4.

Diamonds Aren't Actually Forever – Nikki & Paolo Zombie Season – Devilish Deals With Your Constant Host, Benjamin Linus – Ex-LAX – A Ladylike Act of Arson

The Los Angeles County jail lived up to the standards of jails everywhere. Benjamin Linus followed his lawyer down narrow corridors of bland tan and off-white, with the occasional plaster crack to liven up the scenery. It was not meant to look like a place one jumped at the chance to visit, and it took the role very seriously. It was designed to feel oppressive, to ensure an inmate's psychological pressure was constant, to cause fright and docility. It bounced off Ben, fully aware of the use of such places, and he glanced blandly into the occasional reinforced office window. Dan Norton's voice droned into his ear, businesslike.

"They picked him up at a pawn in West Hollywood, trying to sell off just a couple of them. The broker didn't like how he reacted. Yelled something about how he had eight million dollars worth of goods to move, not a bright thing to say. The broker called it in. Police grabbed him up, found the bag, and found it matched a theft report."

Ben made a soft, amused sound. Norton looked back at him, eyebrow raised. "What was he offered?"

"Couple hundred or something. Straume didn't take it well." Norton looked away as Ben gave a short laugh. They caught up to the guard just beyond the interrogation room door. "All right, I'll be right outside with the guard when he wants to deal."

. . .

Miles Straume sat behind a steel industrial desk, not exactly an example of the fine and comfortable work of IKEA, and absently clinked the handcuff that linked him to a hole drilled in the desk for that purpose. A copy of his file sat on the desk, the blank manila folder bringing the only hint of color to the room. He didn't bother to reach for it. One of the detectives had already drilled a couple of the salient points into his head.

I screwed up. I really screwed up. So much for my retirement fund, although I guess I just found some permanent accommodations. The door creaked, the movement bringing a tiny movement of air in to disrupt the older smells of urine and paper. Miles glanced up only a little to notice black pants, then dropped his eyes again. The assumption that it was the return of the cranky detective was shattered when the man's voice drawled at him.

"In reflection, Miles, I suppose you rather wish you'd taken that banana-leaf check."

Miles' head jerked up, his eyes wild. They caught the bright, staring blue ones and his brain screamed FUCK! at him. The chair began to topple, twisting his wrist as his first instinct to back away neglected to account for the cuffs. "Guard?" he shouted, sprawled on the ground. "GUARD?"

"He's right outside with my lawyer, Miles." Ben smiled at him, tone mild. "You might as well settle down."

"Shit."

"Three million dollars versus the few thousand you were gonna get for the diamonds, if you were careful. If only we could travel in time." His voice kept to a sardonic drawl.

Miles narrowed his eyes up at him. "Look, man, those things were worth eight large."

"To their owner. You really should have researched the secondary market a little. Diamonds are a terrible investment." Ben tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Oh, and the owner is dead. Murdered. They're running on the assumption you're connected somehow to the criminals. The detective intended to let you know that in a little while."

Miles made a gurgling noise.

"I'm informed the murderers were... oh, how did you put it? A pair of 'jabronies' – did I say that right? - named Nikki and Paolo." Ben arched an eyebrow and curved a quirked smile. "I suppose they didn't do their research, either. A diamond heist and they fled the country. Apparently they were a little fond of thinking the world worked in the same way as the woman's awful acting career portrayed it. Oops."

Miles found his voice again. It still sounded hoarse to his ears. "You don't have to sound like you're enjoying this so much."

"You're right. I'm being quite rude." Ben crossed the room towards Miles, who tensed involuntarily. Ben gave him a glance, then righted the toppled metal chair. He reached out a hand towards Miles' free one. "You're hurting your wrist further. Get up."

He stayed still, despite his throbbing arm. He flexed it, trying to get it to ease off without taking the help.

"Don't be a child. I am not here to hurt you. If my word is not enough, and I suspect for you it isn't, I remind you that we are in the depths of a public jail, with two people right outside the door."

"Your word is definitely not enough."

Ben stared at him. "It's Hugo's word as well."

That made Miles blink. He fumbled for a moment, taking the smaller, dry-palmed hand and allowing himself to be pulled up. The movement made his wrist hurt even more for a second, then eased off. He wriggled his fingers, grateful for that much. "Okay. I'll listen."

"Good." Ben backed off, leaned against the near wall. "I am offering you the services of my legal team. They're not gonna be able to just wipe the whole thing away for you, because what you did is certainly stupid, tangled, criminal, and I do have some respect for the law."

"Yeah, you're really a classy, completely legit guy." Miles clamped his mouth shut, mentally yelling at himself for poking at a murderer.

Ben arched an eyebrow again, apparently unoffended. "Regardless of your opinion of my legal history, we're discussing yours. I expect that your connection to the diamonds can be unraveled, the rest pushed into misadventure, and you'll wind up with some rather stringent terms of probation. It will be far preferable to your fate as it stands, however. I can promise this much."

"Why?"

"Because Hugo would want it. What you did was stupid, as I've said." Ben tilted his head, looking contemplative. "Repeatedly. Mm." He sighed. "But I don't believe you intended harm to anyone."

Miles rubbed at the reddened ring on his wrist, then flicked his gaze back up. "What I meant to do was get enough money to keep the hell away from everything we got into. Go live somewhere else and not see anybody I recognize ever again. So what happens? You show up. Does this offer of help get followed up with some crap about how the island isn't done with me?"

"No."

Miles watched Ben for a few moments, but the man didn't seem inclined to elaborate. He pressed. "No? The hell does that mean?"

"It means no. The island is done with you. But your friend would want to keep you safe." Ben shrugged. "You'll get your safety, your distance, and when the terms of your probation are worked out, your isolation, if that's what you like. I'll even offer, once more, the three million you so hotly desired with no strings attached save one. And it is a very small, simple one."

Miles narrowed his eyes, still suspicious. "What's that?"

"You will not speak of the island, and you will not discuss any attachment you have to Mittelos Bioscience. I'm aware Richard used some of his corporate privileges to help ease those of you who left the island back into the world without as much fanfare as the discovery of the Oceanic survivors. If you are approached to discuss those topics, you will disengage and you will inform us using a private number that my lawyer will provide for you. I will not elaborate on the reasons why, but I will say that it is intended to continue giving you what you want – separation from the island and everything connected to it."

Before Miles could open his mouth to ask for clarification anyway, Ben shook his head at him. He started somewhere else. "That's it. Those're the terms? I don't say jack squat to anyone and you give me a Get Out of Jail Free card, plus all the cash on the Free Parking Square."

"Yes, Miles. Your analogy, while tormented, is correct." Ben put up a hand to rub his forehead.

Clink-clink-clink went the handcuffs as he tapped them in thought. Miles bit his lip, then set his arm down. "I'd be nuts to turn it down." He looked at the door. "I still just think this is weird and not really something to trust."

"It's a sane response, considering. The offer is legitimate."

"...Alright."

Ben went to the door, knocked lightly on it, and slipped out when it opened without a further word. Miles looked up at the lawyer, whose tired expression said he was used to these things. "Hi."

"Mr. Straume." Norton picked up the manila folder. "Let's get to work."

. . .

Despite functional immortality and surviving several weird encounters with airplanes (or perhaps because), Hurley decided he firmly loathed airplanes. He looked out the window, down at the shrinking sight of LAX on his way to Portland, and felt his guts give a horrified gurgle. The seat next to him was unoccupied, ensuring that no one heard his distress. He looked away from the window and up the aisle, noting that the first class bathroom was empty.

This is going to be one of the top ten weirdest things I've ever thought to myself, but I wish Ben was here. He'd say something sarcastic and I'd stop worrying and everything would be fine. Considering that one of the last times I had to be on a plane, I nearly crapped a kitten because he was coming on board.

Weirdest. Year. Ever.

The thought occurred to him that he was going to have a lot of weird years still to come and he closed his eyes. His stomach gurgled again. He'd gone through a handful of similar thoughts when taking the flight out of Namibia. Jimmy had seen him off after his visit of several days, still dressed in a light summer suit, although Hurley had gotten used to seeing him in a shaman's clothes, too. Still no direct word from Ben, although getting back into cell range let him retrieve a couple of typically curt text messages.

Business matter unfolding. Will inform.

Incident with Miles. Sorted.

And as he raced for his connecting flight towards home, he caught one that was a touch more human: In Prtld, nice liquor store two blocks fm. MB. Michael Collins whiskey. Best one. Two bottles. Please.

Hurley shook his head, rifling through his pockets and pulling up the phone to reread the last. Guess even he hits a brain limit occasionally.

. . .

It was, Eloise decided, quite strange to see the Lamp Post's pendulum caught in stillness. For over twenty years of her observation, it had swung in its long, sweeping path. Tracking the island. Tracking fate. She kept her lips pursed and her thoughts under control as her gaze swept the chamber for any last minute details that needed attending. Cables were disconnected and shredded into junk. The walls were bare; old photos of the island and lat/long papers either spirited away or burned in their own separate pile. The barrier cartons in the vaulted hallway were in place. Her office above in the church proper stood empty, the removed cabinets leaving their scars behind on the walls.

Eloise unscrewed the lid of the finely detailed little flask and raised it to her lips, permitting herself a small taste of the MacCutcheon reserve scotch before resealing it and putting it away in her coat. She nodded once to herself, firmly, and then pulled out the matchbox from the same pocket that held her flask. A few quick gestures and the pile of paper beneath the stilled pendulum was ablaze.

She left quickly, silently, without a single look back as the Lamp Post burned into unsalvageable ruins. The smell of smoke and burning rubber lifted into the church itself, though the main building would be unscathed by her final duty to the island. The fire would be contained behind the thick door that warned of high voltage, itself sealed to help cut the flow of oxygen to the place below.

When Eloise Hawking stepped out into the Los Angeles night, only then did she allow herself a single glance at the regal church and its connection to her lost island home. She lifted her chin up, a silent salute to her past. I've sold my stake in you to men who would not caretake for you as we did. But I will not sell my soul and yours. They will not use you through me. Farewell. And fate be kind.

She slipped into the seat of a deep blue Lexus and drove away.