I: Numb as a Statue
Since the crew rescued him, they've been traveling for at least a few hours in the truck. They have to have gone a while, so the island must be plenty big. The trip at night is quiet and solemn, lulling him to sleep. Despite his urge to stay awake, to make sure he knows what is going on, he's far too tired to stay awake. If the others riding in the back of the truck have questions about what happened to him, they don't get voiced, and he's grateful for that, at least. He does not want to tell them anything – not yet, not before he knows where he is and what is going on around him and what he's expected to do. He can keep his secrets for a little while longer, and he plans to do just that.
Confession is no good for the soul. He knows just what he has done in his life, and feels no better for it. Talking about what has gone on over the past few days before he has the chance to plan it will do none of them any good, and will do him only far worse. For now, though, he doesn't have to worry, and he takes the opportunity to relax, stretching out and stargazing and then feeling his lids grow heavy, letting them shut.
He's fallen asleep in the back of the truck, and so when it comes to a jolt, he wakes up with an uncomfortable start. "Damn it, learn how to drive!" he calls towards the cab, glaring towards the wheel space that he'd been thrown against. Unfortunately, he doesn't get a response from the driver, but things aren't that bad. It was a good sleep while it lasted, and he feels a little better, and the best thing is that he hadn't dreamed at all for once. It's the first time since he got here, and that blankness to his imagination feels pretty good. He's done too many bad things, seen too many bad things, to make dreaming something he enjoys doing.
After he's managed to drag himself up, Sawyer jumps off the back of the truck, feeling his head pound when his feet hit the ground, but it doesn't matter. Not really. Probably someone just hit him, some freak back there, and he can worry about it later. He looks past the truck to where it was pointed towards, sees the path closed up before them, overhanging branches and some damn tree in the path.
He could get the truck through there, but not that easily, and he'd have to chop down the tree first with an ax that they probably do not have. And even if he bothered, the truck would be likely to get stuck somewhere, and he wouldn't really like getting out at some godforsaken hour of the night and pushing the damn thing closer to the hatch. If he'd been asked to do it, he wouldn't have done it now, either.
"So, Fat Albert here decided to play Daniel Boone. Smart." He leans against the truck, waiting to feel all right again. His ankle twinges in pain occasionally, but it wasn't like the bullet actually hit. They're only batting five hundred with the bullets. He doesn't plan to help them up the odds. Instead, he tries to make conversation with Hurley, as if to make up for the name-calling. He only has one thing to say, though. He can't think of anything else. "What were you gonna do out here?"
Hurley stares blankly. His mouth opens and closes a few times. He doesn't have a good answer, Sawyer knows, and he can feel his eyes narrow. Stupid kid, he thinks, but avoids sharing. Instead, he waits for Hurley to drum up an answer. The young man shrugs a little, then stammers out a shaky, "I thought I would find you guys, is all. I know, it was dumb. But I thought – "
"You were not thinking," Sayid cuts off Hurley, his voice suddenly crisp. For some reason, though, he doesn't press the issue. Sawyer wonders why, but doesn't ask. He's not talking to Sayid right now – not even to agree that Hurley was being an idiot. The Iraqi squints ahead into the darkness beyond them, as if estimating the distance. Why he's doing that is unclear, because they have no choice but to keep going anyway. "We will walk from here for the night, and a couple of us will go back and clear the path further, and get the truck in the morning."
Great, another march. It's like the goddamn Macy's parade, all this walking. Sawyer sighs to show his dislike of the idea, but what else can he do? They start walking, and he keeps his eyes on the others, doing his best not to drag his feet. He slowed down another walk through the jungle not too long ago, and as he stares at Ana-Lucia's ponytail, swinging before him, he has to wonder what she thinks about their effort to get him. Why the hell did she get asked along?
"Rambina," he calls out to her, and has to grin when she turns around. Apparently she answers to the nickname. "Got a question for you."
She shoots him a sharp look, as if she expects the worst, but falls back towards him. He's being outpaced again, and that irritates him, but she walks a little slower, sort of. "What?"
"Whaddaya think of this whole thing?" he asks her, studying her to see any twitch or flinch. He doesn't think she'll snow him, though. He isn't sure if he needs to continue, but figures he probably should explain a little. "Last I heard your voice, you were tellin' everyone that I should be left behind on the trail, and now you're out here just for me. I mean, I'm flattered, but it ain't really what I expected."
The young woman smirks at him, pointing out, "It wasn't what I expected, either. I guess I was brought along because I know the island, and I know them." She shrugs. "What do you want me to say, that I did this because I give a damn about what happens to you? I don't. Save your breath."
Sawyer stares at her, surprised, and even lets out a little laugh. "Thanks for the Hallmark card," he tells her, but isn't too angry about it. In her position, he'd probably respond the same way. He turns ahead in time to spot a branch he's about to smack into, and ducks a little bit to avoid it. "Hell of a thing, though, huh? I mean, that we got out of there. I thought they were gonna open up with the guns, let me tell you. Decided I had to take the risk, though. And I figured they probably wouldn't whack us anyway."
She looks up towards him, confused and interested by what he just said. "Why?" It's one word, and it's a simple question, but he doesn't feel like answering. He's not about to play his cards that easily, and he shakes his head, ignoring her. She snaps, "Fine, don't answer, then," and moves away from him, quickening her steps to distance herself.
He is alone again in the darkness, walking along with nothing to worry about except his own thoughts, and that's fine with him. The fresh air feels good, the salt in it stinging but keeping him awake, and he wants to stay awake now, because when morning comes, he'll have a lot of explaining to do, and he's not looking forward to that at all. He draws deep breaths of the air, and it makes him thirsty, but he doesn't have a water bottle and doesn't want to delay them just to get a drink. He'll have one when he gets back to the camp that's not home, that will never be home.
Through the leaves, he sees a glint, harsh and unnatural. Light – not daylight, but artificial light. He flinches at that, feels himself go numb all over. They're waiting for them. He knows that. They have gotten there beforehand, and they are going to wait until the fuselage survivors walk on in and attack them. Even as they get closer to the hatch, he can hear voices rise, and that works, though he doesn't want it to work. The people back here at the beach are trying to stop them, and he tenses, waits for gunshots that, once more, don't come. He can see the rest of the gang moving faster now, and despite his ankle, his arm, his head, he tries his best to keep up. There's no way he's getting left behind. Not now.
So he moves faster, too, jogs along although it doesn't feel that great, tries his best to keep up. Of course, the jungle is out to get him, and it seems like everything he could possibly trip on chooses just that moment to stick up in his path, because he stumbles over just about everything before they get to the light. Roots, branches, maybe even leaves, for all he knows. The light is coming from the hatch, streaming out the open door, and he stops short on seeing that, listens to the voices for a moment.
"Charlie, I've told you before, if you so much as touch that computer…"
The voice is not instantly familiar, really, and before Sawyer can figure out who is talking, Charlie's voice rises in response, British accent readily recognizable. "Well, where are they, then? What do you want us to do, just sit here and wait? Fantastic!" There is the sound of people moving around, and Sawyer pushes ahead of the rest of them who are standing there shocked, rolling his eyes at them in disgust even as Charlie talks again, moving towards the sound of the Englishman's voice: "I don't even know why we're debating this. We've got to break the computer."
He can hear people behind him too, at that. Locke's voice rises in protest, but Sawyer does not pay attention. Instead, he's focused on getting to the computer room. Let Locke keep on protesting; that's none of his business. What is his business is that someone's trying to do just what he wanted to do, and he can't have that happen. He won't let Charlie do this, because he planned on doing it himself. There's no way some joke of a British Invasion is going to get to do that, because there are rules to this, there are rights, and he's already claimed the right to smash the computer, even if nobody else knows it. They will soon, though, he thinks. As he heads into the room, he sees Charlie's eyes widen in shock and glimpses the psychologist, Libby, draw herself up from the couch where she has been sitting, just as surprised as Charlie.
Sawyer motions the kid away from the computer, hardly expecting him to step aside, but prepared to deal with him if he's got to. "You're not touchin' the damn computer, Ringo. Back off. That thing's mine."
Charlie steps aside willingly, more stunned than thinking ahead at the moment. He gapes at Sawyer, making a little noise, as if he can't find words at the moment. That is a blessing, in a way, Sawyer realizes, but he doesn't voice his gratitude. He would not have gotten the opportunity, either, because Charlie suddenly finds his voice. "Sawyer – are you all right? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"We thought you were dead," Libby points out in concert with Charlie, and something about that strikes him as strange, but he doesn't question it. Not now. Not yet.
As he gets near the computer, Sawyer sees nothing but the prompt, and is surprised at that. He's not sure why, but somehow, he had expected to see something more than just a little cursor blinking on the screen. They're having a joke at our expense, he realizes, and his anger rises, blinding out everything. He was feeling numb before, but now he feels positively dead beyond his hate for the computer, and that prompt that blinks at him, mocks him. He casts around for something with which to smash the computer, finds nothing, and decides, what the hell, he may as well just hit the stupid thing. He draws back his arm, aware it will hurt, but that doesn't make him reluctant at all.
He hears a clatter behind him, and knows it's the rest of them, having gotten over their hesitation and followed him downstairs. They stop short upon seeing what he's about to do, and he turns and looks towards them. They don't want him to wreck the computer, clearly, and the hell with them. He pulls his arm further back, to its furthest extent, and steels himself for the impact. He's punched out glass before, and it hurts, and he's probably running a risk of electrocution this way, but something needs to be done, even at that risk.
The instant it stops moving, he sees a knife fly past. For the first instant, his brain does not register it beyond, That was a knife. Christ, it was fast. And then he looks up to see Locke's hand pulling back just as his own had, and he feels surprised that the knife wasn't thrown to hit him. Not relieved, though. He's too exhausted to be really shocked. He rocks back on his heels, staring at Locke, and drops his hand. Words come easily. They usually do. "We've got to get rid of this stuff, John. They're watching us. They know what we're doin'. We can't just sit around and let ourselves be watched, hear?'
"You're not destroying that computer, Sawyer – neither you or Charlie. We've got to keep pushing the button." Locke takes a step forward, and Sawyer turns to face him. "That is, unless you found out otherwise." Locke's eyes are very wide, curiosity and anger mixed on his face. "Did you?"
Sawyer shakes his head. "No way. I didn't find out nothin' like that." There's no way Locke will buy that, or any of the rest of them, but for at least a moment, he thinks that they're buying it, and he gives them a broad smile to seal the deal. "But I won't break the computer, and neither will Charlie. OK?"
He watches Locke take a step back, sees the doubt still on the bald man's face. Locke nods, though. "All right, then. See to it that you don't."
"I won't." Sawyer thinks, At least not yet, but he decides not to share that. He steps back from the computer, raising his hands. "Everyone calm down." When he glances back towards Charlie and Libby, he sees them staring at him, still surprised. When Libby turns away, Sawyer gives Charlie a thumbs-up of encouragement. They need to talk about breaking the computer. If he can get Charlie to do it, and not need to do it himself, so much the better. Charlie will do it. Of that, he has no doubt. He turns back to see the rescuers still staring at him, and scoffs at the uneasiness on their faces. "It's just a damn computer. Relax."