Loss Of Me

Chapter 1

Who are the others?

FLASH

'I just got tortured by a damn spinal surgeon and a gen-u-ine Iraqi. Course I'm serious.'

FLASH

'I never blamed a boar for my problems.'

FLASH

'We're not alone here and we all know it!'

WHO ARE THE OTHERS?

Flash

And awake with a jerk.

Shaking, shaking again. Every night was like this. Why? When the hell was he going to be able to get some damn sleep around here? Comfy bed- warm- nice place. Maybe a little musty, not really enough to bother anyone though.

What the hell was the matter with him?

No point tryin' to catch up on sleep now. The alarm clock was going off anyway. Scowling, he sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side. Time for another long day. Night. Whatever.

Morning routine- gestures mechanical after only how long? Strawberries, protein powder, cracking the egg, highest speed on the blender. Tasted like bullcrap- nearly gagged but took it all in one gulp anyway. Like a man. Would've been more tolerable if he wasn't having the same thing for lunch.

Stupid line of thought anyway. Thinking too much. Went into workout instead- tuned out after the first twenty-five crunches, only thoughts the dull ache in his abs and biceps that grew as he exhaled and lingered after he was done.

Last thing of course, definitely the most important, even despite the fact that it hadn't helped yet. 4 8 15 16 23 42 Multiple uses. He fitted the dose, shot it into his arm with teeth gritted in pain.

'You have to take this every day. Every day! This might possibly give you the chance to regain the memories you've lost. Pretty much the only hope you've got.'

Yeah, right. But he knew his cynicism was fake, frustration, because he still took it every morning, didn't he? He was still hopeful enough to try to remember every night when his head hit the pillow, still angry enough to tole "EYE M SICK" onto that pathetic wall in a burst of pseudoartistic passion. Soft scoffing noise under his breath. This record sucked.

'EXECUTE.' Much good might it do him. And turned the damn record off. Then, with a heavy sigh, he settled into a stuffed red-brown chair, feeling static, moody. He glared into the full-length mirror and Sawyer's rough and unshaven face glared back at him.

Quarantine was a bitch.

Sawyer thought the light system was kind of stupid.

'You can look up the hatch with this,' they had told him. 'See what's up there without moving from your room.'

What they had failed to explain to him was why the hell he would want to look up the hatch in the first place. It was a goddamned jungle out there, weren't it? So unless he felt like doing some handy-dandy nature watching (mostly leaves and the undersides of boars) or a little astronomy, he really didn't give a rat's ass whether he could see up the damn hatch or not.

So, yeah, he thought it was kind of stupid. Or he had until someone had hauled up the top off the hatch. Now? Yeah, he was panicking a little. And beginning to feel pretty grateful that he could see who it was. Not that it was going to help him much, he realized as he desperately flipped the switch that turned the light on. Being able to see whoever it was wasn't going to change the fact that they had ripped off the hatch, violated the quarantine space and were descending down toward him with an alarming speed. He checked the mirror again.

It was a chick. Ass-first. If he hadn't been on the verge of seriously freaking out, he might have enjoyed the view.

As it was, though, confusion and apprehension, plus the rapidly descending spelunkers, were leaving him in less a state of carnal titillation and more one of acute panic. Shit! How long did he have before she got here?

Long enough to get a damn MK-41.

Long enough to defend himself.

Grabbing the firearm from the weaponry he loaded it, noticing with a muttered curse that his hands were shaking.

'This rate,' he muttered, 'I'm gonna piss my damn pants!'

With a concentrated effort he forced his hands to stop- just as he heard two feet come down rather hard on the wet floor of the hatch.

Damn.

The apartment had gone quiet, very quiet, and Sawyer- hands shaking again- pressed into a dark corner in the space behind the door, listening to her soft footfalls as he gradually became convinced that his hammering heart really was going to burst right through his chest.

Approaching. Closer, closer, closer.

Close enough.

With a yell he jumped out from the alcove and she screamed in surprise, whirling from the mural that she had been examining and dropping her torch (it fizzled on the ground). Then she noticed the barrel of the MK-41 levelled at her pretty little head and the gal went silent so fast it was like he had cut a string.

Sawyer knew he looked intimidating- weapon with body cloaked in shadow- and it leant strength to his voice as he collected himself enough to growl, 'What the HELL are you doin'?'

She turned to stare blind at him and something in her dark eyes, something in her freckles-

I've never killed a man.

Looks like you an me

Got somethin' in common.

Her dark glare….

Sawyer shook his head violently, dislodging the fractures images that threatened to overwhelm him. 'The hell do you want!' He exploded again, then realized she was already replying.

'…Get upset,' she said in a very steady voice that belied the fact that she was speaking into the barrel of a gun. 'Please. Just stay calm. It's my mistake. I didn't realize there was anyone in here. I'll go back up. Just- calm down.'

He took a deep breath. She was counting down from five under her breath, and he felt the same way.

'How bout them other two?' he challenged. 'They convinced the lights are on and nobody's home?'

She squinted her beady black eyes- he squeezed the handhold of the gun. 'I'm sorry. We'll go back. Your voice…' and her own tone grew soft, unsure. 'Your voice sounds familiar….'

'Ain't never been introduced to you, sugar,' he said roughly, and something utterly different from what he had expected lit up in her eyes.

'Come into the light,' she commanded, with a slight quaver.

'Not likely,' he scoffed, and ignored the instinctive urge to do exactly as she said. 'Ya think-'

'Come into the LIGHT,' she demanded, and the tremor was gone.

With a low growl he complied. Two could play at this damn game.

And her little brown eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and he felt the floor go out from underneath him as she breathed

"Sawyer!"

(((A/N: Everyone seemed to think- before we saw Desmond's face- that the guy in the hatch was, well, Sawyer. I'm just taking up that theory and running with it. This is alternate universe, but only in the sense that I'm playing with a different plot.

I appreciate reviews- I think it's a fair tradeoff, considering how long I work on these and how quickly people read them- and I'm especially open to and welcoming to constructive criticism. (Concrit may be reciprocated.)

Re-loaded to fix grammar mistakes and insert a title. Expect Loss Of Me Chapter 2 sometime today or tomorrow- I'll try to update with the episodes so you guys get your Lost literary fix. ;)

-Locked Heart Ami)))