Chapter 21

When Sayid returned to the hatch that evening, he found Ana-Lucia sitting on the same couch she had occupied earlier in the day, again holding the gun. The slide was locked back, and she was earnestly examining the barrel. Of course she must have done many other things during the day, but he could not help but envision her sitting there hour after hour, caressing and ministering to that gun, and suddenly a foreign, guttural sound escaped his lips.

"What?" she asked, looking up abruptly, her formerly methodical expression now dissolving fast into a defensive cast. "What are you laughing at?"

"Did I laugh?" he asked solemnly. "No, I do not think so."

"You laughed," she assured him, softening a little, the slight ghost of a smile beginning to form on her otherwise peeved face.

"How is our prisoner?"

"Still not eating," she answered. "Does he think he'll earn our sympathy?"

"Not ours," said Sayid.

Ana nodded. "He's been pitting Jack and Locke against one another. I'm going to talk to him again tomorrow."

Now Sayid was the one to nod. He noticed Ana had stopped examining the gun and had begun to examine him.

"You look awful," she said.

"I have been working at a difficult task without assistance. I came to take a shower."

When he was at last alone and free of his sweat-soaked clothes, Sayid opened only the hot water tap. He knew that, even so, the shower would still be lukewarm, but it was better than the cold spray of the caves or the salty, unclean feel of the ocean. As he entered and let the water wash over his hair and face, he leaned with one arm, wearily, against the shower's wall.

He thought about Eko's words, and he thought about how much easier it was to serve than to lead. He wondered who would join the battle if and when it came. The survivors had done nothing to recover Walt, and they had at first left Michael to wander the jungle alone. He himself had not thought of the childless father. He had been too consumed by his own loss.

If this people possessed any will to fight, it was not systematic, and it was born of a spattering of unreliable grudges. Could he form an army from such unstable building blocks? And if they won, and if they escaped the island, what then?

Sayid pushed the suds through his matted hair and, for the first time in what seemed like a long time, considered the possibility of life outside the island. What would he do? Where would he go? He had no family and no country to return to. He had sought one thing for seven years, and one thing alone.

Would he go on to Irvine, after all? Would he seek out Nadia? His first weeks on the island had been consumed by frenetic activity inspired by a burning desire to reach that one destination…yet he had let go of that hope, and he had anchored himself to another, fresher, more tangible love. But that purpose, too, now lay buried, and could he really reclaim an old inspiration, one that had been half fantasy to begin with?

Nadia might be married. Even if she was not, she might have forgotten him. And even if she hadn't, she might not be the idol he had once erected in his imagination. And if there was any of the old love slumbering somewhere in the recesses of his heart, he could not awake it now, nor did he wish to. No emotion seemed capable of piercing the numbness that had encased his soul, save the occasional flash of indignation, the insuppressible but quiet murmuring of grief, or the faint flicker of guilt.

There was no reason to stay on this island, and there was no reason to leave. There was nothing to press onward towards--except war and victory. And it was these last two subjects to which his mind now turned, with some relief, as he rinsed the soap from the rest of his body. War was coming--sooner or later, it was coming, and the strangeness of the present moment struck him suddenly. His enemy had built this shower and had sent the food that he would probably eat before he left the hatch.

Had the survivors been fools to take these things? Sayid had never wanted to open the hatch. He had felt then like the lone voice crying, "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts." Yet now here he stood, taking what small comfort he could from the stream that washed away the dirt and sweat.

But none of these things—not the hatch, not the shower, not the records, not the food—were the spoils of war. It was not as if he was enjoying the loot of his enemies. Yes, the survivors had broken into the hatch; they had, in a sense, captured it. But they had been expected. Dharma had put this here, all of it. And why? And what, if anything, would happen to them if they continued to use it?

Sayid jerked round the nob of the shower until the water ceased. Shivering, he stepped out and abruptly toweled off. Realizing he had forgotten to bring clean clothes, he tied the towel around his waist and walked past an indifferent Ana to the storage closet. There he pulled out a T-shirt and pants. They were white, sterile things, both bearing the Dharma logo. Not knowing quite why, he brought the shirt to his nose and sniffed. The dusty scent told him nothing, of course. He put back the shirt and pants and walked again past the couch. Ana wasn't toying with the gun anymore. She was reading some kind of car magazine. He didn't comment, and neither did she, but she glanced at him with curiosity.

When he reached the laundry room, he threw his dirty clothes into the washer. He added some detergent, mechanically turned the nob, and pressed the button. He leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at nothing as the hypnotic whirring of the machine commenced.