It was a dim, dank room. The smell of wet earth was strong; water droplets pattered on the floor in some unknown place. He sat in the corner, as far away from the door as possible. With a small, somewhat bored sigh, he looked up at the humming florescent light, irked at the fact that it had dimmed considerably. A broad beam of yellow light casted strange, barred shadows on the walls. The supply shelves were vacant and dust caked their surfaces. It felt like a prison. He smiled; it was rather like a prison, wasn't it? And he was their prisoner. How stereotypical a situation he'd put himself in.
His grin faded as he heard shuffling outside the door. Maybe someone was coming. He was used to the isolation, though in this place he was with different company. He knew not of their plans for him, although -judging from their skepticism- they didn't take to him well.
His shoulder ached. The gauze tapped over the hole was stained a dark red. A small jolt of pain would reach him every now and then as he moved around, desperate to get comfortable in the cramped space. It was cold in the room, and the walls were damp. He shivered briefly, wincing at the sting in his arm. He wondered how many more hours, how many more days it would take to finally get them to understand. The coppery taste of blood had faded from his lips, but everything still hurt. Pain, he reminded himself, was a small price to pay for what was going to happen.
The shuffling had stopped, and with it so did his hope for a conversation. Above him, the light presently went out. He sighed in frustration, his shoulders slouching. He had not anticipated the boredom; resisting the urge to avoid that thought, his gaze rested on the small crack of light at the base of the door. Shadows passed over it, and the light would disappear. No voices were to be heard.
He leaned his head against the wall, staring at the ceiling, now. Muttering the tune to a meaningless song seemed to pass the time. Briefly, a smile crossed his face. Music was something he missed; to just listen to it and not have to worry about anything else. But life was much too hectic for such sentimental things…
He coughed, feeling the last of the dirt catch in his throat. Getting covered in two days worth of filth had not been part of the plan, but he'd learned to live with it. Being shot had come as a surprise, as well. But it was all small price to pay, he reminded himself. His skin was sticky in places from the sweat that refused to dry; his hair felt coarse and flakes of mud fell from it whenever he raked his fingers through the dark mass on his head. There were red abrasions across his arms from where the net had cut into him.
Unsure of what to do next, he pursed his lips, tracing lines in the dust with a forefinger. The lines took on the form of waves, and suddenly he was drawing the ocean. Absently, he continued making shapes: triangles, circles, squares. In each he put a name: the Swan, the Arrow, the Pearl, the Flame, the Hydra. With a small, grim smile he made a fist and dragged it through the dust, erasing the images he'd made. If only it were that easy.
The latch on the door suddenly grinded, breaking the silence. There was the click of a lock; the rattling of a handle and the door creaked open with a squeal. A sliver of light fell across the floor, illuminating his crumpled form in the corner. Warmth came rushing in with the dim yellow, and a person stood in the doorway. The prisoner looked up, confused at the figure standing above him.
It was a young girl, her light brown hair falling gently around her shoulders, a headband keeping her bangs from falling into her face. She wore jeans, black tank top, and a pair of muddy Converse sneakers. A small plate of food was in her hands. She spoke.
"I brought you something to eat. I know you must be hungry."
He said nothing, just watching her with a frown across his face. He had never seen her before. He remained sitting in the corner, his hands on his knees.
"Did they ask you to bring me anything?" he asked.
"Yes."
She was lying. It amused him to know that she had broken their rules. He shifted his position, so that he was sitting cross-legged. He did not take his eyes from her, and the two of then stared at each other a moment.
"My name's Lisa," she told him, edging closer into the small room.
"And you know mine already, I'm sure," he said.
She nodded, holding out the plate. "I won't tell them if you eat, Mr. Gale. I know you realize I'm lying."
He allowed himself a slight laugh. She was watching him intently. He avoided her eyes, staring at his boots. The girl named Lisa walked a few more steps. Her shoes came into view, and he could see a safety pin shining dully, tangled in the laces. She sat right in front of him. He was forced to look at her again, having not expected that.
"I'm not going to punch you, or tell them to hurt you," Lisa said, her tone sympathetic, "I really don't like that they're doing this in the first place."
Now he realized what he could do. "Can I tell you the truth?"
The girl nodded, her expression sincere. She watched as Gale struggled to explain himself. He dropped his voice and leaned toward her.
"I'm scared of them, Lisa. I tell them all I know and they just beat me for it. They think I'm some kind of threat to you people."
He let her believe that the fear was in his voice, gripping him tightly, threatening to consume him. A shudder wracked his body, and he rubbed his face with his hands. He felt her hand on his good shoulder, trying to comfort him. Slowly, he revealed his face and smiled gratefully at her.
"It's alright, Mr. Gale," she assured him soothingly, "I came here to help you explain to them what's wrong."
"You're not like them. You can understand, Lisa. Tell them I'm not who they think I am," he begged her, grabbing her arm for emphasis. An expression of hope crossed his face.
Lisa felt sorry for him. She had heard them beating him; heard his desperate cries that he was a good person. She left the area when told, after the shouting was too loud. She had stared at Jack, bothered by his passive expression, but he could only stare back. He didn't offer an explanation.
Gale drew a trembling breath, leaning back against the wall. He avoided her eyes so she couldn't stare into his own, turning to look at the empty supply shelves. Gently, Lisa pushed the plate across the floor. The tip of the glass bumped up against his scarred, mud-slathered boot.
"Eat," she told him, "I'm not going to tell them. It's mango and apples. When was the last time you ate anything?"
He was thinking. There were two possible outcomes to this, and he had to play his cards right. Slowly, he turned to face her yet again, his eyes falling to the small plate of fruit. Almost hesitantly, he took a piece in his hand and began to eat. Lisa smiled.
"…Thank-you."
"You're welcome, Mr. Gale."
He frowned at her curiously, tipping his head to the side. He chewed on the slice of mango thoughtfully. Her eyes were a dark coffee-brown, and she regarded him with a somewhat relieved expression. He could tell this girl could have been potential trouble…but he always had a plan.
"How old are you, Lisa?" he found himself asking, reaching for another piece of fruit.
"Fourteen," was the reply, "Feel older, though."
He smirked. The feeling was mutual. He cleared his throat briefly, straightening up against the wall. In all actuality, the juice from the fruit was a welcome relief for his dry throat, and he was strangely thankful she had come. Gale raked his brain for some familiar form of conversation.
"And what brings you to the island?" he wanted to know.
Lisa took a moment, hugging her knees. "Fate," she answered with a smile.
He found this amusing; the cryptic response was something he expected from himself. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her again. Her smirk was too familiar; she reminded him of his own cleverness. The thought was unsettling. He had to know which way this was going to go.
"So what's next for me?"
"I'm not sure," said Lisa, slowly, "They've been mumbling about you for a few days. Mr. Locke especially; Whatever you said the other day really upset him."
Gale almost smiled; it was working. He ate the last slice of fruit, nodding. Lisa leaned forward, preparing to say something.
"I'm sorry about those questions about your wife," she watched as Gale's face fell and winced, "I am. They shouldn't have asked you those things. But I do want to ask you one thing."
"And that is?"
Her eyes locked with his, and he was surprised at the intensity of her gaze. He got the impression that she was warning him of something; that if he lied to her, she'd make him pay. He didn't doubt that she could bring misfortune to him, but he knew he had the upper hand here. He could find out who she was, and there would be no more secrets between them.
"Are you one of them?"
There it was again, that simple question. How many more times was he going to have to say it?
"No," he said, with a slight shake of his head.
Lisa looked at him crookedly. He fixed his gaze right back on her, his grey-blue eyes boring into hers. She suppressed a shiver, blinking instead. Gale kept his seemingly wide-eyed stare on her.
"I have a question for you," he informed her.
"What's that?"
"…Do you think I'm a good person, Lisa?"
He made sure to say it pathetically, with a hint of hopelessness that made her expression soften at once. He could tell he'd done it right.
"…What I think, Mr. Gale, probably wouldn't matter to you," said Lisa.
He disagreed, blinking slowly at her. Lisa sighed, rocking back and forth slightly on her haunches.
"I think you are," she finally said, "No matter what happens, I think you are. Even if they don't believe it- I will. There's good in everyone."
He turned the words over in his mind, remembering a time when he thought the same thing. Back when it had felt as if everyone was who they said they were; when no one lied. Surprised at the sudden pang of sympathy he felt, he let out a small, tight-lipped smile. Lisa returned the gesture, moving the hair from her eyes. She was still so young. He almost didn't want to have to treat her as he did John and Jack.
"Thank-you again, Lisa," he said to her gently, as if it had meant a lot to him, "I'll remember that…and I hope you will, too."
He'd meant the last part. The girl still beamed at him, happy with her breakthrough. She took the plate back in her hands, shifting to a standing position.
"I hope we can talk on better terms, Mr. Gale. I'd like to think you have something good to tell us," she said.
Gale arched an eyebrow. The way she said that prompted him to think for the slightest of moments that she had him figured out. Lisa paused at the door, standing at an angle.
"Would you say you're a good judge of character, Henry?"
"…Yes. Would you?"
Lisa said nothing, moving to shut the door. with a smirk she told him,
"Wisest is he who knows he does not know."
The prisoner frowned at her.
"I'll see you again sometime, Mr. Gale."
The door closed with a heavy thud, plunging him in darkness once again. Metal groaned as the latch slid back into place.
She had made reference to Socrates, something that he was definitely not expecting. And she was talking about him. He allowed himself a quiet laugh, unexpectedly finding himself conflicted. Different thoughts raced through his mind briefly before he reached the same conclusion. It would continue on as planned. It would be a shame if an innocent were to be swept up in it all, however. Perhaps he could ask for her immunity; after all the girl was too much like him. Now he had to place his steps carefully, for she would see right through him. He smiled a real smile.
Children could truly see past all the lies, couldn't they? Something told him he had to watch what he said around Lisa. He hoped she would keep her distance from him, surprised that his conscious balked at the thought of lying to her again.
But it was a small price to pay, he reminded himself….