Damaged Goods- Chapter Three

Notes:Okay, so here's the next installment. I have many huge ideas for this story, but updates may be a little slow, as it takes me some time to work through them all. I hope you like Benjamin, I really do so far. There's lots of Remy and Bobby and Ben and Scott and Jean ahead, so bear with me.

Life dies inside a person when there are no others willing to be-friend him. He thus gets filled with an emptiness and a non-existent sense of self worth.

-Mark R. J. Lavoie

The cold Autumn breeze that had been comforting before nightfall now bit angrily at Benjamin Cain's face, bringing tears of reflex to his blue grey eyes. He could do little but shrug deeper into the thin corduroy jacket, his only protection from the rapidly falling temperature. He was frustatingly ill-equiped for the seasonal weather, and was unable to stop his teeth from chattering. The rip in the left knee of his old faded blue jeans provided direct access to his most vulnerable body parts for harsh winds seeking a target. His feet, inside his poorly sized and horribly worn sneakers were blistered and bloody. But still he walked on, afraid to stop and think of what was in store for him, afraid that if he stopped he would never start again. It occurred to him as he walked, as the street emptied of people, that he didn't remember the city ever getting this cold in October. But he instantly realized the thought to be useless, and thus discarded it. It didn't matter if it had never been that cold before. Hell, it didn't even matter if a glacier moved into town and mastadons set up shop. If that was the way it was, then that was the way it was, and there was nothing Ben could do to change it. So he gritted his teeth and continued to walk, surmising that as long as he was moving, he didn't have to think about where he was going. It was an illogical mind set, but it was all he had.

He had finally gotten the courage to leave that horrible place they called a group home. The place where, just like a popular Dickens novel, asking for a second plate of food only earned you a slap in the face. The place where you had to fight for a blanket, and if you were too small, or too slow, or just unwilling to fight, you would go without. It was the worst kind of competition. The kind that pitted kids with nothing against each other. When they should've been banding together for their own survival, they were fighting for possession of the few meager things they'd been provided. Ben hated it with a passion he rarely felt about anything, but it was all he'd ever known. At times, the familiar had seemed better than the unknown. But no more. He reached his breaking point.

Ben had woken up in a broom closet that morning. Stuffed into the smallest shape he could make himself, crouching behind a mop bucket that stunk of vomit and something else, something worse. Confusion, and a general feeling of anxiety had frozen him. The door to the closet had been shut, but from beyond it Ben had heard several unusual voices. It was rare that you met new people in a place like that. By pressing his ear against the hollow cored door, he was able to piece together bits and pieces of the conversation. They said he nearly flash fried a man. Specifically, a group of what Ben guessed was four police officers had come to the home to question him after a man who worked there claimed Ben had burned him. With his mind. Gerald Price, the principal man in charge at the group home, had apparently been rushed to the hospital sometime after lights out with second and third degree burns. He'd told the police that Ben had done it, that he was a mutant and therefore dangerous. The problem was Ben didn't remember doing it. Of course, he didn't remember not doing it either. There was a gap in his memory, one that spanned from just before the lights in the boys' room were turned out, ending with him waking up in the broom closet. To be frank, he was scared. The indications were terrifying at best. On one hand, he'd supposedly burned a man with just a thought. On the other hand, there was a chunk of memory missing from his mind that he was unlikely to get back. Neither problem was particularly comforting. He knew what a mutant was, and he didn't want to be one. He had enough trouble getting by as it was, he didn't need another reason for people to hate and distrust him.

So he ran. He'd spent nearly twelve years in that home; the police never really stood a chance. He knew every hiding spot, every secret exit in that building. With only the jacket he'd managed to grab on the way out, he'd left the home and not looked back. As night fell, and the temperature continued to drop, he was beginning to wonder if leaving had been such a good idea. Surely he could've explained to the police what he didn't remember doing. But Ben was a smart kid. He knew the implications of the accusations against him; society often sided against mutants, no matter what the argument. If he was to believe all that he had heard while in that broom closet, and he was a mutant, then he was better off on his own.

If he had really lit a man on fire with his mind, then it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think that he could start a fire for warmth. It would, after all, be better than dying of hypothermia. Though he doubted it was really that cold, he wasn't quite prepared to take that bet. The only problem was he had no idea how he'd done it, if he'd done it at all. But it was high time he started to think about his survival. The group home had certainly not been a walk in the park, but he had gotten three meals a day, and the bed had been lumpy, but it still had been a bed. Although he'd lived in New York City for all of his seventeen years, he'd never really been out on the streets this late. Life in a group home was pretty structured. It was eerily strange for him to walk down the sidewalk as store fronts were closed and barred, and neon lights were shut down until darkness the next night. He passed by an open alleyway, and winced as a harsh wind swept by him. He supposed it was about time he found a place to stay for the night. Hopefully there was a nook or a cranny somewhere he could claim as his own until sun up.

Ben was lucky. Well, perhaps using the term "lucky" to describe his current situation required a greater stretch of the imagination than even he was capable of. But he was alive, and had found shelter from the wind crammed between two dumpsters in an alleyway off 32nd Street. It wasn't exactly an ideal vacationing spot, but the break from the wind allowed him to attempt to light a fire. He had scavenged a few newspapers from the dumpsters surrounding him, with a piece of splintering wood he'd broken off a packing crate serving as a log. He arranged the combustible items in a vague pyramid shape, then held his open hands over it, palms facing the ground.

"Okay, Benny-Boy, this should be easy as pie. This shit is drier than the Sahara, one spark and it should light up like a fucking Christmas tree,"he spoke softly to himself. As if sheer force of will alone would ignite his creation, he scowled at the wood and paper. "All ya need to do is find out whatever the hell it was they said you did earlier, and presto changeo, you got yourself a neat little fire."

He rubbed his hands together, wiggled his fingers over the pyre, glared at it like it had personally insulted him...but still no fire. He found it unsatisfingly ironic that not even an hour ago the idea of being able to start a fire with his mind had filled him with dread, but now he longed to feel the heat of the flame.

"Benjamin?"

He started at the sudden voice in the otherwise quiet, unconsciously pushing himself further into the crevice. A slim, highly attractive redhead in an impractical evening dress and high heels was peering between the dumpsters at him with an unreadable emotion written all over her face. His heart beat like a battering ram in his ears, not just from the adrenaline response, but also from the idea that she knew his name, and what such knowledge implicated.

"Who's asking?"he called out, and was arrogantly pleased with the strength he heard in his tone.

An almost non-existent smile crossed her face. "My name is Jean Grey. I work for the Xavier Institute, and I'd like to help you."

"Who says I need help?"he shouted instantly, a knee jerk response to one too many insincere attempts at caring. Except even as he thought that, he knew that something about her was different, felt different, than anyone else. He didn't understand the feeling she was genuine, and didn't know where it came from, but nonetheless, he found himself scooching forward, towards her instead of away like his basic instincts screamed.

She smiled all out this time, and Ben was struck by her beauty. Not in a movie star/super model kind of way, she was beautiful in a much more sophisticated style. Comparable to English royalty, like Princess Diana had been. He was close enough now to see she had blue eyes, and a light dusting of freckles across her nose. "Do you always hide out behind dumpsters, Ben? May I call you Ben?"

He stood slowly, pulling himself up with a hand on each of the garbage bins. "How do you know my name, Ms. Grey?"

She took a step towards him, and he responded by taking one back. "Please, call me Jean. A man I work with was contacted by a police officer with the NYPD. He told my co-worker that they were looking for you, and that you might be safer with us, at the Institute."

"Did he say why?"Ben asked, a little too quickly. Some colour had drained from his face, but he had some experience hiding his emotions from others. "Why they're looking for me, I mean."

He noticed her hesitate for a split second, and wondered briefly if maybe things had changed, gotten worse, since he had left the home.

"There's a man in the hospital, Ben. He says you put him there. He says you lit him on fire with your mind. Now the police want to find you, ask you some questions."

Ben snorted sarcastic laughter. "Yeah, okay. They bring me in, decide maybe I am a mutant, and next thing you know, they're trying to convince the public I died of natural causes in their holding cell."

Jean shook her head slowly, but didn't deny him any further. "Are you?"

"Am I what? A mutant?" He laughed again, but this was nervous, higher pitched than the first. He answered her question with one of his own. "Are you?"

A delicately sculpted eyebrow raised slightly, before another sliver of a smile crossed her lips. She raised her hands, fingers extended and spread apart, palms facing downwards, and allowed her eyes to fall close. Ben took several steps backwards, as he felt a warm breeze caress his face softly. His self-made pyre, still standing at his feet, shifted just noticably, before rising into the air as a whole. Ben's eyes widened, and he fell back another step as the some what lacking bonfire rose to waist height. His gaze flickered to Jean's face, and he realized she was watching him, controlling the pyre carefully but studying his face for some kind of reaction.

"Wholy shit,"he breathed, as the sticks and paper settled back to the ground as they had been before the incredible display. "You just lifted that fucking thing with your mind, didn't you?"

She smiled warmly, and nodded. "Yes, I did. I'm a mutant, Ben. And I suspect you are too, whether you know it or not."

"And if I am? If I did light Gerry on fire with just a thought?"

Jean moved towards him, and this time, he didn't back away. She extended a hand, and touched his shoulder gently. "If you are, then we can help you. Charles Xavier's Institute was established with the sole purpose of helping mutants. People like you with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. We have the facilities to help mutants learn to control their powers, and at the same time receive a normal high school education. It's a place where young people like you can feel comfortable and accepted, learn in a place without hate. But even if you aren't a mutant, Ben, I'd like for you to come with me. The Institute had many spare beds, you can get a hot meal, and a warm, dry place for the night. We can help you find out if this man's accusations have any credibility, and if they don't, we can at least help you find a place to stay."

Ben said nothing for a long minute. As tempting as it sounded, he didn't want to get himself involved in anything that might be dangerous. He could take care of himself fairly well, but not against mutants like this Jean Grey. On the other hand, he didn't have very much to lose. And if she was telling the truth, it might be a good idea to get off the street, where the police couldn't find him. A hot meal and a warm bed was always a plus too. He sighed heavily. "So what's for dinner?"

Jean laughed. "Well now, that depends on what you like. We have just about everything."

Ben stepped out of the shadows, and allowed her to put her arm around his shoulders.

"My car's just out here." She led him out the alley, back to the New York sidewalk, where a 2004 Audi was idling at the curb;a tall, brown haired man leanded in casual waiting against the driver's side door. He turned and regarded Ben cooly through red lensed sunglasses, a reluctant smile coming to his face after a lingering minute. Ben held his gaze, but other than the tension gathering in his shoulders and arms, he did nothing.

"Ben, this is my husband, Scott Summers. He works at the Institute as well."

"How ya doing, Ben?" Scott nodded his greeting, and opened the back door of the Sedan.

"You a mutant too?" Ben asked. He didn't get in the car, rather stepped away from Jean and faced Scott squarely, with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Scott smiled, and shared an imperceptible look with his wife. "He's real forward, isn't he, Jean?"

"I bet there's a lot of things about me that would surprise you. Now answer my damn question. Are you a mutant?"

Jean's eyebrows rose almost beneath her hairline; a similar look of surprise was shown on Scott's visage. "Um, yeah, I'm a mutant too. My body converts solar energy into optic blasts."

Ben nodded thoughtfully. "Then I'm guessing the funny looking glasses have something to do with that?"

"Yeah, I don't wear them because I think they're cool." Scott glanced past the younger man's shoulder to look at Jean. "Can we get going now? It's getting late, and we've got an early training session."

"I think that would be a good idea." Jean stepped forward, and placed a careful hand on Ben's back. "Okay, Ben?"

Ben frowned fiercely at Scott. His instincts screamed at him not to get in that car, that this Scott guy was bad news. Ben had seen his type before; could read him from the way he gave orders, even as subtly as he had been doing. This was the kind of man who liked to be in charge, and that scared Ben more than he ever cared to admit. But still, Jean had given him nothing but vibes of safety. With her so close, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe this was the lucky break he had so desperately been searching for.

With one glance into her clear blue eyes, Ben bent and slid into the backseat of the car.