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Published by Khaman
In his efforts to serve Jacob faithfully, Benjamin Linus has sacrificed both the last tattered remnants of his innocence and any hope for a normal life. But service will demand even more of him than he expected when he is drawn into a most dangerous game of cat and mouse.

-Set prior to the crash of Oceanic 815
-A novella of 25,000 words, in chapters
-No full spoilers for the end of Season 5.
In his efforts to serve Jacob faithfully, Benjamin Linus has sacrificed both the last tattered remnants of his innocence and any hope for a normal life. But service will demand even more of him than he expected when he is drawn into a most dangerous game of cat and mouse.

-Set prior to the crash of Oceanic 815
-A novella of 25,000 words, in chapters
-No full spoilers for the end of Season 5.

More info:

Published by: Khaman on Jun 22, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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 Exaudi orationem meam;ad te omnis caro veniet. Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine,et lux perpetua luceat eis. ~ Requiem AeternamSpring, 1996 ~ Spain
The abduction had occurred at 8:16 AM. Ben noted the time on his watch with clinicaldetachment as three men grabbed him, pinned his arms, and placed a rough cloth hood over his head.His pockets were rifled, his baton confiscated, a small penknife tossed away. They did not speak whenthey threw their compliant captive into the back of the staunchly bland European auto, the faint click of firearm-safeties being the only audible warning Ben was granted. He remained still as the vehicletwisted through curving streets, out of the cramped Spanish village, and into the countryside.Ben noted each sound the vehicle made as it passed over grates and unkept roadway. It mightserve useful when he extricated himself. He held no doubts that he wouldn't escape. It was allaccording to plan.After what he gauged was approximately thirty-eight minutes on the road, some of it doubled back and driven off-road in an earnest attempt to confuse the journey, the car pulled over. By theechoing sound of the doors, they had come to what was likely an old stone overpass in the countryside.Ben was pulled out of the car and dropped unceremoniously to the cracking asphalt. He was onhis side, one arm pinned underneath him and already dully hurting, the other used as a pressure point tokeep him half-supine by one of the men. It was a left handed grasp, relying on balance and anoverpowering position. A rustle of activity; the sounds of the other two men piling back into the car and peeling off. There was a long period of silence between captor and captive.When the sound of the vehicle had completely faded, the man spoke. “You are to end your  business here and go back where you came from. If you do not agree, you will die. There is nonegotiation on this.” The man's voice was clipped, carefully neutral. Ben recognized it immediately asa popular, if ineffective, method of disguising an accent's origin. He considered remarking on it, possibly even cheekily asking how the weather in London was this time of year, but let it go. He waswholly aware he was in for a bad morning and kept himself in silence.“Very well. I will have to convince you.” The man peeled away the black hood and Ben gavehis captor a quick examination. Professionally unremarkable, off the rack clothes and ill-fitting jacket,a smoothly shaved head, and blank granite eyes. It was the face of a man who took his job veryseriously, and believed he did it well. Ben allowed himself a moment of weary resignation, then beganto steel himself for what was coming.As the man's measured blows fell, Ben's thoughts slipped naturally into a fine monophonicrhythm. The pain became distant, dull, capable of doing little more than setting a tempo to his mind'sinternal pace. He watched the man's fist rise and fall with dispassionate interest -
Six-two, approximately one hundred and eighty pounds. Right handed, weak grip in his left, tworings between them, neither a wedding band, nor any sign of a missing one, cheap wristwatch(probably knockoff, recent New York travel? irrelevant). Can feel a slight bending in the left little finger that suggests prior fracture (file that as useful), impatient, probably a generalist brawler untrained in any specific fighting discipline...
A blow connected heavily against his cheek, and for a split second, a star rushed across his eyesand burned. He blinked involuntarily, sweat and blood dripping from his brow. His cheek felt as i
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.
 Kyrie Eleison
Mortem misericors saepe pro vita dabit:Mercy often inflicts death ~ Seneca1993 ~ The Island 
With Widmore gone and his people settling into life at the barracks, Benjamin Linus felt as if life had at last granted him a little breathing room. Securing his social role as leader had cost morethan a few arranged incidents one might gently call 'moral lapses,' and frankly, he was running out of liquor. Nor did he feel the need to adopt drinking as a less than casual habit. It would cause mistakes.He was sitting in his little office in his new home (it was not the one he'd grown up in; hecouldn't bear the sight of its interiors and had fobbed it off on another after taking what few things hewished to keep) and contemplating days past and days yet to come. There was an empty bottle of Dharma rum sitting on a shelf. He considered hunting up a replacement, but decided against. He alsochose against moving the bottle – it was next to a handful of books he had not yet sorted. One of themwas a newer copy of the Qu'ran and the irony of the pairing secretly delighted him. Outside, little Alex,already a terror, was charging up and down footpaths screeching in wild glee.It was Richard that drove him the maddest, Ben felt. Richard with his worried expressions andcautious verbal prodding and the notes that were passed along. Notes. Like children at school. Hislips twisted at the thought. Don't get caught with them or Jacob will punish you. Luckily, the othershadn't noticed the apparently unusual form of communication. His carefully respectful request to meetwith his final authority had so far met with silence. Richard offered no explanations. Ben was notnaïve enough to believe he would get any from the dark man. It stung, but perhaps there would because. Surely there would be. The things Jacob asked... well. Mysterious ways.In any case, in Ben's mind the tone of his reign had already been cast. The notes were short andto the point, carefully absent of discernible opinion. Nonetheless, Ben felt concerned about destiny'sroad. The shadows seemed particularly still amongst the jungle trees, the night humming with portent.He wondered how long this thin peace would last. He did not want to be a wartime leader, preferringto use his mental acuity to his needs. Ethan was the better combatant, his cold-bloodedness sometimesdistressing but useful in certain situations. It had always been so. But Ben had been chosen. All hecould do was try to live up to it. The thought sometimes brought him fright, the recognition thatsomething of this was not of his choosing.Perhaps with better effort at his duties, he might see Jacob after all. It was worth a thought,worth comforting consideration. Perhaps it was simply a part of the secretive man's method, and not areason for Ben to fear a mistake regarding his chosen place. Meanwhile, Richard would be coming tosee him in the morning, after another pilgrimage to their true leader. The thought gnawed at him, lefthim faintly ill though he could not say why.He rose and went to call his daughter inside. The sunset drew long shadows across their sacredisland home and the girl would sleep far better on a fed stomach. Benjamin felt he might benefit fromthe same.~*~Instead, his sleep was riddled with nightmares that morning erased from his memory. Benawoke unsettled, cold, and frightened. The only clues left to him were of cold stone, a sibilant hiss, andthe vague memory of Richard's voice. Something hurt in his chest and he ignored it as the stress of 

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