Sawyer watched Charlie nursing a cup of tea between his hands, blowing on it occasionally to try and get it to cool down. There were a few awkward looking bruises on his face, and the skin had been grazed off the palm of his hand. They'd come through to this tiny little bedroom about five minutes ago, with Charlie talking nervously even though the bruising over his jaw made him sound as if he had a mouth full of cotton wool. There was a light dusting of rain over his clothes, along with dashes of mud. Sawyer wondered if he ought to offer him a spare set to change into it. He decided that it would be pointless; the clothes would just swamp Charlie.

He seemed even smaller, sitting on the edge of the bed, all beaten up and shivering. He seemed tiny, but Sawyer could see the muscle lining his arms. He'd also seen exactly what Charlie had done to those things outside - 'Cleaners', was that what he'd called them? - and knew that the guy wasn't nearly as breakable as he seemed.

But he was doing a very good impression of being harmless right now, so Sawyer hadn't said anything. Yet. He'd let Charlie sit down on the bed and he'd stayed leaning against the doorframe, holding a cup of black coffee and drinking from it once in a while. His gaze kept dropping to the black stick that lay on the bed, next to Charlie.

Finally taking a sip from the tea, Charlie winced at the heat before he glanced up at Sawyer. His eyes seemed thoughtful, but he didn't say anything.

"Alright. Screw it. I'm done waiting," Sawyer said, impatience getting the best of him. Charlie's eyes locked with his, and there was strength there, a stubborn edge to rival his own. Sawyer didn't care. He wanted to know everything, now. "Tell me what's going on."

Charlie nodded, but he frowned. "I don't think I know how. And I have to leave soon anyway. Can I fix your rib?"

That wasn't any where near the answer that Sawyer had been looking for. "Can you fix my…. No. You can't. It's broken , 'cause of you." Sawyer could see the guilt that those words made flash over Charlie's face, but that didn't shut him up. Charlie ought to feel guilty for it (for the time being, Sawyer chose to ignore that Charlie had saved his life on two different occasions and definitely hadn't had anything to do with that rib). "So no. You can keep your 'disappearing stick' the hell away from me and just tell me what's going on."

Charlie looked down at his tea with an annoyed sigh. "You really don't remember?"

Sawyer didn't like that question. It implied that there was something to remember, and that he'd just forgotten it. He was usually pretty good at keeping track of stuff like that. So what did that mean? Who the hell was Charlie? Childhood friend, long lost brother, arch nemesis - there were a lot of options, alright? "Remember what?"

"Everything." Charlie shook his head and leaned back on the bed so that he was propped up by just his elbow. His spare hand ran through his hair and he seemed almost surprised by the action. He got over it quickly and started to tug at the strands of hair there. "I mean…. Christ. You're gonna think I'm mental."

"I already do."

"Fine. But when you don't believe me, I'm going to say I told you so."

"I can deal with that."

Charlie fell silent at first and laid back properly as he stared at the ceiling. Sawyer didn't move forwards to join him and just retained his position in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Did you ever go and see the Matrix?" Charlie asked curiously, without looking at him.

"Saw the first one. Didn't like it."

"Thought it was pretentious bullshit, right?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. That's what you said when me and you watched it, back in the real world," Charlie said with a broken smile on his face. Sawyer raised an eyebrow; he'd remember that . Nope, he'd gone to see that dumb film with his latest con -- he'd let her pick the film, thinking that she'd pick some light rom-com. Instead he'd ended up with action sequences and weird sunglasses.

A pause fell between them, thick and expanding. He had questions to fill it with but he held them back, for now. The connection between his mind and his mouth seemed to have worn away.

He had to quickly re-establish it when Charlie asked him a question; what year was it? That was easy enough to answer, but Charlie just nodded and frowned after he told him.

"Charlie," he snapped; the name was a disturbing mix of familiar and foreign on his tongue -- apple pie and chili peppers. "You'd better start explaining all of this soon, or I'm gonna double the number of bruises you're carrying around. Got it?"

The threat only made Charlie smile, which sort of made sense. Charlie could probably beat him up in seconds, despite the fact that you could probably fit him into a thimble if you really, really tried.

"Okay, here goes. If you start laughing, I'm gonna leave. No kidding," Charlie warned him; Sawyer grunted to show that he'd heard and agreed. "I'm not good at giving these 'Rabbit Hole' speeches, by the way. And we could do with a grander setting. A run-down motel with mould on the ceiling doesn't really have the right effect, does it?"

Sawyer growled Charlie's name to get him to hurry up.

"Okay, okay. Let's just start…. In the middle. Linear story-telling's out of fashion, isn't it? So. Middle. Um." Charlie fell silent and seemed at a loss. "Look, here's the thing: this isn't real. Any of it. This whole world you're living in? Big fake. Honest. Like… it's a computer game. Sort of?

"On the outside, the year's 2108 -- we've developed the tech for complicated AI, and for realistic Virtual Realities. About 50 years ago, I think, there was this huge break-out from one of the prisons. People went absolutely mental, with hundreds of these psychos running around at random. There were riots and stuff. And looting. My grandpa used to say that some guy bit his ear off during that, but I think it was actually the cat. Grandpa was in Manchester at the time, and the riots were in London, so…. Yeah."

He paused again, stopping for breath, then continued. "Anyway, that's not the point. Point is… something. Me and you. We were--" He stopped for a split second. "-- friends, I guess. Used to do everything together. Then - long story short, right? - we got mixed up with this group. They're called The Sleepers. Big political thing, very anti-government. 'cause right now the guys in charge are complete arseholes. Seriously. They go around pissing on anyone that doesn't earn more than £100,000 a year, and we're all bloody drowning in poverty while they're off smoking cigars and… I dunno. Eating cake. Whatever it is that rich people do. They treat the unemployed like their bitches. It's--

"I'm getting off topic again." He closed his eyes for a moment, while Sawyer sat there and wondered how anyone could talk that fast; it was easier to think about that than about the psychotic nonsense that was coming out of Charlie's mouth. "Anyway. We heard they were trying out this new way of controlling the prisoners, right? Post-breakout? They'd already tried out a bunch of stuff, and it hadn't worked, but then there were all these rumours. The usual stuff -torture, red-hot pokers, thumbscrews, that sorta stuff - that people were always coming out with, but there was this other stuff too. Like… just these whispers. About computers, VR, 'The Program', but nothing concrete.

"So, me and you, we crept into this old prison. You were bloody amazing, you know that? I mean… you could do stuff. Shoot and fight and make up plans. Anything." There was such warmth in his voice that Charlie sounded nostalgic; Sawyer knew he had the wrong person, if all of this turned out to be true. "When we were kids, you jumped right off this bridge into the river, no warning at all. I thought you were dead, but then you just popped up and started swimming and were fine. It was amazing."

Charlie sat up quickly, focused again, and the smile on his face faded. "But there we were, in that building and I distracted you. These guards just appeared out of nowhere, and they had i guns /i and… I got out. I thought you were right behind me but then you weren't and--" He cut himself off and shook his head. Sawyer didn't speak up, not yet. It was too weird for him to want to interrupt.

Charlie stood and looked both left and right. It seemed like he want to start pacing but just wasn't sure how to go about it. He ended up simply standing there uselessly, glued to the spot; an escapee without an escape route. "We've been looking for you ever since. There's just five of us in London now. Jin got married, moved back to Korea. Walt's in college. College. He's smart, y'know. Wants to be a lawyer. I think he's gonna end up being the next Prime Minister, actually. Not likely, though -- it's been thirty years since Britain's last election, so…. Yeah."

He let out a long, shaky breath, and seemed so relieved to have actually finished with the explanation. Sawyer was still left with more questions than answers, and time seemed to be slipping away from them.

"So who the hell are those guys that keep coming after me? You've explained just about everything else, from politics to the Matrix, but I'm only wanting to know about the part that affects me." Sawyer kept his voice as blunt as he could, even though Charlie looked like he was about to break apart and that made him want to take Charlie's hands in his and promise that everything was going to be okay. When had he developed a damn maternal instinct? It wasn't natural.

Charlie bounced lightly on his feet and took a deep breath as he tried to calm himself down. "They're Cleaners. Which basically means they're part of The Program. They're bots, designed to delete people like you. Which also means that someone in the Government's decided that they want you dead. I'd guess they've decided that about all the old prisoners. But it's fine; don't worry. Sayid's got a plan. We'll have you out of here in no time."

Sawyer's eyes widened. "You what? Out of here? No way." He wasn't even buying the story. He didn't believe any of that nonsense about computers and Cleaners and the future and bots and corrupt governments. All the same… the idea of leaving this world, even hypothetically, made his insides uneasy. "I like it here. It's got everything you need."

"What? Cheap beer and lousy cigarettes?"

"Among other things, yeah. I got all that here and I like it. I ain't planning on going anywhere else any time soon, so you can give up on your rescue attempt."

"If we don't do this, the Cleaners will track you down again, and they'll kill you." With that one word, 'Cleaners', even diluted with Charlie's accent, Sawyer's arms tightened just a fraction from where he had them crossed over his chest.

He'd rarely met anyone that he didn't think he'd win against in a bar fight. He'd never met a single soul that he wouldn't be able to outdraw in a shoot out. These 'Cleaners', though… they made him stop to reconsider the whole idea, and come up with a plan of his very own.

He shook his head, eventually. "Fine. You stay here, then. Act like my bodyguard."

Charlie laughed, a half-hiccupping sound, but quickly refused. "No. I'm needed on the outside, and I might get lost if I stay in here too long. Like, I might start losing my memory, just like you. Actually…" He looked up at the stained ceiling. "I should probably go. You keep safe, okay? Mike's keeping an eye on you through the code, but… just…" He didn't seem to know what advice to give, so eventually just shook his head and gave up. He stepped forwards to touch Sawyer's hand lightly, two fingers on the side of his palm.

Sawyer frowned, untrusting, because that was an oddly intimate gesture from someone that he wasn't currently conning. Charlie smiled. "See you soon, yeah?"

A brief flicker, then all that Sawyer's hand was holding was air.

Charlie ripped the visor off, then the dotted sensors on his head, then the gloves on his hands, before jumping out of the footholds. The movements were rough and jagged, bordering on violence. Michael looked up quickly, worried. There were dark circles under his eyes, as there always were ever since his son had left, but Charlie didn't pay any attention to them or even to the alarmed look on Michael's face.

He couldn't pay attention to anything right now, because this was all too much -- this life was getting to be too much. He fled from the Computer Room, a miniature tornado, slamming doors as he went. He crashed in the bedroom eventually, collapsing onto his mattress on the floor. There were four of them in there -- Rose's, Sayid's, Ana's and his. He used to share with Sawyer, once upon a time.

Now it was just him on this slim bed, just him and no one else. Sawyer didn't remember -- he didn't even want to remember. He wanted to stay in that machine, in a fake world with fake memories and a fake life. Fake, fake, fake. There was a part of Charlie that was tempted to just let him -- let the Cleaners catch up with him and do what they liked. Who cared, right? Sawyer would probably prefer that.

He wasn't aware that he was crying until Rose came in and sat a mug of hot chocolate on the ground next to him. Then she groaned and sat down on the mattress opposite his, her knees making a clicking sound as she went down. They couldn't afford the bed frames to lift the mattresses off of the floor.

"Honey, what happened?" she asked. Her worn hand reached out to him - a warm thumb traced the tear tracks down his cheek. Rose Nadler, den mother.

He sniffed and rolled over, to put his back to her, because he didn't want to speak, didn't want to tell. He'd hidden away his reaction to all of this when he was in front of Sawyer. He wanted to hide it now too.

Rose's hand withdrew. "Charlie, I'm only offering my sympathy this once. If you don't want it, then buck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Charlie turned his head to look at her. "I'm not--"

"Yes, you are. So pull yourself together, alright?"

Charlie nodded, without looking her in the eyes. She made it sound simple, but it wasn't. He needed time to do that, to get back to normal, but they didn't have it. Here, they never did. So much to do, so little time, right? Charlie took a breath. "How's Sayid's plan looking?" His voice was stuffed with his blocked nose and tears and a broken heart, but he was trying his best.

Rose 'mmm'ed an answer to herself, then took a drink from the cooling mug of hot chocolate that she'd brought through. "It's do-able, I think. But I'm not going to let you come along," she said it quickly, lightly, but she was trying to just skim past it without being noticed.

Not gonna happen.

"What?! Why not? Christ, Rose…" Charlie sat up sharply, staring at her with his blue eyes still wild and crazy from the tears. Her brown gaze calmly met his own -- they seemed to hold a warning not to argue. Charlie, obviously, ignored it. "This is Sawyer . You can't leave me out of this."

"I never planned on doing that, Charlie -- you'll be staying here with Michael. Someone has to take Sawyer out of The Program once we find his body. He knows you."

Even with that reasoning, Charlie felt like he was being benched. This was Sawyer, his old partner, that they were rescuing, and he was more or less being told to stay at home and knit while they did the hard work. It was bullshit.

He was ready to tell her as much when she thrust the mug into his hands and stood up, with a little effort. "I've made my decision on this, so don't argue, please. We've got a week while Sayid gets everything ready. Then we'll get you your Sawyer back. I promise."

She stood up and walked out before Charlie could start to hiss and spit at her in rage. He was left looking down at the mug in his hands, with his pulse racing uncomfortably.

His gaze was focused on the clock. Tick. Tock. Any time now. Come on. Any time now.

He'd been thinking that for the past two hours; ever since Sayid, Ana and Rose had left through the front door, dressed in all black. The seven days had passed achingly slowly, with the plan drilled and drilled and drilled into his head; diversions and gymnastics and a pinch of good luck, that was all they needed.

And a phone call. Two rings then hang up, and that would be Charlie's cue to--

"Charlie? Are you nearly ready?" Michael asked, his clear voice cutting right through Charlie's thoughts. His tired face looked a little more rested today -- last night, Charlie had chased him off to bed and had taken his station by the computer, watching the code flashing past. Binary. Stupid binary. That stuff was designed purely to give you a headache.

Charlie nodded to Michael's question. The visor and sensors were already on, with wires trailing down from him like blood-sucking worms, he'd been standing with his feet on the footrests for ages now and his palms were sweaty from the inside of the clammy gloves. Because of the visor, the entire room was coloured blue. Yeah, he was ready. "Definitely."

Michael smiled -- coloured blue like this, he looked like a bizarre form of alien. "I wish Walt was here. He'd have loved this. He nearly worshipped Sawyer, man, before…"

Charlie nodded, because he could remember just how annoying that had been. He and Sawyer had never been able to get a moment alone, with Walt following them around and trying to be so cool. Charlie had hated it at the time. Then Sawyer had been taken and Walt had gone to college and everything had just fallen apart.

"Yeah. Maybe he'll come and visit Sawyer, once we've got him back?" Maybe, but Walt hadn't been back since he'd first left for college.

Michael nodded vaguely, looking back to the binary numbers scrolling over the screen. The mournful expression that had taken over his face while talking about Walt snapped into an alarmed one. "Damn it, we've got Cleaners. They're in his building. Getting closer." He said, reading the binary numbers as easily as if they were English words. "Fuck, they're in his i room /i . You can't go in yet, Charlie. You wouldn't be able to hear--"

Ring. Charlie's hands formed fists inside their gloves. Ring. Come on, come on, come on. The phone went dead. He looked towards Michael and nodded. It was time.