Interloper
Chapter 1
A/N: Meh. Just some creativity; ignore the slight overcooked smell. Oh, and to the reviewer that wonder what happened to Viral: it's coming. Slow, but coming. This kept plaguing my mind while writing it. Sorry.
"Get out of the car."
Ben looked surprised for only a moment, unable to judge the seriousness of the statement. He was sure of its animosity, though. "Hey, w…"
"I said, get out of the car."
His eyes widened, seriousness being slightly confirmed. The car began to slow, maintaining a steady 50 mph as was usually considered "slow" for its driver. He received two equally angry glares. "Guys, come on! You know I was just…"
"Get out of my fucking car!"
The car dropped a couple of gears with a jerk and backward pull. It was dark outside; they were in some kind of forest. Pitch black except for the headlights and inner dashboard lights. He gulped.
"Um, well then."
The car ambled to a halt. He looked helplessly at his cousin, who only returned with a silent stare that asked, "Who are you?"
Kevin popped the locks from the driver's seat. Ben unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed the door open with hesitation.
"Hey, I didn't mea…"
"Learn some manners. Have fun getting back to Bellewood."
Biting his lips mutedly, Ben carefully shut the door. The back wheels spun rapidly in a feeble attempt to return quickly to the 80+ speed limits of death. The car rocketed off.
Alone in the dark, Ben sighed. Good job, asshole. Ego deflating almost audibly, he moved off the right side of the road into knee-high grass. He fiddled with the Omnitrix, pressing a button that caused it to glow in a way almost entirely counterproductive to his situation.
Assuring himself of his position (yep, you're in the middle of a forest, genius), he slid out his cell phone and started sauntering slowly in the direction the car sped off. He immediately started to sweat in the humid nighttime air despite his normal athletic coolness.
His throat tightened ever so slightly. Was he… afraid? Pfft! No way!
Although he assumed his call would not be appreciated, he dialed the number anyway after pondering for a second. It rang once, twice, three times; voicemail picked up.
The voice was husky, confident, and teenage. His accent positively screamed New York.
"Hullo. This is Kevin at, uh, nine-sixteen forty-two eleven. I didn't or couldn't pick up the phone. If you have a more immediate and urgent method of talking to me, go ahead and use it. Otherwise, there's a good reason I didn't pick up so leave a message."
A robotic voice replaced that of the raven-haired 16-year-old, trailing off as Ben slid his phone shut: "If you would like to leave a message, press…"
Ben sighed again and sped up his walking slightly.
"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit." The voice rolled out deep and gravelly about two feet away through the wall. The voice was clarified slightly by an inch-wide gap between the curved metallic cell borders through which he saw his friend's moaning face.
His fellow inmate repeated the previous exclamation as he began to sit up and flex his muscles.
"You better hide under something or other, little dude. The entire effing joint's gonna go on lock down." He heard a vague mumble from the cell adjacent to his friends'. Ah, the prison game of telephone. How comforting.
His eyes widened in fear, realizing the potential trouble he might be in. Everybody knew about the human in Sector 10. The guards and administrators were sadistic enough to enjoy "accidentally" unlocking a sector's cell doors after locking it down… that is, unless the nearby jailbreak was successful. It was rare, but sometimes… He croaked out a response, unease in his voice sounding as if he was not used to it: "Do you really think anybody is truly attempting to escape from this place?"
"It's either a whole bunch of people, or just one. Always is. If it's just one, they must be pretty powerful. They stand a good chance of having a lucky day."
"What.."
"We don't, by the way."
The human bit his lower lip. "What do you consider the likelihood it being anybody non-hostile to myself and my, ehm, condition?"
"Just 'bout 50/50."
"Damn!" His voice came out in a disjointed, angry sigh. He moved to sit up rigidly against the wall so as to make himself look as imposing and threatening as he could. Not an easy feat for a 16-year-old human in an intergalactic jail, even though he had become slightly more muscled in his time there.
"Just relax and stay quiet. Neither of us wants to get in trouble."
This perplexed the boy once again. He tried something he had become vaguely acquainted with during his time on Earth: sarcasm. "Really now? Any suggestions for hiding places? Should I hide near the pile of dung and urine," gesturing towards the pit in the corner of the cell for beings who required such facilities, "or under the stack of discarded nasty food servings?" This time he futilely gestured towards the neat pyramid of glowing green sticks that he frankly suspected were deliberately radioactive and damaging to his biological structure. The older ones had entered their half-life or something; they did not glow, turned a greenish purple, and were starting to crumble to dust. He did not want to think what those would do to his intestines.
His neighbor sighed. "For a person who seems awfully scared of others attacking him, sarcasm is not the way to keep yourself safe and alive. Dying is also not a good thing to do if you plan on seeing the light of any sun again."
The teenager stammered for a second in a meek attempt at response.
"… or enacting revenge, if that is your plan. If you have a plan."
Seems like an optimistic mindset for a person in this hellish dungeon.
"Just 'cause they think I'm bad doesn't mean I am bad. Or that I don't know how to act in this hellhole."
How could he do that? He always wondered if his cell neighbor could read thoughts, now was the time to trick him while he was off guard.
"No, I can't."
Aha! I knew it!
The explosions and rattles started to come closer. They saw a reddish glow plow up the hall. A guard flew in the wake of the purplish fireball, screaming (well, as an alien who didn't appear to have humanoid vocal tracks, it was more of a burble) the whole way. His body made a crashing, clanking noise (presumably from his assembly of armor) upon meeting a door at the end of the tunnel.
The boy peeked out as those nearby who were usually friendly (that is, those not craving the taste of his flesh). Their faces held a mix of wonderment and fear.
Footsteps began to follow the silence of the explosion. Loud, clacking footsteps. Footsteps, the boy intangibly felt, were human.
They were also, as he would find out momentarily, female.
"You!" The voice hissed. She stared down at him with a look of pure hatred and, yet, amusement. He instinctively stepped back from the cell door. Her face was clear through the door, voice muffled by the intended air-tightness of the enclosure.
"How... why are you here? What could you have possibly..."
The human boy opened his mouth to respond, understanding the likely source of confusion. He looked up and down her thin figure. She seemed to be wearing some type of pink trench coat made out of… what, plastic? He made to say something but was cut off.
"I don't even care. I'm leaving this place, no matter what it takes. It'll comfort me on my way back to Earth, though, if I know you won't be there."
She locked the bases of her hands together, a low pink glow suddenly springing up from between them.
The boy backed up onto his feet and into the corner (but not the separate aforementioned bodily fluid and discarded food ones). He only had one chance to defend himself before being knocked out. "I am not the person who you think I am! I am..."
He was knocked to the floor instantly; he could hear the telltale crack of a bone or two as he slumped to the ground. Consciousness fading, he could hear mumbles of his friend addressing his attacker.
Ben Tennyson had found himself quite lonely. Gwen had clearly advised the entire teenage population of Bellewood High to ignore him at all costs, text messaging and mobile internet charges be damned.
So, here he was. Alone in the dark, cold-shouldered, and vaguely afraid at 9:30pm on a Friday. He silently wished his Aunt and Uncle would receive a massive cell phone bill at the end of the month. Knowing Gwen, though, she'd be glad to pay it.
He took this near-universal ignoring of him to reflect on his recent actions. They all, he realized, ended similarly to his recent altercation with Kevin. In fact, he was shocked that Gwen and Kevin tolerated him this long.
Rather selfishly, he thought this moment of lowness and self-hatred was a fitting punishment. It wasn't. Helen, Manny, Cooper, Gwen, Kevin, Grandpa Max, James the newly appointed Earth sheriff (don't ask), his mom, his dad, his aunt and uncle, J.T., Cash, Mr. Roberts in sixth period Genetics, and, well, everybody else in the tri-county area would attest to that.
Feeling lower than ever at his split-second flashback of everybody he'd probably offended in the past week, his walking pace slowed. He wiped at his nose, feeling sick to his stomach. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd been sick. Was it that "first summer"? Was it then? He couldn't decide.
He pulled himself out of this tangent with his mind pointing out to him that there was light nearby. He spun around in momentary investigation, studying where the light was coming from.
Identifying it, he gasped. Just off the side of the road – well, maybe a little farther than that, a couple of yards into the thick brush… was a spaceship. Sure, not a big stylish svelte movie-style one. It wasn't even the powerful monstrosities that Ben had seen in real life. In fact, it was kind of a piece of crap as far as he could see. The thing was a compact car of intergalactic transport: blockish, white, and slightly smoking.
And, as far as had known Plumber law, very, very legal. A spark lit in Ben's brain, reigniting instantly any of the cockiness that had died down over the last couple of minutes. This was his redemption, his gift to his friends and family. Well, at least, for now.
Formulating a plan quickly, he scanned around him once more for any hostiles. Nothing, he thought. Ben's adrenaline surged.
He moved his hands, fiddling with the Omnitrix in order to start the transformation. Probably Jetray. Maybe Chromastone.
… Only to be sizzled in the neck by what was probably far too much electricity in tazer form. The body of the almost-16-year-old collapsed to the ground in a stick figure-like heap.
A girl in a pink… what, jumpsuit? Jacket? Who knows… picked up his legs by both feet and began to drag, his head wobbling grossly as it slid over all sorts of forest debris.
The music was grating and annoying; to those who explicitly didn't like it, it was suicide-inducing. The boy winced and snorted in some of the stale perfume-stained air at the recent as-far-as-he-knew pop song.
After standing in front of the chubby gum-smacking lip-glossed girl for what seemed like hours, he finally made to get her attention with a slight cough. He tapped the box he had placed on the scanner a couple of times for emphasis.
She looked up from her cell phone with a clearly surprised look, making the boy think evil thoughts about what he could do with that blade-shaped device this girl clearly put so much time into.
The girl brightened at recognizing him by his face. She moved to scan the box on the counter, glancing back at him. She stopped when she got to his hair – snow-white, thin, kinda silky. With a confused stare, her gaze dropped to the rung-up box in her hand. Male's hair dye, brown 232. She hid a smirk, fearing anger.
He snickered. This was funnier than he thought it would be; he said offhandedly and with calculated smoothness, "Heheh. Lost a bet. Want to get it over with as soon as possible, right?" He had clearly practiced this; she didn't pick up on it.
She smiled again, struggling to remind herself to not ring up the product twice as she got lost in his eyes. Those ruby – no, blood – red eyes. She never noticed those before, right? It didn't fit his ensemble, the way she saw him in her mind: medium-sized, athletic, black shirt, green sport jacket, etc. All true here... except for those please stop staring at my eyes or I will not be afraid to kill you. His inner anger manifested itself with an awkward smile.
After another couple of seconds of staring, the teenage boy coughed nervously again. She, once again baffled with herself, quickly finished the transaction. He effortlessly pulled out a wallet and handed her some neatly aligned bills and coins. Exact change? How nice of him. The girl caught a glimpse of the boy's uneasy grin on a Beginner's Driving permit in the I.D. window of the long leather wallet.
Gesturing for her to hurry the hell up you stupid waste of space, he snapped the wallet shut and waited impatiently for the also-wasteful plastic bag complete with useless receipt and the box of dye.
He waved goodbye with a slight wave of his hand, sigh, and pressing of his lips into a smirk. He turned off with an odd look of exasperation on his face, lifting the newly-bought box of dye to his teeth and tearing at a corner of the cardboard, while scanning over the directions. His shoulder gave an odd spasm as he bent his left arm to tear the box open. Wincing again, he thought of how disturbingly quickly his left ulna, collarbone, and coccyx had been mended during his... ehm, trip. He brushed it off after barely a second, returning to his skimming of the surprisingly thick instruction packet. No, I will not ingest hair dye, thank you.
Meanwhile, the girl stared at him as he strolled out of the drugstore where she spent her evenings after school working.
Two things were for sure. One: she was inexplicably, yet totally, smitten with this charming its called politeness you ugly hag of an underperformer (one of many insults he imagined throughout the encounter) boy. Two was harder to enumerate inside her head.
This boy bore all the trademarks of the one she already knew. Even his breath reeked of what she would identify a couple of minutes later as the Burger Shack's trademark chili fries. Maybe I should've slipped a pack of mints from the candy counter in there, she thought idly in between internal gushing. Clothing, hair (sparing color and texture), face, emotion, posture, etc. all correct down to the T.
And, yet, she couldn't explain it: this was by no stretch the same Ben Tennyson she sat behind in 9:30 Pre-Calculus.
Well, then. Hope you liked it. This stays a oneshot, for now, pending feedback and more time on my end. Feel free - no, really, I beg you - to R&R!