XII: You're a Whole Different Person When You're Scared

Everybody at the Hardee's was from somewhere else, going to somewhere else. That was the thing about fast food restaurants that always bothered James. The food might be just as bad at the diner where he'd worked the past year or two, but at least there was a consistency to it. At least all the customers that came were people that he knew. That had been a change, and he'd liked it. He'd felt normal for at least a little while.

Getting busted had screwed that up, though. All because of a goddamn joint, his foster parents had decided that he would do better elsewhere – anywhere but in their house, apparently. He'd been there for four years, since twelve, but now it was back to Knoxville and group homes. Back to the city where nobody gave a damn about him, not even the social workers. Fantastic, he thought, as he leaned on the flimsy little barrier meant to keep people in line. The barrier irritated him, all of a sudden. He was the only one in the line. Why did he have to wait behind this little plastic-and-metal contraption? Didn't they think he could manage on his own? He shoved at it, not hard enough to make it fall, but hard enough so that the girl behind the cash register looked up at him, her practiced smile faltering. That pleased him.

At least there's one person here today that isn't going to act fake, he thought, and he smiled at her glare, appreciating it. He picked up his duffel bag, shouldering it so he could move a little faster, and studied the menu as she snapped her gum. It was early, and he didn't want lunch yet. "Frisco sandwich," he requested, thinking it was odd that here he was, in the Tennessee boonies, ordering a meal named for a West Coast city. "And a Coke." The Masons wouldn't have liked him getting a Coke this early in the morning, but they probably weren't his parents anymore.

The sourdough sandwich took too little time to prepare to make it any good, but he paid for it and took it anyway, and looked around the plasticene booths for a familiar face. He found it on a fortysomething black woman who waved him her way. He wanted to be anywhere but talking with her, but he didn't have any choice anymore. She was his legal guardian, as he was a ward of the state, and he would have left the state, but he had nowhere to run to. So he picked up his tray and walked over towards her, plunking it down on the booth.

"How'd your hearing go?" She started the conversation with business. He'd expected her to do that. She didn't give him any bull, and he liked that. She was all right. Some of her coworkers were awful, and he knew that not many kids he'd known had liked her, but he did. She was honest.

James shrugged carelessly. "Fine. It was OK. It wasn't like I was doin' anything real bad. It was just a joint."

"You were lucky to get away with just probation. You could have spent up to two years in jail." He could hear the lecture starting, and he dreaded it. She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite of it before speaking again. "That means that you're a ward of the state again, James. And you've almost aged out. You're almost done with your sophomore year of high school. I don't know if we'll find somewhere to put you for the next two years."

"Sounds like the Youth Cottages again, huh? All right." He tried to sound casual about it. He took a bite of his sandwich, and though these things usually tasted fantastic, the sourdough bread and egg and ham and Swiss didn't taste like anything but sand today. He chewed mechanically, watching her. "Fine with me, ma'am." He leaned back in the booth casually. If he dared, he might have even put his feet on the booth. He didn't dare. But he did give her a toothy grin instead. "We goin' back there today, then? I'll need to pack."

Something about his words, she didn't like. She ran a hand through her fastidiously styled Afro and just stared at him. For a moment, she thought she might yell. It was almost worse when she didn't do that.

––

Sawyer's exhausted this morning. He just wants to lie there in the tent. He'll deal with things later. He wants a smoke now, but he used up one too many on Charlie last night. He can't afford one right now, not if he has to ration them out. Charlie isn't getting another one, even if he does the work to order. Not even the computer being broken is worth him giving up any more of his smokes.

You told every girl that bitched at you about smoking that you'd quit one day, he tells himself, and laughs bitterly at that. He'd thought it had been a lie. He'd seen himself at fifty, hooked up to some bed somewhere with tubes running all into his lungs because they were pitch-black, but apparently he's going to be asked to give up smoking well before that anyway. Just a few cigarettes left, unless they get some sort of charity from the guys across the way. He's plenty damn sure he doesn't want that, too. So he's got to quit, and he's going to enjoy every last cigarette he's got left, not waste any more of them on some goddamn teen rocker who wouldn't know real music if it smacked him in the face.

He's desperate for a smoke, sort of, but he needs food more, and what he's got in the tent won't do any damn good. Some mixed crackers from one of the salvaged bins from the plane, Cheez-Its and pretzels and these weird little twig-like crackers that he never liked, but he's eaten plenty of them since they crash-landed on the island. He wants to save those crackers, though, because they'll keep for a while, and God only knows when they'll get rescued.

Rescued, he thinks. You still think that way, when you know better. They won't be rescued. They'll be released, when the Others are good and ready to release them, when they're "better." For now, he guesses, they're content just to wait and see what happens. There should be some sort of a strike force. They should head on back through the jungle, now that they know the way and they've got the truck to go over there, and go at the place with a bunch of guns, Charles Bronson-style. He'd never convince anyone else of that except Rambina, though, and he doesn't really like the odds where she's concerned. Friendly fire, only not real friendly.

All he has to do is wait it out, though. Nothing will happen to him, though. Not yet. He's got luck on his side; he must have. Lucky not to have gotten killed about five times over already. Lucky not to be still in the warehouse of doom. Lucky to be back here. Lucky to be left alone, rather than someone asking questions already.

He's surprised nobody's come to find out what he knows yet, but that's not his problem. He's fine with being left alone, but Christ, he's hungry. He ducks out of the tent, looks around for people, and is relieved to see that nobody's up this early. It's better that way. He won't feel like he's taking food from a bunch of people that deserve it more, if he doesn't have to see them.

They won't have food forever, though. They'll run out sometime, and that possibility scares them. The guys over in the cement city won't let them starve, but he's sure they'll ask a hell of a price for giving them food, and he doesn't want to have to bargain with them. What is there to bargain? A hatch. A lava-lamp. Some books that look like they belong in a dollar store. Themselves.

None of the above are of any value except the last, and losing the last would cost them way too much. They've been conned. They haven't got a single goddamn ace on their side. He can't tell anyone that, though. Half of these morons would give themselves up, and the other half would go out and fight, and either option would be pointless. He'll keep it to himself for as long as he has to. He sucks at keeping secrets unless it really counts, but this one, he's confident he can keep, because it scares the hell out of him. He wouldn't trust anyone else with the realization, anyway.

Sawyer wanders towards the canvas bags someone's set up that house a collection of mangoes. Everything that everyone's got has been put in there, at least one smart thing they've done, and he reaches in, takes out a piece of fruit, inspects it. He's not too sure how mangoes are supposed to feel – softer, harder? He never bought them in grocery stores – but this one feels all right and looks all right. He flips out a pocketknife, starting to peel it carefully, watches the peels drop to the sand, red to green to yellow, and then takes a bite of the fruit. Starving. Can't even taste it. He chews mechanically and then swallows it down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Napkins are in short supply; that's for damn sure.

There's not a damn thing to be done about their situation, he realizes. Nothing to do but to hang out there, hope they're beneath the radar once they've destroyed all the surveillance equipment, not hassle the locals anymore. He stows his knife away and takes a few more bites, then almost chokes as he's finishing the last of the fruit off. A small figure, striding towards him like a midget gunfighter. Rambina has apparently decided it's time for breakfast as well.

"Mornin'. We ain't got any Grand Slam breakfasts here," he calls out to her sunnily. "It's mangoes or coconuts, and the coconuts are a pain in the ass to crack. You got to hike over to the stake. I bet you could just smash one against your head, though. Wouldn't harm nothin' worth saving."

Ana smirks at him, unappreciative. "Funny." She picks a mango, motions towards him. He stares for a moment, feeling stupid, before she elaborates in a punchy fashion, "Gimme the knife." He can feel his eyes widen, and she explains like she's talking to a slow kid. He's heard that tone from her before. "You didn't peel yours open with your fingers, did you?"

He rolls his eyes, draws out the knife, tosses it to her. Maybe he should open it so she'll cut herself, but he doesn't think of that in time. She catches it and starts peeling as well, and thank God, because at least she's quiet for a few moments.

That sort of blessing can't last forever, though, and as soon as she's started to chow down on the impromptu breakfast, she starts yapping away. "So what happened at the Hatch when we got back?" He tries to play dumb. She doesn't buy it. That grade-school teacher tone again. "When Locke threw that knife. You were going to break that computer down there. Why is there a computer down there? Why'd you want it broken?"

Sawyer shrugs. "That ain't none of your business, is it now? You ain't a cop anymore, Carmen Sandiego."

The smirk grows, but there's a crucial difference: "She was a crook, not a cop."

"Same difference." He knows that will burn her up, and it does. She glares at him for a long moment, but doesn't say anything about it. He finishes off the last of his mango, motioning for his knife back. "To answer your question – I'll be straight with you; don't worry," he adds, to head that off at the pass; " – I wanted to smash the computer because it isn't any good. Nothin' in that place is. It's all connected with the command center back there, where you guys found me. And I was thinkin' if we broke it, that'd at least screw them up some."

Ana-Lucia snorts, an exasperated sound. "So we break it, they get pissed off, and then they come here and kill us. Hell of a plan you've got there, Jim Jones." He flinches at 'Jim' before realizing she doesn't know. She was just name-calling. "No, that wasn't all of it." She adopts a sturdy stance, and he realizes that he's not going to get off quite as easily as he'd hoped. "So what's the rest?"

––

The social worker droned on about how, if they could find him a family, they would, but he had better not get his hopes up, given that he was older, and now he had a record as well, and nobody liked to adopt problem cases. He'd always been a problem case. He just had proof of it now, proof that he was every bit as bad as he knew that he was. That felt OK. He had expected it to feel terrible, but the revelation relieved him slightly. Thinking he might have had some worth, that he had blown it, would have been a lot worse, and he almost grinned as he listened to her talk, but knew he'd have to share what had made him grin, and so forced the smile off before it hit.

James stared at the couples that came in, ate, got up, left. White, black, Hispanic – they all looked the same to him. They all wore the same clothes and ate the same way, ordered the same thing, said the same useless crap to each other. Maybe they were the same people, over and over, just in different clothes. They all camouflaged themselves into the restaurant, looked like every other customer just like every other Hardee's looked like every other Hardee's.

Nobody looked at him. Nobody cared. He could have just gotten away with serial killing, not pot possession, and there could be a wanted poster with his name on every table and every stretch of blank wall, and he still wouldn't have been found out. Nobody would have noticed. He lived on the edge of everyone's consciousness, and, he realized as he looked at the social worker, it was better that way. That was better than someone like this woman taking a personal interest in him, looking disappointed like she had when he had been fresh to her about heading back to the Youth Cottages.

"You'll be able to keep your car, at least," she said, and he jerked himself back to reality, taking a quick sip of the soda. "The Masons said it was OK if you kept the car. They'll keep on making payments if you need. You'll be able to keep it, and the good news is, you'll start a new school year there, so you won't have to get caught up in classes. You'll have passed tenth grade, anyway." She paused, as if wanting to hold back the words, but they came out anyway. "Barely. Why you hold yourself back like that, I don't know, James. You're a smart kid. You could get straight As if you wanted, and not with a lot of work, too."

He chuckled. He didn't feel happy, though. "If I applied myself, right? Hell with that." He leaned in close towards her. "Tell the Masons thanks for the car, but I'll make payments from here on out. It's my car now, and I ain't gonna have them treatin' me like a damn charity case."

"Why? You'll have to work a lot to pay for that car. And with your school records…" She trailed off, shaking her head. She didn't like his decision. "That's not too bright of you, James. You know that. We both know that."

He couldn't explain it to her, really, but something in the idea of them continuing to pay for the car stung him. They cared just enough about him that they didn't want to completely screw him over, but not enough to want to keep a kid who wasn't even a pothead – it had only been one joint, not even anything big, and he hadn't been speeding; it was a busted tail-light on the car that they suddenly wanted to buy for him.

"Yeah, well, if I was bright, I wouldn't be a C student, would I? Maybe I ain't half as smart as you think." He grinned, satisfied, liked the way that her face shifted to doubt, realization, and then tight-jawed anger. That made him happier than the charity he didn't deserve. He felt his grin grow broad and took a sip of his soda, rattling the ice just to annoy her. He felt cocky again. He didn't feel scared anymore. He was only scared when people gave a damn, and he hoped that she didn't anymore.

––

He hedges the Latina off with a few half-explanations, a few curses, but she's not buying it. From the way she stares at him, he can't help but think she knows more than she's letting on. They all do. All of them know what's going on but him, probably. That'd be a hell of a thing. All of them in on the joke, and him left out of it, some elaborate scam made to make him look like some damn fool. He wishes that were the case. It would be a hell of a lot easier that way. He would be able to deal with it better, and it wouldn't be quite so frightening to consider. He could function if he knew he was the punch-line to some elaborate joke. He could deal with that. The way things have gone, though, he feels weird, like his insides have been hollowed out and replaced with something liquid and soft.

"Give me one good reason why I should tell you the rest of it," he says, and he eyes the pocketknife she's still got, thinking, There's one good reason that I hope doesn't come to pass.

"I've got a pretty good one," she replies, confident. That damn smirk still on her face. "You need to tell someone, and," she continues, the smirk widening, "you know that I won't give you some sort of phony line about anything."

He can feel the shock that he's sure shows on his face, the dazed loss of control that means that anything he says has to be the truth for at least a few seconds, until his muscles relax, his face settles, and his brains come back. He half-grins, letting his face slide into a neutral expression. "Either I tell you or you punch me, right? Ain't no way you're winnin' friends with that attitude."

She looks pissed again. He feels better about that. "I didn't say that. All I said is that, I know that there's more to how you freaked out than just, you don't like the computer and you think that they're screwing with us. We all know that." Her eyes narrow, and she takes a step forward. Her hand goes for her side, as if reaching for a gun. She hasn't got one. Realizing that, she thrusts out the pocketknife towards him, blade-first.

He takes it carefully, avoiding the blade, snaps it closed. "So why're you askin' me, if you know everything?"

Ana-Lucia's words are careful. To him, they sound practiced. He wonders if she's rehearsed the phrase, because it comes out way too neatly: "I'm asking you, because I know there's more to the story. You kill 'em?"

The question is so casually posed that it catches him by surprise, and Sawyer jerks his head down in a nod before he can catch himself. He can't let on that he was caught by surprise, though, so he mumbles, "Yeah. Two of them. For all the trouble you guys had with them…" I thought they'd have killed me far more quickly, instead of me getting the drop on them, he thinks, but he can't say that. Instead, he just shrugs at that, trailing off. "Well. That's not important."

The smirk is gone now, a stiff expression replacing it. "It is important. It means that, if we try, we can get them. We ran into one, too," she explains suddenly, as if trading his truth-telling for a bit of her own, "or something. It wasn't like those guys back at the, uh, warehouse." He thinks it's funny that she uses the same term for the place as he does. They both avoid worse words for it, because that would mean they'd have to acknowledge it for what it is. "I don't think he understood us. We just let him go, because Sayid said that it wouldn't be any good to keep him, because he – the guy we caught – would never understand what we were saying enough to be of any use."

"Probably," he begins, but he can't put it into words. Not in a way that she would understand. He knows what it was, though, what they ran into. It must have been something that they let loose, something imperfect, something that they'd sent through their machines that they couldn't quite advance, and had tossed out, eternally fucked up, to live out the rest of its days in the wilderness, like some sort of lab rat or guinea pig tossed into the trash. It could have been him, he realizes, and the shock of that nearly makes him reel. He digs his booted feet into the sand, places a hand onto the canvas that holds the food.

She might be sympathetic. He doesn't know. He can't look at her. He can't look at anyone. His face feels tight, and he thinks he might be sick to his stomach. Damn island food and then the beer. That'll do anyone's stomach. That's what it is. It isn't what he just realized, what he almost became, what they kept him from becoming, because that would be stupid, and he isn't that stupid.

"Probably what?" she asks. Her voice is urgent, and she moves until she's in his field of view. Whatever concern she might have exhibited for at least a split second has been replaced by a demanding curiosity. "Probably what, Sawyer? What was that?"

Sawyer doesn't want to tell her. He doesn't want to tell anyone. He doesn't want them to know, especially not her, because she's liable to go take a rifle and go stalking back to the place to go all Patty Hearst on them. He can see it now, and he wants to avoid it, for their own safety if not hers, because whatever she'd do would bring down hell on the camp.

Not just that, too. He wants to keep them all from knowing until he wants them to know, until he can use it for some leverage, until there's a purpose to telling them beyond just telling them. He lets out a shaky breath, though, and he begins to explain to her, because, like she said, she won't tell. Ana-Lucia's got a big mouth, but she's not a gossip. Not about things like this. He knows women enough to know that, and as much of a hardass as she is, he's still got her pegged anyway. It's not that bad of a risk, compared to some people he could name.

So he tells her everything that he knows, from when he left the hatch to when they ran into him, and some stuff they don't even know about that. He gives her as many details as he can, hoping they'll be of some use in the long run, now that there's a second person who knows them besides himself. He talks for a good half-hour, and he's shocked that nobody else comes upon them, but that's OK, because that means that he doesn't have to have even more people aware of what's going on. And it surprises him, but telling someone doesn't feel as bad as he'd hoped.