XXIII: Sentimental Hygiene

Mo chara, nár lagaí Dia do lámh.

It is written upon the first page of the book, and Libby stares at it for a long moment, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into English words if only given half a chance. She doesn't know what the language is. It looks like nothing she's seen before. She turns the book over a few times and opens it up, flipping through a few pages. English words greet her, and she recognizes them with a rush of relief.

She glances towards the black man still hunched over the computer, holding onto the book. "You don't have to keep on taking shifts here, Michael. You know that, right? You can rest once in a while."

"I will. In a while." Michael doesn't look up from the computer.

Setting the book down, she walks over to him, studying him. He's too intent on the computer to realize she's moving his way until she gets close, but she doesn't think that it would be right to ask. "I know you're missing your son, but focusing on your work down here won't help as much as you think it will. You need to talk to people." She sends him a quirky grin, adding a bit pointedly, "People besides psychologists."

He looks up, startled, runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are wide, as if she's startled him despite her gradual approach. "What? Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. I'll be out of here soon, you know?" He glances back towards the screen for a moment, as if he can't bear to miss whatever it says. "Yeah," he repeats distractedly, his fingers twitching above the keys.

"You want to find him," she states, and he looks at her as if she'd have to be crazy to even pose the statement. It's supposed to go unsaid, apparently. She holds up a hand before he can tell her this, adding, "So go out there and find him. You can't be down here staring at a computer screen. You won't find him there."

"But I – "

She lifts a brow, looks at him askance.

" – I don't know where to start looking for him. And I'm not any good in the woods, you know?"

"So, find someone who is," she states simply, settling into the couch across from the computer. "They can't all have taken off with Sayid, could they?" She draws her legs up onto the sofa, relaxing. It feels good to relax, and she stares up at the ceiling. The presence of electricity is more than welcomed, and the harsh lighting feels comforting, strangely enough. "Find someone who is and go out and find Walt. The more you wait down here, the more panicked you'll get. We have to resolve our problems on our own."

She goes back to her book, and Michael back to whatever he is doing behind the computer monitor. She wonders at that, for she hears no clatter of keys, no sound that would signify that he is actually engaged in doing something useful over at the computer. Instead, he just sits there, still as stone, and she watches him out of the corner of her eye as she reads.

The clearing is where disposal is to occur. This is the furthest extent of the facilities, except for the hatches. On your travels from the clearing to the main buildings, whether you are driving or walking, please have your passes with you identifying you as a Hanso employee. If you do not have those passes, you will not be permitted entry to the main buildings.

She turns another page, and then a third:

If you are in an observation station, please stay there barring communication from Hanso or the Initiative. If you do decide to venture out, please time your ventures so that the stations are maintained, and please do not go anywhere that is not marked in this manual. Failure to abide by these rules will lead to your being discontinued from the project.

She turns back to stare at those foreign words, but they're too unintelligible. Somehow, she doesn't think 'do' means 'do,' from the strangeness of the other words around it. Whatever the case, she decides, she may as well keep the book. Perhaps she will show it to the others from the tail section when they get back from their little adventure. Maybe one of them can make sense of it. They have surprised her over the past month and a half, in ways that would make speaking a foreign language not much of a shock, indeed.

Michael remains there at the computer, staring at it. She feels sorry for him, but whatever can be done won't resolve things. He will still think about Walt unless he goes out and finds him. She pushes herself from the couch, sticking the book in her knapsack and telling him, "I'm going out. Are you going to be all right down here?" She doesn't receive much of an answer, but she wasn't expecting one.

Libby heads out the hatch door into the sunlight, and almost runs headlong into Jack. A surprised little noise issues from her, and she steps aside, exclaiming, "Jack! Michael's still in there," She points to the insides of the hatch. "I hope you're going to replace him."

Jack waits a moment before nodding. It's a strange pause, she notes, but she does not comment. "Yeah, I'm going to replace him. It's been a long while, hasn't it?"

"At least twelve hours. I don't think the poor guy has slept."

"Who was supposed to be with him?"

"Sayid, I think." When Jack nods in acknowledgment, she continues, "Well, he's not here to do it. But I think someone should be with Michael. I mean, he's not doing too well, and I can't say I blame him. Can you make sure someone's with him in future, just to watch him?"

"He won't like being spied on," Jack points out, "but fine. You're right. Will do." His eyes settle on her knapsack for a moment, and she wants to explain to him about the book, to see if he knows the language, but now doesn't seem the time. She already has him worried about Michael. She won't burden him further. "And you?" Jack continues suddenly, his voice breaking in on her thoughts. "How are you doing?"

She lets out a long, slow sigh. "I'm… I'm all right. Thanks. But I should let you get to work down there."

He doesn't answer, letting himself into the hatch, and she turns and starts for the beach. Now that she has had the opportunity to rest for once, in a reasonably comfortable pallet if not a real bed, walking distances seems a lot easier, and she makes it down to the beach in good time, knapsack swinging all the way.

In a way, she is not surprised when she sees the Reyes boy. The way things have gone, with the old couple together, it stands to reason that things would continue to be strange, and besides, she is too amused by the coincidence to be too shocked that he is here. He is helping Rose with the laundry, the two chatting amicably, and she hates to break it up, but she does. "Hey," she says simply, settling down near them, pushing Hurley's backpack a little out of the way to make room for herself. "Need help?"

As wide as Michael's eyes had looked before, Hurley's are even wider. He makes a surprised little noise, recognition on his face, but doesn't say anything about it. Rose's head is bent towards the laundry, and at the realization that he won't have to explain, Hurley looks relieved now. "If you want, yeah," the young man says. "There's a lot of laundry yet to be done. You guys wore those clothes every day, didn't you?" He lifts a shirt from the pile of dirty clothes, screwing up his face in disgust. "I mean, dude, it's pretty obvious." Despite his words, he studies her closely, as if she's a riddle he has to figure out.

She'll chat with him later about it. As it is, she puts a finger to her lips, nodding towards Rose. The older woman looks up as Libby drops the gesture, smiling towards her. "We'll get you some new clothes, though," she offers. "There's plenty. I hear there's a lot of laundry stuff down in the Hatch. I don't go down there, but maybe Hurley can get you some new clothes or something, couldn't you?"

Hurley shrugs. "Sure. Be glad to." He rises to his feet. "You want to come with me? I don't know what size you wear."

"If Rose is going to be all right with all this work," Libby cautions the young man, glancing towards the woman. She's waved on, though, Rose smiling up towards both of the, and so Libby rises to her feet, picking up the pair of jeans she'd been scrubbing at and hanging them on the line to dry. Hurley clambers to his feet, ready to follow after her, and reaches down to pick up his backpack and strap it on his back.

She had expected it wouldn't take him long to ask why she's here, and it certainly doesn't. Once he's out of earshot of Rose, he stabs a finger at her, telling her, "You – I remember you. You were with the shrinks. I don't remember. Were you one?"

"A 'shrink,' no. A clinical psychologist, yes." She smiles towards him. "It was just after I'd moved to California. I recognize you, too. But you seem," she pauses, hesitating, before deciding she may as well say it, "Better. Happier."

"Yeah, well." Hurley grimaces at something, but doesn't say what it is. Instead, he changes his mind, visibly saying something different from what he had intended at first. "I am better. The island sucks, but it's good for stuff like that, you know? You can't worry about a lot of things here, because there's so much to worry about that you'd never stop worrying. And you can't be sad and sit around hating yourself, because there's so much that needs doing."

Libby looks ahead where the Hatch is visible. Jack and Michael will be there, and she hopes Hurley and she won't disturb them. Jack doesn't strike her like a man who likes being startled, so hopefully their presence there won't affect things – and, even more hopefully, Jack ought to have sent Michael to get some sleep, and then to be out amongst people. If Michael is going to set out after Walt, and she has no illusions that he will, then he needs to be thinking with a clearer head. Hopefully Jack will provide that for him. "It sounds like you've found yourself here," she says distractedly to Hurley as she keeps moving.

He snorts at that. "Dude – I mean, Doctor – "

"Libby," she supplies with a grin.

"Libby," he takes her suggestion, "John Locke, he says exactly the same thing. He says he's found himself on the island. Man, if I'm like him, then I'm crazier than I was," he confides in her, his voice low.

Despite all her training, she can't resist grinning at that, shaking her head. "That's so wrong. You weren't crazy even then. Just depressed. You know that."

He pauses, turning to face her, stopping at the edge of the hatch. His voice sinks even quieter: "You didn't tell anyone, did you? I mean, about the mental institution? I mean, there are a few people who know, but I don't – I don't want it advertised." He looks uncomfortable, and gives her such a piteous look that she instantly feels sorry for him. "I mean, they're my friends, you know? And, man, I don't think they would be if, uh, if they knew."

"Not at all," she assures him. He remains unconvinced, and Libby realizes she'll have to extend some trust to him. She'll have to tell him something that will reassure him that she can keep confidences, or at least that they are more even on the score. She may as well approach him first about the issue. "I found a book down there. I think it might mean something. I'll let you read it, and then we can each have shared a secret with one another. Sound good?"

"Sounds awesome," Hurley replies readily. "Let's see."

She moves to extract the book from her knapsack. She gives him the book, and watches as he turns over the cover, studying it thoughtfully, his brows drawing together as if he's trying to make sense of it. He looks towards the Hatch door, where the I Ching symbol is displayed next to the 'Quarantine' warning, and then the book cover where it is shown in equal prominence. "If you can figure out the writing on the inside cover, tell me. I have no idea what it means," she admits. "And in any case, we're even, then. Now, about those extra clothes?"