Title: Trigger
Author: kenzimone
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Fandom: Heroes/Men in Black
Character: Mr. Bennet
Rating: R
Summary: He's awaken by a gunshot and the smoky smell of gunpowder.
Note: Crossover AU. Written before Company Man aired, so no spoilers for that particular episode. Thanks to krisravenna for the beta!
Trigger
(noun)
1. A device, as a lever, the pulling or pressing of which releases a detent or spring.
2. Anything, as an act or event, that serves as a stimulus and initiates or precipitates a reaction or series of reactions.
Odessa, Texas.
November 8th, 2006.
06:56 AM.
...
She wakes before dawn and knows what is to be done. The floor is cold beneath her feet as she slips out of bed, and she keeps to the rugs lining the upstairs hallway as she moves towards the stairs. Mr. Muggles catches her halfway there, blank dog eyes utterly empty in the sparse light, and his tail wagging gently behind him.
That, and the yip forming somewhere in the back of his throat, are the only reasons why she wrings his neck first of all.
Lexington, Virginia.
September 3rd, 1979.
...
At the age of seventeen, Bennet leaves his high school sweetheart behind and joins the army. Warfare is not something that interests him, but he considers himself good with guns – his father used to take him hunting on occasions, and for as long as he can remember the rifle resting against his shoulder feels right in some way.
Yes, the army seemed the right place to be, and it had been, at first, when he was still starry eyed and unbroken and in love with the idea of some day leading a secret research team on their quest to better their country – their world. It'll take years, though, he soon enough realizes. Years to get there, and he doesn't have the time to play war in the training fields and learn military strategies – he wants more than that. More than ordinary guns and ordinary assignments and crawling through mud and wet grass in the dark to capture a red flag.
He submits some papers, some suggestions on how to improve efficiency in the field and out, but he never hears any word on how they are received. He deals with things by writing letters, instead. It seems like it's the only thing he enjoys doing anymore; letters to generals and senators, to congressmen and commanders. Sometimes he takes time to type out a few sentences to send home, to send to Sandra, but they're always hastily put together and far inbetween – his other letters are far more important.
This is what he's doing two years into his training, busily working on his next paper in the small shed of a construction Bennet and his fellow soldiers call home, when the man in black comes looking for him.
He simply shows up out of the blue, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. There are sunglasses covering his eyes even though it's raining outside, and he looks so out of place and official that Bennet immediately knows that this, this is it.
The man introduces himself as Mr. Stevens, and presents Bennet with a off white business card. And then he disappears, turns and walks out the front door, gone as quickly as he'd arrived. Bennet turns the card over, reads the address on the back of it – an obscure location just outside of Austin – and breathes in deeply.
Twenty minutes later he is packed, and walks out the door.
New York City, New York.
August 14th, 1981.
...
The man in the black suit is waiting for them when they step off the plane. He is young, in his mid thirties, face lined with experience and wisdom far beyond his years; from behind dark shades he watches them cross the tarmac, and then shakes Mr. Jones' hand.
"Sir. I'm Agent K."
Mr. Jones nods, face flushed in the late summer heat, his white hair sticking closely to his forehead. "I'm Mr. Jones. This is Bennet." He nods in the general direction of where Bennet is standing, and Bennet doesn't bother to extend a hand towards the agent. He's new and green, and the baby fat still clinging stubbornly to his features makes him look far younger than his nineteen years. He's too childishly lowly to be quite accepted by the company men, and yet he knows far too much to afford the possibility of looking back at might have beens.
K's patience for formalities have run out, and he turns and gestures for Mr. Jones to walk with him. Bennet follows closely behind, squinting against the harsh reflections of sunlight off the airport buildings as K leads them in and through the airport's arrival hall and then out into the sweltering heat once again, into a parking lot.
A car is waiting for them, large and dark and imposing in a way Bennet hasn't encountered since '79, when Mr. Stevens wordlessly handed him his business card. K unlocks the driver's door and gets in, while Mr. Jones dabs a handkerchief against his forehead and opens the passenger door.
Bennet finds himself stuffed into the backseat, the hot and stuffy air of the car interior making him almost wish he'd stayed in the parking lot under the boiling sun. K seems unaffected, but rolls down a window in consideration for Mr. Jones, whose hefty frame makes a disquieting wheezing sound as he exhales.
The agent maneuvers the car through the New York City traffic like he's done nothing else, and Bennet tilts his head back and gazes up at the buildings and the way they seem to go on forever and ever in their attempt to touch the skies.
"Never been to the Big Apple before?" K asks, voice cutting through this air and eyes never leaving the road before him.
Mr. Jones' laugh is a rumble, and Bennet is nearly blinded by a sudden burst of reflected sunlight. "Bennet's a true Texas boy, born and bred," Mr. Jones says, coughing into his handkerchief.
K makes a noncommittal sound, which the heavy set man takes as encouragement to continue. "Oh yes, just joined. I'm showing him how things are properly handled around here."
Bennet takes his eyes off the passing scenery to catch Agent K's reflection smirking from behind his shades in the rear view mirror. "I'm sure you are, Sir."
...
The headquarters are located in a nondescript building that seem to have seen better days, squashed inbetween larger and far more sightly structures, not quite by the edge of the water; "Low key," Mr. Jones mutters approvingly, and Bennet frowns at the smooth, bland concrete walls.
K escorts them through the hallway, where a lone security guard briefly looks up from his newspaper to cast them an uninterested glance, and directs them into a tiny elevator. They go down, at a speed far greater than what seems normal, and then there's a pleasant ping and the doors part before them.
Jones chuckles, and Bennet steps forward to take in the dozens of different lifeforms milling about in the area beneath them. Out of all the pictures and videos he's seen in his basic training, nothing has ever taken his breath away like the scene before him.
"Gentlemen, welcome to MiB Headquarters." He can almost hear the smirk in K's voice.
...
Z is a large man, both in girth and in presence. He greets Mr. Jones as if they're life long friends, which they could have been to Bennet's knowledge.
"I hear you've been having some trouble?" Mr. Jones asks, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs before Z's desk. Bennet hesitantly takes the other one, feeling out of place.
"Ah yes," Z rumbles. "Got a report two days ago of an alleged abduction. We've checked our logs and found no unauthorized activity in the affected grid. No one's left their zone. Either this bad boy's a newcomer, or he hasn't bother to register with the MiB."
Mr. Jones makes an understanding sound, and Bennet fidgets.
"The thing is," Z continues, "we've gone back and checked out reports of abductions spanning back to the sixties, which you know is the time of First Contact, and compared them to the one we got the day before yesterday. They're almost identical. And we're getting reports from outside the US, too. Three reports in France the past fifteen years. Eight in India. One in Botswana. Count in the incidents that go unreported, and you know what we have."
Bennet looks to his right, towards Mr. Jones. The older man is frowning.
"A harvest," he says.
Z hits the top of his desk with his hands. "Exactly. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people every year who are taken, go through God knows what, and are then returned." He indicates to the papers littering his desk. "And that's not the worst part, either."
Mr. Jones doesn't appear to want to break his silence, so Bennet does it for him. "What?"
Z lets out a joyless laugh. "Every single person taken has been pregnant in the third to ninth month."
New York City, New York.
August 15th, 1981.
...
Angela Petrelli would have been a pretty woman, were it not for her puffy eyes and running nose. She sits in the living room of her house, a large estate bought by her husband, a wealthy and successful New York lawyer.
Bennet was watching Mr. Jones work his magic, on the sobbing woman, as her son silently played with a toy car on the floor by her side.
"Ma'am," Mr. Jones was saying, gently touching Mrs. Petrelli's arm. "Ma'am, we're here to help. Can you please tell us what happened?"
Mrs. Petrelli sniffed into her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with it, keeping her gaze pinned on the floor. "I feel so foolish," she whispers. "The first time it happened, I thought I had imagined it. I mean, I must have, mustn't I?"
Mr. Jones glanced at Bennet. "The first time?"
Mrs. Petrelli nodded, reaching out to gently place a hand on her son's head. "When I was expecting Nathan. I had just gone to bed, and then I was..." She trails off, absentmindedly running her fingers through her son's hair. "I... I was not there anymore. And then, I was back in bed." She looks away. "I don't know. I can't remember much of it."
Mr. Jones nods. "But then, a few days ago..."
"Yes," Mrs. Petrelli says. "I knew I didn't imagine it that time! I was in the kitchen, and it was late and the help had gone home, but Nathan wanted a sandwich."
She blinked, as if to ward off tears; "And I was just about to pick up a butter knife when I was back there again. And then I was back, like I'd only been gone a second or two, and Nathan was crying and wondering where I'd gone. And I looked at the clock and discovered that I'd been gone for almost forty minutes."
For a moment, Mr. Jones' expression was grim, and then he gestured towards Mrs. Petrelli's bulging stomach. "May I ask when the baby's due?"
Mrs. Petrelli blinked, surprised by the non-sequitur. "Oh. In a few weeks. In September."
Mr. Jones nodded and smiled pleasantly, reaching into his suit pocket. "I guess Nathan will enjoy having a sibling."
"Oh, yes, he will!" Mrs. Petrelli offered them the only real smile they'd seen since they arrived.
Bennet felt Mr. Jones' elbow dig into his arm and recognized the long, silver piece of electronics he was holding.
"Now, Mrs. Petrelli, I'd like to ask you to look right into this red light there. Nathan too, for that matter."
Bennet mimicked Mr. Jones and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.
Odessa, Texas.
November 8th, 2006.
07:02 AM.
...
Lyle sleeps like a teenage boy; sprawled out across his bed, covers kicked off and resting in a heap by the foot of the mattress, right arm dangling over the edge of the bed and his mouth open in a way that reminds her of winters of years long passed, when they'd wait for the rare event of snowfall and run outside, tilting their heads back and sticking their tongues out in an attempt to catch the very first snowflake.
Her steps are muted against the clothes covering the floor of his room. He doesn't wake, not when she bends to pick up a discarded pillow, and not in the instance before she presses it down against his face. His movements are sluggish, yet frantic; his hands manage to fly up and grip her wrists, and they tug in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure of the pillow, scratch and push.
She watches his movements slow as the scratches covering her arms fade into nonexistence.
Kermit, Texas.
February 28th, 1992.
...
From his service record, Jeremy Hammond is an exemplary firefighter. Thirteen years on the force, first with the Third Division and then the Fourth, and with a number of stupidly heroic rescues under his belt. Which is why, when he tells Bennet that the toddler was unburnt, Bennet believes him.
Not only unburnt, Hammond goes on, eyes large and hands cupped as if the child was once again in his arms, but like it hadn't been near the fire. Dirty, yes, and sooty, but not burnt. Not a hair on its head.
Bennet has seen the photos, walked the burnt out shell of an apartment building, and touched the ashen pile of blanket and crib Hammond claims the child had been lying in. And this is how he knows what they are dealing with, and what the firefighter before him knows, and what makes it so much easier to tell the lie.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hammond. The child might not have been physically near the fire, but it inhaled enough smoke. It died a few hours after being brought to the hospital."
Hammond is looking at his hands like he's seeing something Bennet isn't, his fingers shaking slightly, and Bennet stands and leaves. He passes Jones in the hallway, and hears a door open and close. There's a flash that make several firefighters walking the corridor looking upwards toward the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, but Bennet never breaks his stride.
The toddler is small, and clings to Bennet's lapels like they're her only lifeline left. Jones watches from a distance as Bennet takes a seat on the couch opposite his desk, and types a command on his computer.
"Lillian Michelle Gordon. Eighteen months," he announces.
Bennet grunts in reply. "Any news yet?"
Jones sighs, rubs his forehead. "No. Whenever it takes this long, it usually means there's trouble."
Bennet sighs. In his arms, the small girl babbles incoherently and looks up at him with large blue eyes. Her hair is golden, and her cheeks a rosy pink. There's not a scratch on her.
The phone on Jones' desk rings, and the older man is quick to grab the receiver. Three minutes later, after a conversations consisting of mostly grunts and 'Uh-huh's from Jones' side, he hangs up and takes a breath.
"Positive?" Bennet asks, as the toddler squirms and slides from his lap down onto the floor.
Jones nods. "Yes. The same genetic abnormality as the others. "
They watch the child pull itself up onto wobbly legs, and take hesitant steps towards the large window.
"We've never had an opportunity like this before," Jones slowly begins. "We should take it. There's no one left to claim her. We can completely rewrite her past, and no one would be the wiser."
"It should be an agent," Bennet states.
"Well, yes, of course." Jones huffs like he's been accused of being stupid. "It'd be far too dangerous for a civilian couple." He pauses. "You and Sandra..."
Across the room, the girl stumbles and falls backwards to land on her rump. She lets out a delighted giggle, sticking two fingers into her mouth to suck on.
Bennet looks away. "I'll talk to her."
Chicago, Illinois.
March 17th, 1997.
...
The dark skinned man does not speak.
The young police officer standing by Bennet's side fidgets some, clearly uncomfortable with the mute stare glued to his features.
"May I ask what charges he was brought in on?" Bennet asks, readjusting his glasses.
"Shoplifting, Sir."
"Huh." Bennet studies the man. "Any ID?"
"Uh, no, Sir. Nothing except the bread loaf he took off the shelf."
"Good. Please leave us alone for a moment."
The officer is more than glad to get away from the arrestee, and Bennet waits until he hears the footsteps fade away before he turns towards the man on the other side of the bars.
"Do you speak in the presence of someone who is not a police officer?"
The man does nothing to indicate that he might have heard Bennet's question.
"Very well." Bennet spots a chair a few feet away and drags it to rest before the cell's bars. He sits. "Do you know that the police tried to match your DNA to that of a few robberies some time ago? No? Well, they weren't a match, so you have nothing to worry about."
The man's expression doesn't change. Bennet smiles at him. "The thing is, once your DNA was in the police database, we also got access to it. And we discovered some interesting things."
Bennet imagines he sees a small flicker of the dark man's eyes, but he can't be certain.
"Did your mother ever speak about being taken away?"
There's definitely a startled twitch to the incarcerated man's frame this time, and Bennet leans back, uncertain about exactly how right he was, but knowing that he was close.
"We can help you. I can help you. You can do things. We can help you understand them. And you can help us understand why something is taking pregnant women and returning them some time later, no worse for the wear except for their unborn children." He drags his eyes over the younger man's frame. "Children who are just like you. Special."
The man turns now, shifts so that he is facing Bennet, and then inclines his head ever so slightly. Bennet smiles. "Good. I'll speak to someone about letting you out of there."
Somewhere above Oklahoma.
March 17th, 1997.
...
He lets the cellphone ring ten seconds before he answers it. Jones is on the other end, sounding breathless in an entirely new way.
"Bennet."
Bennet unbuckles his seatbelt and stands, moving down the airplane towards the back end. His new friend remains in his window seat, watching the sun set over the clouds.
"Yes?"
"Bennet, we compared his DNA with Claire's. There's one common marker."
"What?" Bennet blinks, looking up the plane aisle towards his seat. "What does that mean? Are they somehow related?"
"No, no." Jones sighs into the receiver. "Nothing of that sort. The lab people think it's some sort of... Hell, they don't know what it is. They've sent me memos with dumbass suggestions all morning. No one's exactly sure what's going on."
There's a headache forming behind his eyes, and Bennet pinches the bridge of his nose. "Well, tell me."
Jones clears his throat. "Well, some think that it's some sort of tracking device. Others say it's nothing to worry about, that's it's all about these abilities the carriers seem to be displaying."
"Something tells me that you're holding back, Jones."
There's a slight pause on the other end of the line. "Others," Jones continues, "think that it's some sort of trigger mechanism."
"A trigger?"
"Yes. There are theories running rampant in the labs about how aliens wouldn't simply have abducted these people and given them special abilities out of simply good will. That there's some kind of motive behind this all." Bennet listens to Jones take a deep breath. "I think they're on to something, Bennet. They've spent the morning comparing other samples to each other, and it seems that the one thing all have in common is this one damn marker."
"So, what do we do?"
"Nothing. We don't know anything yet."
"You're telling me we're going to sit back and wait for this damn trigger and see what happens?"
"Yes. And in the meantime, we're going to find as many of these people as we can."
Odessa, Texas.
November 8th, 2006.
07:09 AM.
...
Her father keeps a gun in the safe in his study. He thinks she doesn't know about it, the safe beneath the thick oriental carpet or the M1911 Colt pistol, but teenagers always know more than they let on. The combination is the date of her parents' wedding anniversary, which does nothing to stop her as her fingers deftly enter the number code and she waits for the dull click that tells her to open the safe door.
The Colt seems large and out of place in her hands, but she loads it and turns off the safety like she's never done anything else. There are seven rounds in the magazine, and one in the chamber, and she can think of a good use for every single one of them.
Odessa, Texas.
October 1st, 2006.
...
He watches the eclipse from Jones' office. Jones himself is on the phone with the New York headquarters, and Bennet can hear him speak softly into the phone. It's a national – worldwide – event, and everyone's cautious. Bennet bites his lip, tries not to think what this might mean.
Behind him, Jones hangs up and coughs into his handkerchief. He's gotten worse with the years, and often talks of retiring and moving out of the city, of perhaps handing Bennet his position and coming in on odd days to flirt with the secretaries and messing up Bennet's paperwork.
Bennet knows he'll never do it; Jones loves this job too much. Is too idealistic, just like Bennet himself.
"Z said they tracked it," Jones now says. "Looks like it's what we've been waiting for."
Bennet turns away from the eclipse, watches the old man behind the desk stare off into the distance. "When?"
"Can't say. Could be hours, days. Months. Might even take years. No one knows."
There's a silence, a pregnant pause as the information is digested.
"Watch her," Jones says. "I know she's like a daughter to you, but you have to watch her. Be ready if something should happen."
"She is my daughter." It's enough, an unspoken promise in the silence, and Bennet tries very hard to believe that what he just said is the truth.
He'll be vigilant, and keep watch. Everything will be alright.
Odessa, Texas.
November 8th, 2006.
07:15 AM.
...
He's awaken by a gunshot and the smoky smell of gunpowder. There is something wet and warm covering the right side of his face, and he licks his lips and taste salt.
He turns, more out of habit than anything else, and comes face to face with the bloodless features of his wife. There's a deep hole in her forehead, and a single drop of red escapes and falls, landing heavily on the white satin pillow beneath her head. A shadow covers her, and he squints against the light seeping in through the bedroom window; his daughter is standing in by the foot of the bed, her hair shining like finely spun gold against the rising sun. Her eyes are pinned on him, and in her right hand, raised and unwavering, is a gun.
It's too early, and when he swallows he tastes blood, and he could have prevented this, but he didn't.
"Claire?"
The face of his daughter smiles, because he's pretty sure there's nothing left of her in there any more. Or maybe this was who she was all along? He doesn't know.
"Claire."
He watches the muscles in her forearm move beneath her skin, and there's a split second where he thanks a god he doesn't believe in that his daughter is gone and not here to witness this, and then he closes his eyes and listens as Claire pulls the trigger.