Chapter 6: The Predator's Dance
POV: Ben
Ben adjusts his appearance in the dive bar's bathroom mirror, letting three days of stubble shadow his jawline while his eyes practice the particular emptiness that suggests recent trauma and available chemistry.
The reflection staring back looks like someone who's seen too much and cared too little—exactly the kind of dangerous edge that Popclaw's streams suggest she craves when she's not performing perfect girlfriend for America's fastest addict. Ben runs his fingers through his hair, messing it just enough to suggest he's stopped caring about appearances.
"Predator cosplaying as prey. She likes broken things because they're easier to control. Time to give her what she thinks she wants."
The Rabbit Hole lives up to its name—a basement bar in Chinatown where the lighting is carefully calibrated to hide the kind of damage that accumulates from poor life choices and worse chemistry. The clientele consists of people who've learned that rock bottom has a basement, and the bartender has the particular expertise that comes from serving customers who pay in cash and don't ask for receipts.
Ben orders whiskey that tastes like liquid regret and positions himself where Popclaw can see him without making it obvious he's watching her. The surveillance footage from three nights proves she comes here after particularly brutal client sessions, drinking alone while scrolling through social media comments that probably shouldn't be read by anyone with enhanced strength.
She arrives at 11:47 PM, moving with the casual confidence that comes from knowing physics apply differently to you than to everyone else. Enhanced density makes her footsteps sound like small earthquakes, and the bartender's relieved expression suggests she's a regular who tips well and rarely breaks more than one or two things per visit.
"Level 12 versus my Level 3. Still suicide odds, but better than facing The Seven. And she's drunk, which means reaction time is compromised."
Ben waits fifteen minutes before making his move—enough time for her to finish her first drink and start radiating the particular loneliness that comes from being too dangerous for normal human contact. He "accidentally" bumps into her while heading to the bathroom, letting their collision be significant enough to register without seeming deliberately aggressive.
"Sorry." He steadies himself against the bar, close enough that she can smell the whiskey on his breath and see the damage behind his eyes. "Guess I'm clumsier than I thought."
Popclaw studies him with the intensity of someone who's spent years evaluating potential threats and entertainment options. Her gaze catalogues his lean build, the recent healing around his knuckles, the way he holds himself like someone who's learned to expect violence.
"She's interested. The broken bird routine is working."
"No harm done." Her voice carries traces of an accent that geography and chemistry have smoothed into something unplaceable. "You look like you're having the kind of night that ends with either great stories or police reports."
"Hoping for the former, planning for the latter." Ben signals the bartender for another round, including one for Popclaw without asking permission. "I'm Ben. And you're..."
"Wondering why someone's buying me drinks without knowing my name first." But she accepts the glass with movements that suggest she's not entirely opposed to the attention. "Charlotte. Most people call me Charlie."
"Lying about her name. Professional habit or genuine paranoia? Either way, she's not completely stupid."
"Charlie." Ben tastes the name like wine, letting a smile warm his features. "Pretty name for someone who looks like she could benchpress small buildings."
"Enhanced strength." She doesn't bother denying the obvious. "Comes in handy for my line of work."
"Which is?"
"Entertainment. The kind that requires very specific insurance policies." Charlotte's laugh carries edges sharp enough to cut glass. "What about you? Let me guess—construction? You've got the hands for it."
Ben glances at his knuckles, noting the chemical burns that haven't quite faded and the particular scarring that comes from practicing violence on inanimate objects. "Security consultant. I solve problems for people who can't solve them through normal channels."
"True enough. I do solve problems. Just not the way she's thinking."
"What kind of problems?"
"The kind that involve people who think enhanced abilities make them untouchable." Ben lets his voice carry just enough edge to suggest personal experience. "Turns out everyone bleeds if you know where to apply pressure."
Charlotte's expression shifts subtly, interest sharpening into something more focused. Here's someone who understands that enhanced doesn't mean invulnerable, who's thought seriously about the mechanics of hurting people who are supposedly impossible to hurt.
They drink and flirt with the particular intensity that comes from two predators recognizing each other across a crowded room. Charlotte tells stories about clients who paid extra for experiences that would liquify normal humans, laughing at near-misses that could have become vehicular manslaughter charges. Ben shares carefully edited tales of enhanced individuals learning that enhanced doesn't mean immune to creative problem-solving.
"She's bragging about almost killing people. Casual about violence in ways that make Juice Box look restrained. This isn't self-defense; it's recreational psychopathy with a subscription model."
"You want to come up for a drink?" Charlotte's invitation carries implications that go beyond alcohol consumption. "I've got better whiskey than this place, and neighbors who don't call police when things get loud."
"Walking into the monster's den. She could crush my skull like an egg if she gets suspicious."
"Lead the way," Ben agrees, because this is what hunting requires—getting close enough to apex predators that they can smell your fear while you map their vulnerabilities.
Charlotte's penthouse tells stories in expensive furniture arranged around spaces designed for violence. The walls show impact damage that's been artfully repaired, and the floors are reinforced concrete disguised as hardwood. This is someone who's learned to design her environment around the reality that enhanced strength and sexual activity don't always combine safely.
"Nice place." Ben studies the security cameras while Charlotte pours whiskey that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Very... sturdy."
"Necessary when your clients pay for experiences they can't get elsewhere." Charlotte hands him a glass that's worth more than his entire wardrobe. "Normal people break too easily. Takes the fun out of really letting go."
Ben nods as if casual discussion of potentially fatal sexual encounters is completely normal, while part of his mind maps escape routes and weapon locations. The kitchen holds knives designed for cutting through enhanced tissue, and the bedroom doorway shows impact scoring that suggests she's had clients who required significant medical attention afterward.
"How many people has she killed? How many accidents that weren't really accidents?"
"What about you?" Charlotte settles onto a couch that's been reinforced to handle superhuman weight. "Ever been with someone enhanced before?"
"Once." Ben lets memory color his voice with appropriate caution. "Let's just say normal human durability has its limitations."
"Poor baby." But Charlotte's sympathy carries the particular hunger of someone who's found a new toy to break. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle. At first."
They drink and talk until the whiskey starts making Charlotte's movements looser, more confident. Ben documents everything—the Compound V injector beside the bathroom sink, the schedule posted on her refrigerator, the blind spots in her security coverage that a careful observer could exploit.
"Two AM injection time. She'll be vulnerable for thirty minutes while the chemistry rebalances. Enhanced strength drops to maybe three times normal human instead of ten times."
"I should go." Ben stands before the alcohol can compromise his own reaction times. "Early morning tomorrow, and this whiskey is definitely not designed for people with normal metabolisms."
"Already?" Charlotte's disappointment seems genuine, which is either excellent acting or genuine interest. "I was just starting to like you."
"She was just starting to plan creative ways to hurt me. The disappointment is real, but not for the reasons she's pretending."
"Next time." Ben promises what they both know is a lie wrapped in possible truth. "When I've got time to properly appreciate the company."
Charlotte walks him to the door with movements that suggest the alcohol is affecting her more than she's willing to admit. Enhanced metabolism doesn't mean immune to chemistry, just resistant to it. Her goodnight kiss tastes like expensive whiskey and the particular sweetness that comes from someone who's stopped distinguishing between affection and possession.
"Seven hours until Maya. Time to shower until the taste of monster comes off."
Ben's apartment shower runs scalding hot as he scrubs away Charlotte's touch with soap that smells like industrial antiseptic. The water carries away whiskey and the lingering scent of someone who monetizes violence, but something deeper has attached itself to his skin—the particular contamination that comes from proximity to genuine evil.
The coffee shop near Maya's campus specializes in the kind of artisanal brewing that transforms caffeine into religious experience. Maya arrives fifteen minutes early, which gives Ben time to study her approach through windows that frame her like she's walking through sunlight instead of just Tuesday morning.
"Two different worlds. Charlotte's penthouse of reinforced violence, Maya's corner table next to plants that somehow thrive indoors. Predator versus healer."
"Much better coffee," Maya announces as she settles across from him with a drink that smells like cinnamon and hope. "And the barista actually knows the difference between espresso and battery acid."
"Revolutionary concept." Ben's smile feels more genuine than anything he'd managed the night before. "How's the superhuman trauma counseling business?"
Maya's expression lights up with the particular enthusiasm reserved for discussing work that matters. She talks about her thesis research, her volunteer work with Vought employees who've been traumatized by proximity to superhuman violence, her belief that healing is possible for everyone if the right approaches are applied.
"She works inside the machine but dreams of fixing what it breaks. Either incredibly naive or incredibly brave."
"What got you interested in Supe psychology?" Ben asks, genuinely curious despite the strategic implications. "Most people who've been hurt by enhanced individuals want them locked up, not healed."
"My brother." Maya's voice grows quieter, more careful. "Miguel was enhanced. Low-level, nothing impressive—could manipulate small electromagnetic fields. Parlor trick stuff, really."
"Was?"
"Vought recruited him for their youth program when he was fourteen. Promised training, education, a chance to be a real hero." Maya's fingers trace patterns on her coffee cup that match the intensity behind her eyes. "What they delivered was pharmaceutical experimentation and psychological conditioning designed to make him more 'marketable.'"
Ben feels something cold settle into his chest. "What happened to him?"
"Compound V overdose at sixteen. Officially ruled accidental, but the medical examiner found enough amphetamines in his system to kill a horse." Maya's voice carries the particular steadiness that comes from processing grief until it becomes activism. "Vought paid my family enough money to stay quiet and called it a training accident."
"Another victim. Another family destroyed by Vought's machine. She's not naive—she's motivated by the same thing that drives me."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate but genuine. "That's... that's fucking evil."
"It's systematic." Maya meets his gaze with intensity that makes him want to confess secrets he's never told anyone. "They take kids with abilities, pump them full of chemistry, condition them to think violence is heroism, then act surprised when they break under the pressure."
They sit in comfortable silence while Ben processes the implications. Maya isn't just studying superhuman trauma—she's trying to heal the damage that creates supervillains in the first place. Her empathy extends to the monsters because she understands they're manufactured rather than born.
"She'd try to save Charlotte. Would look at that penthouse of reinforced violence and see someone who needs healing instead of killing."
"What do you see when you look at me?" Ben asks suddenly, surprising himself with the vulnerability in his voice. "With your... abilities?"
Maya studies his face with the intensity usually reserved for medical examinations. When she speaks, her voice carries the particular caution that comes from seeing too much.
"Storm clouds with silver lightning. Deep sadness wrapped around something very sharp and very determined." Her fingers find his across the table, and the contact sends warmth through places that have been cold for weeks. "And loneliness. The kind that comes from carrying weight that's too heavy to share."
"She sees the damage but not the monster. Sees someone worth saving instead of someone who needs killing."
"That's... surprisingly accurate," Ben manages. "For someone I just met."
"I'm good at reading people. Comes with the territory." Maya's smile carries warmth that makes him want to believe in second chances and redemption arcs. "What I don't understand is why someone with your colors is so determined to carry everything alone."
The question hangs between them like a bridge neither wants to cross. Ben could tell her about the System, about shadows built from murdered Supes, about the particular necessity that comes from knowing which heroes will rape and kill and smile for cameras while doing it.
Instead, he tells her about Sarah making pancakes while he plans violence, about Hughie's severed-finger trauma bonding them over shared grief, about the growing certainty that normal methods won't stop the monsters wearing hero costumes.
"Truth wrapped in lies. The emotional reality without the operational details."
"You're planning something," Maya says with the certainty that comes from seeing through carefully constructed personas. "Something that scares you but feels necessary."
"Maybe."
"Be careful." Her grip on his hand tightens with surprising strength. "Whatever you're carrying, whatever you think you need to do—there are people who care about whether you survive it."
Ben stares at her across a table covered in coffee cups and the debris of genuine conversation, wondering when someone started caring about his survival for reasons that have nothing to do with strategic value or operational necessity.
"She means it. Actually means it. When's the last time someone looked at me and saw worth preserving instead of usefulness to exploit?"
"I'll be careful," he promises, meaning it more than he'd expected. "What about dinner? Somewhere with even better coffee and actual food instead of artisanal caffeine?"
"I'd like that." Maya's smile could power small cities. "I'll cook. Fair warning—I'm Puerto Rican, which means my grandmother's recipes and enough spice to cure whatever sadness you're carrying."
They part with plans made and numbers exchanged, Maya walking toward campus while Ben heads back to Chinatown and the operational necessities that keep him alive in a world designed to favor the monsters.
The contrast sits heavy in his chest—Maya's warmth versus Charlotte's predatory hunger, healing versus hunting, building something worth preserving versus tearing down what deserves destruction.
"Both true. Both necessary. Maya sees who I could be; Charlotte shows me who I'm becoming."
That night, Ben returns to Charlotte's building for their second "date," his mind mapping the apartment layout while she showers off the day's accumulated sweat and chemistry. Her bathroom holds industrial-grade Compound V in quantities that suggest serious addiction, and her refrigerator schedule confirms the withdrawal pattern he'd observed during surveillance.
When Charlotte emerges aggressive and high, wearing barely enough clothing to maintain the fiction that this is about anything other than violence, Ben plays his role perfectly. Dangerous enough to be interesting, broken enough to be controllable, naive enough to think he can survive what she has planned.
"She's going to try to hurt me tonight. Make it look accidental. The way she hurt the others."
"Tell me about your boyfriend," Ben suggests as Charlotte pours whiskey that tastes like liquid consequence. "The one who travels a lot."
Charlotte's expression shifts, affection mixing with possession and pharmaceutical confidence. She shows him photos on her phone—herself with A-Train at various publicity events, both of them performing happiness for cameras that turn their relationship into marketing material.
"A-Train. Level 68 speedster with cardiac damage from Compound V abuse. She's not just connected to The Seven; she's intimately connected."
"He's beautiful," Ben says, because that's what Charlotte wants to hear. "Lucky guy."
"I'm the lucky one. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who can keep up with enhanced strength during..." Charlotte's smile carries implications that normal human durability wouldn't survive. "Let's just say normal relationships have their limitations."
Ben nods and drinks and documents everything while Charlotte describes a relationship built on mutual addiction—to chemistry, to violence, to the particular power that comes from being untouchable in a world that specializes in breaking the touchable.
By dawn, he's mapped her vulnerabilities, confirmed her patterns, and verified her connection to intelligence that could prove invaluable when the war with Vought escalates beyond individual hunting.
Leaving Charlotte's building feels like surfacing from deep water—stepping away from manufactured predation and back into a world where people like Maya exist to heal what people like Charlotte break. Ben scrubs himself raw in his apartment shower, trying to wash away the taste of monster before meeting someone who still believes in redemption.
"Becoming the very thing I hunt. Using people, discarding them, justifying it all as necessary for the greater good."
The reflection in his bathroom mirror shows someone who's learned to move between worlds—predator and protector, monster and man, truth and lies wrapped around operational necessity. Charlotte sees a broken toy to manipulate; Maya sees a wounded soul worth healing.
Both of them are right. Both of them are wrong. Both of them are helping him become something that might be strong enough to matter when the killing really starts.
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