Chapter 6: Shadows and Surveillance
The Hood's crusade painted the Glades in blood and hope simultaneously—crime bosses dropping like flies while residents whispered about a guardian angel with a bow. But angels, Ben had learned, were traditionally warriors first and comforters second.
Over the next week, Ben's "insomnia walks" became more frequent and less random. His routes took him through areas where he remembered early Hood activities from the show, places where Oliver Queen was methodically working through his father's list of corruption. It wasn't stalking, exactly—more like positioning himself to witness history.
The problem was that his Prescience treated every Hood encounter like an imminent natural disaster.
Tuesday night: The abandoned textile factory where crime boss Danny Brickwell stored his drug money. Ben's power screamed warnings thirty seconds before arrows started flying, giving him just enough time to duck behind an overturned car as automatic weapons fire lit up the darkness. When the shooting stopped, three men were down and Brickwell was zip-tied to a support beam with an arrow through his shoulder.
Thursday: The docks, where a trafficking operation was about to receive a shipment of girls from Eastern Europe. Ben's Prescience went haywire again, showing him fragments of violence that made no sense until the Hood materialized from shadows like something out of a nightmare. The traffickers never had a chance.
Saturday: A warehouse where corrupt city officials were selling building permits that would allow unsafe construction in low-income areas. Ben found cover behind a loading truck just before the Hood made his entrance, watching through industrial windows as arrows found their marks with mathematical precision.
Each time, the same pattern: his power would erupt in chaotic warnings, he'd find cover, and Oliver Queen would dismantle criminal operations with the efficiency of someone who'd studied violence as both art and science.
Each time, Ben managed to avoid notice by the Hood himself.
What he didn't realize was that someone else was starting to take notice of him.
Monday morning brought a surprise that derailed Ben's growing paranoia about his proximity to vigilante activities. Marcus intercepted him before he could reach the training mats, holding a clipboard thick with names.
"What's this?"
"Waiting list," Marcus said with the expression of a man who'd seen every surprise the Glades could offer and was still occasionally caught off guard. "People want into your classes."
Ben stared at the list—three pages of names, phone numbers, brief notes about availability. "This many people?"
"More than that. Had to cut it off somewhere." Marcus leaned against the wall, studying Ben with uncomfortable intensity. "Word's getting around that you teach people how to fight like that hooded guy."
Oh, hell.
"I don't know anything about the Hood."
"Course you don't. But your techniques sure do look familiar to anyone who's been paying attention to his work." Marcus gestured toward the main floor, where early morning regulars were already working through drills Ben had taught them. "Way you move, way you teach people to use their environment, timing and angles instead of pure strength—it's real similar to what folks are seeing on the news."
Ben watched Lisa practice the disarm sequence he'd shown her, movements sharp and economical. Without meaning to, he'd been teaching techniques that mirrored Oliver's training from the island, muscle memory from watching the show translating into instruction that resembled League of Assassins fundamentals.
"I've been unconsciously copying fighting styles I learned from television. Of course people are going to notice similarities. The question is whether anyone's going to connect me directly to the Hood, or if they'll just think I happen to know similar techniques."
"It's just practical self-defense," Ben said carefully. "Nothing special about it."
Marcus snorted. "Son, I've been teaching people to fight for twenty years. What you do isn't just practical—it's surgical. Like you know exactly where violence is headed before it gets there."
Too close to the truth.
Before Ben could respond, Sin appeared with the silent materialization she'd perfected as a survival skill. She looked between Ben and Marcus with the sharp attention of someone who'd learned to read adults for signs of danger.
"You talking about how Ben moves weird in fights?"
"Among other things."
Sin nodded with the matter-of-fact acceptance of a teenager who'd grown up in a world where weird was often the difference between living and dying. "It's like he can see what people are going to do. Not psychic or anything crazy, just... good at reading tells."
"That's not normal, kid."
"Normal's overrated. Especially around here." Sin hopped onto a nearby bench, legs swinging. "Besides, Ben's one of the good ones. He actually gives a shit about people, which is more than you can say for most adults."
The casual loyalty in her voice hit Ben harder than he'd expected. In the show, Sin had been fiercely protective of the people she considered family. Apparently that instinct extended to her current situation.
"The question," Marcus continued, "is what you plan to do with all this interest. Running beginner classes is one thing. But some of the people on that list aren't beginners, and they're not just looking for basic self-defense."
"What are they looking for?"
"Same thing everyone's looking for these days. Someone who can teach them to be like the Hood."
Ben felt the weight of unintended consequences settling on his shoulders. By trying to prepare people for the disasters he knew were coming, he'd accidentally positioned himself as some kind of authority on vigilante techniques. The irony was suffocating.
"I teach self-defense," he said firmly. "I don't train vigilantes."
"Maybe not on purpose," Marcus replied. "But that doesn't mean it's not happening."
That night, Ben walked home through routes that had become routine, his mind churning with the implications of his growing reputation. He was so distracted that he almost missed the signs his Prescience usually caught—the subtle wrongness that preceded violence.
Blue afterimages exploded around him just in time to show a figure with a bow drawing down from a rooftop across the street. Not targeting Ben, but using his position for overwatch on something happening in the alley below.
Ben pressed himself against a brick wall and tried to quiet his breathing. His power was screaming warnings, but they were fragmented, contradictory. Oliver's presence was interfering with his ability to see clearly into the future, turning what should have been a simple prediction into static-filled chaos.
Through the interference, Ben caught glimpses of what was happening in the alley: three men in expensive suits shaking down a local shop owner, the kind of routine extortion that had turned the Glades into a hunting ground for people with more lawyers than conscience.
The Hood's arrow took the first thug through the shoulder, pinning him to the brick wall behind him. The second man went for his gun and caught an arrow through the hand. The third tried to run and found his path blocked by a figure who materialized from shadows like condensed violence.
"Tell your boss that protection money doesn't protect anyone," Oliver's voice carried clearly in the night air, modulated by some kind of electronic device that made him sound inhuman. "And if I see you in the Glades again, the next arrow goes somewhere more permanent."
The men fled, supporting their wounded colleague between them. Ben waited until the Hood had disappeared before emerging from his hiding spot, but something made him pause at the mouth of the alley.
The shop owner was still there, checking his merchandise with shaking hands. Ben recognized him—Mr. Yamamoto, who sold newspapers and candy from a tiny storefront that probably barely broke even on good days.
"You okay?" Ben asked.
The older man looked up with eyes that had seen too much. "That hooded man—he saved my store. Maybe my life."
"The protection racket?"
"Three months they've been bleeding me dry. Police won't do anything—say it's not their jurisdiction, not their problem." Yamamoto straightened newspapers that didn't need straightening. "But tonight, someone made it their problem."
Ben nodded and continued home, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Not by criminals or gang members, but by someone with the patience to observe patterns and the skill to remain unnoticed while doing it.
He was right.
POV: Oliver
From the shadows of an adjacent rooftop, Oliver Queen tracked the gym teacher's movement through his scope. Ben Hale, age approximately thirty, no criminal record, employed at Marcus's gym in the Glades. By all appearances, a normal civilian who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time on a regular basis.
Except normal civilians didn't position themselves perfectly to witness vigilante activities three times in one week.
Oliver lowered the bow and considered what he knew. Ben Hale appeared at crime scenes with suspicious frequency. His students were reporting that he taught techniques remarkably similar to what the Hood used in the field. Security footage from last Tuesday showed him taking cover thirty seconds before gunfire erupted, suggesting either incredible luck or advance knowledge of what was about to happen.
The smart play would be to investigate directly—approach the man, ask questions, determine whether he represented a threat or potential asset. But Oliver's instincts, honed by five years of survival in environments where hesitation meant death, were telling him to be careful. There was something about Ben Hale that didn't add up, something that set off alarm bells trained by teachers who communicated primarily through pain and violence.
He moves like someone who's seen combat, but his record shows no military service. He teaches fighting techniques that he shouldn't know, and he's always in position to observe my operations. Either he's the luckiest man in Starling City, or he's playing a game I don't understand yet.
Oliver made a mental note to have Felicity run deeper background checks on Mr. Hale. Banking records, employment history, anyone who might remember him from before he appeared in the Glades two months ago.
Because in Oliver's experience, people who appeared out of nowhere usually had very good reasons for wanting their past to stay hidden.
And those reasons were rarely innocent.
Back in his apartment, Ben locked both of his coded journals in the makeshift safe he'd installed behind loose floorboards. One documented his knowledge of future events, the other his growing understanding of abilities that shouldn't exist.
Tonight's entry in the power journal was brief but troubling: Prescience interference around the Hood is getting worse. Today showed fragments of at least seven different possible futures, none of them clear enough to be useful. If this continues, I'll be effectively powerless whenever Oliver is nearby.
Note: People are noticing similarities between my teaching and the Hood's techniques. Need to modify instruction style to avoid further connections.
Note: The gym teacher who shows up at crime scenes is going to attract attention eventually. Need to be more careful about positioning and timing.
What Ben couldn't know was that his caution was already too late. Oliver Queen had noticed him, and when the Hood noticed something, it stayed noticed until every question was answered.
The hunter was now hunting the gym teacher, and Ben's carefully maintained anonymity was about to face its first real test.
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