Author's Note: Funny story. I had actually written 98% what will now be Chapter 15 before I realized I needed to elaborate on some other things first, hence this chapter right here. Lots of Ben in this, which I know some people will really like. :)

As always, make sure to drop me a line, aka review, if you want to make sure I keep going. I know that reviews don't have much to do with whether or not a story is good or even being read, but I love getting feedback. I really hope everyone leaves me at least a brief comment.

Chapter 14

Gathering Dark

Most of his adult life, Ben Linus had spent living in tents and cooking over a wood fire: out of doors, no pilot lights or gas ranges; and the last few years in the comfort of the barracks' kitchens had not spoiled him as much as the superabundance of ingredients. Under those ameliorative, if temporary, circumstances, cooking had become his special escape from the day-to-day, an avenue on which to park his burdens. And he had become quite good at it. Perhaps in another life, Ben might have become a chef. In another, very surreal life.

As it was, he had been relegated back to fire pits and squab, to open air and the mercy of the weather. It was not an entirely uncomfortable existence, at least not an unpracticed one. The clearing he had been occupying for several weeks looked more like a human habitat, now. There was a lean-to made of logs and palm branches, as well as a hammock that had already seen better days in its previous lifetime. On a few occasions, he had made trips to the barracks for supplies and now little organized piles of tools and Dharma cookies dotted the homestead.

All in all, Ben Linus was quite satisfied with the little existence he had carved out for himself. As pleased as he capable of being with anything, at any rate.

As the scene was set, it was dusk, and the light had a sort of pinkish color to it. The severe afternoon humidity had abated tremendously, on account of the excessive afternoon rain, which was also the reason why his dinner was so late in the day. Ben was sitting on a log, beside a pile of smoldering wooden embers, eating pigeon off a glass plate, with a metal fork-both marked with Dharma stamps. And directly opposite him on the far end of the clearing stood a man who looked exactly like John Locke.

"How was work today?" Ben asked. "I've got dinner ready." Of course, he had not made enough for two. This was a somewhat unexpected visit.

Locke stepped into the clearing, looking slightly the worse for the wear. A little dirty around the edges, sweat stained and muddy. He paid Ben's needling comment no mind as he took a seat on the ground. "Nice place you've got here." He gestured to the lean-to and the hammock with something close to sincerity.

"Yes, well, I'm thinking about hanging some curtains in the bay window, but it's not a bad start." Ben tapped his fork against the side of his plate. "You're back sooner than expected."

"Yes, well I suppose I have you to thank for that. Excellent work with Adam. You really have a talent for..." He gave the air a fluid swoop with his hand, cutting a line that took a sudden turn. "Misdirection."

Ben grunted and turned his attention back to his dinner. Overhead, a bird cried, "Urlee...!" and rustled in the branches. Locke was quiet. It took Ben a moment to realize he was waiting for him, and it look him a moment longer to decide if he cared. "Then I guess your little project is well underway."

Locke's immediate reply was a dull glare. "Yes, Ben it's well underway." He rolled his shoulders back and turned aside, focusing his gaze on a distant point. With a sigh, his eyelids fell for a few seconds.

Ben, meanwhile, chased an elusive piece of mango with his fork, the metal percussively striking the plate with a ting ting ting. "Any word from our old friend?" he asked, his voice coated with a syrupy, dispassionate glaze, much like the fruity sauce on the plate.

"Just came from talking with him."

At this, Ben lifted an eyebrow. "Really?" There was food in his mouth, which he swallowed with a gulp. "That was fast."

"Not sure why you're always so shocked, Ben." Locke, who up till now had been wearing a backpack, began to slide the straps off his shoulders. "How long did you think it would take? It's not like our friends on the beach have anything else to do but sit around and wait for something to happen-something they can overreact about."

"You've sort of conditioned them that way, haven't you?" Ben returned.

Half-way finished removing his pack, Locke paused, one arm dangling awkwardly while he frowned. "Ben, I'm going to be frank with you and I expect you to be frank with me. It appears you've had a change of heart."

Like the snap of a whip, Ben lifted his face from his plate. His mouth was still dry, and so a second passed before he began to speak. "I'm just a little confused, J-" No, not John. "If you want me to be frank with you, you're going to have to be forthright with me." By now, he'd reclaimed his voice, which had become weighty to the point of lowering its pitch. "And you can start by explaining why you felt it was necessary to kill Adam."

The words cut jagged flights through the air, like bats, as the sky began its transition from pink to a deeper red. The Hurley Bird overhead, hidden in the trees, continued its regular squawking. Urlee! Urlee! It was beginning to sound like a plea, frenetic and delirious, like an orphan in the dead of night, shaking off a nightmare and crying to anyone within earshot.

The man who looked like John Locke rose to his feet, turning his back and raising his hands to his hips. Even with his black shirt, it was plain to see the mantel of sweat across his shoulders. It must have been on foot for some time, as opposed to other modes of transportation. Ben held his stare, boring holes into Locke's shoulder blades until he turned back. His face bore an unexpected grin, and Ben's stare faltered.

With an uneven gate, Locke began to circle the fire pit, coming to a stop just before Ben. "It became necessary. Mind if I ask how you figured it-?"

"I figured it out when I followed a trail of blood to the Dharma grave, this afternoon." Ben clenched his jaw. "That kid was no threat."

Locke started up is pace once again, passing him. "Perhaps I spoke too soon, Ben. Maybe you've lost your touch."

This was no insult. Ben was hardly moved to even roll his eyes.

"Twenty-four hours," he began, his voice no more than a murmur. He was done with dinner. Leaning forward, Ben scraped the contents of his plate into what remained of the fire. It sizzled and popped and the smell of char quickly found its way into his nostrils. There was more food left than he liked to waste, but he had thoroughly lost his appetite. "It was around this time yesterday that come came to me with your little proposition. Twenty-four hours is a long time to think."

Locke scowled in the manner that John Locke had always scowled. The eyes were the same, gray and clear, the same right down to the scar. And yet, they were not John Locke's eyes. "Unfortunately, there's no turning back the clock," he said in John Locke's voice. "I'm surprised at you, Ben. You've never been one to back out of a deal."

"It gets a little more complicated when you've made a deal with the devil." Ben stood, plate and fork in hand, and began to move in the direction of the lean-to, where he could secretly release a sigh. Whatever Locke's reaction, he did not care to see it. "But I haven't said I'm backing out."

In the corner of the shelter was a bin, the exact sort dishwashers use in a restaurant, made of thick gray plastic. There, Ben laid his dirty flat- and silverware, to be cleaned later. His movements were slow and precise.

"Twenty-four hours," Ben repeated, "Is a long time to think and what I've realized is that your plan has a fatal flaw."

"Which is?" Locke cocked a scarred eyebrow, arms lifting with an increasingly exasperated shrug.

"That it won't work."

By now, the sky had gone from burnt orange to purple. A few scattered fireflies had made their silent entrance into the clearing, along with their more raucous but less visible nocturnal insect companions. Locke swatted at something Ben could not see and adjusted his weight to one hip. "And why not, Ben?"

"Because Richard Alpert is not the sort of man you take him for."

Locke remained unmoved. "Then who is he?"

Ben began to walk forward, his head low as he considered his words carefully. "Let me begin by asking you something. Do you think I would fall for a trap like this?

The was no answer, but Locke's clear eyes were rapidly becoming a stormy sky, his heavy brow line casting black shadows that extended to the edges of his cheekbones. Ben held his stare.

"Richard Alpert and I have more in common than anyone's ever been willing to admit."

"Ah." Locke's face brightened, his finger suddenly pointing at Ben like a gun. "That's just it, Ben. That's where you're wrong. It's because you're alike that this will work."

Ben felt his chest tighten. His face betrayed nothing.

"You see," Locke went on. "Richard Alpert hates himself. Can't look at himself in the mirror. And you're the reason why."

"I think he-"

But the Man in Black was not to be interrupted. "Because he knows that he's agreed with you more often than he's disagreed, that he's done what needed to get done, just like you always have."

Step-by-step, line-by-line, Locke had moved toward him, filling in the gaps as Ben backed away. His heart felt as though it was skipping beats. The edges of his vision failed him. The absence of all color began to trickle into the sky, like ink into water. Black clouds were gathering.

But no, it was not the sky that was changing!

Puffs of black ash fell like dust from John Locke's shoulders. A sound like an enormous cricket chattering began to ring in Ben's ears. There were sparks of light and the smell of brunt meat, and suddenly it was not John Locke standing before him, but a man with silver hair and narrow eyes. Even his clothing had taken on a different appearance, transforming into something crudely woven, and fastened with a rope belt. This was no one he had ever seen before, and yet, it was as if nothing had changed, and Ben realized that he was still cowering before the same person.

"You're so surprised by everything these days, aren't you, Ben?" he asked, his voice now an octave lower. "Surprised by things you should be used to by now."

Ben gulped.

"But where was I? Oh, that's right. Richard. You know what it feels like to be haunted, don't you?"

And then he was no longer the man in the black tunic. His form shrunk as layers fell aside. Billows of black smoke dissipated into the air. What remained... was Alex. Her eyes shot like two arrows into the depths of his soul, and Ben felt his arms tingle for his daughter's embrace, even though he knew it was only an illusion.

"Don't you, daddy?"

"That's enough!" Ben exclaimed. With a taunting smile, the figure changed, shooting up before his eyes, growing until he stood a foot over Ben's head. Now, it was Adam he saw, but most assuredly not the simple farm boy. The keen light behind his steady gaze the indication that something foul was afoot.

"What you're forgetting," he continued, a few wisps of black smoke fading around his face like a demonic halo. "Is that one little difference between the two of you. The reason why Richard will fail where you would have escaped unharmed."

Ben found he had lost the ability to speak. He choked and quivered like a child before a wrathful father.

Adam smiled. "Richard's a good man."

With that, the Man in Black turned and paced in the opposite direction. Another swirl of smoke, and the edges of his body began to disintegrate all over again, losing height and form. In only a few steps, John Locke had returned to the clearing; although Ben was not completely convinced he was still in the clearing himself, so far had his grasp on reality been thrown. Like a dog ordered to fetch.

He had always known, to some degree, of what the Monster was capable: these different forms, these ghosts brought back to life. He had been present for multiple violent outbursts, many at his own beckoning. He had seen the sky turn black, and had watched in silently in both awe and passivity as men were ripped limb-by-limb before his very eyes. But to witness one man become another, to see his daughter's face melt inches from his face: for that no preparation was possible; and Ben had been reduced to a nauseous heap of unresponsive tissue. Even his skin had gone cold.

Locke looked over his shoulder, not at Ben, but in his general direction. "Sorry if I spooked you." Whether he was sincere or not was indiscernible.

"B-B-But why her?" Ben sputtered.

"Who? Olivia?"

"John... " No, not John. But what else was there to call him? Ben swallowed hard against the rising bile in his throat. "I've known Richard for almost forty years, and in all that time, not once has he even considered--"

"I guess his standards are just that high." He had not exactly cut Ben off, just burst in during a breath.

"He's still in love with his wife." Ben gulped, as his voice finally began to clear. "And while I haven't met Olivia, but I'd be very surprised if-"

Now Locke did cut him off. "Trust me, she's the right girl for the job."

Ben hesitated. "Did you actually bring her here?"

There was, for argument's sake, no reply. Locke lowered himself back to the ground and unzipped the backpack he had discarded.

"Did you bring her here?" Ben repeated.

Locke lifted his head, offering little more than an annoyed scowl. "It doesn't matter if I brought her here. What matters is how I use her now that she is here."

Ben shook his head. By now, his breath was coming evenly, his heart pumping at a regular rate. He was himself once more. Or at least close enough to pass. It was somewhat comforting to look at Locke in his incongruous black shirt, as he rummaged through his back pack, and feel that old, familiar repugnance. In the end, he had to turn away.

"So that's it, that's really your plan?" said Ben, as he abruptly turned back and rushed forward. "Richard falls in love with this woman and somehow it ultimately leads to his self-destruction?"

"It doesn't sound like the most creative plan, I know, but damnit if it doesn't work on a surprising number of people." Locke's arm was visible only down to the wrist. From within the pack came dull thuds and metallic rattles, all of them invisible. He squinted up at him with John Locke's eyes and smiled self-assuredly.

Ben ignored it. "It's not going to work."

"It's working already."

The number of fireflies had tripled in the area. Ben swatted one away from his face and snorted. "So then I guess I can safely assume that you fully intended on killing Adam from the beginning, seeing as how important it will be to keep him in your ever increasing arsenal."

Locke shrugged and looked away. "You can harp on that all you want, Ben, but like you said, this little project is well underway. In fact, you've had the honor of knocking over the first domino and now you get to sit back and watch the show. Or do whatever the hell you want, I couldn't care less."

Before he finished, Ben had turned on his heels and crossed the clearing to the lean-to, forcing Locke to raise his voice. By now, the light in the clearing was growing dim, and it would be some time yet before the moon appeared above the trees. In the shelter was a torch and a lighter and Ben made quick use of them. When he faced Locke again, by the light of the torch, not only could he see that had he risen to his feet, but in his outstretched hand was some sort of object. He approached, slinging his arms through the straps of the backpack as he walked. He came more fully into the light and Ben could see that the thing in Locke's hand was a gun-a small shotgun, in actuality, with a Dharma logo.

Ben's mouth went dry for the third time that night. Locke spun the gun around his index finger with an unecessary flourish and extended it, butt first. Ben lifted his eyes slowly.

Locke was smiling. "Thanks for letting me borrow this, by the way."

Be sure to review!