FORGERY . . . THE BOYS ! [1]

seventeen.

Ben thinks about a lot of things sitting at the small, round dining table in that rotting hotel room.

Most of them revolve around the horrid son he had a piece in creating.

Some of them drift to the mystery daughter he never met.

All of them, in some semblance, involve Brooke, who lingers by the front door expectantly.

Butcher is wagging his finger at her, his upper lip curled around his teeth in an animalistic snarl. "You are completely and utterly diabolical, you know that?"

"How is it wrong to call a member of your own team?" She spits back, her eyes ablaze in rose-tinted fury.

Ben does not pay any more attention to the argument.

In fact, he drifts to the black, dark room again. This time he's all alone. The drugs do not mute the pain or the memories; they bring him here.

Here is where he imagines himself a better father than the one he had.

Here is where he imagines himself holding a son, a blonde little boy with bright blue eyes, marching him to the top of Vought, easing him into command and–

Not letting him become the monster that Soldier Boy was on the path to becoming. No, he wouldn't have become that– Brooke stepped in right before Ben succumbed to being Vought's little puppet boy like they forged their son into.

Ben thinks of how he would have done so many things differently.

Here is where he also imagines being by Brooke's side in a hospital room, holding her hand tightly as she pushes out their little bundled girl. A pink blanket wrapped tightly around her, swaddling their Anastasiya, as she's held tightly to Brooke's chest. There is no lab. There are no monsters trying to take her from them. There are no corrupt governments or Heroes trying to destroy her for what she is.

And what is she, exactly?

Ben examines this thought too, deep in that blank nothingness in his mind.

A natural born Super, made by two Heroes who were given the highly concentrated, first tested dose of Compound V. She was surely to be the most powerful Super in America, hell, the world. Not their failure of a son who ran from the threat of a revived former leader such as himself when faced with it.

Ben tunes back into reality, his ears popping into focus at the same time as his eyes catch on the door.

The door that opens.

The door that reveals Marven Milk, the guy whose family that he killed a long time ago. An unfortunate, tragic accident. Another cross he bears, another set of lives taken in the crossfire, as he tried, tried to slip into the role of his own city so easily as Brooke did in Malibu.

His jaw tightens against his will. Not out of anger, but more out of shame. The eager urge to defend himself, to make some sort of snarky remarking quip fights against his brain and bashes against his clenched teeth.

He refuses. Outright refuses to let it free.

Marvin glares so furiously that, if equipped with the powers that Brooke and their son possessed, Ben would have holes crisped through his skull.

"Hey," Brooke says, patting her hand against the back of the chair next to Ben. Interesting. In the vastness of his drugged brain, everyone had shifted places. Temperatures cooled. He hadn't noticed anything but the door opening, the new faces entering. "Don't worry about him. Seriously."

Ben doesn't process at first that she's talking to Marvin about him. When it clicks, the tightening of his jaw loosens.

She will not let these grievances get between whatever business is held.

There, at least, is that.

Clutched in Marvin's hand is a smalls tack of papers, crumpled in the center from his tight grip. He thrusts his hand out in her direction. "These are from Grace," he says, his voice gruff. That perks Ben up, but he says nothing.

"Grace?" Hughie asks for him, coming up behind Brooke to try and steal a glance. "What–"

Brooke steers away from him, though, sitting down in the seat that she was earlier propped against. She places the papers face down on the table, careful to avoid the old pooled soda sweat and the fast food wrappers. Her hand is flat against them. Protective.

Ben places his on top of hers. Protective.

She looks up at Marvin sternly. "Tell me what interesting information you have."

Marvin nods at the papers. "There's details in there," he starts, his arms crossing over his chest firmly, "but I can firstly tell you where she is. Somewhere in the city."

Ben feels and hears and sees Brooke inhale.

Its sharpness cuts his skin.

He knows it, feels it, because his inhale is just as sharp. The blood pools in his lungs.

He doesn't even have to ask who.

No one else does either.

The only thing Butcher asks is, "What the fuck have you two been–"

"Shut the fuck up, Butcher," Marvin interrupts, sparing only a split second to glare over his shoulder at him. "Grace Mallory found her. Found a Natalya Petrov too, keeping her. Do you know why Natalya Petrov is with her?"

He was speaking to her, to them, like they were children.

Ben notices it, and Brooke either didn't, or didn't care. Her eyes were glossed not with rage or fury but with wet, unshed tears.

The "why?" she utters is so quiet that Ben hardly hears it.

"Because she is still a child."

Brooke lets out a little shaky sob, the hand holding the papers down pulling free from Ben's. She covers her mouth with it, trying to hold them back and inside.

"How is that possible?" Hughie asks him.

Marvin looks at Brooke hesitantly before reaching across her for the stack again. She doesn't stop him.

Ben is daring to retreat into his mind again. He can't breathe. The black is starting to curl around the edges of his vision.

It's only when Marvin starts reading from one of the sheets that it starts to retreat.