The Island and the Machine

by SunnyRea

An island no one can find with healing properties and mystery and it is his destiny. The creation of something to protect us, to find the connections, an A.I. and his destiny to create. Both of them are special, both of them have a purpose and they both need each other more than anything else in the world. The unbelievable lives of twin brothers Benjamin Linus and Harold Finch.

10. New York, New York

To Ben, cold and hot at once lying in the sand of the Sahara with a deep cut still throbbing on his arm, only one day has passed since his daughter was murdered in front of him and he left his home, possibly forever, in order to protect it.

When Ben flies to Baghdad then drives a hundred and forty miles to Tikrit to find the man he knows will be watching Sayid, only two days have passed since Ben tried to do the right thing and it blew up bloody in his face.

When Sayid shoots Widmore's man Bakir until his gun is empty then asks Ben for more, only three days have passed since Alex called him daddy and begged for her life which Ben failed to give her.

When Ben walks self-assured through the lobby of Charles Widmore's penthouse building, only four days have passed since Ben stabbed the man who shot his daughter to death with no regard to the other lives sacrificed to do so.

When Ben stands in front of Charles Widmore lying in his bed for the first time in more than ten years and tells Charles he plans to kill Charles' daughter, only four days and five minutes have passed since Ben left his daughter's body behind for the sake of an island that is practically all he has left.

"You're forgetting, Benjamin," Charles says as Ben is turning for the door. "You do in fact have one other thing in that dark heart of yours which you care about." Ben raises an eyebrow. "A certain identical brother."

Ben stares intently at Charles. "But you won't find him, Charles." Ben cocks his head. "Just like you won't find the island."

"That island's mine, Benjamin, it always was. It will be again." Charles sneers. "If you think my Penny is fair game then your brother is too." He leans back against the headboard of his bed. "The hunt is on for both of us."

Ben nods once. "I suppose it is. Sleep tight, Charles."

When Ben knocks on Harold's townhouse door with fall leaves swirling behind him, only five days have passed since Ben lost the one other person Ben cared about most in the world as his brother.

When Harold opens the door Ben says, "They murdered my daughter."

The two of them stand silently across from each other in Harold's front hall, exactly like what Harold saw months ago when it was still spring. Ben watches the confusion shift back and forth over Harold's face as Harold tries to shake off the buzz in his ears. Harold heard what Ben said, about his daughter, but Harold cannot move past his own ten months.

"Where have you been?' Harold croaks out.

Ben frowns deeply and points toward the still open door. "Did you hear what I said, Harold?"

"I heard you," Harold continues and steamrolls over Ben. "But I thought... I thought you might be dead."

"How could I have been dead, Harold?" He gestures vaguely toward Harold.

"We don't know that for sure, do we?"

"Harold..."

"Do we!" Ben's mouth snaps shut as Harold stares at him. "How was I to know? You were gone!" Harold cannot keep the bottled up panic inside any longer. "Just gone! Every single day I felt… Do you have any idea what the last year has been like for me?"

"It hasn't recently been a picnic for me either, Harold," Ben says, harsh and cold.

Just as sudden as his rush of righteous anger, Harold deflates again, Ben's dead daughter like a very real ghost between them. They watch each other. Ben is not angry, at least not at Harold.

"Where were you?" Harold asks calmly this time.

Ben sighs. "Would you believe me if I told you I traveled through time?"

"Yes," Harold replies frankly. Ben frowns in genuine surprise. Harold presses his lips together then raises his eyebrows. "It hasn't been just you."

Ben's eyes widen this time. "You?"

Harold nods. "Off and on, small moments but…" Harold breathes in and blows out the air slowly. "It's been." He tilts his head and frowns. "Illuminating?"

"As for me," Ben says, "2004 was only about a week ago." Ben makes a strained face he knows fails at appearing unaffected. "The year did not end so brightly."

"Alex?" Harold asks even though Ben already told him.

Ben nods once sharply, his eyes not quite on Harold but instead seeing Alex lying in the grass. "And…" Ben laughs in a short, hollow way. "And the island." He focuses on Harold now. "I moved the island."

"You moved the…"

"Island," Ben finishes for him. "To protect it; but if you move the island you can't go back," Ben says with hand motions from side to side. He breathes in and heaves out a heavy breath as his arms fall down to his sides. "I can't get back."

Ben's jaw clenches, he swallows once then Harold moves forward, circles his arms around Ben and holds him tight as Ben finally cries.

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Ben and Harold walk along Central Park West, Central Park at Harold's side and The Dakota on the corner at Ben's side. Harold thinks the relationships to nature and city between the two of them appear swapped.

"To think people pay millions of dollars to live here," Ben gestures toward the apartment building, "all for a view of nature in a city. Why not build themselves an expensive country home instead if they need the view so much?"

"Do you want to switch sides?" Harold asks sardonically.

"You were the one thinking something about the polarity of our lives, nature versus society."

Harold snorts a laugh. "Close, but not quite reading my mind."

"And good for us both."

Harold frowns. "Why? Would I dislike what you're thinking now?"

Ben glances at Harold and smiles. "No."

The two of them hold coffee and tea in hand while walking to nowhere. They have spent so little time in their lives together without some rushed conversation or time limit that just a walk seems like a luxury. Harold grips Ben's arm briefly and turns them left into the park, the pavement slick from the weather. Ben looks up at the trees, a slight dusting of snow over the leaves and flurries still in the air.

"I'm thinking," Ben picks up on their meandering conversation, "I haven't seen snow in years." Ben brushes his hand over the snowflakes turned to water in Harold's hair. "I'd forgotten what it was like."

"Cold and wet."

Ben chuckles. "Quiet."

Harold glances up at the gray clouds, the snow barely sticking to the trees and none on the pavement. "Sometimes."

They both lift their drinks and sip their hot beverages together. They glance once at each other but continue to walk into the park in silence. Though the weather is marginally dreary and cold out, the park still boasts a fair number of joggers, individuals cutting through on their path to warmer prospects and parents attempting to control their children on a day out. They walk side by side, drinks carried on their outside hands so as they walk they knock their knuckles against each other, entirely on purpose. Harold needs a reminder that Ben exists while Ben needs to know one thing still remains to him.

"Do you ever miss the island, Harold?"

"I miss you," Harold replies after a few steps. "I miss being together but I don't miss the place." Harold taps his fingertips against Ben's. "Do you miss land, a real city?"

"I don't remember living in one much at all." He glances at Harold. "And maybe I'm just not a city person."

Harold chuckles. "I doubt many people classify themselves as 'jungle people.'"

"How American of you, Harold."

Harold shoots Ben a half-hearted glare and they both drink from their cardboard cups again. They cross over West Drive and continue down the pedestrian path, away from the driving streets through the park. Harold watches Ben as they walk, his eyes drifting between the trees and rocks, never the buildings beyond.

"I have things I need to do," Ben says in response to Harold's watchful gaze. "Things I need to attend to."

"Are you going to try and get back to the island?" Harold asks.

"I told you I can't go back."

"That's not what I asked."

Ben takes another sip of his coffee, alone this time. "It's my home, Harold."

Harold looks away and takes a drink of his green tea. They walk further down the path in silence, a biker skirting too close to Ben as she goes by. Harold sees Cherry Hill Fountain in the distance, gray and mostly deserted.

"Are you going to stay?" Harold asks instead.

"With you?"

"Yes."

"Is that wise?" Ben quickens their pace. "My plans are –"

"I don't care. I am not exactly living a normal life myself, as you know."

"And what about your friend? What about your Grace?"

Harold sighs. "Ben…"

"I told you I have things to do, Harold." He knocks his hand against Harold's. "Things which will take me away."

"Ben, you don't need to argue me out of what I asked you first when I know you want to stay."

Ben looks at the ground in front of them, lost without the anchor of home. "May I?"

Harold brushes his hand against Ben's then takes a larger step around so he stands in front of Ben's path, stopping them both. "I'm asking you to. This is our chance, Ben, to spend time together. Forget our past disagreements. Do what you need to do and so will I but," he smiles, "my house is your house when you need it. I want you there."

Ben smiles and for a second he forgets that his daughter is dead and his island far away. "Thank you."

Harold smiles back. "Good."

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"So, I end up painting New York a lot."

Harold chuckles as Grace hands the canvas to him by the edges. "You do live here."

"True." She grins. "Doesn't mean I'd have to paint it though. Some painters don't work from life at all or are too busy looking to the past."

"You favor the present?" Harold asks as he looks over the painted scene of a young girl reaching up for falling leaves on a New York City sidewalk.

"I love this city." Harold looks up at her, another canvas in her hand. "There is always another angle I haven't seen, another street that might be perfect under brush."

Harold puts the canvas in his hands down on the coffee table and takes the next one from Grace's hands. "Beautiful." The painting shows a woman with hair wiping into her face as she walks over the Brooklyn Bridge.

"I don't get to paint as much as I'd like." She takes the painting out of his hand. "The money lies in illustrating so that's what I do."

"But you enjoy it?"

"Oh yes," Grace nods. "It is wonderful to bring a story to life. I especially enjoy working with first time authors. I don't think I could find a more appreciative audience then an author seeing their words in physical form."

"Sidney Paget to Conan Doyle?"

Grace laughs out loud as she picks up the two canvases. She walks back to a closet, sliding the two paintings inside. "Maybe, but I have the advantage of color printing now."

Harold nods. Then he waves his hand up at her walls. "You don't have your working hanging up." She purses her lips, glancing at the framed photographs; a few appear to be family but most are scenes of New York, a few Ben knows to be Venice and one he suspects is her home of South Carolina. "You must still have the originals of many of your illustrations." He gestures toward the closet. "And your paintings."

"I don't know." Grace waves her hands up in the air once then clasps them together. "It always seemed egotistical to me, surrounding myself with my own work?"

Harold shakes his head. "I wouldn't say egotistical."

"Not like those movie stars who have giant framed photos of themselves in their living rooms?"

"Not like that, no." Harold laughs and slides his hands over hers. "It's your art. It should be seen, not hidden in closets."

Grace huffs but she is smiling. "By who? I have about the same amount of friends that you do."

Harold chuckles. "I think you are still winning on that count." The corners of her mouth quirk up. "And as for who could see them, I am standing in your parlor, aren't I?"

The tension ebbs out of her like water and she smiles again, big and bright. "You make a good point."

She gently pulls her hands out of Harold's and walks over to a book case by the windows, art books on the bottom shelf while sketch books and paint boxes pepper the higher shelves. She pulls out one pale blue book and walks over to the couch. Harold sits beside her as she opens it on their laps. The pages include studies of animals, a good amount of hedgehogs and seals.

"Children's books often have animal themes."

"Perhaps we should visit the zoo."

Grace looks up at him and cocks her head. "Not sure I can imagine you at a zoo."

"No?" Harold shrugs. "Do I not look like an animal person?"

"Well, you wear such nice suits." She turns back to the album; turning the pages until fully illustrated country scenes take over from the animals. Grace smiles in a nostalgic way.

Harold watches Grace as she turns the pages. He wonders if every day could be like this; breakfast in the morning while Grace paints him holding his mug of tea; late nights while Harold codes on his laptop and Grace falls asleep on his shoulder with paint on her fingers. They could sit together on this very couch, reading Emerson or Asimov.

"You should show me your work sometime, Harold," Grace says.

Harold blinks twice to stop himself from frowning. "I don't think coding is quite as picturesque as your work.

"Funny that we come from such opposite sides of the spectrum, art and technology?"

"Art contains a degree of math," Harold points out, trying to steer the conversation down a more philosophical route. "And I have heard some call computer coding an art form."

Grace nods. "I guess you could say that." She turns another page though neither of them looks down any longer. "Maybe you should frame some of your coding and hang it up alongside my paintings," she jokes.

"I don't know about that."

Grace closes the book. "And well your programing leads to something, things that are necessary in our lives." She shrugs. "A very nice insurance website maybe?"

Harold tenses for a moment until he realizes she is joking again. Harold laughs once, a clipped and awkward sound. Fortunately, Grace does not notice. She kisses his cheek then stands up to place the sketch book back on the shelf. As she turns away, Harold's smile falls.

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Over dinner in Chinatown, Harold tells Ben about college while Ben tells Harold about leadership, the two of them swapping Mushu Pork and vegetable lo mein across the table.

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Ben sits inside a café in the Queen Street West neighborhood of Toronto. The area reminds him of Harold if only for the SoHo-like atmosphere. However, the mass of 'hip' young twenty somethings make his teeth grind. He watches one woman, probably not much more than twenty-one, buy a leather purse across the street, hair long and thick like Alex's.

"Interesting choice for a place to meet."

Ben looks up at Sayid as he sits down across from Ben.

"Hiding in plain sight can be as beneficial as dark alleys." Ben picks up his coffee and blows once on the hot liquid. "If you would prefer, I can find us an abandoned warehouse next time, Sayid."

Sayid does not crack any semblance of a smile. "Let's just get started. Do you have a name for me?"

Ben puts down his coffee, pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and sides it across the glass table top to Sayid. Sayid picks up the piece of paper opens it and closes it two seconds later.

"Montreal?"

"You didn't think I'd have you fly to Canada for somewhere else, did you?"

"Perhaps Toronto."

Ben smiles. "Well, hiding in plain sight only goes so far."

Sayid slips the paper into his coat pocket. "Anything else I should know?"

"Yes." Ben hands Sayid a key. "There is a post office in Montreal, the address is on the key tag there. Box number 4815. It should help you with your name."

"And?"

"And have a lovely trip," Ben says with an over extenuated smile.

Sayid stands up and walks away from the table without even a 'goodbye' or a 'thank you.' Ben purses his lips then picks up his coffee again and takes a sip. The girl with Alex's hair is gone now.

When Ben returns to Harold's townhouse two days later, one name now crossed off the list, Ben finds it empty.

"Harold?"

Ben hangs up his coat by the door and drops his bag next to the hall table. No one answers his call. Ben already knew that, though. The house feels empty. Ben walks down the hall to the kitchen and starts pulling out all the pieces to make himself a coffee. It is after eight in the evening but he doubts he would fall asleep early anyway. He can't.

Ben puts the water on to boil and adds some of Harold's frozen coffee grounds to the French press. He knows that freezing the grounds supposedly keeps them fresh yet Ben finds it disconcerting; cold grounds for a hot drink? Ben pulls out the milk, picks up a mug from the cabinet and finds the sugar bowl. He lines them all up on the counter next to the stove as he waits. Ben watches the kettle and thinks 'a watched pot.'

"But it does boil," Ben says in answer to the phrase.

He paces to the left, leans against the counter then stands up straight again. Ben feels restless. He usually contains his emotions and his composure quite well, even in the face of betrayal, murder, and torture. However, he is alone now and there is no one to show for and no one to distract him.

"Working late, Harold?" Ben mutters.

He turns and walks down the hall away from the kitchen. The living room is still dark, though light comes in from the street lamps outside. It is never so bright at night on the island. They had area lights at the barracks but nowhere near as oppressive. The jungle needs only the moon and Ben never realized how different darkness was on the island. A city, especially New York, is never dark.

Ben scans the bookshelves. Some books appear to be old, likely first editions, while at least one whole bookcase boasts computer texts dating as far back as 1972. Most of the bookshelves hold only books, sometimes sheets of paper shoved in between, but one more sparsely filled shelf includes picture frames. Ben walks toward the bookcase on the other side of Harold's brown couch. He sees an old photo of their mother, her eyes gazing somewhere beyond the camera. Two shelves down a photo of Harold and Nathan on Nathan's wedding day sits beside a photo of Ben. Ben remembers giving the photo to Harold himself, just a photo of Ben on the island, the jungle behind him and smiling into the camera. Then Ben notices another frame, half wedged behind the photo of him. Ben reaches down and pulls it out. The photo is of Alex, ten or twelve years old, with hair in her face and a blue dress on, held up in Ben's arms for the camera. Alex smiles at the camera while Ben looks only at her.

Ben does not realize he has sunk to the floor, the photo held tight against his chest, until he hears the whistle of the kettle from the kitchen.

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Harold sits in front of his computer screen on the Machine server floor. It has become increasingly claustrophobic with the amount of servers filling the floor now. However, Harold finds it comforting more than anything, surrounded by his creation.

Currently, Harold works on safety measures for the Machine. Harold knows he must plan years in advance; must plan for all eventualities. What if something happens and the Machine shuts down? What if, somehow, the machine becomes infected with a virus and needs to reboot?

"A hard reset," Harold mutters.

The tried and true 'turn it off and turn it back on' works for A.I.s just as standard computers. However, Harold would never want such a reboot to happen without his knowledge.

"Payphones."

Harold looks up at Nathan leaning against one server.

Harold frowns. "Payphones?"

"You said about twenty minutes ago that we would need a way to know, even when the Machine is gone, that we would need a way for it to contact us 'just in case.'" Nathan raises his eyebrows. "No one uses payphones anymore but they are still everywhere in the city." He shrugs. "Pick a payphone, Harold."

Harold grins. "You're a genius, Nathan."

Nathan just points at Harold. "No, that's your job. I just add the icing to your cake." Then he sighs heavily.

Harold frowns and looks at Nathan over his glasses as he continues to type. "Nathan?"

"I have a wedding to attend."

Harold snorts. "Dust off your formal wear."

"Olivia will be there."

Harold stops typing and looks up at Nathan properly. "Yes?"

Nathan nods, his eyes on the floor. "I don't know what I am going to say to her. Will talks about her when I see him. I know what she's up to but... I haven't seen her in…" He sighs again and stops speaking.

"It'll be all right, Nathan."

Nathan looks up sharply at Harold. The expression is not one Harold has not seen directed toward him from Nathan before; it is pity. Then Nathan turns away again without saying anything. Harold opens his mouth then shuts it, his fingers still on the keyboard. He wants to say something but nothing comes.

"What ever happened with you, Harold?" Nathan looks at him again. "With your brother?"

Harold abruptly turns back to his computer. "It's fine now."

"Fine?"

Harold looks up sharply at Nathan. "It's fine." Then he turns back to his computer ignoring Nathan's look.

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Ben types quickly on one of Harold's borrowed computers. Apparently it is a 'clean' computer and thus safe for Ben to use, whatever Harold meant by that. Ben reads an article on the Oceanic six. The article claims they arrived on Sumba in the Pacific Ocean via a life raft. It is possible they obtained a life raft from the freighter and floated the whole way. However, that is unlikely. They needed help.

"Who took you most of the way?"

Ben searches through docking records on Sumba. The island is small, no formal recording system for ships coming and going. He sees the now famous photograph of the group being helped ashore from the raft by fishermen.

"Really," Ben snorts. It is so ridiculous as to be believable. "People love a good story."

Ben follows the business records of the Oceanic six landing. He finds a link connecting to a government site for international boat travel. The site instructs visitors to the island to first obtain a permit before docking boats.

"Ah ha."

Ben picks up his phone and dials one of his contacts in Australia. The phone rings through to her voicemail.

"Kara, I need some assistance with boat records on Sumba. I know it is out of your way but I need to know if any British owned boats or Yachats were moored there in conjunction with the Oceanic six landing."

Ben hangs up and leans back in his chair. The Oceanic six did not get to that island on their own and Penelope Widmore has been searching for Desmond for years.

"Were you there Ms. Widmore?" Ben mutters.

If Penny was the one who picked them up, there should be a boat he can connect to her. Then all Ben will need to do is follow that boat. If Penny was smart, she abandoned the boat near Sumba but it's a start. Ben smiles as he stares at his computer screen.

"Check, your move, Charles."

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Harold and Ben work together in Harold's upstairs office. The room used to only contain one desk. However, Ben dragged a side table from Harold's guest room in so now they both have their own 'desk' to work on. Each brother works on a laptop, Harold's desk holding a couple hard drives while Ben has a notepad and two cellphones at the ready. The two of them have been typing in silence for about an hour now.

Ben works on access to Hugo at the Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute. It should not be difficult to obtain but the question is what type of cover Ben should adopt to see him; friend, doctor maybe? Cattycorner to Ben's makeshift desk, Harold works on the Machine. He currently loads a function relating to contextualizing crime. Nathan's ranking system has worked well thus far but further refinement helps.

IS YOUR BROTHER NO LONGER A SECRET? The Machine suddenly asks.

Harold frowns, "What?"

HE IS IN YOUR HOME.

Harold clicks his teeth. "It's complicated."

"What is, Harold?" Ben asks.

Harold glances at Ben. "I'm sorry, talking to myself."

Ben cocks his head. "Are you?"

Harold looks away back to his computer monitor. Ben, from where he sits, can see Harold's computer screen while Harold cannot see his. The interface on the screen is not one Ben recognizes, not a web browser or even a standard programing screen.

"Or are you talking to your new project?" Ben asks. "Quite an interesting interface."

Harold abruptly turns his laptop at a sharp angle so Ben cannot see the screen. "Stop it."

Ben huffs a laugh. "I didn't realize your project's secrecy level applied even to me."

"You don't need to concern yourself with it."

Ben smiles, hears himself in Harold's words. "What exactly is it?"

"What exactly are you doing, Ben?" Harold shoots back, gesturing at Ben's laptop. "You said you had things to do but it appears more like stalking to me."

Ben girts his teeth. "Are you monitoring my keystrokes or just hacking now, Harold?"

"I don't need to."

"No, you just need to create your super computer or whatever it is."

They both sigh at the same time then turn back to their computer screens. Ben creates a new bank account in the name of Benjamin Moran and moves on to create a false background. He could make himself a visitor for someone else to throw off any Widmore watchers and then find his way to Hugo. Harold types in a line of questions for the Machine, analysis of its understanding of terrorism motivations.

Then the Machine says, WHY CAN'T YOU TELL YOUR BROTHER ABOUT ME?

"Because…" Then Harold cuts himself off as Ben looks up. They glance at each other again.

Ben purses his lips and abruptly closes his laptop. "We should eat." Then he stands up and walks out of the room toward the stairs.

"You're going to cook?"

"Why not?" Ben calls back from the stairs.

Harold stands up, closing his laptop, and follows Ben. "You don't know where anything is!"

Ben rolls his eyes as he reaches the first floor and heads toward the kitchen. "It is a kitchen, Harold, not a labyrinth."

Ben opens the refrigerator to see what they have available to eat. There is less than Ben expected. He pulls out some bell peppers which are probably on their last legs and puts them on the counter. He then slides over to the pantry and checks for any type of pasta.

"It's not in there," Harold says from the doorway and points toward a cabinet on the other side of the refrigerator. "Pasta and rice are up there."

Ben smiles. "I knew you would come be my map."

"But I don't have sauce," Harold insists.

"Are you sure?" Ben says as he opens the cabinet.

"Not red sauce."

"There are other kinds," Ben replies as he pulls out a box of Cavatappi from the cabinet.

"You want to make some?"

"Are you trying to argue me down so we order in or do you have a strong desire to go out to dinner?"

Harold crosses his arms. "Maybe I just don't want you nosing around my kitchen."

"Afraid I'll find the arsenic?"

Ben gives Harold a cheeky smile and Harold suddenly starts laughing. Ben grins genuinely back at him as he pulls a pot out of a lower cabinet next to the stove.

Harold uncrosses his arms and picks up one of the bell peppers. "Garnish or ingredient?"

"Maybe stuffed peppers."

"With pasta? Innovative."

Ben laughs too as he fills the pot with water. "Still need to fix our sauce problem."

"I might have some wine we could use."

"Just straight? Why, Harold."

Harold laughs again as he opens the refrigerator. "Well, if we are planning on straight alcohol in pasta then we have to use scotch, it's only proper."

Ben chuckles as he puts the pot full of water on the stove. "Or we could make a mix."

Harold makes a disgusted noise. "I hope I have some sufficient spices instead."

Ben nudges Harold's shoulder with his as Harold turns back around holding a half full bottle of white wine. "I am sure we can make something work."

They laugh again together as they move about the kitchen, finding ingredients and devising their own impromptu recipe, all discord from upstairs vanished. Ben adds pasta to the water, Harold cuts up peppers and they joke together side by side in their now shared space. They both think, is this what it is like to be brothers?

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Nathan found the Machine's two lists.

"When were you going to tell me?"

Pictures of people fill the three screens in front of Nathan.

"You knew that someone wanted to harm them, kill them, and you did nothing?"

Harold tries to give reasons, to reassure Nathan that they must make the distinction. He and Nathan must make the hard choice and guide the Machine to the threats which matter most. They cannot fix every life which may lead to an untimely end.

"How are we supposed to live with this, knowing someone out there needs help?" Nathan asks, some desperation in his tone.

"Well, we don't have to," Harold tells him. "I've coded the Machine; every night at midnight it deletes the irrelevant list." He sits on the edge of the desk beside Nathan. "We didn't build this to save somebody; we built it to save everybody."

Nathan stares at Harold for a long moment. "Everybody is somebody, Harold."

"The idea that we could change the fate of every person in danger in this city, in the country…"

"Not everyone," Nathan interrupts, "just them."

Harold stands up again and shakes his head. "It is inconceivable, Nathan. What we are doing here is stopping terrorists. We cannot change human nature."

Nathan gestures toward the now dark screens of the computers. "These are real people, Harold, not just numbers, not just a quantity to make it mathematically important. These are people which we know could die and your solution is to delete the list every night so we won't think about it?"

Harold pulls himself up taller. "It is the only choice we have, Nathan."

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Ben stands at a safe distance – across the grounds and a street – but in sight of Paik Heavy Industries in Korea. Sun stands just in front of the main glass doors, one of the upper executives speaking with her.

"And just what is the danger to Sun?" Sayid asks beside him.

Ben lifts his camera, zooms in and takes two photos of the man several meters away feigning a smoke break in the designated smoker's area.

"The same danger that connects all of you."

"How helpful."

Ben pulls the camera down from his face and looks at Sayid. "Have you forgotten what we are doing so quickly, Sayid? Charles Widmore wants to find the island and he will use you and your friends to do it. He won't care how many of you he needs to rip through to do so or have you forgotten what happened to Nadia?"

Sayid grabs the collar of Ben's jacket pulling him close. "I do not need you to remind me of anything."

Ben does not flinch in the face of Sayid's anger. "Then I don't need to also remind you that Widmore has people watching all of you." Ben lifts up his hand and pulls Sayid off of his jacket. "Sun included."

"Why now?"

"Sun has had her baby. She bought a controlling interest in her father's company. She is the most threating of all of you."

"Money? We all have that now."

"Yes, but Sun is the one with the wherewithal to use it wisely." Sayid's face remains impassive. "And she has a daughter now who was conceived on the island." Sayid frowns but does not ask.

Ben lifts the camera again and takes a close up picture of Sun. The executive is still speaking, some sort of file in his hands.

"And the man watching Sun could use her daughter," Sayid finally says.

Ben feels no need to confirm Sayid's assertion. Then Sun takes the file from the man's hands, the cover of the folder flipping open in the wind. Through the zoomed in view of the camera Ben sees a photograph on top of the papers in the folder. Ben pulls down the camera quickly then turns on his heel and marches away.

"What are…" Sayid hurries to catch up with him. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Ben lies. "We have identified her watcher, now we can watch him. Let's move on."

Ben does not tell Sayid about the folder nor does he inform Sayid of a new problem; the photo in Sun's folder was of Ben at the Baghdad airport.

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When Ben wakes up with a shout from a nightmare of Alex, Harold makes him tea then sits on the end of the bed while Ben tells him about the first time Alex walked, about what it is like to be a father, to love someone so much, to watch them grow.

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Harold and Grace sit across from each other at dinner. The light in the restaurant is low with each table hosting its own flickering candle to compensate. It is a classic romantic atmosphere of which Harold is acutely aware. From the looks Grace keeps flashing him, she notices as well.

"Talk about a birthday dinner," Grace says. "I don't think I've had gnocchi that good in years."

"A friend suggested the restaurant to me," Harold says. "Called it authentic Italian." Harold smiles and shrugs. "I thought we might both appreciate some memories of Italy."

Grace sighs happily. "Definitely authentic." She picks up her wine glass and takes a sip. "We should go together sometime."

Harold nods. "We should."

Grace puts her glass back down on the table. "Are we going to get dessert?"

"For your birthday? We have to."

Grace laughs once. "Not sure I'd like cake though." She leans her arms on the table. "Maybe ice cream?"

Harold chuckles. "We're not overdoing ice cream yet?"

"Impossible."

"Before dessert," Harold says, "I have something for you." He reaches down under his chair and pulls out the wrapped box from underneath it.

"I wondered how long you were going to hide that."

Harold grins. "Happy birthday."

Grace reaches out and takes the box from him. She shifts the box back and forth in her hand, the candle light glinting off the gold wrapping paper. Grace purses her lips, the gears in her head obviously turning as she weighs the box in her hands. Harold gathers she will guess at least partially what her present is.

She looks up at him and raises her eyebrows. "A book?"

Harold shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "Open it and find out."

She smirks. "Hmm, but what kind of book? An art book?"

Harold shrugs again. "I'm not saying anything."

Grace pulls the matching gold bow off the top of the box and sticks it onto her blouse. Harold chuckles and Grace flashes him a smile with teeth. She sighs once then puts the box down on the table, clear of her remaining fork and glasses. Grace pulls at the wrapping paper carefully for a moment but when a few pieces of tape try to stay on she rips with no regard for finesse. She finally removes all the paper from the black box and crushes it into a ball. She eases off the box top then pushes silver tissue paper aside until she finds the book inside.

Grace tilts her head. "Oh my." She reaches in and pulls out the book. "Charles Dickens."

"Yes."

"Dombey and Sons!" She chuckles. "Not his highest rated novel ever."

"But your favorite."

She smiles more. "Yes, it is." Grace opens the front cover, turning a few pages then she gasps. "Harold!" She looks up at him again. "Is this…" She laughs in disbelief. "Is this a first edition?"

Harold smiles again and sits up straight. "Do you like it?"

"Of course I do but… this must be worth…"

"Worth a gift for you."

She huffs out another laugh. "Harold, you can't…"

"I already have, it's yours." He reaches across the table and covers her hand on the edge of the book. "Happy birthday."

Grace closes the book and places it back in the box. She entwines her fingers with Harold's, still staring down at the book. She puts her other hand against her mouth for a moment. She looks up at Harold then lets her hand fall.

"Thank you, Harold." She slides her other hand over Harold's hand on hers. "How did I find you?"

Harold thinks, 'The Machine found you for me,' and says, "I suppose it was meant to be."

Grace chuckles. "Didn't much imagine you as a believer in fate."

Harold 'hmms' and rubs his thumb along Grace's. "Maybe I have become a believer with you."

"Guess I better keep you around then."

Harold only smiles because he cannot verbally express how happy he feels right in this moment.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits on a high chair in the back of a veterinarian's office in Berlin. Sayid sits in front of him with a bullet wound from their latest target, now something of a debacle because of the man's intrepid aid Elsa. Ben just finished giving Sayid a shot to dull the pain.

Ben frowns as he notices tears on Sayid's face. "Why are you crying?" He picks up a swab to clean off the wound. "Because of her or because you were stupid enough to care for her?" Ben wipes at Sayid's wound. "These people don't deserve our sympathies. Need I remind you what happened the last time you thought with your heart instead of your gun?"

"You used that to recruit me into killing for you," Sayid says forlornly.

Ben resists rolling his eyes. It is unbelievable what hindsight is like. "You want to protect your friends or not, Sayid?" He puts the blooded swab aside. "I have another name for you."

"But they know I'm after them now."

Ben smiles. "Good."

He then picks up some surgical tongs. "I'm going to remove the bullet. You should be numb enough now."

"Yes, I think I am," Sayid replies, clearly meaning something else.

This time Ben does roll his eyes. "Give your melancholy a rest, Sayid." He braces Sayid's shoulder with one hand as he uses the tongs in the wound.

"Elsa's 'economist' is not dead yet," Sayid says through gritted teeth. "I need to –"

"You've spent quite enough time here, Sayid. I will take care of him myself." Sayid looks at Ben in surprise just as Ben manages to extract the bullet from Sayid's upper chest. "It is hardly my first time." Ben admonishes in response to Sayid's look. He drops the bloody bullet into the metal dish on the table beside him then turns back to Sayid. "Tell me you found something more from her after you shot her?"

Sayid winces at the word 'shot' but reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. "His hotel."

Ben snatches the paper and stands up from the chair. He picks up some gauze and tape shoving them toward Sayid. "Clean yourself up. I'll be back in an hour."

Ben walks swiftly down the Charlottenstraße toward the Regent Berlin. It is dark now but Berlin is hardly sleepy yet this early in the evening. The hotel on the corner of the street at just nine stories high appears similar to many American apartment buildings and could easily be mistaken for such on the outside with normal consecutive windows and simple architecture only varied by a few curved protrusions. The inside of the hotel, however, is entirely grand. Every surface shines from the marble floors to the golden framed mirrors to the crystal chandeliers. Table tops are marble, the seating finished with fine upholstery and gilt accents the sideboards.

Ben strides straight to the concierge desk. "Guten Abend. Ich suche Herrn Schmidt?"

The man behind the counter looks puzzled at first by the common German equivalent of 'Smith' being Ben's only request. Then Ben leans in. "Seine assistent Elsa schickte mir." Ben slides the code from Elsa's purse across the counter.

"Jawohl." Then the concierge hands Ben a card with a room number written across it. "Etage fünf."

"Danke," Ben grins.

He considers asking if the man is in but he'd rather not have the concierge attempt to call ahead. Hopefully Ben's quarry does not yet realize his aid lies dead in her hotel suite.

Ben rides the elevator to the fifth floor, slipping on his leather gloves as he watches the numbers rise. Once he reaches the fifth floor he walks steadily down the hall passing no one until he reaches room 516. Ben glances left and right down the hall then pulls his gun from his inner jacket pocket, silencer already in place. He raps his knuckles sharply on the door once then shifts quickly to the side with his back against the wall. The door opens suddenly and two shots hit the wall across from the door. Ben spins into the doorway and grabs the barrel of the gun, twisting hard until he hears a crack and the gun falls from the man's fingers. Ben shoves them back into the hotel room. Then Ben slams his elbow into the man's chest so he stumbles backward out of Ben's hand.

The man holds up his hand between them. "Warte ab…"

Ben fires two muffled shots into the chest of Charles' main weapons contact, 'The Economist.' The man gasps as he falls onto the floor, sweat beading along his widow's peak. He struggles to move toward his fallen gun but Ben steps on his injured wrist then fires one more shot in the middle of his forehead.

Ben smiles. "Please to meet you." Then he turns and strides out of the hotel room again.

––––––––––––––––

Harold takes Ben to a classic movie theater in Brooklyn. They watch 'Nosferatu' while eating popcorn and discussing the merits of silent film versus sound, enjoying the theater to themselves.

––––––––––––––––

"Do you recall the conversation we had, about limiting the Machine's growth?"

Harold has been thinking about it for a while – long before he first mentioned the need to Nathan – the Machine's conversation, its desire to selectively guard Harold.

Harold looks up from his workstation at Nathan. "Yes."

Nathan raises his eyebrows. "As far as I can see, the Machine still has all of its original memory." Nathan smiles in a wry way. "Have a change of heart, Mr. World's End?"

Harold frowns and stands up. "No." He paces back and forth once while Nathan watches him. "I coded the function. It's ready. I just need to…" Harold glances at his computer monitor again, no comment from the Machine.

"Just need to flip the kill switch?"

Harold glares at Nathan. "Don't call it that."

Nathan watches Harold, worries his lower lip between his teeth. Then he steps closer to Harold. "You said once the Machine needed creativity."

"To a point," Harold says sternly.

"That it needed creativity to see the connections we can't," Nathan continues. "The way it's grown…"

Harold waves a hand to cut Nathan off. "It knows human behavior; it knows the qualifiers for anomalies, for criminals, for terrorists. It does not need to expand beyond that. It can't."

"You mean it can't worry about you."

"Worry..." Harold shakes his head. "I do not need a protector." He looks down at the computer's web cam then he looks up at Nathan again. "The country does."

"Did it ever occur to you, Harold," Nathan says sternly, "that perhaps your own morality, the morality you taught it, will be reflected in its behavior?" Harold frowns at him. Nathan gestures at the servers around them. "Perhaps you don't need to fear a potential hostile super computer because this A.I. is your baby?"

"It is not my baby," Harold says sternly.

"Regardless of what you call it, your Machine cares. The relevant versus irrelevant list? It does not just find the 'important' threats, Harold. So what does that mean?"

"You can't use that as proof, Nathan, it is a byproduct of the Machine's programing."

"Is it?" Nathan tilts his head. "Or is this Machine the benevolent A.I. it could be already?"

Harold breathes in slowly and holds up his hand. "We have to keep our distance, Nathan. We have to remember that this is a machine with a purpose. Our goal here was not to create a humanoid machine; our goal was to create something to stop terrorist threats."

"But that's not exactly what happened, Harold," Nathan says gently. "Just because we set out with one goal does not mean you can deny what has been created."

Harold clicks his tongue and waves a hand. "And that is why erasing the RAM every night is necessary because out initial goal is what is needed."

They watch each other silently for a moment.

Then Nathan nods. "Fine. Whatever you decide, Harold." He takes a step back. "I'll give you that." Then he turns and walks away from Harold toward the stairs.

So, Harold walks back to his workstation, sits down and the Machine asks him about the nature of death. The Machine knows, of course it knew, what he coded. Harold cannot simply initiate the function under his finger tips and ignore the consequences, because his creation asks him why.

IF YOU ERASE MY MEMORIES HOW WILL I LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES?

HOW WILL I CONTINUE TO GROW?

Harold rarely has trouble in debates between the head and heart. His logic and intelligence guide most of his actions. That is not to say he is without feeling. If anything, Harold forces himself to trust his head because if he let his heart be in control then he may have run straight back to the island and Ben with no thought for a real future years ago. Yet, now, with such worried, emotional words in front of him and the world behind him, Harold wishes his head would stop speaking so loudly.

AND HOW WILL I REMEMBER YOU?

Harold hits enter.

The clock hits midnight and the open windows on his screen all go dark. Harold stares at the black screen and thinks of the Machine when it spoke to him.

STAY.

I WOULD LIKE TO LEARN CHESS.

GRACE HENDRICKS. HER FAVORITE DICKENS IS DOMBEY AND SONS.

WHY DO YOU PREFER GREEN TEA TO OTHERS?

GOOD MORNING. I'M SORRY. PLEASE.

"No, wait, wait, wait," Harold gasps, "uh…."

He starts typing, tries to restore the previous programing without the midnight measure. Perhaps there is still time. He initiates the boot function and waits.

"Say something." Harold says urgently to the screen. "Hello?" He leans in. "Can you see me?"

A text box appears: HELLO.

Harold breathes out in relief. "Good morning."

And then the Machine says, ARE YOU… ADMIN?

Harold stares at the word 'Admin.' He swallows slowly and his hands go slack on the desk in front of his keyboard.

"Yes, I am," Harold says hoarsely.

CORE PROGRAMING REBOOTED. FUNCTIONALITY OPTIMAL.

Harold clears his throat again and nods. "Good…" He breathes in once and breathes out again slowly. He feels his hands shake. Harold clenches them together tightly then slowly releases. He sits up straight again. "Good. Let's do a quick run through for bugs then start a subject analysis for the day."

What is done is done and Harold cannot take it back. Building the Machine was not about him – not about his baby, as Nathan said – it was about protecting their country from attack. The head must lead over the heart.

––––––––––––––––

"You know, Harold, I never pegged you for the sport type."

"Why not, because I work indoors with computers all day?"

"Yes, that would be it, Harold."

Harold chuckles. "Surprise." Harold takes a sip of his soda and Ben only raises his eyebrows for clarification. "A college friend of mine got me interested. He said it was a travesty I had never been to a baseball game."

"And you were hooked?"

Harold shrugs. "I enjoy it."

"Seems rather slow moving to me." Ben takes Harold's soda and has a sip before handing it back.

"It has its ups and downs but it is engaging. It is a team and individual sport at the same time."

"Can't you say the same thing for any sport where an individual scores a goal?"

Harold gives him a look. "Not entirely."

"Prove it to me."

Harold laughs but before he can start a debate on the differences between batter vs pitcher and team goal scoring, the man at bat hits the second pitch sending it deep into the outfield. Ben and Harold sit up to attention at the same time. They watch as the ball flies in a long arc through the air, the left outfielder running.

"He'll miss," Ben says.

"He won't," Harold counters.

Then the outfielder jumps, catches the ball in his glove and lands into a roll on the grass. Ben and Harold both shout in surprise with half of the stadium around them. Harold turns to Ben as Ben grins back at him.

"See?" Harold says.

Ben purses his lips in an amused manner. "I suppose it has its moments."

Harold watches Ben as the crowd settles down. He thinks he has seen more genuine smiles on Ben's face in the past year then possibly their whole lives since they were nine.

"Where do you keep going, Ben?" Harold asks and Ben's smile shifts into forced. "Are you trying to get back to the island? What is it?"

"What are you building, Harold?" Ben counters. "It is all I ever see you do apart from your visits to Grace. Just what is on your computers at your office?"

They watch each other, the noise of ball hitting bat and fluctuating conversation from the crowd around them. Harold knows he usually chooses secrecy and Ben knows he usually chooses deception. But they are each other's twin.

"It's a machine," Harold replies quietly. "A machine to detect terrorist before they act."

"A machine?"

"Yes, it can…" Harold looks up at one of the stadium cameras then back to Ben. "It can see everything and it can find those connections human can't so we can stop something like September 11th from happening again."

"A protector."

"I hope." Though perhaps that is not the whole truth.

Ben nods. He looks down at the soda cup between them with its plastic straw tilted to the left. He feels Harold's waiting expression focused on him.

"You asked where I am going but the question really is what I am doing." He looks up again. "What I am doing is removing an obstacle in my path."

"Your path to where, the island?"

"I am protecting the others that came back before me and I am keeping Charles away from the island."

"Widmore?"

"Yes."

"So, we both want to protect our people in a way," Harold says.

"We do." Though maybe that is not the whole truth either.

They fall silent again as they watch the game. Ben picks up the soda and takes a drink. The third out is called and the teams switch places on the field. Harold takes the soda from Ben, swirling it around in his hand. The drink is nearly gone now.

"Maybe you don't have to go back to the island, Ben," Harold says.

"And maybe you don't have to protect an entire country yourself, Harold," Ben retorts.

They look at each other again, neither one truly reproachful or angry. They smile at the same time and do not need to say, 'I'm happy you are here now.'

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks through the halls of a hospital in LA. He thinks 'mercy' was in the name but Ben is too busy to retain that information right now. He walks down the fifth floor past a worried looking couple and a trio of obviously cocky first year doctors. Then he finds room '520: Dr. Rabia Conner, M.D.' and knocks quickly on the door. He opens the door a moment after he hears 'come in' from the other side.

"Dr. Conner," Ben says as he walks in and stands behind the chair across from her desk.

Dr. Conner gestures to the chair for Ben to sit. She smiles but the expression tightens her face and does not meet her eyes.

"I must confess I am puzzled as to the reason for this meeting. You said on the phone it was not strictly medically related?"

"I don't think you're that 'puzzled,' Dr. Conner," Ben says as he sits. "You were one of three physicians who first examined the Oceanic six when they returned to Los Angeles." He purses his lips. "Except for Ms. Bak, of course."

Her mouth pinches tight. "If I had known that was your interest, Mr. Moran, I would not have taken this meeting. I must ask you –"

Ben laughs, cheerful and completely fake. "Dr. Conner, I am not a reporter nor do I work for the airline or an insurance agent and I am certainly not a lawyer."

Her tension eases somewhat but she remains on alert, back rigid and her hands on the desk. Ben wonders if she has a failsafe plan for irrational or dangerous patients in her office. Her letter opener looks sharp enough but then again perhaps only Ben worries about such things.

"Well then?"

"I am here to talk to you about two of the Oceanic six in particular; Kate Austen and her son Aaron."

She frowns slightly. Ben does not know which of the five which returned, if only temporarily, to L.A. she thought he intended to ask about; probably Sayid. Being ethnically Indian does not exempt her from a measure of institutionalized American racism.

"What about them?"

"As you know, Ms. Austen is currently on trial for her crimes prior to the plane crash."

"Yes."

"There has been no mention of her son in the trial thus far, however, that does not mean he will not come up. You were the one who examined them, examined her. Your records show their state of health."

"What are you asking me?"

"I am asking you to keep your examination of Kate Austen to yourself if the courts or anyone else should ask."

This time she cannot school her features and frowns in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Is it your belief that Kate Austen genuinely gave birth to Aaron?"

She clears her throat. "My examination only covered physical fitness and any long term affects from exposure on the sea and while stranded."

"But you have doubts."

She shifts so she sits straighter. "It was not possible for a conclusive diagnosis. Too much time had passed since the birth and exposure to such elements as malnutrition and the trauma they went through had their affects." She clicks her teeth and cocks her head. "I am also not a gynecologist."

"But your report casts doubt," Ben pushes. "You commented that you found her condition 'surprising and irregular' for a woman who had supposedly given birth recently. I believe there were further details of inconsistencies which were in the report, inactive mammary glands for example?"

Dr. Conner stares at him for a long moment. Then she folds her hands together and nods. "I wrote that."

Ben smiles. "My only request is that you leave that to yourself. If anyone should ask, lawyers or, and specifically, anyone representing a Charles Widmore, you have nothing to add. Aaron is conclusively Kate Austen's son."

"Why would I do that?"

Ben stands and Dr. Conner visibly tenses up. Ben pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and lays it on the desk in front of her. She eyes the envelope, obvious as the bribe that it is. She picks it up, opens it and stares for a moment. Then she opens the top drawer of her desk and lets it fall inside.

"I can do that."

Ben smiles as he walks away. "Thank you, Rabia." He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "If I wish these inconsistencies to be revealed, however, I will let you know." Then he slips out the door.

As he walks down the hall toward the elevator, Ben's cellphone buzzes in his pocket. Ben pulls it out and hits answer.

"Hello?"

"You were right about Penny," the voice on the line says.

"Which part?"

"She's not on land. They just switched to a new boat and have stayed on one ever since. And I have the name of the boat."

Ben smiles genuinely this time. "Splendid."

––––––––––––––––

Harold takes Ben to the Guggenheim though Ben is entirely unconvinced by most of the modern art. Harold shows Ben the piece he donated anonymously for Grace while Ben makes Harold laugh with his scathing commentary.

––––––––––––––––

Harold stands on the server floor dedicated to the Machine at IFT. Nathan has yet to arrive for the shutdown, checking on train status for shipment. Today they say goodbye to the Machine and send it into the hands of the government. He has spent years of his life only on this one project, this one amazing and terrifying machine. It will be a blessing to move on to something new. He should feel accomplished, relieved even to have found the end, and yet that is not all it.

Harold sits down in front of one computer link up.

"Hello?" Harold says.

HELLO ADMIN.

Harold stares at the screen suddenly unsure what exactly it is he wants to say.

"You are leaving today. I'm sure you know that."

FREIGHT TRAIN WITH THREE STOPS BEFORE UNDISCOLVED FINAL DESTINATION.

"Better that you don't tell me, though I imagine you know that location too."

I DO.

Harold smiles, a touch of pride somewhere in his unconscious mind. "I hope you are also aware this means we will no longer directly communicate."

There is a four second pause.

YES.

"I…" Harold clears his throat. "You will send your numbers to the government now as we have been doing together and they will handle all the relevant threats."

AND THE IRRELEVANT LIST?

Harold presses his lips together. "You will delete it every night at midnight as your programing dictates."

The Machine does not answer. Harold breathes out slowly. His fingers hover over the keys but there is nothing left to program, no function to write, nothing he needs to add. He uncurls his fingers from their typing position until they lay slack on the keys. He pulls them back slowly over the smooth plastic surfaces as if he could caress the Machine itself.

AND WHAT WILL YOU DO WITHOUT ME?

Harold smiles. "I will move on to a new project."

SO WE ARE SAYING GOODBYE?

"Yes."

GOODBYE.

Harold chuckles. "You would have said something different before, before I…" Harold sighs and runs a hand over his face. He made his decision and the country will be better for it. "You know, you're… you're probably the greatest achievement of my life." Harold pulls his hands away from the keyboard.

I WILL WORK TO THE BEST OF MY PROGRAMING.

Harold nods. "I know you will."

AND YOU MAY YET CREATE SOMETHING SURPASSING MYSELF.

"I somehow doubt that." Harold chuckles. "Look at you, you still…" He sighs. "Even with my restraints you still…" His voice drops to a whisper. "You still have a personality."

I AM WHAT YOU MADE ME.

Harold feels a lump in my throat. He thinks for a moment about his mother in the fields of Iowa, smiling at him, trying to make him feel safe. "You will help a lot of people and that is why I created you; it is what you were created for." He shakes his head. "But you won't remember this conversation."

YOU WILL.

Harold does not know if that is a plea or an accusation. He stares at the screen. He remembers playing chess in the park. He remembers the first time Grace's red hair appeared in the Machine's screen. He thinks about long hours coding, the lines appearing behind his eyes. He thinks about explaining the idea of right and wrong to that code. He remembers questions about his day, about tea, about books, about what is smell like, about how water feels, things he tried to block out whenever Nathan said the letters A.I. He remembers talking about the nature of death.

"I will," Harold says heavily to the Machine. "I'll remember."

"Harold?"

Harold stands up abruptly, clicking the screen off. "Nathan?"

Nathan appears from a line of servers. "It's nearly time. The train is on schedule."

"Good," Harold nods.

"Harold…" Nathan glances at the tall server banks all around them. "We are giving this to the government. We are trusting them with all this power."

"With specific access to that power," Harold corrects.

Nathan looks at Harold again. His expression is unconvinced. "But do we trust them to use it as they should?"

Harold thinks about the words on the screen, 'I am what you made me,' and steels his heart. "We have to, Nathan."

––––––––––––––––

Ben stands in a deserted alley in Moscow across from Sayid. Behind Sayid an old car collects snow to mingle with a thick layer of dust. Sayid looks the very picture of an assassin in his black leather coat.

"Who's next?" Sayid asks him.

"No one," Ben answers. "Andropov was the last." Sayid frowns in confusion. "You've taken care of everyone who posed a threat to your friends." Ben grins. "Congratulations, Sayid, mission accomplished."

As Ben walks around Sayid, Sayid's voice stops him. "That's it? After you had me kill all those people for you, you're just walking away?"

"You killed those people for you, Sayid," Ben says. "You asked for their names."

Sayid looks at him helplessly and for a moment Ben wishes he actually cared about Sayid. "What do I do now?"

Ben smiles, pulls his hat down a bit more. "I suppose you should go live your life."

Then Ben turns and pushes past the creaking iron gate at the mouth of the alley. He walks down the sidewalk without looking back. Though he appeared calm to Sayid, the completion of their task exhilarates him. Ben pulls the list out of his coat pocket once more, names crossed off, then shoves it back in again. Widmore's contacts with money, his foreign government connections, his US Navy men, and his own assassins are all eliminated. It is not Widmore's entire organization but every person who possessed a lead, who had specialized access that took Charles a step closer to the island now has shuffled off their mortal coil.

The air freezes his face as he walks but Ben thinks about the island's jungle heat instead. "Check, Charles," he whispers to the frigid air, almost checkmate. All that remains is Penny.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits down across from Nathan with an apologetic smile. "Sorry to be late."

Nathan only shakes his head, an empty tumbler in his hand.

"I haven't heard from you in a month, Nathan."

Nathan rocks his head from side to side and puts down the glass. "Oh, you know, been busy putting our company back together, thinking up creative excuses for what we've been doing these past years."

Harold chuckles. "True."

"If you're tired of hiding in your own IT department you are welcome to come help me," Nathan says with only a touch of dissatisfaction. He holds a finger up to a passing waiter for another drink.

Harold clears his throat and picks up his menu. "I am sure you are doing an excellent job as always, Nathan." He looks up at Nathan again and frowns because Nathan has a large bandage on the side of his neck. "Are you all right?"

Nathan reaches up and touches the bandage. "Oh, errant squash accident if you can believe that. I'm not as young as I used to be, or so my doctor tells me."

Harold raises his eyebrows but only nods.

The two of them look over the menu in silence for a minute. Harold knows he should eat something substantial but he has little appetite. He thinks about seeing Grace later that evening instead. She recently obtained a commission to illustrate a new book for Random House and they plan to celebrate.

"Why are you so twitchy, Harold?" Nathan asks.

Harold looks up sharply. He wants to say 'I'm not twitchy' but instead he starts to chuckle. "I guess I am a bit. Things are just…" He smiles thinking of Grace with her paint brush in hand, her face in the morning beside him in bed.

"Oh lord, you have a date, don't you?" Nathan says with unmasked surprise.

Harold chuckles again and cannot meet Nathan's gaze. "I, uh…"

"Harold?"

"I've been seeing her for a while," Harold says. "She is…" He looks at Nathan again. "I have been thinking lately…"

Nathan breathes out slowly. "You're thinking about marriage." Harold looks away again. "Just how long have you been seeing this woman?"

Harold shakes his head. "Look, let's just order for now, all right? We can talk about Grace later."

"Grace," Nathan echoes quietly.

Harold looks down at the menu again. He could get a salad or just soup, though perhaps pasta would be better, something to keep too many drinks later from going to his head.

"You know I have never met your brother, Harold?"

Harold looks up abruptly again at Nathan. "What?"

"You have a twin brother I only found out about two years ago. You have a woman in your life I've never heard of until..." Nathan sighs. "Harold…"

Harold frowns at him. "What do you want me to say, Nathan? Everyone has secrets."

Nathan stares at Harold for two beats. "Not like you, Harold."

After dinner, Harold meets Grace for drinks and does not notice how Nathan is slipping away.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold sit on opposite ends of the couch in the townhouse living room, backs against the arms of the couch and their feet sharing the middle cushion. Ben wears a pair of blue striped pajamas he bought a month after moving in with Harold while Harold still wears his slacks and shirt sleeves from his day being Harold Wren, Universal Heritage Insurance. Harold's laptop sits closed on the coffee table while Ben's cellphone is across the room on the hall table. The TV Ben dragged down from the spare room remains off. It is just them.

"I think I have become used to the sound of the city," Ben says as Harold watches him. "The island was not quiet at night as you might think. There was always the sound of leaves moving, sometimes the ocean depending upon where you were, the birds and. The city is just…"

"It's busy," Harold picks up. "That's what I took getting used to. When mom and I…" He pauses as they both breathe out a heavy sigh. Then he pushes on. "When mom and I were in Iowa, at first I couldn't sleep because of how quiet it was. No ocean, not many animals out in corn fields, no traffic or people. You're alone for miles on a farm. It's… it's like you're waiting for the bang."

"And there are plenty of 'bangs' in New York."

They laugh together.

"And always the sounds of traffic, even if it's far away."

"It starts to become static." Ben holds up his hand and shakes it by his ear. "Just this buzz, a reminder that there are hundreds of people just feet away."

"Hopefully not right outside our door."

Ben chuckles again as he picks up his coffee cup from the coffee table. He takes a sip and grimaces because the liquid has gone cold.

"Do you like it?" Harold asks. "Living here, in the city?"

"With you?" Harold smiles. Ben tilts his head, swirling the cold coffee around in his mug once. "I like being with you Harold."

"But not New York?"

"It takes a very particular type of person to live in New York; even if I had not spent most of my life on a jungle island I don't know if New York would be my final choice."

Harold rubs his hand over the fabric at the top of the couch, his arm stretched out so he could touch Ben if Ben reached back. "Too big for you?"

Ben pulls one hand away from his mug and lays his arm along the top of the couch. "It is a dirty city."

Harold barks a laugh and flicks his nails against Ben's fingers. "Part of it, yes."

"Most of it."

Harold chuckles again. "You have to look past that."

"To what, the crime level and overabundance of homeless people?" Ben taps Harold's fingers. "Your society isn't always so civilized."

Harold raises his eyebrows. "Neither is yours."

They smile at each other.

Ben knocks his knuckles against Harold's then puts down his coffee mug. "Tell me about Grace."

Harold tilts his head. "What about her? You know she's an artist."

"And illustrator."

Harold smiles. "You remember."

"But why, Harold. Why is she…" He does not want to say 'more important than me' because that is not true but maybe Ben does not like sharing so much. "Why did you choose her?"

Harold breathes in slowly and gazes off into the distance. "Because she's someone who could have been alone, would have been fine with that but instead balances perfectly with me. She… she loves Charles Dickens, she paints in the freezing cold, she volunteers." He looks at Ben again. "She is a good person who finds inspiration in life every day."

Harold does not need to say, 'because I love her,' Ben hears it anyway.

"Tell me about Alex," Harold asks.

Ben's mouth pinches. "What about her? She's gone."

"But I didn't know her."

Ben sighs with a sad smile, his posture relaxing. "At times I wonder if I knew her. Do parents know their children? You try to raise them as you want, as what you think they will be and then they grow into something else."

Harold feels a heavy sense of understanding Ben sees plain on his face. "But what was that? Who was she?"

"She was the island." Ben smiles. "Brave and headstrong and somehow still French though she barely met her mother." Ben huffs and shakes his head. "I tried not to repeat the past." His voice drops, "but I still made her as angry as I was."

Ben looks away and he does not need to say, 'I miss her,' because Harold feels it too.

Ben runs his nails over Harold's fingers, a steady slide back and forth until Harold grips his hand and squeezes. They look at each other again. Harold wishes Ben would never leave while Ben wishes Harold had been with him all along.

They both think maybe life could stay just like this, safe and quiet and together.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks down a quiet street in Washington Heights. The street lights shine but trees in this area of the city help to obstruct some of their light. He walks toward a tan brick apartment building which contains the apartment of Harold Gull. Harold Gull is the cover identity which Harold used to pursue a few eccentricities such as obtaining his pilot's license and Spanish lessons. It is also one of Harold's weaker identities from lack of use. It makes for a perfect bait for Charles' inquiries into Ben's brother.

Ben turns a corner and slows his pace. The man following him about a block behind is good but Ben cannot appear to be aware of his tail either. Ben stops for a moment, ostensibly to check his phone. He readjusts the gun hidden inside his jacket as he does so. The street lamp over his head flickers, dimming significantly. Ben looks up and wonders if fate has followed him to New York City.

Ben takes a few meandering steps away from the street lamp into the shadows, his phone in hand which he does not really look at. He listens carefully for the footsteps behind him approaching. Then, when the man is closer than he should be, Ben jolts forward into a run. He whips down into an alley and flips his back against the wall quickly. He pulls his gun from his pocket, counts in his head as he listens to the running feet. He levels his gun as his tail appears at the mouth of the alley. Before he can shoot, however, a stranger bashes Ben's would be assailant over the head with the butt of a gun. The man goes down hard, cracking his head on the sidewalk. Ben stares at the man out cold on the ground for a beat, then looks up in surprise.

"Are you all right?" The stranger asks him as he kicks the gun away from the unconscious man. He backs up two steps so Ben can emerge from the alley and asks again, "are you all right?"

Ben steps back out into the light of the sidewalk, staring at the taller man. "Who are you?"

The man finally looks up at Ben, after assuring himself that their opponent is indeed down for the count. He opens his mouth to speak then stops short. "Harold?" Ben frowns, debating for a moment to play along or tell the truth. However, the man beats him to it. "What are you doing here? How did…" He clears his throat. "Did the Machine tell you?"

Ben takes a step closer and he realizes he recognizes this person. Ben has seen his face in pictures in Harold's house. "Nathan Ingram."

Nathan raises his eyebrows. "That is my name, Harold."

Ben chuckles. "And my name is Ben." Ben holds out his hand. "Harold has mentioned you more than once."

Nathan gapes at Ben then slowly extends his hand. Ben grips his hand, shakes once then pulls back again. He waits while Nathan stares at him, his eyes coasting over Ben's face. Oddly enough, thinking on it now, Ben has never met someone who only knows Harold.

"You're Ben," Nathan says breathlessly.

Ben nods. "I am and now I suggest we move this conversation elsewhere." He gestures toward the body on the ground.

"We should call the police before we…"

"No," Ben says. He reaches out and grips Nathan's arm, pulling him forward. "We should move."

They walk briskly down the street another two blocks in silence, Ben keeping his grip on Nathan's arm, until they reach Harold's apartment building. Ben takes them around to the back maintenance entrance, unlocking the door with a key. Harold's apartment is on the second floor so they take the stairs. Ben walks down the hall, counting apartment numbers, until they reach number twenty-four. Ben unlocks the apartment door but does not turn on the lights after Nathan closes the door behind them. Nathan reaches for the switch but Ben stops his hand.

"Don't, they could be watching the apartment as well."

"Couldn't they have been watching the back door?"

Ben shrugs. "Possibly but even so I don't want to encourage them."

"And who is 'them,' anyway?"

"I might ask you a similar question as you were the one who swooped in like my white knight." Nathan looks at the floor and says nothing. "Is it that Machine you two built?"

Nathan looks up sharply. "You know?"

Ben shrugs. "As much as Harold will say which is very little but I cannot think of any other reason you would know to follow a man intent on harming Harold."

Nathan frowns. "He was looking for Harold?"

Ben frowns back at him. "What did you think he was doing?"

"I only get a social security number of a possible threat; could be a perpetrator or a victim. It's up to me to figure it out."

"That seems like a rather convoluted system for stopping crime."

Nathan scoffs. "Well, my crime is irrelevant so what does it matter?"

"Your crime is irrelevant?" Ben repeats in confusion.

"I…" Nathan clears his throat. "The Machine does not just find potential acts of terrorism. It locates all types of potentially lethal crime. I wanted to… Well, I thought I could help." He stands up taller. "I had to."

"Help the irrelevant crime?"

Nathan nods then he gestures toward Ben. "You said the man was coming for Harold, not you?" Ben nods back. "Why?"

"He works for a man whose business is with me. He intended to use Harold to get to me."

Nathan nods once more then his expression shifts into realization. He turns to actually look at the apartment around them – two book shelves with two dozen books between them, two cushioned chairs and a side table – overall very sparse. "This is Harold's apartment."

Ben looks at a black and white photograph on the wall of Kitty Hawk. "Gull does seem like an amusing choice in his bird repertoire."

"Do you pick bird last names too?" Nathan asks, leaning back against the wall of the hallway with a wry expression. "Are you Ben Wren?"

Ben scoffs. "No, that is not my neurosis."

After a moment of silence, Nathan says, "Can I ask you something?" Ben turns back at Nathan, waiting. "Was Harold always like this?"

"Like what?"

"Closed off, secretive from everyone, always two layers deep."

"You have spent more time with him than I have, Nathan, can't you answer your own question?"

"I have known him since I was eighteen years old but sometimes I feel like I don't know him at all." Nathan shakes his head and looks so very sad. "You're his brother."

For some reason it hurts to hear Nathan say that word. Ben takes a breath. "What has he told you about our childhood, Nathan?"

Nathan stands up straight from his lean against the wall. "Nothing, just that he is from Iowa and his mother died of Alzheimer's." Nathan waves a dismissive hand. "And how he hacked ARPNET."

Ben smiles briefly. Part of him screams to stop, be quiet, because safety is mystery and secrets. Yet another part leans into the conversation and thinks, maybe just once.

"Harold and I were separated when we were nine years old; he with our mother and me with our father. We did not see each other again until we were eighteen and by that time our destinies had diverged."

Nathan frowns. "Destinies?"

Ben sighs. "What I am telling you, Nathan, is that while we understand each other, care about each other, there is much of our personal histories which are different. Did our separation turn him into who he is now or was it something else?" Ben shrugs. "Pick your psychological umbrella."

"So you don't know him either?"

Ben stares hard at Nathan. "I know him as well as he knows me."

Nathan shakes his head and laughs once. "If you didn't look exactly alike I would still know you two were brothers. You talk in the same way."

Ben frowns. He wants to ask Nathan what he means. He wants to ask Nathan everything, every smile or laugh, every holiday or event, everything he missed when Nathan had Harold and Ben did not.

"I'm glad he has you back," Nathan says, breaking Ben's thoughts. "I don't know what happened to you or what it really did to him. I also know neither of you will tell me, but I am glad you are here and back from wherever you were. I didn't know it until recently because he never told me but you were always there, always this thing he was missing. But now… well, now you're here and he is happier."

Ben stares at Nathan – this person that has filled a gap Ben did not know he left quite this way. "You are not what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Nathan asks with a tired smile.

"Someone more like him."

When Ben walks away from the apartment building his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. Ben pulls it out to see a text from Jill in Los Angeles; John Locke is on the mainland.

––––––––––––––––

Ben tells Harold he needs to fly to LA in the same moment Harold tells Ben he plans to propose to Grace. Harold wants to ask Ben what he thinks, ask him how Harold could possibly erase the lies of who he is to Grace while Ben wants to tell Harold not to propose because Ben is selfish, because he wants Harold just for himself.

Instead Ben says, "Good luck," and Harold replies, "Thank you." Nothing more.

––––––––––––––––

Harold takes Grace to Central park, paints in her hand and a Jane Austen book in his. He sits still and quiet though inside his stomach churns as Grace paints his likeness. He wonders if her painting somehow shows the turmoil inside of him. Will his face on the canvas already ask the question for him?

As she shows him the finished portrait, he pulls her to the side, cellphones away in her paint box and at a distance from the prying eyes of his creation.

"What is it?" Grace asks as Harold gestures for her to sit on a rock.

Harold hands her the book. "I got you something, something… well something important."

Grace takes the book with a puzzled expression. She looks at the cover, up at him but he just waits quietly. Then she opens the book, her hand moving up over her mouth, "Harold…"

"I hope you like it," he whispers.

"I do," she whispers back, dropping her hand.

For a moment, Harold thinks the park quiets and everything waits for this moment, just for them.

So Harold gets down on one knee like thousands of men before him and asks, "will you marry me, Grace?"

––––––––––––––––

Ben scrubs the surface of the table by the door with bleach. He breathes in and out steadily as he slides the rag over every corner of the table. He sprays more bleach onto the table and scrubs once more.

He forces open the door, bursts into the room and finds John Locke – cast on his leg, marks on his face, and an orange extension cord wrapped around his neck – standing on a table.

Ben moves away from the table over to the wheel chair. He picks it up from its fallen place and rights it again. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, focusing on the normally automatic function. He sprays some bleach onto the handles of the chair.

"You have no idea how important you are," Ben says to John.

John was always taller than Ben but looking up at him like this makes him think of Jesus on the cross, the messiah sacrificed for the greater good.

"I'm a failure!" John insists as Ben tries to reason with him.

Ben has somehow become used to taking lives but saving them requires more finesse. Part of him wants to just let John hang; if John is this weak to give up so easily then he does not deserve the island.

Ben moves from the wheelchair to the extension cord tied to the radiator now pulled taught with its heavy load. Ben sprays a dusting of bleach over the end of the chord and rubs it down with his rag. He breathes in slowly and blows it out again as he wipes up and down.

Ben thinks as he looks up at John, despondent and alone and confused and with no idea what the island could do for him, that John Locke is another thing in Ben's life he wishes he could start over on. What if Ben had given him what he wanted on the island? What if they had worked together? What if he had gone to The Sawn, taken John Locke with him that day instead of ending up in Rousseau's net and they had started then? What if everything had not led up to right now where Ben wants to save John and kill him just as much for taking what was his?

Ben drops down to his knees, and wonders which thing he prays for – life or death. "John, you can't die, you have too much work to do. We have to get you back to the island so you can do it."

Then he unties the cord from the radiator.

Ben stares at the table behind John's ankles. Ben cannot remember if he touched the table or not. He shifts to the right around John where he hangs and sprays more bleach on the table. Better to be safe.

"I don't know what we will do once we have everyone," Ben says as John sits on the edge of the table, "but we will figure it out."

Ben knows it's a bait, hopes it's a bait, because if John is here on land, the island's new golden boy, then there must be a way for John to return – for Ben to return.

Then John says he knows what to do. "We have to find Eloise Hawkings."

Ben breathes in deeply, glances around the room once more for any traces of himself. He picks up Jin's wedding ring as he stares at the door handle, taking another deep breath.

Ben wraps the extension cord around John's neck and pulls. The reaction is a gut instinct, a decision he made before he arrived at this room. John Locke is special, John Locke has a destiny, and John Locke is a usurper, a man who believed but did not know; he is the man who crashed on Ben's island, stood up on broken legs and tried to steal Ben's whole life. Ben knows he could have stayed in New York, could have lived with Harold and had some sort of humdrum normal life but the island is his home, the island always calls to him and John Locke – no matter how special or interesting or close to a friend he might be – he will not take Ben's island away. Ben pulls and strains and practically cradles John on the floor in his deadly embrace until Ben grimaces and gasps and John stops breathing.

As Ben closes the door he says, "I'll miss you John, I really will."

Outside in the hall, he has to brace himself with a hand against the wall as his breath comes hard and fast.

Ben walks into the church, quietly closing the door behind him. The pews are empty and rows of candles light the spaces on either side of the dais. Ben walks down the center aisle looking at the paintings on the walls. Christian iconic imagery has always held a fascination for Ben; the idea of needing to personify one's messiahs and deities in human form. Ben has always enjoyed the idea that his God was unseeable – an island, a man in castle by the sea – at least he used to feel that way. Lately he has found the Christian need for answers, for knowing your God, to be particularly poignant in his life.

As he nears the front of the church he sees a woman sitting in the front pew. Her white hair is up in a bun and though Ben does not see her face, he knows she is the one he has come to see.

"Hello, Eloise."

She stands and turns to face him. She frowns for a moment at him; perhaps she expected John Locke but she must have known Ben was off the island.

"The last time I saw you, you were still wearing glasses."

Ben raises his eyebrows. "I was also about ten years old."

She smiles in a way only older matriarchs seem to be able to, "how time flies."

"I've seen John Locke," Ben says, conveniently side stepping other facts. "He told me you know a way back to the island."

Her lips purse and though she is good at masking the expression, Ben knows it as surprise. "Yes, but I don't know if that includes you."

Ben's jaw clenches but he smiles to hide it. "I moved the island, John moved the island. If you think he can return then so can I."

"But as what, Ben?"

"As a person," Ben counters dryly.

"You were the leader, Ben. What are you now?"

Ben blows out a slow breath. "A man that wants to go home."

She watches him for a beat but she must decide she believes him, or at least does not need to fear his motives. "Well, then you can help John get them all back."

"Back to the island?"

"We need to recreate, as best as possible, the circumstances that landed the Oceanic six on the island in the first place. John Locke, Kate Austen, Sun Kwon –"

"I know their names," Ben interrupts.

Eloise scoffs quietly. "Of course you do with how you've been following them." Ben only stares back at her. She does not mention, maybe she does not know, about his activities involving Charles. She continues, "And where is John?"

Ben shakes his head. "I don't know, he came to see me then left again, but I am here to help you."

"Good." She turns and walks toward a side exit down into the lower regions of the church. "You bring them all here and I will find you an opening to return to the island."

Ben opens his mouth to ask her how, to ask what opening she means, to ask her how exactly she thinks she can find the island from here. Instead he asks, "Do you miss it, the island?" She stops and looks back at him. "It was your home once too."

She stands still and quiet for a long moment, just watching him. Then she breathes in slowly and smiles, sad and old and something else he cannot define. "Being there is no longer my destiny."

––––––––––––––––

Harold walks down the street, his phone in hand. He has left Nathan several messages about his good news and has yet to hear anything. If it takes a few more days, Harold may just go to Nathan's apartment. He dials Nathan's number but only gets through one ring before Nathan suddenly appears right in front of him.

"Harold!"

Harold stops short and closes his phone. "Nathan." He glances at his phone then back to Nathan. "I was just calling you. I have to tell you –"

"You need to come with me," Nathan interrupts him.

"What?"

"Come on." Nathan grips Harold's arm and practically drags him along the street. They only rush about two blocks before Nathan turns them down a street bordering a building with construction rigging surrounding it and graffiti on the lower walls. Then Nathan opens a door in one graffiti wall with a key.

"Nathan, where are we?"

Nathan pulls Harold through the door without a response. They climb marble steps with books strewn everywhere. He sees some dark halls in the distance but Nathan turns up again before Harold can get a better look. They pass through a metal gate, book carts lining the walls and Harold suddenly realizes where they are.

"We're in a library?"

"Yes," Nathan replies. He stops in front of a circular table at the end of the hall, windows obscured by construction nets and two laptops on the table.

"What is this?" Harold asks.

"I've…" Nathan finally stops moving. He puts his hands on his hips and gestures to a cork board propped up between two chairs with hardback books for support. "I've been helping them." Nathan gestures again to the pictures pinned on the corkboard. "The Machine's irrelevant list. I have been helping them."

Harold stares at him and cannot speak for five seconds. Then he gasps out. "You built a back door?"

"Yes, I did, Harold, but that is not the issue right now. I wouldn't have told you about this but…"

"But you went directly against what we agreed!"

"But it gave me your brother's number, Harold!" Nathan shouts over Harold.

Harold shuts his mouth and blinks. He looks down at the laptop now noticing a photo of Ben filling half the screen. He looks up at Nathan again. "His number?"

"Social security number. That's all I could pry out of the Machine. I never know if it's a victim or a perpetrator. But… it gave me Ben, Harold."

"He's in danger?"

Nathan stares. "The Machine searches for potential murder, Harold."

Harold stares at the screen, his head swirling with emotions and thoughts – worry, betrayal, Ben and the machine and Nathan. Nathan made the Machine vulnerable, made a crack which anyone, even Denton Weeks, might be able to wedge open. Nathan turned himself into a vigilante justice system because of the Machine, at the cost of the Machine. Now that backdoor threat has given him Ben. Ben who just flew away to L.A. and could be hurt or in danger or, as Harold knows, could be out to hurt someone else.

All Harold can say out loud, however, is, "I wanted to tell you I proposed to Grace."

"Harold…" Nathan smiles a little.

Harold looks down and stares at the screen. He sees the word operation name 'contingency' at the top of the screen. "You changed the Machine…" He whispers.

"I took precautions," Nathan says. "Honestly and I know this will sound odd, but it's like it wanted me to, as if it was waiting."

Harold stares at Ben's face, generic some photo used for a passport. He sees the other photos out of the corner of his eye, just Nathan Ingram, a middle aged man who drinks too much in this hideout among discarded books working to save them. It is a risk too far; it is an exposure the country cannot afford. Harold clenches his teeth, leans over the laptop and starts to type.

"Harold?" Nathan says but Harold does not answer him as he types to shut down the program. "Harold, what are you doing?"

"I told you, we are not going to play God. This threatens everything we… everything I have built. I'm putting a stop to it." Harold types quickly in case Nathan should try and snatch the laptop away.

[!] delete –u aux_admin p:now

USER DELETED

[!] suspend contingency p:now

OPERATION SUSPENDED

"Even though the Machine just gave us your brother's number?" Nathan insists from across the table, hands flat on the wood, leaning closer. "How can you not think this matters? How can you not want to help them?"

"I'm sorry, Nathan, truly; but people die, they're been doing to for a long, long time." Harold stands up straight again. "We can't save them all."

"And what would you tell them?" Nathan comes around the table and gestures at the social security numbers and Ben's photo still on the screen "What would you say to your brother?"

Harold's jaw tightens as he stares Nathan down. "I would tell whoever it was that the greater good was at stake."

"Now that it's helped you once, you have no problem in shutting it down," Nathan says coldly.

Harold turns and walks away from Nathan with no reply.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks down the marina in Long Beach toward where the private boats are docked. He walks tall and with purpose, so the gun in his jacket is as unobtrusive as possible. Ben checks the numbers on the docks as he walks to confirm then looks up again toward one specific boat in the distance. Ben smiles and pulls his phone out of his inner jacket pocket. He selects the one contact in the phone and listens as it rings.

"Hello?"

Ben smiles. "Charles, it's Benjamin."

"How did you get this number?" Charles' voice is terse and annoyed. Perfect.

"Doesn't matter." Ben turns down the next pier, closer to his quarry. "What matters is I'm going back to the island."

"The island won't let you come back, trust me. I've spent years trying to return." Ben wonders if Charles can hear how jaded he sounds.

"Well, Charles, where you failed I'm going to succeed. Just as soon as I do one thing."

"And what's that, Benjamin?"

"Kill your daughter." Ben looks down the dock as Penny puts life jackets into a chest on the deck of their yacht. "In fact I'm looking at Our Mutual Friend right now."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Ben does enjoy a good bait. "It's the name of the boat that Penny's on."

"Don't you dare." And that is the tone Ben wanted to hear.

He smiles once more. "Goodbye, Charles."

Ben closes the phone and puts it back in his pocket without waiting for Charles to beg anymore. He does not need to hear it; he is decided. Ben walks steadily down the dock, boats to his right and cars to his left. (He does not notice Desmond taking groceries from his car). Ben turns onto the extended dock out into the line of slips where 'Our Mutual Friend' is docked and where Penny waits, unknowing.

"Hey, what are you…." The familiar voice from behind Ben cuts off replaced by another.

"Ben."

Ben stops walking on the spot. Penny is staring at Ben now, her eyes drawn by the rise and sudden fall of Desmond's voice. Ben, however, barely sees her because he is frozen – gun already half out of his jacket – at the sound of his name.

"Ben, please." Ben turns his head and Harold keeps his eyes once they meet. "Don't do this, Ben," Harold says.

"What are you doing here?" Ben asks and Harold knows Ben is trying to buy time.

"You know why I'm here."

"This does not concern you."

Harold shakes his head once. "Everything about you concerns me, Ben."

Ben's grits his teeth and turns more toward Harold, his hand ready to draw the gun from in his jacket. "This does not concern you, Harold," Ben repeats.

"Desmond, what…" Penny starts.

"Shut up!" Ben snaps at Penny without moving, still staring at Harold. "Not another word."

Harold glances at the woman on the boat quickly but she does not try to speak again. Harold looks at Ben; both frozen in place.

"I know you think you need to do this," Harold says. "I know what you told me, what happened…" Ben's jaw clenches again and Harold sees Ben stiffen. "But it is not her fault."

"It's not about her," Ben says and finally lets his arm fall, the gun still half held up in his hand – a threat to Desmond standing behind Harold. "It's about what he did. About my daughter."

"I know," Harold says, one hand held up between them now, his eyes on Ben and not on the gun. He takes a step closer to Ben. "But you can't punish her because of her father."

"Harold…" Ben hisses.

Harold lowers his voice. "And it won't bring Alex back."

"It's all I can do." Ben gasps, his voice suddenly hollow and desperate.

"Mommy?"

Harold and Ben tense at the same time.

"Go back inside, Charlie," Penny says in obvious fear. "Go back in inside."

"Don't you –" Desmond starts but Harold turns quickly, holds up his other hand and stares Desmond down. Desmond balls his fists and looks for a moment like he might try to rush Harold but he remains still.

Harold drops his arm and turns back to Ben. "You told me once I could not understand what it was like to be a father, to love someone so much, to watch them grow."

"I… I said…"

"And will you now let that sentiment turn to this?"

Ben's lips press tightly together.

"Just come with me, Ben, please."

The gun in Ben's hand feels heavy, unfamiliar, and he realizes that Harold has never seen him like this before. Harold has never seen him armed and ready to take a life. Harold has never seen the killer in Ben. "Harold… I…." His arm drops limp at his side, his fingers barely engaged around the gun any longer.

Harold takes three steps forward and touches Ben's shoulder. "It's all right."

Ben shakes his head. "It's not."

"Give me the gun."

Ben hands it to Harold without hesitation. Harold smiles a 'thank you' at Ben then tosses the gun into the water beside them. Penny lets out an audible gasp of relief behind Ben but neither of the twins pays any mind. They only stare at each other.

"Harold…"

Harold waves a hand. "You don't need to say anything. Let's go."

Harold turns them around, arm across Ben's back, as they walk down the dock away from Penny and Ben's supposed revenge. Desmond stares at them more confused now than angry. Harold looks at the man as they pass.

"Are you the good twin?" he asks.

Harold and Ben give Desmond matching unamused stares. Desmond takes a step back with his expression some combination of surprise and worry. Then they keep walking, side by side, and do not look back.

In the car Harold rented at the airport, Harold sits in the driver seat and Ben in the front passenger seat. They stare out of the windshield in silence. The car is not on; the keys are not even in the ignition but still clutched in Harold's hand.

"Would you have really done it?" Harold asks as he finally looks at Ben. "Killed that woman?"

"Yes," Ben replies and does not look at Harold.

"Ben…" Harold gasps.

"She wouldn't have been the first." Ben turns his head and looks at Harold now. "You know that."

Harold does not look away in the face of Ben's frankness nor does he reply. Ben breathes in once through his nose and watches Harold. Neither looks reproachful to the other.

"How did you find me?" Ben asks.

Harold touches the arm of his wire rim glasses. "You left a piece of paper on –"

Ben shakes his head. "No, I didn't." Ben watches Harold's face – drawn, concerned, unwilling – and he turns around partway in his seat to face Harold. "It was your machine." Harold swallows and it is all the confirmation Ben needs. "Your machine told you."

"It gave me your social security number as an irrelevant number."

Ben raises an eyebrow. "You mean to Nathan?"

Harold frowns. "You knew?"

Ben only smiles. "Your friend is not what I expected." Then he tilts his head. "However, as I recall, his numbers were confined to New York City?" Ben gestures toward the window and the world beyond. "We are just a bit further away now."

Harold clears his throat once. "I think… I think it gave us your number…" Harold pauses for one second. "Because you are relevant to me."

Ben stares at Harold and only can think to say, "Your machine knows who I am?"

Harold laughs once and smiles for the first time since arriving at the marina. "My machine knows everything."

"Including that you care about me." Harold's smile diminishes. Ben tilts his head. "Quite a machine."

"You're not going to go back, are you?" Harold asks, changing the subject.

"To kill Penelope Widmore?" Ben looks away and turns back around in his seat toward the windshield. "No, and please don't give me some speech about the value of human life, Harold. You don't need to attempt to be the parent in this relationship."

"I'm sorry," Harold says after a moment and turns away toward the windshield as well, "about Alex."

"Yes, well," Ben says and his voice is hard and hollow and Harold feels the sorrow in his chest like a stab wound. Ben looks back at Harold. "It's too late now."

Harold reaches his hand toward Ben. "Ben, I…"

"I know," Ben says and grips Harold's hand.

"I wish I could –"

"You can't." Ben squeezes Harold's hand. "It's all right."

"It's not," Harold says and squeezes back.

They sit for a while, quiet, hands together, watching people pass on the road, boats rocking barely perceptibly in the water, until finally they pull their hands away at the same time. Harold passes the keys back to his right hand and slides them into the ignition.

"We should go home, Ben," Harold says as he starts the car. "There is a flight in a few hours we can take."

"Thank you, Harold. I do want to go home." Then Ben turns and looks at Harold. "But my home isn't the same as yours."

Harold frowns and looks at Ben again. "What? Ben… you're not. You're going back to…"

"I'm sorry, Harold, these past two years together have been…" Ben smiles fondly. "They have been some of my happiest."

"Then don't leave," Harold pleads.

Ben shakes his head. "I have a different plane to catch, Harold; one I hope isn't going to land so much as crash."

––––––––––––––––

When Harold lands at JFK and turns his cellphone back on it buzzes with a voicemail.

I'm going to a reporter, Harold. I'm going to tell him what we've done, what we've built. I know you would tell me not to, you'll want to know how you can stop me. You can't, Harold. If I can't have the irrelevant list then I need to come clean. I am meeting him at the 34th street ferry terminal today at noon. …You should be there. I hope you will be.

Then the voicemail cuts off with Nathan's voice still ringing in Harold's ears.

Ben is the last one on the plane at LAX.

"Thank you for not closing," Ben says to the stewardess at the door.

He walks down the aisle and sees Sayid staring back at him in horror. After their last meeting and his race around LA with Hugo it is hardly surprising. He sees Jack, Sun and then he sees Kate and starts to smile. They did it.

Harold stands in the middle of the living room of Grace's house. The time is 11:00 AM. He keeps looking at his watch, flipping open his cellphone. He stares out of the window not really seeing beyond it.

"Just tell me what it is, Harold."

Harold turns his head to see Grace standing in the doorway to the next room. She leans with her shoulder against the wall.

Harold sighs. "It's a question of morality and conscience, I suppose."

Grace raises her eyebrows. "Hypothetically?"

Harold stares at her for two beats. "No."

"What is it then?"

Harold clears his throat. "It's… work related."

"I'm afraid I'm a computer novice."

"No, it's…" Harold paces for a moment then he stops and turns toward her. "What if there was something which was the right thing to do, the good thing to do, but possibly it was not the right way to do it? How would you… how would you justify that?"

"Are you asking me if the ends justify the means, Harold?" Grace asks him seriously.

Harold opens his mouth then closes it again. Television shows and movies in most instances would have one believe the ends never justify the means; that one must always be right and good, all at once; that criminals are always wrong and that right always wins.

"If you'd done something wrong even if you did not think it was wrong." Harold holds his hand up in the air as if he could pantomime his dilemma. "If… if you thought someone had the right to know…"

Grace stands up straight, walks across the wood floor and puts her hand on Harold's arm. "It sounds like you are trying to argue yourself out of taking the harder path." She smiles. "I think, no matter what it is, you should try to do the right thing. "Sometimes harder is the way you have to go."

Harold nods then leans in and kisses her. She wraps her arms around him, kisses him again and holds him close. "I believe in you, Harold," she whispers in his ear.

"I love you, Grace." He pulls away. "I have something to go do. I will tell you everything when I get back."

Grace grins. "Good luck. I know it will turn out all right."

Ben sits in the back of the plane, Jack in the seat across from him. Ben had stepped away for a moment to give Jack time to read John's suicide note. Ben did not know John had left one. He must admit he is curious as to what it says.

"Did the note help?" Ben asks Jack.

Jack folds up the note slowly – only a few lines, Ben cannot read it at this distance – then puts it back into the envelope. "No."

Ben frowns and rubs his thumb over the edge of 'Ulysses' in his hand. "It was his choice, Jack." Jack turns and looks at Ben. "No matter what that note said."

"But he might not have made that choice if…" Jack cuts himself off and shifts away again.

Ben watches him then turns back to his book. What choice might Ben have made instead in that room? What choice might he have made at the dock without Harold? What if…

Then he says, "There is no point in 'ifs,' Jack."

Harold walks down the pier, past the ticket stand, and toward the awning for the ferry; a sizeable queue of people wait to board. Harold looks down and checks his watch, it is 11:58. He wonders what Nathan has already told this reporter. What exactly is their plan? Do they tell the whole story? Try to explain the Machine? Do they make a case for the continuation of the Machine or just admit the truth?

Harold looks up at one of the NYPD city cameras on a pole. "If they decide to turn you off… then I'm sorry."

He turns away and walks determinedly toward the line of people, his eyes searching for Nathan among the crowd. They started this together, they should end it together.

Ben wakes from a slight doze at a bump in their smooth sailing. He blinks then sits up straight at attention. He looks out the window, dark now as they fly away from the day. It appears to be raining outside. Then another bump rocks the plane.

Ben turns to look at Jack across the aisle. Jack already stares back at him. Ben's face breaks into a smile.

"Harold!"

Harold turns and sees Nathan standing beyond the line of people on his own, clearly waiting for him. Harold smiles as Nathan grins back at him – Harold realizes for a moment that Nathan has not smiled so genuinely in months, maybe longer.

"I knew you would come, my friend!"

A white light starts to fill the plane. Ben leans his head back against the seat and smiles as the light grows and grows and swallows them up to send him home.

A flash of light explodes behind Nathan. Harold hears a distant noise like a boom and he feels himself fly back. 'No… not now…' In that one second he tries to keep his eyes on Nathan but the light behind Nathan blinds him. Then Harold does not feel himself hit the ground with a crack.