"She said I don't know if I've ever been good enough,
I'm a little bit rusty, and I think my head is caving in.
And I don't know if I've ever been really loved,
By a hand that's touched me."
Matchbox Twenty

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Stop talking," Ana snaps at Sawyer, who had started a small conversation with the stringy blonde woman named Libby.

"Make me, cupcake-"

"Stop talking." Heather's tone is less biting, but somehow more of a command. Sawyer looks surprised at this, as does Michael—Libby simply maintains that same jittery nervousness that has characterized all her movements. Heather sees Ana Lucia give her a side-ways glance, also perhaps wondering why the woman would stick up for her. "They know the land better than we do. If she says we're not talking, then we aren't."

The rest of walk, which does not carry on much further, is in absolute silence—though Heather knows well enough that this is partially because Sawyer is not only exhausted, but sulking. One or the other might not have stopped his little quips, but both together seemed to shut him up.

They come upon a door that when opened from the inside, leads down a tunnel. For a moment, Heather feels a dull fear upon seeing it, which quickly rises to a scream of terror inside her mind. Something about it makes her feel absolutely sick, and she sees that this doesn't escape Ana, who quietly records the fact without saying anything. Heather has the feeling that if people are born with special 'immune systems' to fight off all this psychic-emotional crap, than hers is being chipped away. And the last time it crashed…

…well, she had woken up to the sensation of pieces of her soul being sucked out, her darker memories playing over and over because some kind of leech demon had crawled inside of her.

Regardless, she followed Ana, with only the slightest hesitation. She forced her legs forward, and tried to clear her mind, to shake off the heavy, disgusting feeling that settled down over her body. Once in the main room, Heather felt the oddest, most obscure sense of (not quite déjà vu) but such familiarity. Then her eyes adjusted enough to the low lights that she could clearly see a symbol on the back wall—in fact, it was on a lot of places, now that she could see.

A low, hissing gasp sounded through her lips and locked teeth, and she immediately, involuntarily, turned around and squeezed her eyes shut hard.

Locke!Kate!JACK! Walt says NO! Then: 4-8-15-16-23-42-108!

Over and over the numbers came, with the feeling like everything was turned upside down, and every more disturbingly—inside out.

"Heather," Sawyer said, his voice dry and low—he tries to get to his feet from the sitting position he's in, but Michael bounds up and gets to her first.

"It was about Walt, wasn't it? What are they doing to him!" He takes her shoulders, doesn't hurt her, but his grip is firm.

"We have to get back. Soon." Heather's face is unbelievably pale, even in the torchlight.

"Get her out of here! Can't you see that's what's doing it!" Sawyer shouts, tottering towards them. "Get her out of here!"

Heather feels herself being lifted by strong arms, and is carried out into the dying sunlight. "Hey!" She hears Ana call from behind, but the force moving her didn't stop. "Hey, stop! What's going on?"

When Heather comes too, water has been splashed into her face, and she sees that she had been carried out by Mr. Eko, who was dampening a cloth and holding it to her skin. Why does that name seem so familiar? Maybe if her brain wasn't as scrambled as it was, she would have been able to put her finger on it. Something from before… before the island (and while thinking this, a nasty, tiny little part of her just laughs—there was no before the island, didn't she know that by now?) She can feel how feverish she is, and her eyes feel swollen, her tongue thick. She tries to sit up too quickly, and immediately regrets it as bright violently purple splotches dot her vision.

"Not so quick," Eko advises her in his strange dark accent—one that she recognizes as Nigerian, from her previous life, which tickles at that memory that suggests that she's met him before, but isn't enough to dislodge it—his hand lowering her back down. She sees Sawyer limp out of the camp, and understands that it hasn't been so long since she went under. He is supported mostly by Jin, and the concern on both of their faces makes her feel sick to her stomach.

"There's something you're not telling us about your little friend here," Ana's voice rises, echoing out of the bunker serving as their camp. Heather hears Michael answer something sharp, but his voice is lost under hers.

"What happened?" An older man asks, whom she assumes is Bernard, peering down at her—but before she can attempt to respond, Sawyer shoves him over in a lopsided way, drops hastily to his knees. He lets out a small hiss of pain as he pulled her to him with his good arm (something that Eko objects to, but doesn't move to stop). The world spins again, but the closeness of him helps settle her.

"Are you okay?" He's close enough for her to hear the pain in his voice, and she can feel his bullet wound as if it were her own. His hair is plastered to his face with sweat, and his cheeks are gaunt and pale. You're sweet, but you'll leave. You'll leave. It's a chilling thought, and she isn't really sure where it comes from, but it upsets her more than the previous vision.

"Don't worry about me," she grumbles into him, and she can feel him react to it. He's afraid he's been doing too much worrying about himself. "You keep up, and I'll do my part." Her cheek rested against his for a second, both of them with skin so hot it was nearly burning up. "You aren't getting rid of me anytime soon, cowboy."

"How sweet." Ana drawled, tone vicious. "Now you want to tell us what the fuck that was?"

"Leave her alone-" Michael starts, but stops as he sees Heather rising to her feet, stabilizing herself. Eko offers a large hand, but lets it lower when Sawyer appears ready to bite it off of his arm.

"I needed some air."

"Bullshit."

"Get your people together. We're not waiting much longer."

"I'm no going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on!" Heather sighs.

"I'm exhausted. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I have panic attacks and haven't had any medication for about a week now after it ran out." All these lies are going to crash down around my ears sooner or later, she thinks and her only consolation is that it may be later rather than sooner. As long as I get Sawyer back in time. Sawyer gives her a desperate look, as if he's seeing something new and dangerous, something he's afraid might infect him all over again. Was that what Heather was? A cure for the ailing, but a poison to the healing? Not a comforting thought.

"You satisfied now, chica?" Sawyer takes Heather's nickname and uses it himself, covers her story, and she only hopes Michael will catch on.

"I don't buy it," Ana says, but there is doubt in her voice. Because she doesn't know what the hell to think of me at all. "Why would they put a woman on a raft in the middle of the ocean if she has panic attacks?"

"Because it would be worse to keep her back at camp waiting for him." Michael chimes in, and Sawyer drops his head a bit—the action adds impossible validity to the stoy, because the guilt is all too real.

"Sweet," Ana repeats, but the sarcasm shows that she's willing to accept it for the time being. Then she shifts her weight, and her tone changes: "So when are we getting out?"

"Thought you weren't interested," Heather responds, recomposing herself. Of course she might as well be poking a hornet's nest with a short stick, but part of her just wants to get a dig into Ana Lucia. Dharma, she thinks. That's what it said inside that symbol. But what did 'Dharma' mean? Looked like some kind of company logo.

"I never said that."

"We need to rest. We'll go when the sun comes back up. Shouldn't be too long now." Ana Lucia judges this, and then nods. It will give her time to think, get her things and her people together. They walk back into the bunker, and this time Heather knows what to expect, but it feels like there are whispers all around her, coming from the walls, but she does her best to ignore them—hadn't some of the survivors back at the camp said that they heard the same thing while in the woods?

However, she manages to keep the panicky feeling in her gut under some kind of control, as long as she doesn't look at the symbol.