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sorrydontsuitme) wrote2008-12-27 02:19 pm
sorrydontsuitme) wrote2008-12-27 02:19 pm
(no subject)
This sucks. The whole thing sucks. Ana and Libby, they're wrapped up in blankets, ready to be... taken care of. Just lying there in that little sleeping room in the damn hatch. It's time to take action.
The doc wants to know how many.
"Rifles and pistols? 11 total." He knows: he counted them more than once, and he's got them all. Or had them all but sometimes a man's got to act for the greater good. He still can't believe she's dead.
They're dead.
"That's it?" Looks like the doc thinks he's holding out on them or something.
He's got a scruple or two. Now ain't the time. "That's it. In case you forgot, they took five of 'em right off us."
Now Metro turns to Michael. "How long would it take us to get to their camp?"
There's something ain't right about Mike. Ever since he lost Walt on that raft and hell, it's understandable. It's his kid: it's got to be eating him up. He's all lookin' around and sweat as he answers the Doc. "We leave now, move fast? Middle of the night tomorrow. Look, they have no idea I know where they are. They won't be expecting us. So we get the guns and we go. Right now. Just the five of us."
Jack says just what everyone and their damn aunt ought to be thinking. "No, no, five's not enough. You said there's at least twenty of them. They've got our guns and we're not even sure if what you saw was..."
Mike cuts him off. "Hey, I know what I saw! We take too many people, they'll hear us coming. I'm not taking a damn army across the Island, Jack."
There's all this back and forth: Doc askin' Mike is he in the best place to be making decisions, Mike pulling the Daddy card out and using it.
And then Hugo pipes up, and he's pissed off. Rightfully so. "They're dead! Ana Lucia and Libby are dead. I mean, we haven't even buried 'em yet."
That's when they divvy up the responsibilities. The doc and Hugo, they'll take Libby over. And as far as Ana goes, well... that's up to him and Freckles. It ain't a joyful task and Mike? He gets to stay behind.
He remembers that night. Island time, must've been about two weeks ago but for him it feels like forever. Like it was a million years ago, so damn much has happened. They're in the jungle, looking for Michael after he disappeared. Him, the Doc, and Daniel Boone. As usual -- can't they ever do a damn thing without it turning into a giant pissing contest? -- the bald bastard and Captain Hero are arguing. About finding the trail, about going back, about anything and everything. Man would think they're some old married couple, and Jack's goin' on and on about what happens if they just turn around and go back. "We're never going to see him again. And that's going to be on us: on you, and on me."
That's when a familiar face steps out of the scenery and says "You're exactly right, Jack."
Hell, there's a reason they're all travelin' with guns and they're pointed at that bastard before Jack can even ask him who he is, which he does.
"He's the son of a bitch that shot me on the raft." Payback's a bitch, ain't it, he wants to ask, and he holds his own gun up to old Bluebeard.
"Why don't you point the gun down?" Yeah, like that's gonna happen, and then there's the zing of a bullet and something just grazes his neck, and son of a bitch, that stings, dammit.
"I don't believe you," says Jack, and Mister I Stole Walt says you don't believe what, and Metro has to go and tell him he thinks there's more of us than there are of them. The big guy just laughs, says what an interesting theory that is, then yells out to light 'em up. And suddenly they're surrounded by torches, and lots of 'em. And they're invited -- him, Locke, Jack -- to give up their weapons, turn around, go home. Without Mike, without nothin'.
The doc, of course, refuses. They ain't got no aces hidden up their sleeves, but these Others sons of bitches do: his stomach drops down to someplace around his knees when they bring out Freckles, a bag over her head. Damn it, Freckles. She was supposed to stay back on the damn beach. And here she is, all trussed up like a prize pig.
Damn. Ain't no question about it now: they throw down their weapons, him last.
"You and me ain't done, Zeke."
That's one promise he means to keep. Scooping Freckles up into his arms, all the torches go out at once. Without them, the island's pitch black again. They might not have gotten what they came for, but at least they got Freckles. And honestly, he cares about her a hell of a lot more than he cares about Mike.
This is just great. Now everyone knows where his stash is, not like it matters. Stuff's stuff. Just stuff, and if things run true to form he'll be able to get plenty of stuff again when this little trip back to the island's all over. For now, though, him and Sundance gather up all the guns. An afterthought, almost: he pulls out a regulation bottle of whiskey. So what if he's been hoardin'? Who's gonna drink it, mamacita? The munchkin? "What do you say, Doc?"
The doc gives him one of those looks, goes right on back to collecting guns like there's some big rush about it.
Well, if Jack there ain't gonna take a drink, he will. "Here I was thinking the Irish drink when somebody dies." The whiskey slides down his throat, harsh and bitter.
I'm not Irish, says the doc, but neither is he.
"So what happened out there in the jungle?"
Another capital-L Look. "Exactly what he said happened: he found their camp--"
"I ain't talking about Mike. You and Freckles. Before you found him y'all were gone all night."
Innocent as anything, Jack looks from the gun to him. "We were caught in a net."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?" The guy doesn't have to humor him. He's a big boy; he can take it. If he didn't want to know, he wouldn't have asked.
"It means we got caught in a net."
Oh, he gets it. Coy. Cute, doc, cute. "Is that what they're calling it these days."
That's all he's gonna get about that and they have all the guns and Jack still doesn't want any whiskey, so he sets that back under the plank and follows Hero outside. Sayid's there, askin' about old Henry, is it true he's gone, who's going after him. Gatherin' information like a good spy ought to.
Everyone's tired. Everyone's on edge. They got no idea just how annoyed this whole thing has him, after everything. Jack tells their friendly neighborhood terrorist that Locke and Eko went out in the middle of the night, but...
"But we haven't seen either of them since." And he ought to know: he's been everywhere. Between bringin' people back here and wrapping bodies for burial and listening to some of the weirdness spewing out of Mikey's mouth... yeah, he knows as much about what's going on as anybody.
That's when Captain Falafel notices the guns. "Those are the guns, aren't they? What are you doing with them?"
Observant, Abdul. "What do you think we're doing? It's time to finish this."
"When do we leave?"
Good, that makes him feel a little better. Finally someone who knows what they're doin' is on board. "In the morning."
Then Jack goes and opens his mouth, tells Sayid he's not coming, that Michael wants to keep the group small. Him, Kate, Hurley, and... he points over. "Him." Like there ain't even a name to go along with the person who's helping to save his sorry butt with all these guns? Sharing it all? Bringing painkillers over for poor Libby? Him, that's all he gets?
"Yeah, well, him says even though Pippi Longstocking and the damn Grape Ape are ideal candidates for the Dirty Dozen, I'm just gonna say we might just want to bring the Red Beret." Makes sense, dammit. It's about the only thing that does.
"It's Michael's call. He knows where we're going." What the hell's the matter with the doc? He stuck, like a record?
Even Sayid notices. "It is not his call, Jack. It's ours."
First sensible thing anyone's said all damn day. Ain't nothin' to do but share the wealth, hand Al-Jazeera there one of the good pistols. "Welcome aboard."
Looks like Mikey's gettin' ready, packin' his stuff. He's still all sweatin' and unhappy but hell, anyone ought to be after they get shot. Still, there's somethin' he can do. "Got some good news for you. Captain Arab's in too. Cavalry rides at sunrise."
"You told Sayid?" That ain't quite the happy reaction he's hoping for.
"Yeah, I told Sayid."
"You shouldn't have done that!" Definitely not the happy reaction.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. I just figure if we're goin' to war, we'd want the one guy who's actually been in a war. That a problem?" Speakin' of problems, what the hell is Mikey's problem here? It ain't the first time they've all been under just a little damn bit of stress.
"No, it's not a problem."
"Well, all right then." For some reason, it's hard to believe. Mike's suffering from what they call a definite lack of conviction.
Everything else is set. The very last thing to do is prepare the guns. Then they can have the damn funeral, get that over with. He's never been no good at those things and already, they've had more than their share of them on this island. The marshal, that chick who drowned, Boone, Sticks. And now Ana and Libby: it ain't right. It ain't what he signed up for.
None of 'em did.
"Who's gonna talk?" It's just him and the doc, getting the ammo, making sure every damn pistol and rifle's in good working order. Jack gives him a look. "The funeral. Who's gonna talk?"
"I'm sure Hurley will want to say something about Libby."
Damn, he feels bad for Hugo for a minute. But... "I never even knew her last name. Ana Lucia."
"It's Cortez." Jack loads up another rifle.
"Cortez. Well there you go." Damn, damn, damn: he hates confession time and he can feel it welling up like some damn tidal wave he can't stop, and before he knows it the words are out. "I screwed her."
"What?" It's the doc's word of the day.
"That's how she got my gun. Ana, she jumped me." What he wants to say next is don't give me that innocent look. Exact same thing happened out there in the jungle when Metro was with Freckles: he as much as admitted it. "We got caught in a net."
It ain't always easy to read the looks on Jack's face and this is one of those times. "Why are you telling me this, Sawyer?"
He wishes he knew. He wishes he hadn't said a single solitary word. He wishes none of it had happened, not even the sex with Ana, enjoyable and fiery as it was. And now, after the confession, it's time for the harder admission. "'Cause you're about the closest thing I got to a friend, Doc. 'Cause she's gone."
That's that. Now he knows. Weak or not it's true, especially now that Doc Giggles went and did Freckles. He feels like he's lost not just a nice little fuck buddy in Ana, not just the weapons, not just the control. Even worse, he's lost the only person on this damn island who understands him.
Things ain't gonna be the same now. There's one small consolation prize, though. "Well, at least now we get to kill to somebody." The rifle in his hand's the only damn thing in this whole place that means anything honest at all any more.
The doc wants to know how many.
"Rifles and pistols? 11 total." He knows: he counted them more than once, and he's got them all. Or had them all but sometimes a man's got to act for the greater good. He still can't believe she's dead.
They're dead.
"That's it?" Looks like the doc thinks he's holding out on them or something.
He's got a scruple or two. Now ain't the time. "That's it. In case you forgot, they took five of 'em right off us."
Now Metro turns to Michael. "How long would it take us to get to their camp?"
There's something ain't right about Mike. Ever since he lost Walt on that raft and hell, it's understandable. It's his kid: it's got to be eating him up. He's all lookin' around and sweat as he answers the Doc. "We leave now, move fast? Middle of the night tomorrow. Look, they have no idea I know where they are. They won't be expecting us. So we get the guns and we go. Right now. Just the five of us."
Jack says just what everyone and their damn aunt ought to be thinking. "No, no, five's not enough. You said there's at least twenty of them. They've got our guns and we're not even sure if what you saw was..."
Mike cuts him off. "Hey, I know what I saw! We take too many people, they'll hear us coming. I'm not taking a damn army across the Island, Jack."
There's all this back and forth: Doc askin' Mike is he in the best place to be making decisions, Mike pulling the Daddy card out and using it.
And then Hugo pipes up, and he's pissed off. Rightfully so. "They're dead! Ana Lucia and Libby are dead. I mean, we haven't even buried 'em yet."
That's when they divvy up the responsibilities. The doc and Hugo, they'll take Libby over. And as far as Ana goes, well... that's up to him and Freckles. It ain't a joyful task and Mike? He gets to stay behind.
He remembers that night. Island time, must've been about two weeks ago but for him it feels like forever. Like it was a million years ago, so damn much has happened. They're in the jungle, looking for Michael after he disappeared. Him, the Doc, and Daniel Boone. As usual -- can't they ever do a damn thing without it turning into a giant pissing contest? -- the bald bastard and Captain Hero are arguing. About finding the trail, about going back, about anything and everything. Man would think they're some old married couple, and Jack's goin' on and on about what happens if they just turn around and go back. "We're never going to see him again. And that's going to be on us: on you, and on me."
That's when a familiar face steps out of the scenery and says "You're exactly right, Jack."
Hell, there's a reason they're all travelin' with guns and they're pointed at that bastard before Jack can even ask him who he is, which he does.
"He's the son of a bitch that shot me on the raft." Payback's a bitch, ain't it, he wants to ask, and he holds his own gun up to old Bluebeard.
"Why don't you point the gun down?" Yeah, like that's gonna happen, and then there's the zing of a bullet and something just grazes his neck, and son of a bitch, that stings, dammit.
"I don't believe you," says Jack, and Mister I Stole Walt says you don't believe what, and Metro has to go and tell him he thinks there's more of us than there are of them. The big guy just laughs, says what an interesting theory that is, then yells out to light 'em up. And suddenly they're surrounded by torches, and lots of 'em. And they're invited -- him, Locke, Jack -- to give up their weapons, turn around, go home. Without Mike, without nothin'.
The doc, of course, refuses. They ain't got no aces hidden up their sleeves, but these Others sons of bitches do: his stomach drops down to someplace around his knees when they bring out Freckles, a bag over her head. Damn it, Freckles. She was supposed to stay back on the damn beach. And here she is, all trussed up like a prize pig.
Damn. Ain't no question about it now: they throw down their weapons, him last.
"You and me ain't done, Zeke."
That's one promise he means to keep. Scooping Freckles up into his arms, all the torches go out at once. Without them, the island's pitch black again. They might not have gotten what they came for, but at least they got Freckles. And honestly, he cares about her a hell of a lot more than he cares about Mike.
This is just great. Now everyone knows where his stash is, not like it matters. Stuff's stuff. Just stuff, and if things run true to form he'll be able to get plenty of stuff again when this little trip back to the island's all over. For now, though, him and Sundance gather up all the guns. An afterthought, almost: he pulls out a regulation bottle of whiskey. So what if he's been hoardin'? Who's gonna drink it, mamacita? The munchkin? "What do you say, Doc?"
The doc gives him one of those looks, goes right on back to collecting guns like there's some big rush about it.
Well, if Jack there ain't gonna take a drink, he will. "Here I was thinking the Irish drink when somebody dies." The whiskey slides down his throat, harsh and bitter.
I'm not Irish, says the doc, but neither is he.
"So what happened out there in the jungle?"
Another capital-L Look. "Exactly what he said happened: he found their camp--"
"I ain't talking about Mike. You and Freckles. Before you found him y'all were gone all night."
Innocent as anything, Jack looks from the gun to him. "We were caught in a net."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?" The guy doesn't have to humor him. He's a big boy; he can take it. If he didn't want to know, he wouldn't have asked.
"It means we got caught in a net."
Oh, he gets it. Coy. Cute, doc, cute. "Is that what they're calling it these days."
That's all he's gonna get about that and they have all the guns and Jack still doesn't want any whiskey, so he sets that back under the plank and follows Hero outside. Sayid's there, askin' about old Henry, is it true he's gone, who's going after him. Gatherin' information like a good spy ought to.
Everyone's tired. Everyone's on edge. They got no idea just how annoyed this whole thing has him, after everything. Jack tells their friendly neighborhood terrorist that Locke and Eko went out in the middle of the night, but...
"But we haven't seen either of them since." And he ought to know: he's been everywhere. Between bringin' people back here and wrapping bodies for burial and listening to some of the weirdness spewing out of Mikey's mouth... yeah, he knows as much about what's going on as anybody.
That's when Captain Falafel notices the guns. "Those are the guns, aren't they? What are you doing with them?"
Observant, Abdul. "What do you think we're doing? It's time to finish this."
"When do we leave?"
Good, that makes him feel a little better. Finally someone who knows what they're doin' is on board. "In the morning."
Then Jack goes and opens his mouth, tells Sayid he's not coming, that Michael wants to keep the group small. Him, Kate, Hurley, and... he points over. "Him." Like there ain't even a name to go along with the person who's helping to save his sorry butt with all these guns? Sharing it all? Bringing painkillers over for poor Libby? Him, that's all he gets?
"Yeah, well, him says even though Pippi Longstocking and the damn Grape Ape are ideal candidates for the Dirty Dozen, I'm just gonna say we might just want to bring the Red Beret." Makes sense, dammit. It's about the only thing that does.
"It's Michael's call. He knows where we're going." What the hell's the matter with the doc? He stuck, like a record?
Even Sayid notices. "It is not his call, Jack. It's ours."
First sensible thing anyone's said all damn day. Ain't nothin' to do but share the wealth, hand Al-Jazeera there one of the good pistols. "Welcome aboard."
Looks like Mikey's gettin' ready, packin' his stuff. He's still all sweatin' and unhappy but hell, anyone ought to be after they get shot. Still, there's somethin' he can do. "Got some good news for you. Captain Arab's in too. Cavalry rides at sunrise."
"You told Sayid?" That ain't quite the happy reaction he's hoping for.
"Yeah, I told Sayid."
"You shouldn't have done that!" Definitely not the happy reaction.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. I just figure if we're goin' to war, we'd want the one guy who's actually been in a war. That a problem?" Speakin' of problems, what the hell is Mikey's problem here? It ain't the first time they've all been under just a little damn bit of stress.
"No, it's not a problem."
"Well, all right then." For some reason, it's hard to believe. Mike's suffering from what they call a definite lack of conviction.
Everything else is set. The very last thing to do is prepare the guns. Then they can have the damn funeral, get that over with. He's never been no good at those things and already, they've had more than their share of them on this island. The marshal, that chick who drowned, Boone, Sticks. And now Ana and Libby: it ain't right. It ain't what he signed up for.
None of 'em did.
"Who's gonna talk?" It's just him and the doc, getting the ammo, making sure every damn pistol and rifle's in good working order. Jack gives him a look. "The funeral. Who's gonna talk?"
"I'm sure Hurley will want to say something about Libby."
Damn, he feels bad for Hugo for a minute. But... "I never even knew her last name. Ana Lucia."
"It's Cortez." Jack loads up another rifle.
"Cortez. Well there you go." Damn, damn, damn: he hates confession time and he can feel it welling up like some damn tidal wave he can't stop, and before he knows it the words are out. "I screwed her."
"What?" It's the doc's word of the day.
"That's how she got my gun. Ana, she jumped me." What he wants to say next is don't give me that innocent look. Exact same thing happened out there in the jungle when Metro was with Freckles: he as much as admitted it. "We got caught in a net."
It ain't always easy to read the looks on Jack's face and this is one of those times. "Why are you telling me this, Sawyer?"
He wishes he knew. He wishes he hadn't said a single solitary word. He wishes none of it had happened, not even the sex with Ana, enjoyable and fiery as it was. And now, after the confession, it's time for the harder admission. "'Cause you're about the closest thing I got to a friend, Doc. 'Cause she's gone."
That's that. Now he knows. Weak or not it's true, especially now that Doc Giggles went and did Freckles. He feels like he's lost not just a nice little fuck buddy in Ana, not just the weapons, not just the control. Even worse, he's lost the only person on this damn island who understands him.
Things ain't gonna be the same now. There's one small consolation prize, though. "Well, at least now we get to kill to somebody." The rifle in his hand's the only damn thing in this whole place that means anything honest at all any more.