Another day, another crumby motel. This one had a water-stain in the corner of the ceiling, and some other stains on the mattress that Sawyer didn't yet have the courage to investigate. He would, eventually, when he got bored enough.
However, at the moment he was focused on his Stephen King novel. Pretending to be focused, in any case. He was crouched on the end of the bed, eyes skimming loosely over the words as he tried not to jump at shadows. He'd been skittish all week, ever since Charlie had disappeared from his room. Between the Cleaners that were apparently after him, and the loan-sharks who definitely were after him, he was a little bit stressed.
He was also off his game. This entire situation was messing him up -- it was making his head spin. He couldn't yet believe that this was a program, a prison for his mind -- how could the words he was reading be comprised of coding? It was all too intricate, too perfect. It couldn't be faked.
So how else did he explain it? Gravity-defying kung-fu and disappearing men; how did he explain that?
Quite simply: he didn't. He didn't even try to, didn't even think. There was no need to do so, there never have been. Thinking just messed with your head; it brought those niggling doubts into your mind.
'Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious level where savage things grow.'
He glanced up from the page as he heard a faint sound outside his door. Faint didn't even cover it; it was a whisper of sound, a beggar's breath on a winter morning. But it was enough.
Enough to make me paranoid, Sawyer thought when nothing followed the sound but silence. Probably just the natural sounds of the building. It was an old place -- it had the creaks and groans built into the walls. What he'd heard was nothing.
It had still made him jump, hadn't it? He tried to return his attention to the book.
'On the surface, all the girls in the shower room were shocked, thrilled, ashamed, or simply glad that the White--'
He snapped the book shut as he definitely heard a sound in the hallway that time. Louder, slightly bolder, it was the tap of a footstep outside. Flat shoe, probably, as a heel would have made more sound than that. Probably a trainer, maybe one of those canvas shoes that everyone seemed to be wearing these days.
Slowly, slowly, trying not to make a sound, he placed the book down on the bed. His hand then slipped to his back, under his shirt, to the gun tucked by his waistband. It wasn't registered under his real name -- by official documentation, this gun belonged to 'Jin Walt'. The names Charlie had mentioned had been stuck in his head, so he'd put them down while getting the weapon.
Now the gun was pulled and pointed at the door. Yep, he was paranoid. Too paranoid for his own good. His finger settled tight on the trigger and he breathed only through his nose. The room smelled faintly of wet dog.
There's no one there. No one. Just an empty corridor, you dick. So go and check. Open the door. It'll be empt.y Just put your gun away and read your dumb book. Stephen King. That's why you're jumpy. Mutant powers, murders… it's doing your head in.
There was no one there, right?
The door slammed open, right off its hinges. Two of those emotionless Cleaners stood there, black hair slicked back tightly. They filed in, with one on either side of the door. Against the metal of the gun he clung to, Sawyer's hands felt clammy.
He stood up, onto the bed, and took two long strides back to hit the wall as two more of those things entered. His mind was chanting at him - fuckfuckfuck - in a loop, never-ending.
Aiming at the closest one, he pulled the trigger. The banging sound hurt his ears but he ignored it, and switched to his aim to the next one. Shot again. Switch, shoot. Switch, shoot. Repeat as necessary.
Or, in Sawyer's case, repeat until you run out of bullets. Then he swore to himself because there was no blood, no pain, no reaction. They just stood there, crowded at one side of the room and watching him with blank eyes. Maybe Charlie was right; this was all just coding, just nothing, just a game: just, just, just. But it was still 'just' his life and he wasn't anywhere near ready to lose it yet.
Wasn't now the time where Charlie was supposed to swoop in and save him? Sawyer hated the idea that he needed to be saved, but it was a choice between getting rescued or dying painfully, he knew exactly which one he was going to pick.
But Charlie wasn't appearing. Charlie stayed gone and Sawyer was left to face this alone. "Damn it," he yelled, and chucked the metal gun at one of their faces.
It hit the forehead then bounced harmlessly onto the floor. All four of the Cleaners blinked, but that was all.
The two flanking the door marched forwards, up either side of the bed. Oh, hell no. Sawyer glared and kicked out the one on the left. She grabbed his leg and held it tightly under once arm. Once she had it, just held it, without doing anything.
As he yanked and yanked at his leg to try and get it free, the Cleaner on his right grabbed the other leg. They both pulled at once -- he plopped down arse-first onto the bed. A flare of pain shot up from the base of his spine, because these beds really weren't designed to be used as trampolines.
As he jerked around in pain, the two Cleaners adjusted their positions. One sat on his legs, holding him still, while the other mimicked the position, but with his arms.
He bucked and twisted and reared, thrashing around like a trapped insect. The two Cleaners held him like he wasn't moving at all.
The other two moved forwards; one on each side of the bed, again. One of them pulled up his shirt, exposing his stomach and the muscles he'd worked on. Frantic gaze thrashing around with his body, he paused, stunned, when he saw the flash of metal in the fourth Cleaner's hand. His vision clear -- it was a silver version to the black stick that Charlie used.
Charlie's stick made people disappear.
Sawyer didn't want to disappear.
He started struggling again with twice the strength and energy of before. He managed to dislodge the Cleaner on his arms, long enough to scratch uselessly at her face, but the victory only lasted a second before the Cleaner that had pulled up his shirt joined it; together, the two of them pinned his arms with ease.
He sucked in his stomach as the Cleaner brought the metal stick - USB stick, his mind noted calmly among the rest of his chaotic thoughts - lower and lower, until he could feel it on his stomach. It was positioned clinically, exactly the width of two fingers up from his belly button. A hand stretched the skin there so that it was completely flat, and all it would take would be one push, one tiny push, and it would break the skin, it would be shoved right down into him, through skin and muscle and everything else, then he was gone, he was dead, the Cleaners won, Charlie lost, he died.
"Hey!" Charlie's voice yelled, and Sawyer didn't think that he'd ever heard a sweeter sound. The Cleaner with that stick was pulled backwards, then pushed so that she stumbled towards the door. Then there were punches and kicks and who knew what else to the other three. They had to let go of him in order to fight Charlie off, so Sawyer quickly found himself in control of his limbs again. Thank fucking God.
He sat up, then got to his feet. Instantly, he tugged his shirt to make it stayed down. A glance up after that told him that the other side of the room was a whirlwind of violence.
Sawyer winced as Charlie was elbowed in the stomach, and knew that he ought to step in and intervene. But he seemed to be useless against these people -- and, to be honest, the sight of them made him want to crawl under that bed. Instead, he glanced at the window, and wondered if he would be able to safely climb out of it even though they were on the second floor.
He was interrupted when Charlie managed to pant out his name. "Sawyer-" Charlie was cut off by a punch to the stomach, but the sound of his voice rooted Sawyer to the spot.
Charlie recovered quickly -- back-hand to the Cleaner's face, kick to another one's stomach to drive them back, then levitating over the third's head to a different spot. "Here-" He chucked his stick at Sawyer. Sawyer caught it with one hand, then stared blankly at Charlie. "Your leg," Charlie explained, then broke off to turn and kick sideways at one of the Cleaners as they approached. She fell backwards, into another of them, and like dominoes they all fell down in a dangerous heap. Charlie turned back to him. "Your leg. You have to put it in your leg." Then he was lost in the mad violence again, being dragged down into the heap, and Sawyer was left with that stick and Charlie's bizarre words.
Your leg. You have to put it in your leg.
In? As in in? As in stab it in?
Oh, fuck. Charlie was serious. He had to be. Which meant…
Sawyer looked down at his leg, then moved over to sit on the side of the bed.
He could do this. He didn't have much choice. The grunts and groaned of pain that he could hear from his fight said that the fight was vicious, Charlie was out-numbered and those Cleaners were going to stop at nothing.
That left him with a nice choice: die, or stab yourself in the leg. It sounded like a cruel choice to have to make.
He glanced up - Charlie had his arms held back by two of them, being punched repeatedly by a third, while the fourth was slumped on the floor, dazed.
Four against one. As much as Sawyer hated to be the pessimist, the odds weren't in their favour.
Fuck this, then.
He placed the stick against the flesh of his thigh. Holding it there with one hand, lightly keeping it positioned, his other hand got ready to punch it straight into the flesh of his leg. On four?
One.
He could hear the slapping sounds of fist on flesh.
Two.
The crash of the plaster on the wall breaking.
Three.
The groan as his stomach threatened to make him throw up.
Four.
His own yell ringing in his ear. Pain. God, pain. He hadn't even registered that he'd pulled back his hand, that he'd slammed it against the stick, that he'd driven it straight through his jeans and his skin, into the muscle. It shouldn't have been that sharp; it was a USB stick, he'd used one before but it hadn't been-- fuck. It hadn't been like this.
Red blood was rushing past his hands, over his skin, and he'd thought Charlie, thought Charlie had -- Charlie had said this would help, would make it better, would save him - save them.
He was still yelling in pain, but he couldn't hear himself any more, he just heard his own panicked thoughts running around his head.
He got control again, gasping and desperate for breath, while he realised that he could hear Charlie's voice again. "… on the side. Sawyer? I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. There's a button, on the side. You've got to press it."
A button. Right. His fingers were slick with blood and he had to fight back his (oh god) panic in order to search for it -- but he found it, eventually, and pressed down.
Everything went mercifully black.
When the yelling stopped and Sawyer disappeared with a goodbye flicker, Charlie sighed with relief, despite the pain he was in. That was one half of his job done. Now he just needed to get away from those Cleaners.
That was, fortunately, easy enough to do while they were trying to comprehend Sawyer's sudden disappearance. Using their distraction to his advantage, Charlie jumped up - and quickly felt the cushioning effect of suspended gravity - and kicked both feet out into the stomach of the Cleaner in front of him. She fell backwards and slammed her head off of the end of the bedpost, before slumping uselessly to the floor.
Charlie flung himself backwards and thrust his left arm over him, to the right. The Cleaner that had been holding that arm back was tugged along for the ride - she knocked heads with the other woman and both of them stumbled clumsily to the side.
Knowing he only had a few seconds, Charlie dashed forwards and leapt over the unconscious body at the bed. He scooped up the black USB stick from the blood-stained sheets and clenched in tightly in his hand. He turned and ran, straight at the window. Without any other option, he took a leapt of faith and jumped right at it.
Smashing glass scratched at his arms, his face, his legs, everywhere, but half-way through the fall Michael suspended gravity, and he floated gently down to the ground.
He heard a snarl of anger upstairs as he feet landed softly on the concrete, and knew that he didn't have long to do this.
"Mike!" he yelled up at the sky, as he set off running down the motorway. It was dark, but he didn't know if that would help or not. Were the Cleaners affected by light and dark?
His feet pounded down the motorway anyway and this hurt. He'd only be able to keep it up for a few minutes, at most; he'd never been very good with pain. Sawyer used to accuse him of being a wuss, and Charlie couldn't exactly argue with that. He'd never find the strength to stab himself in the leg, regardless of how much it was needed.
Running, he had to wait a few moments, while Michael scanned the object in, before he felt a comforting weight in the pocket of his trousers. He slipped a hand into the pocket then tugged it out - a small hand-held computer. It was nothing fancy, especially by the standards of his own time, but it'd get the job done.
He slowed down when a burning stitch developed in his side, making it painful to even breath. Bugger. He slowed down to a walk then gave up on all movement and instead sat down on the speed-rail. It was uncomfortable and awkward, but it was better than moving with this stitch.
Wincing with each breath, he switched on the hand-held device. It seemed to take an age to load up, torturing him with a 'Loading -- Please Wait' sign. With faintly shaking hands, he slotted the stick into the USB port - it slid in with a satisfying click; that was just as well as he was sure he'd break down if it didn't work.
Rushing enough to get himself confused, he made the transfer - attach Sawyer's file to an email, send it to 'sjarrah4hotmail.verse', click send; it was simple. Crushingly, heartbreakingly simple and low tech - and watched it 'sending, sending, sending'.
Sent.
He glanced up the road, able to see the Cleaners rushing down towards him - they moved fast enough to blur. "Michael!" he yelled up at the sky.
Still clutching the computer with the USB attached, the dark road faded from around him, so that he was left staring at the Computer Room through the blue lenses of the visor. His hands were empty - computer and stick back in the scanner, where they'd always been.
"It worked, then?" Michael asked, a mixture of worried and excited. Charlie nodded; his half of the plan had worked. Now Sayid would get the email and download Sawyer's consciousness into his body. After that it got difficult again -- trying to creep out of a government facility with a man who might not remember any of his training.
But he would, surely. He would. Yet, even as Charlie grinned past the pain he was in even if the cuts were gone, he wasn't sure how this was going to work from now on.
He still acted confident and optimistic - he was Charlie bloody Pace. Optimism was expected from him. He was the 'baby' of the group, despite having been there the longest. Everyone seemed to want to take care of him and get rid of his grief. Maybe that attitude would stop once he had his Sawyer back.
He nodded and gave Michael a thumbs up before removing the visor. "Yeah, it worked."