# đź“– *Ben 10: The Lost Years*
**Chapter 3 – Kidnapping Gone Wrong (Expanded ~2,050 words)**
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### **POV: Skrall – Descent**
The boy looked smaller than Skrall imagined. Tiny. Soft.
Too soft to have humiliated Vilgax.
And yet…
Across prison bars, warlords had whispered his name with venom. *The human boy, Tennyson.* They cursed him like a plague, mocked by his cheek, undone by his luck. Skrall had laughed it off once. Until he saw the bounty. Until he realized Vilgax himself had carved Tennyson's face into the Guild networks with an order to "deliver alive for torment, or dead for honor."
No honor was ever worth less than avenging Vilgax's pride. Skrall would be the one to collect — and finally his rivals would stop sneering.
Engines howled. His warship slashed shadows across Bellwood's cul‑de‑sac. Lawns blew sideways, mailboxes bent against gale, car alarms screamed. His talons clicked steady, savoring the moment.
This time, his prey would not escape.
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### **POV: Bellwood Civilian – Mrs. Harper**
Mrs. Harper had lived on this street twenty years. She'd endured tornado warnings, lightning storms, and once an entire flock of flamingos escaped the local petting zoo. Nothing compared to this.
A ship tore into her azaleas. Garden gnomes flew like grenades. She shrieked, clutching her bathrobe.
"Every time!" she wailed, stooping to herd her cat inside. "Every time Ben Tennyson's nearby!"
Alien shadows crept across her street, and she cursed that boy's name.
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### **POV: Argit**
Argit was vibrating. His fur puffed like insulation caught in static. His ears shot flat against his head.
This was not the plan. The plan was butter up the boy, hint at danger, then profit off the panic. Not get stomped flat under Skrall's claws in the first five minutes.
"Okay," he stammered at Ben, "we need to—uh, to, um—you need to hide! Now! Crawl under a porch, shove yourself in a tree, play dead, SOMETHING."
Ben calmly adjusted his backpack strap. "Relax. He doesn't know what he's in for."
Argit squealed louder. "He's Skrall the Skullhunter! Do you *understand?!* He has a kill‑count so high even bounty brokers raise insurance when he walks through the door!"
Ben smirked sideways. "Yeah? Well, tell him not to trip on mortgages. People really hate expensive property damage around here."
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### **POV: Skrall**
The brat just stood there with his hands in his pockets. No Omnitrix. No powered form. No weapon.
Yet — unfazed.
"Come quietly," Skrall growled, blade‑arms hissing outward.
Ben tilted his head. "Sorry. Got this math test tomorrow I'd rather fail than spend time in your ugly shuttle."
The words landed like needles. Skrall's jaw flexed. This was not fear. This was taunt. This was *control.*
The rage boiled fast, clawing up his throat. With a roar, Skrall lunged.
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### **POV: Ben**
He'd already measured Skrall from boots to smug helmet. Too heavy at the thighs. Slow arm recovery. Blades point‑heavy, not balanced. *Sloppy if taunted.*
So he stepped sideways precisely one beat too early, watching Skrall carve pavement like butter. Sparks spit. Asphalt groaned. Perfect.
"Whoa, speed racer," Ben muttered. "You miss like my gym teacher's golf swing."
Skrall snarled, swinging again. This time Ben ducked under, backpack slapping ground with weight. He jerked it open mid‑roll, yanking out The Brick — Algebra II, Mrs. Dalton's curse incarnate.
"Guess you're finally useful," Ben muttered, then lobbed the textbook with pinpoint spite.
It cracked off Skrall's faceplate with a CLONK.
The hunter flinched back, stunned — optics bursting static.
Ben grinned. "Wow. Vilgax should've tried community college. Could've saved himself the therapy bills."
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### **POV: Argit**
Argit's brain threw alarms like firecrackers.
The boy wasn't dodging aimlessly. He was *baiting* Skrall. Step by step. Every insult like candy‑corn crumbs luring the beast to over‑swing. And then—he'd used a math book as a bludgeon. A textbook!
The other prisoners hadn't exaggerated. This kid *was* dangerous — just not in the way legends claimed. It wasn't just skill or luck. Tennyson had a *mouth* sharper than blades and a brain faster than fire.
Argit muttered, half terrified, half impressed: "You're out of your mind."
Ben, panting mid‑dodge, smirked. "Nah. Just clever."
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### **POV: Skrall**
Pain flared across his muzzle. Humiliation dripped faster than blood. Smoke hissed from cracked pavement.
This was no prey. This was insult given flesh.
He tore after the brat, armor gouging lawns and fences as he smashed through suburbia. Children screamed behind blinds. Sirens flickered distant.
But still — mockery.
"Left foot heavy!" the boy crowed mid‑run. "You training for the three‑legged race?"
Skrall struck. Empty air. Fence shattered.
"Almost had me!" Ben added, sprinting faster. "But hey—don't worry. Happens to every great hunter. You miss sometimes. Or in your case — all the time."
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### **POV: Mr. Jenkins (Neighbor)**
Mr. Jenkins, age seventy, watering begonias. He turned just in time to see Skrall trip over his garden hose, flailing in a shower of water and sparks.
Right behind was Ben Tennyson, grinning like the devil as he yanked the hose taught mid‑run.
Water screeched against seared circuits. Smoke sizzled. Skrall cried fury.
Ben shouted, "Thanks, Mr. J! Extra credit assignment accomplished!" and bolted past, drenched in laughter.
Jenkins dropped his watering can, muttering, "…I need to move."
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### **POV: Argit**
The hunter was flailing. Skrall the Skullhunter — scourge of half the systems Argit ever scammed — blinded by hose spray, slipping on tiling, cornered by suburban utilities.
And the kid? Laughing. Actually *laughing* as he sprinted loops around him, taunting mercilessly.
"My stars," Argit whispered, tail curling. "The boycott gangs weren't lying. The Watchless One's real. And he's—he's terrifying."
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### **POV: Plumber Satellite Technician**
In orbit, Plumber technician #47 sipped coffee, blinking alarms. "Huh. Unauthorized Skrallian ship over Bellwood. Protocol says—alert field office."
He tapped a report, then hesitated. A fuzzy live feed caught combat on the street — a teenager weaving between slashes, turning a garden hose into a weapon, cackling insults.
"…Wait," the tech muttered. "Is that Ben Tennyson?" He sighed, deleted three alert flags. "Max'll scream if I interrupt. Let's call it … self‑managed."
He shut the tab and sipped. Kids these days.
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### **POV: Skrall**
Failure burned deep. Systems overloaded in sparks. Sirens closed. Blades shook weak from short‑circuit.
Skrall snarled curses and leapt skyward, engines throttling retreat. His target was alive — but worse: mocking — forever burned into his vision. This humiliation would not stand.
Benjamin Tennyson would pay.
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### **POV: Ben (Final Beat)**
Ben leaned against a dumpster, chest heaving, sweater drenched, hands shaking just a little harder than his grin let show. Shaking … but triumphant.
His knuckles sore. His pack ripped. His math book demolished. But Skrall? Gone.
He chuckled breathlessly. "Guess I'm passing combat practice."
Argit crept from hiding, twitch‑eyed. "You—are completely insane. Skrall will hunt you to every end of space, you know that? He'll *never forgive this.*"
Ben waved him off. "Good. Makes him predictable."
He yanked his backpack up again, smirk curling sharper as the Spark hummed steady in his ribs.
"No watch," he muttered to himself. "Still winning."
Argit groaned. "We're doomed."
Ben just smirked wider. "Nah. We're partners now."
"…WHAT?!" Argit yelped.
Ben just winked.
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