Chapter 5: Grief Support and Future Killers
POV: Ben
The community center smells of bad coffee and cheaper despair, fluorescent lights humming over folding chairs arranged in a circle that promises healing and delivers awkward silences instead.
Ben enters two days after Robin Ward became street art, following digital breadcrumbs through social media posts and a voicemail where Hughie's voice cracked like broken glass. The trail led here—to a basement room where trauma gets repackaged as "shared experience" and hope gets dispensed in therapeutic doses.
"First-time visitor?" A woman with kind eyes and a nametag reading 'Janet' approaches with clipboard authority. Her smile carries the particular warmth reserved for the recently broken. "I'm the group facilitator. We're just getting started."
"Ben Donaven." He accepts a coffee that tastes like it was brewed with good intentions and bad water. "A friend recommended this. Said it might help."
Janet's gaze does that practiced assessment—cataloging the dark circles, the way his hands don't quite steady, the particular hollowness that settles into bones after watching someone die. Her smile becomes more genuine, recognizing authentic damage.
"Well, you're among friends here. Everyone's fighting their own battles with loss."
The circle holds eight people in various stages of psychological reconstruction. Ben recognizes Hughie immediately—slumped in a chair like gravity has doubled since Tuesday, staring at hands that still remember the weight of severed fingers. The young man hasn't slept, judging by the shadows carved beneath his eyes.
"Perfect. Broken enough to be useful, angry enough to be dangerous."
"Let's welcome Ben to our group," Janet announces with facilitator enthusiasm. "Ben, would you like to share what brought you here?"
Ben settles into a chair that's seen too many confessions, letting the room's expectant silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. When he speaks, the words carry just enough truth to taste authentic.
"I lost someone." His voice finds the right register—raw but controlled, angry but not dangerous. "Supe violence. She was just... in the wrong place when someone with powers decided normal rules didn't apply."
Hughie's head snaps up, recognition flickering behind exhausted eyes. The connection builds itself in the space between heartbeats—two survivors finding each other in a room full of people who've learned that love doesn't make you bulletproof.
"The anger is the hardest part," Ben continues, letting calculated grief color his tone. "Some days I fantasize about making them pay. About finding the one who did it and..."
He lets the sentence hang unfinished, watching faces around the circle process implications they're not ready to name. Janet nods with professional approval—anger is healthy, as long as it stays theoretical.
"That's completely normal," she assures him. "Rage is part of the healing process. The important thing is not to let it consume you."
"Too late for that. The rage is all that's left now."
"What kind of powers?" The question comes from a middle-aged man whose wedding ring catches the light when he gestures. "The one who... hurt your person?"
"Enhanced strength. The kind that turns people into abstract art when they're moving fast enough." Ben glances at Hughie, who flinches at the description. "Accident, they called it. Collateral damage. Like she was just scenery that got in the way."
The circle explodes into shared trauma—stories pouring out like pressure escaping from cracked vessels. A father crushed by debris when Maeve threw a bus during a publicity stunt. A daughter burned by "misfired" heat vision during Homelander's photo op with kindergarteners. A son who drowned when The Deep got distracted during a rescue operation.
Ben catalogs each story, filing away details about Supe behavior patterns and operational vulnerabilities. The Seven's casual indifference to civilian casualties isn't random—it's systematic. They're not heroes who occasionally make mistakes; they're weapons who occasionally avoid killing innocents.
"Maeve has anger management issues when cameras aren't rolling. Homelander gets impatient around children. The Deep drinks before water rescues."
"The system protects them," Hughie says suddenly, his voice carrying weight beyond his years. "They investigate themselves, clear themselves, compensate the families just enough to buy silence."
"Exactly." Ben leans forward with practiced earnestness. "They've turned atrocity into assembly-line efficiency. Murder becomes paperwork, and paperwork makes everything legal."
Janet intervenes before the group can spiral into conspiracy theories that happen to be completely accurate. "It's important to process these feelings, but we can't let anger become our defining characteristic. Healing means finding ways to channel that energy constructively."
"Constructively. Like driving titanium spikes through enhanced skulls. Like building armies from the shadows of the dead."
"Of course," Ben agrees, offering Janet the smile she needs to see. "It's just... hard to imagine what constructive looks like when the system is designed to protect the people who hurt us."
The meeting continues with guided discussions about healthy coping mechanisms and the importance of finding meaning beyond trauma. Ben participates with calculated sincerity, sharing enough genuine emotion to establish credibility while avoiding specifics that might trigger unwanted attention.
During the coffee break, Hughie approaches with the particular hesitancy of someone testing whether shared pain creates genuine connection.
"What you said about the system." Hughie's voice carries careful hope. "You really think it's all rigged?"
"I think the game is fixed from the ground up." Ben pours himself more coffee that tastes like liquid disappointment. "But that doesn't mean we're powerless. Just means we need to play by different rules."
"Seeds. Plant the ideas now, let them grow while Butcher shapes him into something useful."
"Different rules?"
"The kind they don't expect from normal people." Ben meets Hughie's gaze with the intensity of someone sharing dangerous knowledge. "The kind that level playing fields when physics stops being fair."
Hughie nods slowly, filing away implications for future consideration. Ben can practically see the thoughts forming—questions about justice and revenge and the difference between the two when laws exist to protect the guilty.
"Here." Ben hands Hughie a business card with his real number. "Call me if you need to talk. About anything. I meant what I said about not letting them win."
"Thanks." Hughie pockets the card like a lifeline. "I will."
The coffee station sits next to a bulletin board covered in community announcements and support group schedules. Ben studies the board while refilling his cup, noting which other groups meet here, which counselors work with trauma victims, which organizations offer services to Supe attack survivors.
"Recruitment pool. People who've seen behind the corporate mask, who might be willing to support someone hunting the monsters."
"First time at something like this?"
The voice belongs to a young Latina woman with a Vought Industries badge clipped to her jacket and eyes that seem to shift color in the fluorescent lighting. Her nametag reads 'Maya Rodriguez' in letters that somehow make him want to confess secrets he's never told anyone.
"Yeah." Ben studies her face, noting the way her expression changes subtly as she looks at him—as if she's seeing something beyond surface appearances. "Friend recommended it. Said it might help with... processing."
"Processing is important." Maya pours coffee with movements that suggest long practice with terrible brewing equipment. "I see a lot of people at work who never learned how to deal with trauma properly. It changes them in ways that hurt everyone around them."
"Work. She said work. The badge—she works for Vought."
"What kind of work?" Ben keeps his voice carefully neutral, but something about her presence makes the question feel like confession.
"Vought cafeteria services. I serve coffee to heroes and executives who think caffeine is a food group." Maya's smile carries the particular exhaustion of service industry workers everywhere. "Not glamorous, but it pays the bills while I finish my psychology degree."
"Psychology?"
"Specializing in superhuman trauma. I want to help Supes who've been hurt by their experiences learn to heal instead of just... coping with violence." Maya's eyes take on the glow that comes from discussing genuine passion. "Everyone assumes powers make you invulnerable, but enhanced doesn't mean emotionally invulnerable."
Ben stares at her, processing the implications. She works inside Vought's structure but dreams of healing the people that structure systematically destroys. Either she's incredibly naive or she understands something about the corporate machine that he's missing.
"Empathy for Supes. She feels sorry for the monsters. Either she's never met one, or she's met too many and seen how Vought breaks them."
"That's... surprisingly compassionate," he manages. "Most people who've been hurt by Supes want them locked up or worse."
"Pain creates pain. Hurt people hurt people." Maya's voice carries conviction built from experience rather than theory. "The system that creates superheroes also creates supervillains. Breaking the cycle means treating the trauma, not just punishing the symptoms."
The conversation continues with Maya describing her volunteer work at support groups, her belief that healing is possible for everyone, her dream of opening a counseling center specifically for Supes dealing with power-related trauma. Ben finds himself genuinely interested in her perspective, even as part of his mind catalogs her Vought access and potential intelligence value.
"She's kind. Genuinely kind, not performing kindness for social credit. When's the last time I met someone who wasn't broken or breaking others?"
"You seem like someone who understands pain," Maya says as the meeting reconvenes. "Your colors are... complicated. Storm-gray with silver lightning, but something warm underneath. Like you're fighting to stay human despite whatever's trying to pull you into darkness."
"Colors?"
Maya's cheeks flush slightly. "Sorry, I'm... empathic. Mild precognitive abilities. Runs in my family. I see emotions as colors sometimes. Probably sounds crazy."
"Empathic. She can read emotional states. That's either incredibly useful or incredibly dangerous, depending on how deep her abilities go."
"Not crazy. Just... rare." Ben manages a smile that feels almost genuine. "What else do you see?"
"Loneliness. The kind that comes from carrying secrets you can't share." Maya's gaze grows more intense, as if she's seeing through layers of carefully constructed personas. "And determination. Like you're planning something that scares you but needs to be done anyway."
The accuracy is unsettling enough to make Ben's coffee taste like metal. If Maya can read him this clearly with casual contact, deeper interaction might reveal truths that could get them both killed.
"Maybe we could continue this conversation somewhere with better coffee," he suggests, surprising himself with the genuine hope in his voice. "Assuming you don't mind storm-gray personalities."
"I like complicated colors." Maya hands him her number written on a napkin that smells like vanilla and possibility. "And you look like someone who needs a friend who won't judge the darkness."
The meeting ends with group affirmations and homework assignments about finding meaning beyond trauma. Ben exchanges contact information with three other members, building a network of people who might be useful when the war with Vought goes public.
Hughie lingers as others leave, clearly wanting to continue their earlier conversation about systems and different rules. Ben gives him just enough attention to maintain the connection while his mind races ahead to the night's real work.
"Popclaw. Time to scout the target."
The address came from traffic camera footage cross-referenced with Compound V detection signatures. Popclaw's apartment building in Chinatown rises like a monument to gentrification, all glass and steel designed to keep the wrong kind of people at a safe distance.
Ben positions himself on a rooftop across the street, using shadows and architectural angles to stay invisible while his detection system maps the building's supernatural inhabitants. The penthouse glows bright as a small sun through his enhanced perception—Level 12 Supe signature surrounded by the electronic ghosts of streaming equipment and pharmaceutical chemistry.
[TARGET ACQUIRED: POPCLAW]
[ESTIMATED LEVEL: 12]
[POWERS: ENHANCED STRENGTH, DENSITY MANIPULATION]
[BEHAVIORAL PATTERN: WEBCAM PERFORMER, COMPOUND V DEPENDENT]
[VULNERABILITY WINDOW: 2-4 AM DURING WITHDRAWAL CYCLE]
Through high-powered binoculars, Ben watches Popclaw prepare for her evening stream. She moves with the particular confidence that comes from knowing you're stronger than anyone who might challenge you, but there's something frantic beneath the surface—the edge that comes from needing chemical assistance to feel normal.
"Addiction makes them predictable. Withdrawal makes them vulnerable. She's not hunting; she's performing. Different kind of monster."
Popclaw's apartment tells stories in expensive furniture and security cameras that probably record more than just unauthorized entry. This is someone who's monetized her enhanced strength, turned superhuman durability into subscription-based entertainment for clients who pay premium rates for experiences that would kill normal sex workers.
Ben documents her schedule with military precision—livestream starts at 8 PM, private clients arrive between 10 PM and 2 AM, Compound V injection at 2:30 AM when withdrawal symptoms become unbearable. The pattern holds for three nights of surveillance, as predictable as sunrise and significantly more profitable.
"She's not evil. Not like Juice Box was evil. She's just... broken in ways that make her dangerous to be around."
The distinction matters less than the practical considerations. Popclaw has enhanced strength and density manipulation, making her a valuable extraction target. Her addiction and isolation make her vulnerable to the kind of approaches that normal Supes would see coming from miles away.
Ben's phone buzzes with texts from the evening's contacts. Hughie sending thanks for the conversation and promises to stay in touch. Maya asking if he'd like to meet for coffee tomorrow, somewhere with "actual baristas instead of whatever that was."
From his rooftop perch, watching Popclaw count money from clients who pay extra for the privilege of surviving her, Ben types responses with fingers that remember the weight of titanium spikes and the particular satisfaction that comes from successful extractions.
To Hughie: "Stay strong, man. Remember what we talked about."
To Maya: "Coffee was terrible, company was great. Tomorrow sounds perfect."
His shadow manifests beside him without conscious command—Juice Box's echo crouched like a patient gargoyle, empty eyes reflecting Popclaw's penthouse windows. The shadow doesn't speak, but Ben feels its hunger like an extension of his own appetite for growth and power.
"Soon," he whispers to the darkness that contains pieces of his victims' souls. "When she's vulnerable enough to kill."
The promise tastes like necessity and sounds like justice, even though Ben knows the difference between the two is measured in motivations he's stopped examining too closely.
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