scorched, and anger flared in him. His eyes fixated suddenly on the larger man. The man paused,rearing back slightly from the crystalline blue gaze, transfixed by the sensation of pure hate. And thenit vanished, quick as it came. The eyes glazed over once more, emotion gone.
Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum,et vitam venturi saeculi.
The man grunted in frustration and struck out again, as if responding in self defense. Again.Time passed as the man hammered at Ben, striking his face, striking his body, his arm. Blood coursedfrom a cut along Ben's left temple.
Thirty-nine total blows. Grip lessening. (endurance weakening) Slipping fingers. Now.
“I won't speak more than this, so you'd better listen,” said Ben. His tone was soft, possibly evenamused, for all that his mouth filled with blood as he spoke. As expected, the man stopped and bent toglare into Ben's face.“I hope it's to beg.” The man's voice was pure gravel, the accent beginning to slip through. Heshook Ben, his right hand moving towards his jacket, presumably for the gun that was there. Likely .32caliber. Likely Glock. Ben had noted the holster earlier, a bulge vaguely disguised by a jacket chosenfor the purpose. It would take about five seconds for the weapon to draw.“Charles Widmore sent you to me to die. If you want a better outcome, walk away
”The man laughed once in disbelief, his actions caught in a pause. Thusly distracted, the tensiondrained from the man's grip and Ben abruptly shifted his weight to free his pinned arm. His own handsnaked up and across his body to find the man's little finger. His thumb pressed against its bend and therest of his grasp pulled. It snapped like brittle wood and the man opened his mouth to howl at thesudden injustice. Something clattered. Ben grabbed up and pulled
on his attacker's jaw with allthe force of his prone weight. It dislocated with a horrible popping sound and now the man fell back,trying to scuttle away, weapon forgotten, his much smaller victim pulling himself upright with a gracethat belied the abuse he had just endured.The Englishman struggled back into balance and whirled on Ben, his jaw hung at an unnaturalangle. He grabbed at his holster, then stared down at its emptiness. The gun had fallen free during thestruggle.It was like that, frozen in sudden terror, struck by the awful realization that Ben had donenothing more than tell him the truth, that bullets tore through his empty hands, his chest, and then hisskull. Then there was nothing.Ben dismantled the weapon in a handful of trained movements, beginning with the removal of the magazine clip, the ensurance that no bullet remained locked, and the snap-back of the slide. Helittered the remains of his opponent's weapon through the sewer grates that marked either end of thestony, shadowed overpass. A car drove overhead, never to realize the miniature drama that had beenenacted beneath it.Benjamin Linus turned to leave, facing the route that he had been taken down. The road beforehim wound towards a gaudily bright horizon, the light inflicting a migraine on his already thoroughlyabused skull. Ben ignored this pain as well, though he turned his head to spit a mouthful of fresh blood onto fresh spring grass. He thought of it as an offering for his unchosen home, that veiled andcursed island, with no small amount of dour humor coloring the notion. Blood and blood sacrifice.How long would it be until this work was completed?A shrike called in the distance. It sounded like mocking. It was the only answer he couldexpect.