X: Networking
Mornings on the island are warm enough to feel like those of an Iraqi summer. Every time he awakens, Sayid expects the shamal winds to whip across their settlements, burning the ground beneath and making anyone bunking outside wake up with a mouthful of dust. However, he spits out no dust. Instead, he wakes on the beach in decidedly better conditions, which never fails to startle him. What's more: He awakes after dawn and, although he hadn't planned on offering prayers and indeed hasn't done it since they arrived on the island, he feels a twinge of regret for missing the opportunity, at the very least.
The fire has gone out overnight, and there appears to be no one around. The new people must have taken off for parts unknown. He doesn't blame them. If he were forced to befriend people he hardly knew, he supposes, he might be a bit wary of chatting with them. Then again, less than two months ago, he hardly knew the people he currently considers his friends.
He yawns and stretches, allowing himself the luxury of lying there for a few moments while his senses return. Above him, the clouds drift about, wandering in different directions. Cumuli, he thinks, with no strati blanketing them. That means rain is unlikely. The clouds are so different here. Over Iraq, what few clouds show are much higher and thinner, the dryness of the land beyond the alluvial plains befitting the lack of moisture above. For all the rain here, he thinks, doing his best to remember the single meteorology course that he took, the clouds should be different. They should be heavier and grayer, and there should be more wind. There hasn't been yet. He can feel his face contort into a confused look, but the sky offers no reaction to his confusion.
Eventually, he'll have to get up. He wants nothing more than to lie there and soak in the sunlight, to be alone and unmoving, a bulwark against any activity in the area, but he has to make himself useful sooner rather than later. He rolls over onto his side and pushes himself up, and as he does he feels something fall from his neck.
The chain that had held the dog-tags is broken, and lies in the sand like the smallest of snakes, or perhaps a ribbon. Sayid lifts it up, eyes scanning over it to its end, and nothing is dangling, chiming, at the bottom. The tags have been taken. He hadn't felt it. He must have been more tired than he thought, to have fallen asleep so heavily. A simple conversation with Sawyer can exhaust anyone, after all. Maybe that was it.
He tucks the chain in his pocket, shaking his head. Whoever wanted it must have wanted it for a reason, and if they want it, they can have it. He thought it was interesting, and worth studying, but if someone's more invested in the opportunity, he won't begrudge them it.
He climbs to his feet, studying the rest of the beach. Nobody's come down here yet, and from how low the sun is on the horizon, he suspects most of them are still sleeping. The tide has come in and washed away whatever footprints were below them on the beach. He'd give anything for a tidal atlas to figure out where they are.
Someone should know about that sort of thing, though. He considers for only a moment before hitting on the most likely source: Jin. The Korean can fish, and extremely well. He must know something about the way the tides move on this island. If that was coupled with his own scientific capabilities, Sayid realizes, they could figure out where they are. Thank God he came back safe.
He starts to stride towards the beach camp when he sees a lanky figure moving towards him. "Sayid!" A voice hails him, and he looks up, raises a hand in greeting, then moves it to shade his eyes from the sparkling dawn sunlight. The figure materializes: Close-cropped hair, tall, moving with a natural intensity. It's easy to recognize Jack. "Sayid, we have a problem." That's not just intensity in Jack's voice. It's anger, threaded with some sort of faint concern.
"How can I help, Jack?" He feels so solicitous around the doctor, but what else is he supposed to say? He studies the tense walk, the way the brows are drawn together in anger. He's clearly had a wonderful start to his day, Sayid thinks, but has the presence of mind to avoid informing Jack of the obvious dry observation.
"Sawyer's gone. Sun stepped out of the hatch for a few minutes – I still don't know why, but I'll bet he put her up to it; mark my words – and when she got back, the door to the hatch was open, and he had disappeared. She said the ground was trampled like there had been a fight of some sort. In any case, he's gone." Jack doesn't sound too disappointed at that. Sayid can understand why.
Nonetheless, does the disappearance have anything to do with the fact that the dog-tags had been taken? Sayid sees no reason to bring this up to Jack. He does, however, prepare to play the role of a vizier again, pausing and running his words through his head once before he speaks. "Is anyone else missing, or simply Sawyer?"
Jack stares, and then shakes his head slowly, a quizzical expression hanging on his face. "No one, as far as I know. Why?"
Sayid explains as diplomatically as he can do: "If anyone else is missing, then we know someone took Sawyer. If nobody else is missing, he either went off on his own or was taken. Given his condition, it's doubtful he went off on his own. So if we could do a head-count, that would be useful," he advises Jack, trying his best not to sound too much in charge. There's no need to stir things up.
Jack realizes the logic of this, and that's a relief. "All right," the taller man declares, sounding like he has come to an important decision. "I'll do the head-count."
That suits Sayid fine. He wouldn't want the task of waking people out of their night's reverie just to make sure they're there. "Thank you," he tells Jack plainly and then hangs a sharp left away from the man, digging his hands into his pockets and starting to walk. "And I will investigate the hatch," he tosses over his shoulder without looking back.
A few moments later, he finds himself at the hatch. There looks to have been a bit of a commotion. True to Sun's words via Jack, the grass is trampled and torn up, and the hatch door lies ajar, the stairs leading from it to the depths beyond. At least there's no blood, and he takes that as a positive sign.
He turns his attention to the door, then, pulling it further open to study it. 'QUARANTINE,' it reads on the inside, but he concentrates on something stranger. There's no handle on the inside, so no way to get out. The door must have been opened for Sun and Sawyer – and if Sun is safe, then taking Sawyer was planned, and the takers had lain in wait. But by whom was this planned and executed? And why?
He backs off, shaking his head slowly, letting the door shut. Not much to see here. Whatever happened, it was done cleanly, and he's not going to figure out anything further than that, not in these conditions. There's nothing on the ground, from what he can tell, but he may as well take a second glance down at the ground to make sure of that. The dawn light makes everything shiny, but as he gives the place a second once-over, he spots something on the ground: A little bit of metal, glinting in the breaking light. He leans down to pick it up, and turns it over in his hand, studying it. It's one of the dog-tags, and he recognizes the numbers: They're the ones entered into the hatch computer.
Whoever has the rest must have grabbed Sawyer. He should have suspected something was wrong with those tags. He should have known. He slides the trinket into his pants pocket and starts to back away. The hatch can't be left unattended, though. He's surprised that they've left it alone for so long, and swings the door open again to go down to the computer again. Perhaps there's a further clue contained upon the computer.
Hello, is written on the screen.
He instantly is suspicious. Someone is waiting on the other end of that line, and he won't play into their hands. Writing back would be a bad thing. That would let the strangers gain control of the conversation. Though every fiber of him wants to write back, he has too much self-restraint to do so. So he sits and waits, expecting something else, feeling like he knows human nature well enough to be certain it will come.
He's right. It only takes a few moments before there is a query, a longer one this time. Even though the words are written in Roman characters, he recognizes them instantly, and nearly jumps out of the chair at the sight: Al salaam a'alaykum.