versusnurture | fourth ♢ spam

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fourth ♢ spam

[Abigail knows, now, that it's only a matter of time. He's been allowed into the kitchen. He won't show his true face, but one way or another, he'll start working on people. Ripping them apart, one way or another. Making them see too much of themselves until they eat themselves up from the inside, or worse. And she doesn't know, even now, if she wants to help him or if she wants to run.]

[She's tired of being prey, tired of being helpless, tired of being alone and crazy, and most of all she doesn't want people to know - so why has she been telling them? Why did she tell Arkin, why did she let Zane find out? Why is Ben, who has power, letting this happen?]

[She is afraid, so she ties a bright blue scarf around her neck and makes deliberate appearances in several common rooms, the cafeteria, the greenhouse, and the library, a copy of Jane Eyre tucked under her arm. She's quiet when it's appropriate, polite or even chatty when someone approaches her. But there's something not quite right about the set of her smile, to those who know her very well or look very closely, and her heart beats like a rabbit's every time she sees someone new.]

for ben } thursday

[After Riddick finds her, Abigail thinks about the situation for a while. No, she doesn't trust Ben. She doesn't really trust anyone. But Riddick had at least one point: he seems to have decent motives. He seems to care. And maybe that means she's going about this all wrong. Maybe he's more Will than Hannibal. Or like Alana, even: smart and capable but with a part of him that can't see through what Abigail holds on the outside.]

[He has trouble, she knows, with touch. But he's sweet anyway. He cares.]

[She waits for him outside the kitchen, when his shift is over, hands twisting in the hem of her shirt, eyes on the floor.]

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[By the time she nods, he's already walking, and that's just fine with her. She follows him to level three, waits patiently for him to finish his safety check (which eases some of the icy fear in her stomach, at least for the moment, whether he's looking out for her or for himself). She's never been in here. It's more, well, human than she expected. More normal, if sterile.]

[She sits in a chair by the door (facing it, she needs to be able to see right away if someone breaks in) and sits the way she had with Riddick, hands folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle. She's a parody of a well-mannered daughter, and she doesn't even know it.]

Thank you.

[She speaks quietly, while in her head she angles for ways not to be alone.]

You're welcome. [Ben doesn't know it, either, but then that has begun to be an advantage almost as much as it is a disadvantage. He's learned to use his ignorance, his reputation for it, to make himself safe. It doesn't mean he has to be or that he is, merely that others do, and he lets them.

Now - and it is entirely for her sake; Ben fears no physical predators aboard the Barge - he paces a path around the cabin as she settles, turning on the lamp by the bed and shrugging off his black field jacket. He's still not entirely sure what to do with this room, somedays, but it's his now. He hangs it up in the closet, checking there too even though he already knows there's no one else here, before returning to claim the second chair.

Ben perches on the edge of it, back straight and shoulders back, his own hands held neatly one at each knee for now. Alert. Unmistakable for what he is, except for how the bright brown eyes search her face and then her body language and return to her face where they remain steady.]

Why is it necessary to attempt to force trust with me now? [What's going on?]

[She's beginning to understand the language of Ben, the way he cares for people. It's almost all action, movement, presence - almost all protection. It's direct, sometimes, and then there are times like these when it's not. She wants to take his hand and squeeze it, but the reasons she has for wanting this are the reasons she doesn't do it.]

[Maybe he really does want to protect her. She has no reason to trust Riddick. She should want to trust Ben even less because Riddick said she should trust him. But.]

[But.]

[She bows her head.]

Because there isn't anybody else. [Not a nice thing to say, but that's how it is.] I mean, Arkin, but he's - it's too much the same. And because I'm scared and I hate it.

[She doesn't want to be afraid. She wants to be powerful.]

[It's not a nice thing to say, but Ben has never expected people to say nice things to him; on the other hand, it has the benefit of being true, and that much Ben does know what to do with anyway. There is a part of him - because it's Abigail - that expects maybe she is lying, and he marks that, puts it somewhere he can consider it as the conversation progresses without letting it color his perception. If she is not lying, then she has no allies beyond her assigned warden; Ben remembers how this feels.

He always will.

The X5 cocks his head ever so slightly at mention of Arkin, but doesn't press yet. He just listens, and then sorts it all out into more manageable pieces. It's a combat tactic. This is, after all, only another form of combat.]

Others have asked you this question before, and it will be easy to dismiss, but I would like to help you and to do so, I need the most honest, specific answer you can determine. What are you scared of, Abigail?

[It would be so easy, and probably so much smarter, to lie right now. To tell him that what she fears is her father or death or pain. He might even believe her. Worst case scenario, he'd think she was lying, but wouldn't be able to prove it one way or another. Telling him the truth would be showing throat. That's the last thing she wants to do.]

[And yet she's going to do it anyway. Not because she's tired of being alone, but because she's tried working alone and it hasn't done much but get her killed.]

[She closes her eyes tightly for just a few seconds, then opens them up and looks at Ben unblinkingly.]

I'm scared of being powerless.

[Ben is looking back at her every bit as unblinkingly, steady and intent as though she is a new language he must learn by sight alone. She doesn't want to show throat, doesn't want to be alone anymore, and he is the only one she feels she can ally with to accomplish this by her own admission; he does not take this lightly.

But here is something he has never understood about civilians, about humans. This misconception of powerlessness, of lack of choice, of absence of volition; it isn't, exactly, judgment so much as it's open confusion, ongoing ignorance on Ben's part perhaps. Fortunately he is fully capable of not reacting, his expression steady and unwavering.

Instead:] That is something reasonable to be afraid of. What does being powerless entail by your estimation?

[Her answer is instantaneous and breathless.]

Having to kill to survive. That's powerlessness.

[Technically, she knows, that's still a choice. She could choose to die. She could have chosen to die and save all those girls. But the human drive towards survival is too strong in her - or was, anyway. Maybe still is. She can't tell, through the muddle of her mind.]

To be used as a weapon. As a tool. To go along with it.

Human blood smells good. But it dries your hands out if you let it sit on your skin for too long. I had to carry lotion with me. I told my friends it was eczema. But it was okay, because it smelled good. And I didn't die.

[Her breathing quickens now, her pupils dilating.]

I want it gone. I want it gone.

It is.

[On this much, they can absolutely agree. Ben knows about being used as a weapon and a tool, about killing to survive. It occurs to him from somewhere in his own past - a conversation at the top of a building he never knew the purpose of and never thought to look into, snarling defenses at each other the only way they were taught how - that he should point out that predators have to kill to survive, that they are the very definition of powerful, but it hadn't worked then. He'd killed. He was not a predator, at least not a powerful enough one.

He never carried lotion, never explained anything to friends he didn't have, but he remembers that. Ben didn't die (until he did). He wanted it gone (until it was).

He leans forward.]

You no longer have to kill. I will make certain of that. [It's a promise, in the way of all of Ben's promises: calm, absolute, disputable but unflagging. And in the way of Ben himself, he doesn't linger:] What do you want gone?

[What if I want to, is what she doesn't ask him, doesn't want to ask him; she has to hide it in her chest until she decides whether it's shameful or beautiful. It's a mystery to her right now, whether she should believe in Hannibal or Alana, or Will, who falls somewhere in between - or Ben, who falls somewhere outside of the spectrum.]

[Her fingers tremble, fists clenching, like she wants to hold on to something. She does, but doesn't. If she leapt forward now and grabbed for Ben, he might just snap her neck.]

The - sharpness.

[It's the best she can explain it. The part of her that wants to hurt, that feels strong from hurting other people instead of letting herself be hurt. The part of her that no longer cares if she's a sociopath. Just doesn't give a damn at all.]

[Want, Ben would explain, is different from have to. It's a distinction he's had to learn himself, no emotional connotations attached, at least not in the good vs. bad sense. Data has no social impact. That is what he tries to make his decisions based upon.

But she doesn't ask him or tell him anything about that. He watches her fists and her fingers, her eyes as she considers attacking him, though it wouldn't be an attack. She wants to use him against herself. He waits to see what she'll decide to do and when she only speaks, he takes several more moments to consider that.

The sharpness. The knives inside. They have names, and he knows them now.]

Fear and anger. [He raises his chin slightly. There's no judgment in the words. They're just words. Something to call something that is.] Fear makes you angry. Anger makes you powerless.

Others will use it against you. Use it to control you. You have to learn how to hold onto it yourself, and decide who it cuts.

[Fear and anger. Will Graham is a creature of fear, she knows; he craves justice the way she craves power, as a way to assuage that fear. But anger, she's never taken as seriously as a motivating force. Anger can make people do crazy things, she knows.]

[What if anger is warped into love? Love into fear? Fear into anger again? Secrets woven into secrets until all power is drained away and she is a skin to throw on the floor, a decoration, a conquest.]

[If she was Ben, she would snap a thousand necks, she'd destroy, she'd rampage, if she had that power she would. His eyes are clear and bright and honest and she cannot, for the life of her, fathom honesty.]

[She reaches for the handle of the knife, but always gets the blade.]

To hurt them. I have to hurt them. Before they hurt me.

Sometimes.

[Ben has seen and been through too much to disavow completely how violence, how pain, can keep a person safe; he knows he only feels as secure as he does because he knows that whatever else Manticore gave him, it also gave him a distinct advantage in ability and training over those around him. He walks the halls of the Barge unafraid of any physical threat, now.

But even with his distinct strengths, he is only one. There are those that would assist him but if he were to be indiscreet, if he were to act irrationally, their willingness would mean little - indeed perhaps begin to corrode - and he would still bear the consequences of his actions.

However.]

Who would you hurt?

Hannibal.

[But her face twists; she's unsure. Not that she wants to, but that she wants to enough to carry it out. That it would drown out the pitch of the half-fabricated love she has for him. If she'd hesitate too long, when the time came.]

[So, in the end, she edits her answer.]

Everyone.

[Ben waits. He is not well versed in reading the cues that others exhibit, but his vocabulary for Abigail's expressions is growing. Besides, this is one he recognizes.

The real answer is anyone. He already knew, and he is not afraid.]

Hannibal Lecter has already hurt you. Not everyone else will.

But a lot of people will.

[Anyone could. That's the whole point. Hurt them before they can hurt her.]

[It's not safety, but it's close. Safer to hurt them first.]

Possibly. Maybe.

Some of them will hurt you for the same reasons you would hurt them.

Some of them will do so thoughtlessly.

A very few will do so unprovoked, intentionally, and mercilessly.

[Ben waits, then, trying to decide how to finish the point he intends to make. Considering.]

You have the ability to choose which category every person you meet falls into. You, who have already learned what the last category feels like.

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