Joe's again, silently pleading for help.

A second figure materialized then, born from the shadows like the first, only this time the darkness rearranged themselves into features Joe recognized, found all too familiar. A skeletal face leered at him, twin orbs of sickly gold sparking into existence above the despotic smirk.

The darkness billowed out behind and before Black Ghost like a cloak, a cape that he grandly brought up to wrap around the shapeshifter, sneering all the while at the watching 009.

"…W-wait!"

Too late Joe found his voice, too late his hands found some sort of purchase in the dark and allowed him to push upright, though without his missing leg he still couldn't stand, couldn't hope to interfere.

With a grand flourish of his cape Black Ghost vanished, taking Britain and his other shadowed companion with him.

Joe was left alone in the void, staring at the empty space where they had been, crippled and useless and screaming.

"G.B.…!"

And suddenly he was free from the nightmare, bolting upright in a rustle of sheets and sweat. For a few moments all Joe could do was stare off into space as the features of the room came into focus through the darkness; there was little light in the chamber, but still far more than there had been in his dream.

Then, after his breathing had reached something close to a normal, not quite so frantic pace, he pitched off what remained of his sheets that still covered his body to the far corner of the bed and swung off the other side.

Both feet hit the ground with a dull thud, and Joe winced slightly at the impact. Doctor Gilmore had done a miraculous job rebuilding his right leg, but he still wasn't fully adjusted to it. On the outside, it looked much the same, skin grafted over it and all, but there was a delicate rebalance he hadn't quite adjusted to yet.

It hardly seemed a problem, however. Joe was able to stand up easily enough and crossed the room without incident.

He stopped dead in his tracks next to the other bed in the room, and stood staring down at its occupant, gradually allowing his heart to slow to its normal pace and his panting to completely subside.

Doctor Gilmore had decided that, for the time being, the three cyborgs who'd been injured the most heavily during their previous encounter with Black Ghost's work were to room together until they recovered. The scientist himself had taken the room immediately adjacent; if anything amiss happened while they were asleep an alarm would rouse the good doctor and bring him running.

But the chamber remained mostly silent now, save for the soft rasp of Joe's breath and the faint snores of his sleeping companions.

Albert was tucked up in another cot; a quick glance in his direction yielded the comforting sight of his silver-topped head resting against the pillow which the German hugged with both arms. It was actually kind of funny: Joe hadn't had him pegged as the type to sleep like that.

As for Britain, the former actor was curled up with his sheets pulled so tightly around him it seemed his intent was to hold himself together using the cocoon. In the dim lighting, Joe traced the slope of his shrouded body, looking in vain for some sign of anything amiss.

Nothing. Nothing… his nightmare had been just that. There was no gun, and no sign that one was nearby. The sheets concealed only Britain's sleeping form and not that of a weapon.

Nor was there any sign of any unwanted visitors…

Joe sighed, his shoulders sagging with relief. His imagination was playing nasty tricks on him, making him jump at harmless shadows.

Still, his garnet-stone irises shimmered with emotion as he continued to gaze down at his sleeping comrade. Just because the terror of the night was only an illusion didn't mean all their problems passed with a fading dream. There was still reality left, and what the virus had left behind…

"…Poor G.B.," he whispered, chin dropping to his chest while his eyelids sagged, half-concealing ruby irises flooded with sorrow.

Morning would come soon, but even though it promised freedom from his private nightmares for the time being, Joe was all too aware it also meant another day of trying to deal with what wasn't a passing fantasy…