Requiem

Requiem Introitus Exaudi orationem meam; ad te omnis caro veniet. Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. ~ Requiem Aeternam Spring, 1996 ~ Spain The abduction had occurred at 8:16 AM. Ben noted the time on his watch with clinical detachment as three men grabbed him, pinned his arms, and placed a rough cloth hood over his head. His pockets were rifled, his baton confiscated, a small penknife tossed away. They did not speak when they threw their compliant captive into the back of the staunchly bland European auto, the faint click of firearm-safeties being the only audible warning Ben was granted. He remained still as the vehicle twisted through curving streets, out of the cramped Spanish village, and into the countryside. Ben noted each sound the vehicle made as it passed over grates and unkept roadway. It might serve useful when he extricated himself. He held no doubts that he wouldn't escape. It was all according to plan. After what he gauged was approximately thirty-eight minutes on the road, some of it doubled back and driven off-road in an earnest attempt to confuse the journey, the car pulled over. By the echoing sound of the doors, they had come to what was likely an old stone overpass in the countryside. Ben was pulled out of the car and dropped unceremoniously to the cracking asphalt. He was on his side, one arm pinned underneath him and already dully hurting, the other used as a pressure point to keep him half-supine by one of the men. It was a left handed grasp, relying on balance and an overpowering position. A rustle of activity; the sounds of the other two men piling back into the car and peeling off. There was a long period of silence between captor and captive. When the sound of the vehicle had completely faded, the man spoke. “You are to end your business here and go back where you came from. If you do not agree, you will die. There is no negotiation on this.” The man's voice was clipped, carefully neutral. Ben recognized it immediately as a popular, if ineffective, method of disguising an accent's origin. He considered remarking on it, possibly even cheekily asking how the weather in London was this time of year, but let it go. He was wholly aware he was in for a bad morning and kept himself in silence. “Very well. I will have to convince you.” The man peeled away the black hood and Ben gave his captor a quick examination. Professionally unremarkable, off the rack clothes and ill-fitting jacket, a smoothly shaved head, and blank granite eyes. It was the face of a man who took his job very seriously, and believed he did it well. Ben allowed himself a moment of weary resignation, then began to steel himself for what was coming. As the man's measured blows fell, Ben's thoughts slipped naturally into a fine monophonic rhythm. The pain became distant, dull, capable of doing little more than setting a tempo to his mind's internal pace. He watched the man's fist rise and fall with dispassionate interest Six-two, approximately one hundred and eighty pounds. Right handed, weak grip in his left, two rings between them, neither a wedding band, nor any sign of a missing one, cheap wristwatch (probably knockoff, recent New York travel? irrelevant). Can feel a slight bending in the left little finger that suggests prior fracture (file that as useful), impatient, probably a generalist brawler untrained in any specific fighting discipline... A blow connected heavily against his cheek, and for a split second, a star rushed across his eyes and burned. He blinked involuntarily, sweat and blood dripping from his brow. His cheek felt as if

scorched, and anger flared in him. His eyes fixated suddenly on the larger man. The man paused, rearing back slightly from the crystalline blue gaze, transfixed by the sensation of pure hate. And then it vanished, quick as it came. The eyes glazed over once more, emotion gone. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi. The man grunted in frustration and struck out again, as if responding in self defense. Again. Time passed as the man hammered at Ben, striking his face, striking his body, his arm. Blood coursed from a cut along Ben's left temple. Thirty-nine total blows. Grip lessening. (endurance weakening) Slipping fingers. Now. “I won't speak more than this, so you'd better listen,” said Ben. His tone was soft, possibly even amused, for all that his mouth filled with blood as he spoke. As expected, the man stopped and bent to glare into Ben's face. “I hope it's to beg.” The man's voice was pure gravel, the accent beginning to slip through. He shook Ben, his right hand moving towards his jacket, presumably for the gun that was there. Likely .32 caliber. Likely Glock. Ben had noted the holster earlier, a bulge vaguely disguised by a jacket chosen for the purpose. It would take about five seconds for the weapon to draw. “Charles Widmore sent you to me to die. If you want a better outcome, walk away now.” The man laughed once in disbelief, his actions caught in a pause. Thusly distracted, the tension drained from the man's grip and Ben abruptly shifted his weight to free his pinned arm. His own hand snaked up and across his body to find the man's little finger. His thumb pressed against its bend and the rest of his grasp pulled. It snapped like brittle wood and the man opened his mouth to howl at the sudden injustice. Something clattered. Ben grabbed up and pulled down on his attacker's jaw with all the force of his prone weight. It dislocated with a horrible popping sound and now the man fell back, trying to scuttle away, weapon forgotten, his much smaller victim pulling himself upright with a grace that belied the abuse he had just endured. The Englishman struggled back into balance and whirled on Ben, his jaw hung at an unnatural angle. He grabbed at his holster, then stared down at its emptiness. The gun had fallen free during the struggle. It was like that, frozen in sudden terror, struck by the awful realization that Ben had done nothing more than tell him the truth, that bullets tore through his empty hands, his chest, and then his skull. Then there was nothing. Ben dismantled the weapon in a handful of trained movements, beginning with the removal of the magazine clip, the ensurance that no bullet remained locked, and the snap-back of the slide. He littered the remains of his opponent's weapon through the sewer grates that marked either end of the stony, shadowed overpass. A car drove overhead, never to realize the miniature drama that had been enacted beneath it. Benjamin Linus turned to leave, facing the route that he had been taken down. The road before him wound towards a gaudily bright horizon, the light inflicting a migraine on his already thoroughly abused skull. Ben ignored this pain as well, though he turned his head to spit a mouthful of fresh blood onto fresh spring grass. He thought of it as an offering for his unchosen home, that veiled and cursed island, with no small amount of dour humor coloring the notion. Blood and blood sacrifice. How long would it be until this work was completed? A shrike called in the distance. It sounded like mocking. It was the only answer he could expect.

Kyrie Eleison Mortem misericors saepe pro vita dabit: Mercy often inflicts death ~ Seneca 1993 ~ The Island With Widmore gone and his people settling into life at the barracks, Benjamin Linus felt as if life had at last granted him a little breathing room. Securing his social role as leader had cost more than a few arranged incidents one might gently call 'moral lapses,' and frankly, he was running out of liquor. Nor did he feel the need to adopt drinking as a less than casual habit. It would cause mistakes. He was sitting in his little office in his new home (it was not the one he'd grown up in; he couldn't bear the sight of its interiors and had fobbed it off on another after taking what few things he wished to keep) and contemplating days past and days yet to come. There was an empty bottle of Dharma rum sitting on a shelf. He considered hunting up a replacement, but decided against. He also chose against moving the bottle – it was next to a handful of books he had not yet sorted. One of them was a newer copy of the Qu'ran and the irony of the pairing secretly delighted him. Outside, little Alex, already a terror, was charging up and down footpaths screeching in wild glee. It was Richard that drove him the maddest, Ben felt. Richard with his worried expressions and cautious verbal prodding and the notes that were passed along. Notes. Like children at school. His lips twisted at the thought. Don't get caught with them or Jacob will punish you. Luckily, the others hadn't noticed the apparently unusual form of communication. His carefully respectful request to meet with his final authority had so far met with silence. Richard offered no explanations. Ben was not naïve enough to believe he would get any from the dark man. It stung, but perhaps there would be cause. Surely there would be. The things Jacob asked... well. Mysterious ways. In any case, in Ben's mind the tone of his reign had already been cast. The notes were short and to the point, carefully absent of discernible opinion. Nonetheless, Ben felt concerned about destiny's road. The shadows seemed particularly still amongst the jungle trees, the night humming with portent. He wondered how long this thin peace would last. He did not want to be a wartime leader, preferring to use his mental acuity to his needs. Ethan was the better combatant, his cold-bloodedness sometimes distressing but useful in certain situations. It had always been so. But Ben had been chosen. All he could do was try to live up to it. The thought sometimes brought him fright, the recognition that something of this was not of his choosing. Perhaps with better effort at his duties, he might see Jacob after all. It was worth a thought, worth comforting consideration. Perhaps it was simply a part of the secretive man's method, and not a reason for Ben to fear a mistake regarding his chosen place. Meanwhile, Richard would be coming to see him in the morning, after another pilgrimage to their true leader. The thought gnawed at him, left him faintly ill though he could not say why. He rose and went to call his daughter inside. The sunset drew long shadows across their sacred island home and the girl would sleep far better on a fed stomach. Benjamin felt he might benefit from the same. ~*~ Instead, his sleep was riddled with nightmares that morning erased from his memory. Ben awoke unsettled, cold, and frightened. The only clues left to him were of cold stone, a sibilant hiss, and the vague memory of Richard's voice. Something hurt in his chest and he ignored it as the stress of

nightmares. He did not remember calling for his mother, though Alex looked at him with a child's wide-eyed worry in the morning. He was too withdrawn to notice her expression. Alex's unnerved, anxious tapping of a little spoon against her breakfast plate caused him to snap at her. The tired anger of her father caused the little girl to sniffle, and Ben looked immediately contrite. He gave Alex a hug and an apology, promised to read her favorite story to her, and sent her off to fingerpaint outside. It was an activity that never failed to cheer her up, now less controversial to the others with the advent of washable paint. She left Mr. Ted, her raggedy stuffed polar bear, sitting imperiously in her now-vacated chair. Ben and the bear looked at each other for a while, Ben feeling absurdly judged by the aging plush critter, before he got up to clear the table. The bear, squished with long abuse and with one cracking eye set a bit goggly, watched him with what he began to believe was an inquisitor's untrusting look. Ben decided he would call it Dr. Szell, just never in front of Alex. ~*~ Richard did not arrive until nearly noon, much to Ben's aggravation. By that time, he had finished assisting some of the others with a bit of moving and had given in to the urge to begin properly sorting out his bookshelves. It helped to distract from the unsettled feeling his restless sleep had given him. A stack of Heinleins were buttressed against a copy of Ellison's Deathbird Stories, and next to that a small clutch of philosophical works. Random cookbooks, some of which belonged to a previous resident, toppled against each other next to these. It drove his orderly mind crazy. He held a tattered copy of The Foxfire Book in careful hands when the door finally banged under Richard's fist. Ben started, losing his place from where he had been examining a recipe for smoking pork, and swore under his breath. “It's open,” he called over his shoulder. He rustled through the book to find and mark his place while the ageless man entered. “About time.” “It's always about time, isn't it?” “Very funny, Richard.” He stuck a makeshift bookmark into the pages and gently laid it on a shelf he had mentally designated for the topic. Richard took a softly cushioned chair and watched him quietly for a moment. Ben felt another flash of irritation. “Thrill me.” “You're particularly sarcastic this morning. Trouble sleeping?” Richard pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. Ben glanced offhandedly at the note but did not reach to take it. He turned back to his bookshelves and resumed sorting. The dark man leaned back in his seat and watched Ben work. “Jacob's concerned by a few things,” he said. His voice was cautious, the tone of a supervisor giving a troublesome employee his review. He waited for a response. Ben paused, then resumed filing books in alphabetical order by author and topic. He said nothing for a long time, then drew out a long sigh. His hand rested on a copy of Heinlein's The Man Who Sold The Moon when Richard shifted uncomfortably behind him. The chair scraped lightly as he arose. “Ben-” “I never asked for this duty, Richard!” Ben snapped without turning around. “If he's unhappy, he can tell me to my face. Otherwise, he's just an absentee landlord and I'm only doing the best I can!” He caught himself and clamped his mouth shut. His head hung at a tilt, eyes shut. There was only dead silence between the two men. Benjamin forced a milder tone that belied his upset thoughts. “You were right. I slept poorly. A bit on edge today.” “I know it's frustrating, Benjamin, but...” Richard shook his head. “Never mind. We'll discuss it another time.” Ben bit off an angered reply before he could snap again and took his hand away from the shelf. He composed himself, then turned to regard Richard and the note once more. This time he scooped it up and gave it a skim. His eyebrow rose in disbelief. “I... what?” “I know. I hardly believed it myself.” “This will take... quite some time. He does understand what he's asking, of course.” His

thoughts were caught in a whirl of doubt and calculation, but he kept his tone rhetorical. “Yes.” A moment's sorrow passed through him, showing on his face only as a crinkle on his brow. If not life's work, Jacob's task would cost him a great deal. Including any chance for peace in his life. The dawning recognition that he would miss crucial parts of Alex's life deepened his expression, but Richard seemed to not notice. Not for the first, nor the last, Ben thought to himself that he would have much preferred this duty's cup passed to another. He reread the note, his mood darkening further into regret. Benjamin had never been much of a direct warrior himself, as his fumbled assault on the French woman had proven. His tactical mind had proven best effective in the smaller things. Organization. Small intrigues, such as those he had engineered to prove himself to the others. General leadership. The rest? Well, he was fast enough to know when to run. Jacob's task would require that to change. A tiny flare burst in his heart, the veiled birth of real hate. “You'll watch Alex during the times I'm gone,” he said. His voice was dull. “Of course we will, Ben. She'll be fine.” Richard's promise did nothing to comfort him. ~*~ “Daddy? You're sad again.” Alex's bare, dirty feet dangled below the seat of the swing. She kicked them idly, watching her father as he watched her from where he leaned against a supporting pole. Her lower lip poofed out. Daddy had looked sad a lot over the last week, his mood unlifted since that bad breakfast, but he wouldn't say why. He hadn't said much of anything to Alex, but at least he remembered to hug her a lot. She was getting scared anyway, though. There had been a lot of rustling in his rooms, and all the night before he had been folding up clothes. “Daddy?” She dropped off the swing-seat and toddled over to him, her thin child's voice unsteady. It gave Ben a wrenching sensation in his chest and he dropped down to give her a hug. “I'm sorry, Alex. I haven't said. But Daddy needs to go away for a while.” His own voice held a thinly disguised waver that the child immediately picked up on with the empathic acuity the young often seemed to have. She began to cry, hiccuping and halted tears. Some for herself, scared about who would take care of her with Daddy gone, and some because he seemed as unhappy as she did. She plucked at his shirt with anxious fingers. “Don't go!” “It'll be all right.” He cleared his throat and looked at her, bright blue eyes gleaming with his own worries. “I'll always be thinking about you, and I'll always come back to take care of you. Okay, Alex?” She gulped and tried to give him her best big girl nod. He tousled her hair and gave her another hug, his throat working heavily at its swallow. “I'll see you again soon,” he murmured, knowing he was very likely lying. She hiccuped a fresh set of tears into his shoulder and he kissed her head. “Go find Richard, okay?” Ben couldn't let himself watch as she wandered away from him in a little yellow sundress, her head down and her long dark hair streaming into tangles. It would have been like watching a little bit of innocence die.

Gradual In memoria aeterna erit iustus: ab auditione mala non timebit. ~ A portion of the Graduale requiem Late Spring, 1993 ~ Alabama “You're still flinching away. Relax. Move your head towards the fist when it comes, yeah?” The larger man popped a left close to the small man's face. The dark-haired head jerked back and away again. “Yeah, that takes time, don't look so pissed. It ain't natural to set yourself up to get hit in the face much. Doing great on the rest of it.” Nathan feinted, then dropped a set of blows to the left, the left again, and then to the man's right. Ben took them all with a slight turn of his body and an absorption of the pulled punches to his shoulders and upper arms. “Great.” “Still hurts,” Benjamin muttered. “Especially when I'm already aching again.” Patches of yellowing bruise marked his upper arms, visible even below the arms of his t-shirt. “Not much makes it magically stop hurting. Concentration will help get you over it.” “I'm working on that.” “Yeah, you are. We're up an extra ten minutes today, you haven't called for a break. So don't think you haven't improved.” Ben gave the bulky ex-Marine a dour look but said nothing to that. “You're a rough little bastard to give a compliment to.” Nathan shrugged, unoffended, and sauntered off to grab his water bottle. It seemed to be a steady temperature of some eighty degrees in the gym, with the unmistakeable smell of old socks, sweaty gym mats, and ego. Nathan, as he had cheerfully explained to Ben, didn't care very much about the last. Ego lasted until about the second punch, as a rule, and then just about everyone looked for ways to get hit less. Except for his current client. As a self defense instructor who worked primarily with police, Nathan had been surprised by the private contract. The paperwork had it farmed out from a small biology facility on the west coast, up by Portland, but that smelled weird to him. Eggheads didn't usually come out looking for how to take a hit. They went straight for Firearms 101. Fucking Eastwood movies. This guy, though. It was a prime job, paid the training fee for a three month course with a bonus, and the man gave up only the barest complaints about the tough, three day a week, regime. Now finishing their third week, the man had made fairly remarkable progress. He was quick and liked to use his head. You could see him thinking through every practice fight Nathan set up. Tenacious as hell, got up from every setback, showed up at every session like clockwork. It was like the guy was on a mission from God. Nathan smirked to himself at the thought. Charles Bronson in Scientific Asskicking IV. Eh, well. Maybe the guy just got tired of being the last kid at dodgeball. Funny, though. Never much looked like he was enjoying the training. “Okay, you got your homework. Don't do any of those neck exercises tonight, though. Give yourself a break. Don't like how those bruises are looking.” He slugged down some water and screwed the cap back on. Silent as a rat, his client gathered his things and departed for the day. ~*~ A month had gone by. Ben continued to make steady improvement, no longer wincing away from blows, taking them professionally and without fear. Counterattacks were still slower to improve, but they usually were for most people. Nathan kept focused on tactics that relied on gross motor skills – basic punches, kicks, well-placed grasps. Things that relied on balance and simple control of the

situation. Ben's mood darkened as the training progressed, to the point that Nathan had long since stopped trying to hold any sort of light conversation during the training bouts. He wasn't at all rude, in fact he was as scrupulously polite as possible. Considering there were always a few pale good-ol-boy Academy hopefuls that liked to get cute every couple months or so, it was a welcome attitude. That said, Nathan was getting the idea that whoever had set this guy up for this class was eventually going to get it right in the balls. Curiosity had long since started to eat at him, and he eventually decided that was enough. Nathan prided himself on his directness and honesty, all Corp values. “So listen,” Nathan started before Ben could vanish after their latest class. “What are you trying to get at here?” “I beg your pardon?” “What's all this for? You're in here learning how to get your ass beat without getting killed, and you're what, working for a science lab? I don't get it.” “You might say there's something experimental going on, yes,” Ben said, his tone sardonic. “You could also suppose I'm edging more into the security division and not research. Although I've noticed it's very easy to study people during a fight. Once you get over the distracting little hurdle of being punched repeatedly in the face. How's your wife, by the way?” Nathan started at that, immediately forgetting his irritation at the man's diversion of the question, and looked down at his hand. He never wore a ring during classes or spoke about his private life. But there was the faintest ring of paler flesh against the dark on his finger. Ronnie loved to tease him about it, saying he would always be married to her. “Neat trick you're developing there.” “You've also had your left wrist broken at least once. You favor it.” “Parachute jump in basic. Jesus, man.” Ben looked grimly pleased by Nathan's surprise. “Still haven't answered my question, though.” Ben glanced away, discomfited. “Can we just call it work related and leave the topic alone? I'd rather not get into details.” He considered that. “I would have guessed someone pissed you off back home.” “In more ways than you can imagine.” Ben sighed and set his towel down on a rack. “I'm not ever going to be particularly good at actual combat, am I?” Nathan cocked his head. “If you mean can you take on Bruce Lee in a straight asskicking contest, the answer is never. But we've gone over that repeatedly. Doesn't mean much if Lee can't get to you in the first place.” “Ignoring the entire problem that he's dead.” Ben managed to sound mildly amused. “Well, there's a guy I know that does home defense training, ex-IDF,” Nathan said. “But before I even continue this course... I'm not looking at a guy out to start himself some sort of death career, am I?” There was an uncomfortably long silence. “I have no aspirations to become the next Carlos the Jackal.” The instructor ran his hand through short, sweat-damp hair, still feeling a little doubt but wanting to believe the best of people. Also, he pragmatically ascribed to the Church of Cleared Checks. Ben really didn't seem like a bad guy. Quiet. Intense. But okay. “Alright, listen. You're short, you're squat, you're never gonna win the Ironman Comp. I don't think that's your goal. You're doing fine here, that'll help you in hand to hand shit if you keep up the practice. If you're in security, I recommend two things. One is a good base in firearms training -” Nathan caught a dour look off Ben. “What?” “Nothing.” He shrugged. “I don't think I like them. Any idiot can use a gun.” “Sure, they're equalizers. They're useful, and if you know how to handle 'em better than the other guys, you still have the advantage. But I agree, man. Give a guy a roll of duct tape and a butter knife, it'll keep him smart under pressure. Maybe dead, too, but that's evolution for ya.” He laughed at his own joke. “Do it anyway. The other thing I'm gonna recommend is I know another kinda guy. If you don't mind a trip, spend a couple weeks out in Cali. I'd have you go and talk to Frankie. He's

doing baton training for the LAPD.” “What, nightsticks?” Ben sounded derisive. “No, man. Tactical batons. They're a foot, two feet long depending. Some of 'em snap out of a base, concealable. You'd have to look up permits and shit for Oregon, I don't know 'em off the top of my head, but they're classified deadly in most states. They're also equalizers. Handle one of those right, doesn't much matter if the other guy's got a foot and a hundred pound of muscle on you. They're getting big with the departments, MP guys carry 'em, too. It's pretty easy training, couple sessions, couple hours. He'd train you on the side without making you get an in-state permit for Cali if I vouch.” Ben gave Nathan one of those unnerving, appraising stares. He shrugged back and turned for his daily bottle. “Your call, man, just trying to help. If someone's deserving a good nut-stomping, I am not inclined to get in the way.” “...Excuse me?” Nathan shook his head and turned back to him. He gestured with the bottle occasionally for emphasis. “Look, the bullshit line about your job aside, you're looking pissier and pissier every fuckin' week. Like none of this is your idea, and like you're pretty damned unhappy about that fact. Now, it ain't my business, I got paid, I tried to have a conversation about it. But whatever you're supposed to be really up to, you might as well do it right, and you might as well do it some way that won't mess you up too hard. Quit thinking about any sort of black belt shit. Guys like that drive me nuts. Either they pick up a gun and go straight for the Desert Eagle, or they decide they're gonna be fuckin' Jackie Chan. Christ.” He continued, “If you go much further than this course for physical combat, you're an idiot. And sir, I don't think you're an idiot.” Nathan examined the man's stony expression. Figures, the man hadn't even been aware he'd been that readable. Now he'd gone and really pissed the guy off. He sighed. “Sorry, man. Not trying to be insulting.” Dead silence. The rustle of the man grabbing his bag and tossing protective gear into it. Then, without looking at his instructor - “Travel is not an issue. Nor is time. I'd appreciate your help in contacting these friends of yours.” He slung the bag over his shoulder. “But I would also appreciate if we no longer discuss my business.” Nathan dropped a simple nod. “Alright. I'll see what I can help schedule up.” “Thank you. Good night.” ~*~ Two weeks after he'd sent Ben off to Los Angeles to meet his old Corp buddy, Nathan had returned to the usual routine of grunts gearing up for the local police academy and had signed up another couple would-be Seagals. None of them were the sort Nathan would call classy, although one of the independents hadn't gotten rid of his London accent. Chatty son of a bitch, too. A real gossip. Looked around the world with a kind of wide-eyed idiocy. Nathan pegged him as a first-time US visitor that had seen too many action movies and thought knowing how to fight was something Americans just did, like apple pie and delivery pizza. Aggravating fellow. Asked a lot of questions about what he'd done during his tours of duty, the sort of clients Nathan took. “Mostly, sir, they're generally like yourself.” “How's that, then?” Chatty fucks with pointy noses stuck all up where they don't need to be, Nathan wanted to say. He shrugged instead. “Average folks want to know a bit about taking care of themselves, that's all.” “I see!” Sounded downright plummy. Nathan would have thought the accent was fake if he hadn't seen the guy's ID. Southampton, apparently. Two and a half weeks into the Brit's routine, Nathan stepped into his office an hour before his client was due to arrive and found all of his past client's paperwork spread across his desk.

“What the fuck!” he blurted, diving back out the door and grabbing for a practice pole off the rack he kept there. “So sorry,” came the plummy, if muffled voice from inside the office. “You should keep yourself on a tighter schedule. Then these little things wouldn't happen.” Something heavy thudded into the back of his head and the world went black. Nathan realized the little British bastard had backup with him when he woke up in the hospital three days later with a concussed and fractured skull. He also realized he had been played by professionals. Local police found exactly nothing except his paperwork a mess. Nothing had even been taken. Cops called it down as B&E, no leads. Nathan knew the foreign fucker had been looking for something specific. He had a bad feeling it had to do with the ex-client who was most definitely not a biologist.

Tract Absolve, Domine, animas omnium fidelium defunctorum ab omni vinculo delictorum... ~ a portion of the requiem tract Security Pros 42114 Woodborn Ln Lyndyn, WA 98264 Shipping Address: Dean Moriarty 2348 Cloverfield Ave. Portland, OR 97299 Your order of August 7th, 1993 IN THIS SHIPMENT: (1) ASP Black Chrome Baton Foam Vinyl Grip Option: 16” Code: ASPBC – Ship weight 1.5 lbs $68.95 This completes your order. Thank you! ~*~ Nathan, Hope I'm still cool to come out and visit you and Ronnie again in a couple weeks – we gotta get you back on balance, my hombre. Wasn't any good to see you on your back like that. Glad to hear Jimmy's got the gym covered meantime. I checked around when I got back home. Nobody's seen nothing screwy, but if these dudes are as high-test as you're suspecting, they might not. Good thing I got buddies all through the county watching out for me. Phones are clean, I'm using a dead drop system to get my mail out just for shits. I'll holler the second I whiff something strange. Our mutual friend skipped town not the day after I got him squared off. No trace of where he's at now. He's due for training with Shai coming up, so I'd say if you're looking to fire him off a warning, if you're really sure these bad guys are gunning for the little guy, that'd be where I start. I hope you're right about him. Nothing he said, nothing he did triggered me, I'm just saying. Polite as hell, sure. Took to the baton like an Irishman in a beer factory, despite starting off looking at the thing like he smelled bad cheese. He'll have that shit down surgical with practice. You remember Gunny over from the USS Wisconsin? I've been thinking about him a lot. I hung out with Gunny on two more tours after you finished up. He was a career junkie, think he's still deployed. Old as fuck, but they're gonna get him out of service only after he gives himself a heart attack banging himself yet another Filipino lass. Anyway, get a glass in him, Gunny'd tell stories all

night long. Trick was getting him to stop. Told me once about the scariest cocksucker he ever met. Ex-Israeli army brat who decided shit against Palestine wasn't going fast enough for his taste. Started getting a little more hands on, and the papers never covered it. Story never broke past the borders. Someone tell Wolf Blitzer some of what Gunny told me, Wolf'd shit. Small guy, hot shit with a sniper rifle. Gunny came across him when they were shore leaving up there. Had a hot piece of women's equality, as he was telling me, which is why he picked there of all fuckin' places to chill. Insisted on telling me, I should say. Very nice man, Gunny said. Met in a hotel bar right near the Palestine border by chance. Oxford educated. You get where I'm starting to go, Nate? While Gunny's there, one of this guy's buds brings in a teenager from across the zone. Young Palestinian. Didn't look like he could hurt a goddamn thing. Man sits this kid down, polite as you please. They talk a while, the kid settling down, Gunny's minding his own fuckin' business by the bar. When this dude gets up along with his little posse, he hands the waiter his bill and his money, bows all courtly, and casually cuts the kid's throat as he leaves. No emotion. The kid was an enemy, and the man removed him like you take a hair off your t-shirt. Gunny found out later the dude had a bodycount in the hundreds for certain. All Palestinians. Homeless, kids, women, he didn't care. All cleanly killed. He wasn't into torture or nothing. He was just going to kill you in the most efficient way possible. It was just this guy's job. Like groceries, or maybe hanging wallpaper. Your little bug-eye. I'm worried he's fixing to be that guy. Maybe not by choice. Maybe he ain't that way when you saw him. He ain't when he came to me. But I do not want to see that man again. Ever. He seemed like he had a bad fix on him, driven and all. Prove me wrong, Nate. We'll talk about it more when I get down there again. You owe me a shot of MacCutcheon, good brother. ~Frankie ~*~ Virginia ~ Late August 1993 Richard, Thank you for forwarding the package. I intend to be here one month, and then I will return for a visit before I turn again to my work. I'll expect the new passports to be ready by then. Add paperwork for Botswana. Humor me. I might find time to see it eventually. Apologies that I have not found the time to write earlier. Have Isabel examine tapes at PDX; we should have enough leverage with their security team to get her copies. I feel he had people watching as early as that. There was a flash when I was going through the security line – I believe someone may have photographed me. A shame about that, I doubt they got my best side. They would have to have been close. I've no doubt it would have been one of his people, nonetheless, better to be certain. It was not worrisome enough for me to contact earlier, in fact, it may assist us. You will find I've sent a new stuffed toy along for Alex. She was very taken with 'Andy and the Lion' when I left. I'm sure she's insisted on hearing it more than a few times from you as well. Hopefully this will help, although I'm uncertain of the lion's fashion sense. It is at least in better shape than the bear. I don't advise trying to separate her from her old toy, however. She will give you the puffed lip and probably even the sad, forlorn sigh of the damned. She does them well, you're no doubt familiar with the bedtime versions. The extreme forms can be dangerous. I will contact before I'm ready for the journey back.

~Benjamin ~*~

Mr. Linus, Thought you should know. Couple little English guys got the drop on me a few weeks after you were done here. Set me up, asking about prior clients, caught 'em going through my papers. Now, I do background checks on all my clients before I teach, and every damn one of them comes up clean or I don't hire on. Yours was clean, too. But you and I both know there's a lot more to that story, and I know better than to get into it. Said I wouldn't. That's fine. But I got a conscience to take care of, and a wife, and my friends. These are scary men, sir. They caught up to Frankie and nobody catches my bro out but they did. He's fine, interrogated the hell out of him, didn't get much cause there wasn't much to get. Shai's going to get a call from me by the 30th though I'd appreciate it if you're up front enough to just tell him to contact me after you read this. Tell him to use the quiet line. He'll know what I mean. He'll train you anyway, I figure, but you're bringing a shitstorm with you if I'm right. Ask Shai to teach you a bit about being sneaky. It's better'n being dead. I'm not out to guilt you on this, I don't think you understood what you'd be bringing along in your tailwind. Just listen to me. These men will fuck you. I got a friend says they were probably SIS at one point. Private employ, and for guys like that, that means money. Someone's decided he really doesn't like you, and this guy's willing to blow enough bills to do it proper. I think you've got enough of a mind to think yourself through that situation, but I also think it gets real easy to think you might have to prove something to somebody. That's bull. Keep your head down. ~Nathan Preston ~*~ December, 1993 Mr. Daniel Norton, Enclosed please find an outline of legal duties we are interested in hiring your firm to perform for us as a corporation and for individual purposes. Your services come highly recommended, along with excellent referrals as to your sense of discretion. We have researched your fees and rates and are prepared to offer a higher bid. Your acceptance of our offer will also impose taking us as your primary and preferably sole client. Please contact me directly to discuss. My employer insists we move forward with the settlement of three separate medical billing issues for gentlemen who have given us excellent service. We would appreciate getting to this matter with all due haste. ~Dr. Richard Alpert, Mittelos Bioscience

~*~ 1995 - Private diary, Benjamin Linus (excerpts from travelogue) I suppose it was too much to ask to remain home for much longer. W's prodding increases as expected. Expected, but not appreciated. A is six now. She will be so tall soon. Already she had outgrown everything I had ever remembered her in. The little yellow sundress gone to hand me downs, but to whom? There have been no more children. I'm growing concerned. R is taking initiative in Portland at my request. E will assist when his residency is completed. At least that facility should be safe from W's predations. It was heartbreaking to return home the first time and see A take a second to recognize me. It was as heartbreaking that my own realization was similar. I do not expect that will change after each visit back. Things already seem more distant, I feel disconnected sometimes. Is this the side effect of learning, truly, to kill? I'm afraid it is. When he died – when I killed my father, I felt almost nothing. It was justified. The man in the alley, I don't know. He was doing his job. I was doing mine. But I washed my hands for an hour in a hotel sink and I still think I see blood embedded in my nails. A ridiculous conceit, he was yards away when I shot. But the red is nonetheless there. I felt ill then. I don't know what I feel now. Empty, perhaps. Tired. Is it so strange to want to simply be human? You would think we are, by benefit of mere birth. But I begin to wonder. We are born innocent, wholly human, capable of becoming so much. And when we die, we are heavy with the things we have done and we are changed into something else. And I am only just beginning my work. It's quiet here. At least I have that. For now. Small pieces. Small peace. *** Florence was lovely, even as I have ordered R never to speak of my business there again. I wonder sometimes why I always return home. If it is for love of J, or duty, why do I feel such hate? Perhaps it is more the homing pigeon that knows no other nest. Sometimes I think we are never truly given choices. I feel all things in life are built from lies and the wisps of unseen shapes. The equivocated reality. It's strangely comforting to think that life is merely caught in a veil of shared untruths, a consensus of deceit. Whatever truth lies behind it, I wonder if I really want to know. Sometimes it's far safer to believe in the hypnotizing siren. Far less painful when the blow is struck at last. Far better to never know when. *** Nearly caught in Austria. There was a copy of the airport photo in the security corridor. I had forgotten how dire that vest was. No matter. W's getting closer, but I'm not ready for him yet. Escalation is best in small doses. Soon. Meanwhile, his European assets will find themselves a little strained. Corporate cutthroats are deadlier than a trained military man, I believe. I shall recommend that our lawyer be given a bonus this season. It was excellent work. I should have liked to have seen W's face. I might have, when I was in London, but discretion seemed wiser. I think I will let them find me in Spain. I was told Alcarria is lovely in the springtime, and I intend to go and see.

Dies Irae Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis: voca me cum benedictis. ~ Sequence 16 of the Dies Irae Harriman was used to his employer's spectacular rages. Stocks down on the LSE? Rage. Financial takeover of rival assets suffering even minor compromises? Rage. Technical problems on the laboratory floor? Rage. The lawyer weathered them all with the same serenity that ensured his yearly bonus saw steady increases. This was new rage, and it flustered him. This had been building for years, he'd come to realize. Mr. Widmore had been watching the reports from his global network of observers with increasing intensity. The wind had begun to rise nearly two years ago with a single photograph from an United States airport. Harriman had not been privy to its importance then, though he had glimpsed the image and seen nothing more than an unconcerned and unremarkable man. The revelation he had ferreted out that the man was the leader of some sort of strange cargo cult in the Pacific and that his employer had once held this role baffled him. It was that attitude, he understood with that kind of tactical clarity that the best of his field had, that underlined why Harriman was even trusted with that information. Harriman simply didn't care very much about that odd detail. He cared only that Charles cared. Money bought loyalty, and Harriman was ferociously loyal. That his duties had long since pressed against the legal and ethical was of little concern. Widmore's happiness translated into real worth for the company and for its staff. That Widmore had this strange little hobby, well. It was business. But it led to such rages the likes of which no one in the company had seen. Save for himself, Widmore had allowed no one into his private offices in two weeks. Phone calls were routinely rebuffed. The board was making decisions meanwhile, and that would almost certainly lead to further rages. Which led to now – Harriman seated in the lobby of Charles Widmore's office, the harried secretary sneaking him bland but rabbit-fast glances. The muffled sounds of shouting – was he at last on the phone? Oh god. Anything but the board of directors. Harriman didn't want to clean up that mess. It wasn't his department in the least but he had long since become a kind of peacemaker by dint of Widmore's trust. Relations were strained enough as it was, and while Charles held control, it didn't mean that certain critical figures in the company wouldn't defect if pushed hard enough. Charles was a brilliant businessman, a man of consummate detail and cold rationality. Except when he raged. Publicly this was a rare occurrence. Privately? Oh god. Harriman prayed he was arguing with his daughter again. Perhaps a fouled up personal delivery. Martinizing. Anything but business. The phone on the elegant antique desk bleeped and the young lady pressed a button with speed and agility born of Pavlovian fear. “Harriman!” The lawyer fed the lady his best comforting smile. It scuttled across his broad, red face like a lizard. Her expression did not change. “Well!” he chirped. “I suppose I'll just show myself in.” “...Have a good meeting, sir,” she replied robotically. ~*~ The second shock to greet Harriman upon entering his employer's office was its complete disarray. Charles was scrupulously organized, an attitude taken to extremes that seemed to fit a field commander and not a well to do businessman. The scattered folders of tightly-printed reports, the spray of surveillance stills, the box of videotapes dropped haphazardly onto the ornate antique desk...

all of this was enough of a surprise that it momentarily detracted from the primary shock that greeted the lawyer. Charles Widmore was not alone. That in itself was an impossibility. Security tracked all incoming and outgoing. Reports went out daily – and Harriman, as Widmore's legal consigliere, saw them all. The last visitor had been himself three days prior. And yet, here sat another man. He was slender, folded up comfortably in an expensive Glasgow-manufactured chair. Dark blond hair trimmed close, sleepy eyes, and pale. He was rather unremarkable, bland in an loosely-fitted off the rack suit, and looked up at the lawyer with a thin, reedy smile. The sleepy eyes fixed on Harriman, the dull green coming to a sharp focus, and Harriman felt suddenly like a cell under a high power microscope. A cold sensation settled in his stomach. “Harriman. This is Rainsford.” Charles gestured between the two men and sat himself once more behind his bestrewn desk. “A pleasure,” murmured the lawyer with automatic politeness. “Likewise,” came the drawling broad accent of an American. Midwest somewhere, Harriman absently noted. He wasn't familiar in the all details of the States' vocal variety, but he recognized it for not being one of the more famed ones. “Harriman, my little problem gnaws at me. Darts around the world as if he owns it, after he dared to have me exiled for less.” An almost leonine snarl. This discussion, in front of this stranger? The cold gnawing in the lawyer's stomach increased in intensity. “It's time I did something more about it, something other than scrabble at his footsteps.” Widmore nodded curtly to the American. “Rainsford will be undertaking the operation from here. You'll assist him with certain legalities and process communications where he needs.” “I beg your pardon, sir, but I'm not familiar with Mr- “ The American cut in. “Mr. Widmore is familiar, isn't that enough, sir?” The tone was liquid threat. Harriman stared at him, angry despite his unease. “No, young man, it actually is not.” He clasped his hands together in front of him. “I have served Mr. Widmore since his ascension to company leadership, I have done so faithfully and with little hesitation. I'll take his orders without question, but not yours.” Charles barked a laugh. “Now, lads. You can be friends. Sit, Harriman.” “Sir, it's unnecessary-” “You'll adjust, young man. Harriman is trustworthy.” Charles tossed the lawyer a thick manila folder. Pinned to it was a picture of the American in the full dress uniform of a U.S. Marine. Rainsford grunted and then rattled off the recitation of his duty record with ease as Harriman's eyes picked out the citing information from the man's dossier. Joined the Marines out of high school, volunteered for the SEALS as soon as given an opportunity. Exceeded the screening test with remarkably high values. BUD/S, SQT... took a break after training to complete a college degree in philosophy of all damned things, then returned to active duty and a place in the black team of DEVGRU. Most of the information regarding Rainsford's tour was redacted – Widmore could handily have acquired the restricted information and likely already had a copy. It wouldn't have been politic to bring it forward now. There was a reference to Operation Gothic Serpent and a handwritten note that read“You're still under CIA employ?” Harriman blurted. The man wasn't a high-priced mercenary. He was a full agent, actively attached to the Special Activites Division. Achieving silent entry to the office had likely been child's play. Rainsford inclined his head politely. “The United States has been grateful to Widmore Laboratories and their tireless efforts to help our country.” Slick line, very political. In other words, Widmore had bought in a long time ago and a very high placed friend was paying off karma at an

accelerated rate. “Mr. Widmore, I'm not sure it's necessary.” Harriman's unease had grown into full blown nausea. This smelled like something that could go far past scare tactics and attempts to live-capture Benjamin Linus. Widmore's hunt had been little more than an odd game to Harriman. This smelled like real danger and now he was tied to it. “We've got men in Spain right now, they have an excellent opportunity to grab Linus and-” “They won't succeed,” said Rainsford. His tone was clinical, lecturing a small class. “Your enemy's improved and adapted his tactics. You've found his teachers, but he's smart enough to take what he's learned and advance it on his own. He's done that. Rodgers discovered that for you last year.” Rodgers. A young SIS washout that Widmore had picked up for his own security and intelligence roster – he'd caught up to Benjamin Linus in a Washington D.C. alley and gotten himself shot in the face for his trouble. Linus had vanished immediately afterward, a report from Oregon suggested he'd gone back home. Then he had turned up again – Italy, left a woman in Widmore's service dead, then vanished. And now popping up in various European locations like some demented game of Whack a Mole. It was as if he reoccurred solely to drive Charles Widmore mad. No one had figured out what his goal was, save Widmore's insistence that a man like Linus certainly had a purpose to his activity. “So... what, am I to scuttle the job?” Harriman's voice had an edge to it that he didn't like. He fought it down with a swallow. “It took a month for our men to plan the abduction route and arrange the setup.” “No, let the mission go off. If by some chance it does work, we've all just saved Mr. Widmore here a ton of money.” Lopsided grin from the agent. It looked vulpine, all trace of sleepiness long since departed. “I'm going to go and observe, see how it shakes out. I'll be able to adjust how I want to proceed from there.” “Rainsford will be providing his own backup and support technology,” Widmore added, by way of explanation. “I cannot ask for the rat's death. I do not. I want him caught, and I want my island. Nothing more.” Harriman held serious doubts about the fundamental truth of those words. Rainsford's file clearly labelled him a specialist in this field. Widmore, by virtue of some strange compact that was beyond the lawyer's ken, could not ask for an assassination, put the small man's blood on his own hands. Yet he had hired the closest thing in the world to an assassin. Benjamin Linus would die, if Widmore had his way. Rainsford was a man designed best for death's work. The ersatz island leader could hardly have a chance. For the first time in his life, Harriman felt keenly the lingering burning silver touch of a deal with the devil.

Offertory Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum... ~ Offertory fragment, used in the requiem Spring, 1996 ~ Spain The abduction went off perfectly on schedule. Rainsford was in precarious position on a clay tile roof, motionless in the shadowy lee of an anachronistic modern chimney. He observed while Benjamin Linus offered himself up to Widmore's three employees without struggle. His lips pursed when the men divested their captive of his belongings and drove away. It had gone quickly, cleanly, and far too easily. Rainsford held the firm belief that by the time he reached his secondary observation post in the countryside, the encounter would be nearly over. The men were confident, the ops leader on the mission secure in his control of the situation, certain he could frighten Linus with the risk of death. Rainsford's suggestions to further control and bind the captive when claimed had gone onto deaf ears, his offering of simple plastic cuffs were rebuffed as rudely as he had expected. He was only another arrogant, pushy American to them. They had the matter well in hand. Well. That perception would change by day's end and Rainsford wouldn't have to lift a finger. He felt curiously proud of his new opponent. Linus would do most of Rainsford's personnel work for him. Not bad for a civilian. This might be a fun job after all. ~*~ As predicted, by the time Rainsford had gotten himself up on his selected vantage point amidst brush and trees, the incident was coming to its expected close. With eyes narrowed behind beige Steiner binoculars, Rainsford watched without emotion as Linus killed Donne, the bald head now disfigured by a shattering series of bullets. He watched as the survivor seamlessly dismantled the weapon and scattered it into the sewage lines beneath the bridge, leaving the scene with as little evidence as he could manage. Control of the situation. It was inspiring to watch this latecomer to the game handle himself so professionally. Rainsford watched a vehicle pass over the two men, one living, one dead, without recognition of the drama. He was amused by life's little arrangements. The people in the vehicle almost certainly believed life to be uninteresting and full of peace, never to realize how close the hunt could pass to them at any time. A bird sounded out to the bright morning, some small, iron-voiced hunting creature. Its harsh song seemed to be calling out the victor, little predators all tied together in the serene fields. Rainsford did not flinch in any way when Linus's battered face rose up at the sound and scanned the countryside – motion would call his position out and he did not intend yet to arrange a closer look at his opponent. His sleepy eyes flickered a little, watching the other man spit fresh blood onto the Alcarria grass. Watching him wend his way, limping slowly, limping steadily and without pause, back towards the village. Rainsford could have ended it right then; he had brought the rifle just in case. He did not. He could have slipped up on the man, broken his neck, cut short the hunt in a dozen different ways. He would not. He wanted to know more about his new job. He wanted to know about this weird little man and the rage he had caused. He wanted to see into the man's blue eyes when he cornered him. It was curiosity. Mostly, Rainsford's duties were distant men, balaclava'd or otherwise unseen. Death by video game. Death by

detachment. This one could be different. He could make it personal. Make it interesting. Make it worth Widmore's absolutely absurd amounts of money. Who didn't like a good hunt? There was no hurry. Benjamin Linus was due a surprise of his own. ~*~ Ben made it back into the United States without further incident. He was weary. The game was fully afoot, and he regarded his duty as very well advanced. Charles Widmore's eyes were now wholly turned toward the island and towards himself – what good Widmore's angered, lustful, re-ignited obsession for the island would do Jacob, Ben could not fathom. He had taken a man on the downside of entangling himself in a life beyond the island and riled him back into combat for the place. Acted as bait. Danced from country to country to drive the bastard mad with curiosity. But that was the job, and it was his job, and he had done this thing without pause. Regrets? Well. The cost was high enough as he reckoned, a year or more of his daughter's life unseen, his hands dipped deep into blood, his very ways of thinking changed to something dark and unsettling. His thoughts scuttled within him, emotions burying themselves against carefully crafted veneers and increasingly labyrinthine ideas and plans all designed to busy his mind away from introspection, but the weariness still seeped through. Perhaps now he could rest. Steal a little more peace hidden away on the island. Watch his daughter grow tall and free and live a gentler life than he had known. It was the only thing he allowed himself to hope for, sometimes. It was the only thing he felt he could guarantee. Portland and their private dock was now just an hour away. The submarine would be waiting, waiting for him to arrive, waiting for him to go home. He departed his airport taxi in a small town, ready to take a private rented vehicle towards Mittelos Bioscience and then on. Ready for something that was not there. He lost twenty minutes arguing with the checking clerk, his paperwork in hand that informed the young woman that, indubitably, a vehicle awaited him. She examined a computer screen, then examined it again. Her brow furrowed. His did the same. “I'm very sorry, sir. The car's been cancelled by your company.” “What?” His voice edged up. This was not even remotely close to plan. Was it some game? “Please, I'm very sorry. It says I need to grab my supervisor.” Ben said only, “Please do.” His voice was ice, ice not so much to frighten the clerk but to freeze his own frenzied thoughts into place. Had something gone wrong? Was this another of Jacob's duties? Had Richard enacted some strange trick on him, at last deciding Ben was not fit to return to the island? He swallowed heavily and pushed all his thoughts away. He stilled himself and waited. ~*~ The supervisor, an almost perfectly round man whose nametag read 'Bill,' was a surly sort that had to be urged out of the back room. He had examined the clerk's terminal with cursory interest, then disappeared back into the small rental agency's offices. Then he had returned with a sealed plain envelope, not a word or stamp to mark it, and handed it over to Ben. “They cancelled your car yesterday, sir. This arrived this morning, with orders to pass it to you when you arrived. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience.” The man's lips curved into the meaningless smile of those taught professionally to pretend to care about another's troubles and then he vanished again into the back. The clerk continued to look uncomfortable, Ben's brittle stare honed to unnerving ends. It wasn't her fault, but Ben was deeply vexed. With a resigned shake of his head, he took the envelope outside to read.

Benjamin, I'm very sorry – canceling the rental and sending this note seemed like the quickest and quietest ways to alert you. The dock isn't secure. I don't know what happened or how our security was compromised, but we can't trust the location. We withdrew the submarine immediately with all cleared mainland personnel pulled onboard. Including myself. Right now, you're the only one of us out there. I've included the rest of Mr. Norton's contacts, plus the addresses of a few safehouses. They're all scrambled in case this note is intercepted. You'll know the key. Remember Alex's lion? We'll try to monitor what's going on as best as possible, try sending the submarine out to our secondary location. Unfortunately, oceanic conditions make it probable that we won't get clearance to do that for at least three months. It's very likely going to be longer. We're to be kept busy meantime. Don't worry about Alex. She's doing well. I suspect Widmore's hand in this. Jacob is pleased by your attention to his command and sends his belief that you will survive and sustain until we can bring you home. Keep safe, Benjamin. Again, I'm very sorry. ~Richard Ben read and reread the note, his carefully crafted armor of mental ice boiling away into a rising, wordless panic. He gasped his breath in, his eyes bulging. He jerked his head up, scanning the green Oregon treeline as if goblins and torturers waited there for him. Nothing moved. Everything was silent, save for the hysteric whirl of his thoughts. Blood pounded in his ears and his fingers had gone numb. Alone! Far from his only known place of safety, suddenly encased by pure solitude, trapped in a cage made of the very world. Something rose out of the chaos, a thought born deep within himself, a thought coldly rational, a realization that brought him to a mental and physical standstill: His life was no longer calculated solely by the rhythm of his plans. This was another man's elegantly executed gambit. Benjamin Linus stared up at a sky pocked with the evening's first stars. The panic was pulled back under control, and now his thoughts turned only to his own security. There would be much to do, and far to run to safety. The nearest safehouse was on the other side of state lines and the cash he had on hand was minimal. It was clear to him that the stakes had gone up - he was being hunted, no longer merely chased after like hare and hound as he had been sent to do, and now the gates of the game preserve had slammed shut. Anger, bitterness, frustration, fear, all these things warred within him. Anger won out amongst his other emotions, necessary against the terror that would destroy him, if he let it. Anger gave him one snarled outburst, one release before he vanished alone into the uncaring night. “Son of a bitch!” There will now be a brief intermission before the Requiem continues.

Intermezzo I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here We must have died alone, a long long time ago ~ David Bowie, “The Man Who Sold The World” 1. Alexandra The polar bear, that ancient and creaky combatant, eyed its youthful leonine opponent with the determination of long experience with war. They circled each other, pacing, thinking, plotting, planning. Two dangerous beings, the grandest and mightiest Nature could create upon mortal earth. Locked in interminable combat for uncountable ages. It must end, the bear knew. The lion could not stand forever. The lion would fall. There would be only one king of the island, and he would rule. His paws would carve the history of his line into stone, his terrible claws would become his sigil, a mighty banner to wave over the world itself. “ARRRRGH!” growled Alex, and she pounced Mr. Ted onto Andy, the newcomer plush lion. Andy fell over, looking humiliated in its little red sweater. Mr. Ted squatted in triumph where she plopped him, slumped, the loose stuffing in one of his legs causing him to tilt aside. Gimpy but proud. She made a delighted little noise and swooped Ted up for another hug. She did love Andy, too, but Mr. Ted had been with her forever. “Alex?” Richard had suddenly appeared, framed in her bedroom doorway. He was still in one of the suits he wore on the mainland. His dark-limned eyes looked down at her with a worried expression. He was alone. The little girl clutched the bear tight to her, lip already quavering. “Where's Daddy?” “Alex, I-” She pulled upright, frantic. “You said he'd be home today! You promised! Daddy promised!” “I'm so sorry, Alex, there was a problem at the dock and I'm sure he's very, very sorry. We'll try to get him home soon.” Awkwardly looming over her, Richard reached out a hand as if trying to comfort. His eyes looked large and dark, unknowable. She shrunk away, her own eyes wide and wet. “You always say that!” She dodged the hand and hurdled past Richard, darting outside to her favorite grove of trees to hide from him. Two birthdays missed now. And the last time Daddy had been home, he had been strange and distant and still sad. He was always sad when she saw him. Alex had long since begun to worry that it was her fault he was so odd, and that he didn't like coming back because of her. He never said anything about what he did off the island. He talked so little to her, just looking with that worried face. It was easy to be afraid that she'd done something terrible and had never known. Dad brought her things whenever he visited; toys, books, little pictures of the world outside. He wasn't there hardly ever. Just Richard, and Richard was weird. It was like he didn't know anything about being a kid. He didn't know how to play lion and bear properly. And usually he'd go on about the great works Jacob had planned, or their history, as if any of that was supposed to make her feel better. It was awful and boring, so she hid in the jungle a lot with Mr. Ted and Andy and played pretend instead. That was good. She could imagine she had a mommy there. Someone that was there, and happy, and still made ugly little pancakes for her every morning like daddy used to and didn't anymore.

2. Norton In Dan Norton's professional estimation, Mittelos Bioscience was a shit sandwich encased in diamond-encrusted gold. It was a nightmare to work with, it smelled awful, you wouldn't want to spend a lot of time with it if at all possible, but its value was priceless. It would be a dream client, if it wasn't such a beast to work with. Answers to simple questions, like who he ultimately answered to and what purpose his various odd jobs needed to fulfill... It was like trying to get a dispensation for murder from the Pope without ever actually using the word 'murder.' You knew you weren't going to get one anyway, but you had to dick around with semantics for a week just to try and soothe your own conscience. And now – what the Christ. More illegal garbage he had to wrangle. Mr. Linus was a major player in the facility, he knew that. Norton usually got his marching orders from Dr. Alpert, but increasingly, the messages themselves were from Alpert's boss. Norton had the idea that this guy, Linus, had his own boss, but that was info kept from him. He tried to get people to understand that if matters were 'need-to-know,' he sure as fuck had a need to know, and that by the very law they sought to use, he was purely on their side. His argument cut no ice. Fine. They overpaid the bills with a fanatic devotion to the schedule. He could adapt. He'd adapted to becoming a one-party lawyer with ease, pulling his full team over the project. It helped that it was all buttressed by fantastic compensation. He'd created a side team of international legal experts just for this corporation and dutifully ignored that most of what they were consulted for constituted criminal law and not just business. Plenty of that, too – the Austrian job had been clockwork. And now – passport shuffling, foreign and offshore shell bank accounts, sheafs of documents. All for this one guy. The phone calls had been crazy enough, starting with the very first. Mr. Linus had called the emergency line in the dead of night, hauling Norton out of bed for a personal discussion for the first time since he'd signed on for this job. He'd plucked up the phone, made his greeting, and the line had clicked faintly. There had been the briefest pause. “Hang up,” barked a curt voice. “Use the special phone.” Fuck me, the lawyer had snarled to himself, pulling on a coat. 'Special phone' meant driving into the cheapest, roughest part of LA and waiting in the back room of a scary butcher shop that never seemed to close. The dark side of the sandwich, indeed. The ensuing discussions – really monologues of fresh demands as time passed – outlined dead drop mail correspondence, random phone calls from random locations, and a series of Swiss bank arrangements. Good thing these guys had green to blow. How, Norton wasn't sure, but he wasn't their accountant. What Linus wanted ultimately, and wanted fast, was money on hand, acquired via as untraceable a method as possible. Money could arrange the rest of what the man needed. Money, under these circumstances, would cost money. He could do it. He'd have to wake up half his contacts on the other side of the Atlantic, but if that's what his goldcoated client wanted, well all right. Dan Norton was adaptable. If Mr. Linus said he was going to go to ground overseas, his lawyer was going to be there to arrange his complimentary bag of peanuts and an in-flight drink.

3. Charles Widmore It was not in Charles' nature to waste time musing over an action already completed. It was in his nature to enjoy an occasional private gloat. Benjamin had somehow gotten the better of him. Scuttled a critical element of his upcoming European expansion, came and went throughout the world despite his private army of informants and meddlers. Mittelos thrived, secretly, and he had never managed to gain renewed access to what he knew intimately was the island's primary port of call. He had nearly been able to give it all up – his past, his reign over the island, the life and love he had shared and lost with Eloise. But then the boy had to emerge into his new world. The rat. Charles scowled into his shotglass, his eye reflected in the amber liquid of his private stock of MacCutcheon whisky. He drank it down and grunted appreciatively. It was bitter, acidic in his throat while settling like a fire in his belly, and it was exactly what he wanted. Rainsford... that had been a prize. A gentle prod to the American's state department, a few memos back and forth, a little money spread around, and then men had been falling over each other to assist Mr. Widmore. SIS brats weren't enough. They dared not push against what Widmore demanded, refused to accomplish what he could not ask. Even Donne would only have shot to wound. Widmore's word was law to these men. They did not think for themselves. The agent would. It didn't matter what the rat had thought he'd learned out here in the wide open world. Rainsford would track him. Find him. Remove a thorn from Widmore's paw. And when he had been given Benjamin's corpse, as he would request when Rainsford reported his eventual success, he would present himself to the island's keepers. Clearly the boy had not been fit. Clearly Widmore was the better ruler. It was his island. He remembered it now, all the dreams. His oaths. His own innocence cast aside, his daughter lost to him in anger and misunderstanding. Charles wanted to go home. He tossed his shotglass aside with a clatter and disappeared into the depths of the penthouse suite to sleep. To dream. To shout in the night.

Sanctus Pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua... ~ a portion of the Sanctus prayer Late Spring, 1996 ~ Botswana, inside the Kalahari Central “You want a story, young man, and a story I'll give you.” The aging game hunter dug his stick through the embers of the dying campfire. It snapped back at him, thoroughly untamed. The hunter, Beazy, as he had introduced himself, looked balefully at his blackening stick. He shoved it the rest of the way in and grabbed himself a fresh branch of acacia. The fire approved of the man's offering and rekindled slightly, burning the surroundings a brighter shade of orange. “But you get to be quiet through it; else I'm apt to lose track, lose my way.” “Of course.” The reply was low and melodic. Shadows kept Beazy's companion shrouded on the far side of the flames. The shape shifted slightly, hands clasping before him, hunched over slightly in the position of someone listening intently. “Hm.” Beazy grunted with approval. A patient man. Not enough of those left out in the world. Beazy had taken a liking to this taciturn traveller over the last week. Not any of that false bravado some of the big shots from the outside world liked to show off. Might've actually lasted through a real hunt, though the man didn't seem much interested in the kill rights he'd paid for. Was enough for him, he'd told Beazy, to get a better look at the Kalahari. Up close. All he wanted was to exit the preserve on the far side, near Zambia. Had travel to continue with, he'd said. Well, that was all right by Beazy. Less trouble, more soft living, good pay, and no bullshit dramatics up his nose. “So you was asking about the Bushmen, and I gather that's what I ought to get to.” “The !Kung,” interjected the man, and Beazy grunted. “Your click's off. Don't matter in the long run. Sure, yeah, the !Kung. All right.” He shrugged. “Good people. Good trackers, though they're getting fucked much the same as everythin' is out here. Something's coming their way and I don't much like it. They're as important to the land as the lions and the grass, but you can't tell no fancy-ass peckerwood diamond salesman that.” Beazy sighed. “Lot of history getting lost out here. Time changes, keeps changin'. Don't think that's always a good thing. “So I know a man out here. Born here, lived out there.” He jutted his jaw out, towards the west. “Came back. He's shaman now, was when I met him, and he can tell a tale like nobody. So I ain't gonna give you more'n a bit of my tale, I'm gonna give you his, and God bless if I can tell it half as well as he can. “First of all, suppose I can say how I met him. I was younger then, had more hair and fewer scars. My old tracker kind of set it off; we had a bad hunt, and he wanted to go home, see his kids, talk to the shaman, get the old magic back in him. So, all right, I was a bit down m'self... Out of the blue he asks me to go with him. Now, I respect the tribes, but they ain't too partial to outsiders usually, and getting an invite to come home to meet the family? I was a bit skeptical, but why not. Had to promise to not memorize the trail or nothing, tell nobody, cuz they were sneakin' into the Central to keep hunting.” Beazy stopped for a moment, fishing around his pockets for a hand-rolled cigarette. He offered it to his companion, who declined with a shake of his head. Lighting up the treat for himself, the old hunter continued. “And we get out there, it's a two day trip to travel, and his family is as kind hearted and welcomin' as you can picture. Quite a surprise to me, we're still all friends now. We spend a week there before getting back to the lodge, and on the third night, I'm out for a smoke. There's a fella wrapped up in a fine cloth, standing over by a bush. Kinda doing his own thing. “'Evenin', sir,' I say, polite as can be. Mostly a lost cause over language differences, but it's right to try. And he nods back, this nice little tilt of the head, and he clicks something long and rapid at

me. Looks at me expectantly. Well, I kinda made a foxed little sound, like 'Bzuh,' musta looked a fool all puzzled like I was. “And he tosses his head back and laughs long and loud. 'Call me Jimmy,' he says, perfect English. And I go, 'Well, all right. I can do that.' He laughs again, and I start to open my mouth. And then he says, 'I know your name, son, but I'll call you Bzuh, since that is how you introduced yourself to me.' Only he says it like 'Beazy,' and there's one story for you. Kinda pointless, but it's my own, eh?” Beazy chuckled to himself, tapping out his decayed cigarette and tossing it into the fire. “Did he know your name?” “Oh sure. Not too surprising, only white son of a bitch for a hundred miles and I was the talk of the village. Course-” and now Beazy's eyes took a contemplative cast. “Supposedly he'd been out doing his travellin' for the last two months afore I'd seen him. That night was the first he'd been back. So who knows. Never missed a chance to call himself a shaman.” The man on the other side of the fire didn't reply. He tilted his head down, caught in a thoughtful pose of his own. “So all right, let me get to it. I know Jimmy a few years and for a few beers and I get another real bad night. Ain't gonna tell that story, but let me just say Tchi!xo and I god damn near up and split the gig forever afterward. Ain't right, the sort of thing we seen, but that's the world for you. We get back to the lodge, and there's Jimmy waiting for us, like we might want a friend that ain't gonna do more'n ask if we want an egg in our beer. Which we did not, sir, that was a night to sail with the good Captain MacCutcheon and nothing less.” He bellowed out a wry laugh. Something cawed back from the darkness, affronted by the intrusion. “And after we're done and sane again and got a few fingers of fine and pricey Scotch down the three of us, my tracker goes and passes out. Can't handle his liquor, fine fellow in all other respects. It's Jimmy and me, and we're out in the dark, and we're quiet for a long time. Then he tells me he's gonna tell me a story, cause it's a story that might want a telling another time. All right, Jimmy, you want to give me a lullaby, I was not in a position to disagree. So this is what he tells me -” Before the Sun was Son, and the earth knew it could bleed, all things were one thing, and all hearts were together. And to this world wandered the jackals and the lions and the lizards and the birds. And all things truly were one thing in its heart and in its soul, and there was no battle, no hunger, no fear. Now in those days, jackals weren't cowards. They could track, they led the games that the Gods played on earth, and they howled mad song at the stars. Each creature was born special. Well, come a time, the Gods think time should change. And Mama jackal threw her the first pair, all up together. And a God came and told the pair that they were still one. That they'd never live without one another, and that they could only be complete together. Well, that was all right, and the jackals grew up together, healthy and strong, and the paths they raced together still track along the land, where nothing grows because they ran too fast chasing each other. But one jackal was always just a bit faster than the other. Its cry was a bit sweeter, and Mama came to like him a little better. Was that right? I can't say, but they were to be one – the love was shared anyway, right? Well, the other one came to not feel so much. Came to feel a little lonely. Jackal child goes out into the desert for a long, long time. Nobody comes to look for him, and that makes him feel worse. And he's out there, and finally he comes across himself a God. Not one that speaks much, but here he is. And he sits down on his haunches next to this mighty one, and they're quiet together for a long, long time. Finally, the God speaks. “You are one.” Jackal child cries and cries. “I don't feel one. I and me, and me alone.” “You can be together forever, as one, and you can never be alone.” Jackal child denies, and his howl is high and sweet and sad, caught up with something his

brother never felt. “Mama is gone to me.” “Mama will always be yours.” “How?” only it comes out as a howl. “Listen,” says the God, and it tells jackal child the secrets of the whole heart. Next day, jackal child goes home. Nobody says anything, it's like he just went for a trot around the desert. He's all right with that. And when the sun sets and the moon shines, he curls up next to his brother like they did as pups, and says to him, “It's all right, brother. We're always one. We'll never be apart.” Come the morning, Mama finds jackal child. And Mama shrieks. For she's seeing something terrible, something new come on the world. Only it's old, so old. For jackal child's wearing his brother's blood, and on his lips is his brother's heart, which is his soul, and HIS soul. And on his lips is his brother's brains, which is his memory, and HIS memory. And they are one now, always and forever. And jackal child sings out a joyous howl while Mama screams and screams and he yips off into the desert and teaches the lions and the lizards and the birds about the secrets of the blood. How to make it all one again. And the earth itself weeps, because it's all bloody now, and there's hunger and fear and the hunt. And jackal's a coward now, mostly, because the pain of the heart's secret enraged his old kin, the lions and the lizards and the birds, and they taunt at him now. Jackal knows it all, but nobody wanted to know it in the first place. Innocence gone, you see. But he's One. Is that what he should have been? Man can't know for sure. You just taste the heart and find out. High cost either way. Beazy fell into silence. The other man remained still, jerking for a moment when the hunter abruptly clapped his hands together once. “So! That was Jimmy's story. And I told him he was full of shit for giving me a bunch of Original Sin parable after the day I had. He just laughed and laughed at me. 'Beazy,' he says. 'Wasn't the fuckin' point. Just a story I made up, though I hope it helps to keep you up at night a little bit.' “'Well what WAS the point, you holy fucking turd?' I about bellow at him. “'I just wanted to lie to you a little while.' And I call him some more names, and then he puts his hands on my arm and says, 'This is the important part, and you pass this on whenever someone asks. Cause there's a secret in it, a sacred one.' He cleared his throat and looked at the other man expectantly. Long pause. “What was the important part?” The tone was curious, if perhaps a bit confused. “He leans in and tells me, 'A lie, son. A lie is sometimes nothing more than a truth that hasn't happened yet.'” Beazy leaned back, harrumphing a little to himself. There was a long silence. And then Benjamin Linus began to laugh, a strange and delighted sound that rattled from him like knuckles on dark and heavy wood. ~*~ After the realization that Norton's lines were tapped, Ben took extreme caution when approaching the safehouse just beyond the Oregon border. He'd ridden by it as a hitchhiker in another man's Peterbilt, his coat and suit left aside for the dirtied clothes of a job-seeking vagrant. There was a plain beige van parked up on concrete blocks a few hundred feet away from the house. Its dirty windows were dark, and there were crooked curtains inside the vehicle. His instinct told him the situation was unsafe. Another bypass going the other way showed the barest adjustment of the curtains and he rode with the second truck for two hours beyond. It was likely safe to assume that all the safehouses had been discovered and he adjusted his orders to the lawyer accordingly. The likeliest assumptions he could make were that his current hunters were European or

American. Widmore was straightforward in his planning and wouldn't go heavily far afield. To improve his chances of moving undetected until contact with the others was reestablished, he would benefit from being in territory less familiar to his enemy. Tactical consideration meant getting out of the States, getting into zones where he could move rapidly and stay under public radar. The problem was that he was not yet practically experienced in world travel himself. Scattered visits to Europe aside, a handful of languages he taught himself out of books, these things did not mean he could jet-set everywhere easily. If he faced a well-rounded team or even one truly experienced soldier, then they could still handily catch up with him. They had an advantage. All he had was chaos: not to move in patterns, to not allow any rationality to his movements. It might be enough. They would be seeking him for purpose, but he was simply buying time. If he could wait them out, hide long enough, he would win. This train of thought let him to land in southern Africa. A whim had given him paperwork for Botswana and money would speed his way in any direction he chose. He'd attached himself to a safari group and then this hunter's lodge, all with the notion of traveling north. There were stories he had been told of a way out of the island from deep within it. He wanted to go look at this rumored exit, perhaps he might wend a way back from there. It was worth a hope. Worth enough hope to risk a logical stop in his chaotic path. He might buy enough time to try without capture. ~*~ Ben split from Beazy's caravan fifty miles south from the Zambia border with a promise to someday return and meet Jimmy himself. Though Ben could not have known, Beazy would never be the man to help arrange that possible future encounter. Rainsford's requisitioned Agency video techs and various streams of airport footage put him on Ben's trail less than a week behind. The old hunter was uncooperative, sympathetic to the man who'd hung on the shaman's story with real interest. Beazy's corpse was left near a watering hole favored by a pack of the local canids, destroying the evidence that the death was anything more than Nature's wrath. From Zambia, Ben lucked onto smugglers and money-loyal traffickers. He zig-zagged throughout central Africa, guided by men who themselves knew no grid, and dropped entirely from Rainsford's radar. When Rainsford called Widmore to update him on progress, Widmore merely laughed at his carefully controlled frustration. “Tunisia, boy. Try Tunisia. He'll go there, he's got that much predictability. Little rats always try to run home, and deep inside, boy, he is nothing more than a frightened little rat. I know him well enough to know this.” Good enough for Rainsford. He immediately sent spotters from a military base in Egypt to both Tunis and Tozeur, with orders to curry favor with local informants wherever possible.

Pie Jesu Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Dona eis requiem sempiternam. ~ the Pie Jesu, common to requiem mass Ben was denied his Tunisian hope. For two days he listened to children translate for him gossip and rumors, local legends, and he would mark them off as failed dreams. Men watched him, the foreign traveler, come and go with inscrutable expressions. Ben was uneasy about the attention, but proceeded anyway. Feelings of hollow desolation made him willing to continue with the risks. But no ruins or other intransient objects stood at these places where he was sent, nothing he could interact with. If the exit rested in the sands beyond Tozeur, then it was indeed wholly one way. His failing attempt to go home on his own recognizance tore at him the most when he was guided towards the great salt lake – the Chott el Djerid. He stood on its shores on the evening of his second day, with heat still rising from the sand and salt. As he watched, loneliness gnawing at his heart, the image of an island formed on the horizon, hovering above the surface of the crusting lakebed. Distant and hazy, flattened and strange, no green and grey mountains were visible to him. He knew it was nothing more than fata morgana, an illusion of nature. It didn't help the sensation he had of being mocked. He stayed there for a long time, watching the island waver and fade with the setting sun. Coolness began to settle over the desert while the stars came out. He might have been said to pray, in his fashion. A full-hearted petition to Jacob, to an unobservant 'God,' a supplication for the sake of himself and his distant daughter. Ben missed her – missed seeing the little girl grow up happy and strong, missed it so much that even the few times he had been home, he couldn't stop thinking of how he would have to leave again, lose more of her life. His thoughts echoed within himself. He might have addressed his hopes to anyone that he thought would listen. But he believed no one heard him. All the miracles of the island surrounding his life, and yet there was a piece of the skeptic growing within him. A Thomas. For what reason had he done all this, become a predator and then someone else's prey? Jacob's reason? He believed once, with all his heart. Obeyed without hesitation. Now he no longer knew anything, he had been left alone too long with his own mind. The more he learned of the world, the less he understood. He looked at his hand, and the shadow of his hand where it stretched along the salt, and fancied for a while that they did not match. He felt alien in his own skin. When he left, he wedged a thick baggie filled with expertly-made copies of his expertly-faked passports into the base of a stone cairn. It was near the exit, after all. Nuts stored against another future winter. This thing had been done to him once. It might happen again. ~*~ 'Dean Moriarty' was the name on the hotel's registry. The paperwork had been scrawled on with a fine longhand script, none of the hesitation that could be spotted in a signature written by someone unfamiliar with what was supposed to be their own name. Again, Rainsford felt proud of his opponent. It was excellent work. He had no doubts that the trail associated with the name would be almost entirely legitimate, tracing back through labyrinthine circles of veracity before vanishing into nothing. There were a few minutes left before the desk clerk returned. He copied down a quick map of the hotel and made a list of the amenities Ben had ordered. Trivia, but it would lead to an understanding of what the man could be actually like. Rainsford examined what he had written down as he slipped away from check in and down

corridors and up stairs. Little of it was particularly remarkable. Ben had a light dinner of fruit, imported cheese, and lamb. He'd called for a bottle of wine. The hotel had a surprisingly expansive cellar and he'd picked a '95 Muscadet white. Rainsford grunted; it wasn't much of a notable choice in the grander circles of wine snobbery. Extra bath linens, a laundry service. Delivery handled for a set of new clothing. Rainsford noted the name of the deliverer as a local merchant who dealt in fashions purely created from high quality Egyptian cotton. Trivia indeed – a fastidiously clean man by preference, a taste for simplicity that did not sacrifice quality. Efficiency. The occasional whimsical grandeur. The agent approved. A shame about their circumstances. He was coming to like Mr. Linus. At least he could offer a little courtesy. ~*~ Ben woke abruptly. The dim orange burn of dawn crept through the barred window of his room and danced across his slitted eyes. He kept his breathing slow and regular, as close to still asleep as he could sound. Something was off. His hand snaked under the pillow and started to wrap itself around the gun's handle. “Don't bother. I unloaded it.” Ben lay still, assessing the voice. Trying to determine whether or not it was a bluff while also pushing aside the sudden rush of sickening anger with himself at having been caught. Something dropped onto the foot of the bed, barely catching the spreading light. It was small and rectangular. Ben's stomach dropped when he realized it was a loaded magazine clip. He was quick – in no way was he going to recover it, load, and fire before his visitor retaliated. He let go of the gun and very slowly slid into a seated position, keeping his hands visible as much as possible. “All right, you've got the advantage,” he murmured. His eyes tried to pick out details, noting an average male shape by the door, little else. “Yes,” came the pleased response. Rainsford stepped forward, still shrouded in morning shadows, and scooped up the clip again. “I'll give you a few minutes. Then come down and join me for breakfast. It isn't a request, you understand.” “Of course.” Ben's eyes widened, then narrowed again as Rainsford slipped out the door. He set his emotions to work at thinking, rather than reacting. There wasn't enough room for flight. The other man's demeanor had been too confident. Running just now would be futile. Ben set his jaw. There was only one road as yet and he'd have to follow it at the other man's behest. He'd have to try and forge a trail at a different junction. At least he could think over some coffee.

Agnus Dei Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem, Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem sempiternam. ~a portion of the Agnus Dei, requiem petition Ben paused in the lobby, looking across and into the dining area. At the moment, he and his hunter were the only two recognizable foreigners present. The man was seated at a simple table that was centered against a large half-circle window. The view from it was expansive, the sun blazing over high roofs, shadows stretching from alleys between market booths. The implication was worrying – the man had control of multiple vantage points and was flaunting it to Ben. He was not here alone. A twitch rose in Ben's cheek and he clenched it away. Already the situation was off to a rocky start. He would have to hope for a more novel way out. With a casualness he did not actually feel, Ben put his hands in his pockets and ambled with regulated slowness towards the other man. He moved his neck slightly now and again, but not his eyes. He used the careful movement to try and pick out others within the immediate vicinity. No, the man was within the hotel itself alone. Two old men played a board game by the distant kitchen door, their boredom and harsh language with each other too natural to be staged. Men occasionally passed through, deliverymen, a butcher, serving staff. The man rose and introduced himself to Ben. Rainsford, and nothing more. Ben did not have the advantage of Widmore's lawyer. No folder sat on the table before the other man. No rings, no history on the man's pale flesh. Ben inclined his head politely and took the opposite chair when gestured to. “I'd offer my own polite introduction, but it'd be rather a waste of time, don't you think?” He smiled broadly, without blinking. Rainsford chuckled and gestured for a staffer. “Coffee for us. Fruit and some of the local yogurt. Thank you.” He waved a hand at Ben. “It's a small breakfast, but why overburden ourselves? Busy day ahead,” he said, and he gave a quick little vulpine smile. “Is it? I'm sorry to hear. I'd planned something more relaxing myself. Maybe a bus trip.” Ben kept his tone light, his gaze locked on the other man's face. “That's life, always with its little rescheduling.” The staffer returned with their breakfast. He left a carafe on the table. Steam and the smell of a rich dark brew rose from it. Rainsford poured them both a cup, his sleeves rolled up and Ben's line of sight for the activity deliberately clear. He pushed one of the porcelain cups towards Ben, then added sugar and a dollop of milk to his own. “I'll let you handle your own additives. I don't think you'd appreciate my preference.” Ben made a soft noise and left his black. No point in playing with further risks. Rainsford shrugged and took a long sip. His half-lidded, sleepy eyes watched Ben, who himself merely looked back at him. “I'd like to thank you, Ben.” “What for?” Rainsford tipped his cup towards the other man in a salute. “Not immediately starting to beg for your life. You're still trying to think a way out of this. You can't, but I respect the attempt.” The vulpine smile again. “I really hoped this would be a fun job, and it was. You really messed me up with your trip out here. Good thing Widmore knows you so well, huh?” Ben's expression remained neutral. “Happy to have brightened your day.” He took a sip of his coffee, then flicked his gaze back up to the American. He decided to poke. There was nothing to lose. “You don't think I can make a move? Going to kill me right here, brains all over the brick?”

“Widmore'd prefer it if we keep things clean. He also said he wanted you alive, but you know, I don't think he really meant it.” Rainsford jutted his jaw towards the wide window. “I brought a full team with me. We've got every exit watched, windows under surveillance, hell, my friend, we dropped a few sensors in the plumbing just in case.” He picked up the bowl of thick, honey-sweetened yogurt and gave it a stir before continuing. “Running's done. So what I'm going to do is give you a little courtesy - let you finish your last meal in peace and I will wait right outside the main entrance. You have five minutes from when I get up from the table. If you move from this seat and do not emerge from that door within two minutes, we'll come in. You do not want that. It will become uncomfortable for you.” Rainsford smiled. “I'd rather do this as painlessly for you as possible. It was interesting, but I'm not going to be a monster. Not even for Widmore.” “Much appreciated.” He thought quickly, trying to buy more time. His brow furrowed. “Just a question before the clock starts ticking – what took you down this road?” “What's that?” “Your career. Your... duty, if you like. Obviously you're a professional.” Rainsford laughed. “Professional hunter of men. Been with my people a long time.” He dropped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I like you, I'll tell you the honest truth. I don't like the killing itself. The hunt itself is interesting, and I like how the tech guys do their job. We can bug anything anywhere within days – track a normal man so thoroughly that we could time his bathroom habits. Anything I want to know, anything I want to see, I can find a way to do it. The world's mine, and I like to go look at it. My job lets me. But the whole of it is, the absolute truth?” He leaned back again and spread his fingers on the table. “Been doing it so long, I don't know how to do anything else.” “Mm.” “I don't want to, either.” “You never wanted a normal life?” Ben watched the man carefully, carrying a little genuine care for the answer. A part of his mind kept working swiftly at a plan. “Normal is a lie. There is no normal. Two point five kids? Picket fence?” Rainsford slitted his eyes in memory. He looked serene. “I watched men die. Iraq, Mogadishu. I watched the light go out of their eyes while pieces of them were still stuck to the walls around them. There's nothing there after that but meat. I've made my peace with that, and I've made peace with the fact that I'm never going to move to Kansas and take a lady and not see red dripping wherever I go. So I'll do what I'm good at. I know my place in the world, and it's just turning meat into meat.” “My god,” Ben said, his voice droning sardonically. “A genuine moral nihilist.” Rainsford burst into laughter. “Thrasymachus couldn't sustain the argument, I'm not sure we can succeed at true nihilism and not fall into hypocrisy.” He pointed at Ben. “Let me guess – you prefer the Stoics.” “I confess to a fondness for the Meditations.” “Ah. Logos.” “Wouldn't say I'm dogmatic about the concept. Let's say I'm in transition.” Rainsford gave him a rueful look. “Not for long.” He pushed away from the table, rose, and began to walk away. “Five minutes. Don't get up from that chair until you're ready.” Ben ate a slice of fresh, sweet fruit with contemplative slowness. He did not bother to watch the man leave. ~*~ “Check in, 12 contact, check in.” Rainsford released the walkie's button. He lounged against the arched doorway.

“Hasn't moved, sir. Fruit's gone, on to the white crap.” “Turkish yogurt, you tasteless fuckwit.” A static-laden laugh came over the speaker. He grunted to himself. “He so much as farts, you call in. All contacts, check in.” They did. Nothing out of the ordinary. Another minute. Another round of checks. Nothing. One minute left. “He's moving.” “Describe.” He halted his stopwatch and reset it for two minutes. “Just got up and moved northside, towards you, sir. Very calm.” “Excellent,” murmured Rainsford, although he didn't bother to broadcast it. Ben would go out honorably. He could at least see to that. One minute. Two. Nothing. Rainsford jerked away from the wall and bellowed into his walkie. “What the fuck – report everything you saw! Ground team, we're going in pronto.” Two men dressed in khaki and bulging vests immediately appeared from across the street and flanked Rainsford as he stormed inside. Several others would be entering the building from multiple points. His comm chattered at him, a litany of descriptors, everyone who had come and gone in the last ten minutes. “Laundry truck, no viable transfer, driver didn't exit, they tossed shit in-” “Two waitresses coming in for duty.” “Dude going out for a smoke, west side.” “Go tell him that shit'll kill him. Butcher's taking fresh meat out the back. Nasty.” “Somebody just dropped a bucket of liquid out a window.” “Probably piss!” “Cut the fucking chatter! Report only!” Rainsford swept the lobby, his thoughts ticking. Men would already be upstairs. He shoved aside the chattering desk clerk that appeared in front of him and went into the dining area. A woman was clearing the table. Nothing. He cursed under his breath as he moved and his gaze caught the two old men looking at him. “Sir, we got dick up here. All his stuff's still-” “Shut up.” He shoved the walkie into his pocket, stalked past the men, and threw open the kitchen door. An assortment of startled faces looked at him, but he wasn't what had caused the expressions. A short Arabic man in a blood-streaked shirt was sitting by a sink, an improbably clean towel pressed against his forehead. A cleaver rested next to him. Rainsford's eyes widened, snatching the walkie back up. “6 contact, repeat your report and describe.” “Watched a butcher leave, carrying either a lamb or a calf over his shoulders. Still dripping blood, man, had it all over his fa-” “You fucking idiot,” snarled Rainsford. “Relieved of duty. Get the fuck out of my team, 6. ASAP. You are on a plane in one hour or I kill you my god damned self.” He barked further orders to the rest, preparing to fan out and catch up. ~*~ Ben dropped the lamb in an alley, along with the filthy butcher's coat. His gaze darted back and forth while thinking over the city's map, plotting a route. He had limited time, certainly not enough to permit panic. His own clothing was already stained through, though his passports and cash remained clean. He ran a bloody hand over his bloody face, not doing much except to stick his hair up in wild, copper-rank snarls. Water. He needed water to clean – the windows along the alley were all open holes, surely he

would be able to hang in and appropriate a sink... A man shouted something in Arabic from behind him. Ben whirled, his blue eyes fixing on a tall man in a Berber's cloak. The man was pointing directly at him, but there was no one else close enough to take immediate notice. Without hesitation, Ben advanced on the man and snapped his wrist out. The baton connected with the side of the man's knee and he staggered deeper into the alley with a cry. Ben's free hand grasped the man at the top of his throat, just below his jaw, and drove the top of his skull against the jutting brick of the alley wall. Ben's face contorted as he let the man fall slightly, then he did it again. Ben's lips were drawn back, showing his teeth in a horrified grimace as the man's struggle ended. Blood dripped from the Berber's skull and down the side of his face to mingle with the lamb's blood that already coated Ben's fingers. He released, and the man slumped down, his eyes dull and empty. Ben dry heaved once. Then he tugged the cloak free and wrapped himself within it. Water. Water and flight. He focused on the next step. To think on his last would freeze him.

Communion Lux æterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in æternum, quia pius es. ~ portion of the lux æterna, as used in requiem communion Rainsford relaxed, cross-legged and meditative, on a private Tahitian beach. It shared a side with an intensely private dock, nominally still declared on paperwork linked to Ann Arbor's University of Michigan, but the rent itself was billed to an account that fell down a deep rabbit hole. Irrelevant, but safe to assume it led to Mittelos somehow. They had fed what little they'd discovered on that score to Harriman for research. It kept the fat, rabbity man busy and out of Rainsford's contact. Rainsford was now on his second week of bored surveillance, the beauty of the sea and sky lost on him. His team had long since mapped out the private property and its surrounding areas, noted every inch of the dock, the make of the roadway padlocks, the precise botanical makeup of the lush greenery. A ten man team would be lying in wait for when Ben finally arrived. Meanwhile, they rested. Rainsford was a patient man, and money wasn't an issue. Audio techs listened for chatter out of America. An interconnected series of sonar buoys would sound an alert when the submarine drew near again. No one going to or from the island was going to escape detection at either dock, but Rainsford had focused his team on this one. It was easiest this way. It had been so much fun, but it was time to stop playing and draw matters to a close. Ben had not disappointed. Rainsford's anger at his escape in Tunisia had been genuine, but it had given way to further amused and pleased consideration. For a civilian, for what little Rainsford had eked out about the man's history, he had become a brilliant tactician. A bit slow sometimes to strike when he ought, but he knew when to run. Braver men usually died. ~*~ It had been a grand game. For every move Ben made, Rainsford surrounded him with three men or more. Ben got out every time. He'd charged out of Tozeur in a dead man's cloak, struck out into the wilderness amidst camels and bushels of dried grass. Fled east, not north as Rainsford had initially guessed he might. Across steppes and desert, no doubt grimly determined. No doubt thirsty. Rainsford knew all about the desert, knew looking into its eye too long would drive a man mad. A shame he couldn't have driven Ben further south, back into Africa's heart. That might have gotten intriguing for them both. Doggerel jangled in his mind when he listened to informants describe the pale man who had slipped past them. The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed. It made Rainsford laugh, picturing himself and Linus caught up in fate's wheel. He didn't put much stock in destiny, but still gave the idea a little respect. A worthy enemy was as good as blood kin, and he liked the idea of Ben being a dark little brother. Being the opposite side of the wheel. And the wheel always turned, didn't it? It was Rainsford's idea of comfort. He held no family of his own and liked it that way. He could choose his own family, and had, and mourned them when he inevitably lost them. He might even mourn Ben when it was over. Ben then slipped them at the Gabes port in Tunisia, probably locked within a barrel or hidden among slaves in a hole. Who knows for how long he waited for Rainsford's boots to pass by? Patience. The short man certainly had cultivated that. The squad he'd sent on that leg of the journey gave up at Turkey's border; it had been mere luck that had gotten them an informant who was only too happy to scream about the deadly foreigner. Too

happy to show off his cousin, the marks of an efficient beating left in the corpse's face and chest. The cousin had heard of the payout for information, felt he could earn better with a live capture and paid dearly when he thought he'd cornered Ben. Rainsford accepted his mistake with grace. Informants were thenceforth coached to not try to engage, and at Widmore's allowance he raised the reward value of information received. There had been a moment at the edge of the Black Sea, a single dark shadow among shadows where Rainsford thought he had found Ben himself. But no. Just a man beaten into unconsciousness, his money and ID tracked to a ferry and then dropped. So close. It had given Rainsford a smile all that day. Ben responded by becoming even harder to track, though a member of the FSB - a rebranded intelligence service born in the wake of the disbanded KGB - shared details of an American who was erratically moving east across mainland Russia. It led them to a train headed for Vladivostok, where his next team embarrassed themselves. Benjamin dropped from the train at the station in Khabarovsk and had brutally 'convinced' a pair of smugglers to get him into China. Rainsford hadn't bothered to tag along for that trail. The boys needed practice. Rainsford since learned from Widmore where he needed to be from there. Ben was moving faster the further east he got, becoming impatient. The rat scurrying home, as the businessman liked to insist. Now there was a team fumbling through Shanghai, been at it for a couple of weeks. A city of millions where they held no hope with no leads. Rainsford let them spin their wheels. It was like a vacation, and Widmore had left an open tab. ~*~ In the final score, Ben had done very well with the tools he'd been given. Tactically, he was near a match. Physically, he knew how to compensate. Emotionally, well. He was improving. Rainsford had looked on the dead Berber in the Tozeur alley with a big brother's warm pride. It had been a challenge of survival, of willingness to instantly accept the most efficient and most logical course of action and Ben had risen to it. Rainsford still felt a little sadness about it all. It would be ending too soon, too easily. The hare had no choice but to face the hounds, one against many. Rainsford would not take chances on the final catch; better to overpower the matter and have done. Do it quick, do it clean, go home and wait for the next battle. That said, the agent rather hoped for a last surprise from the other man. Because if there wasn't one, Benjamin Linus had no choice but to die a breath away from what he wanted most. Rainsford was certain of it. Late 1996 ~ The Peace Hotel, Shanghai Ben waited, the phone cradled a little unsteadily against his shoulder. De la Mare's The Return lay open on his lap, one leg crossed over another to better steady the dogged old hardcover. He had only begun to absorb the protagonist's strange predicament when the receiver made a soft noise to alert him that his international call had at last connected. He murmured a few instructions to the assistant Norton had placed in charge of his request and set the book aside. As white noise trickled from the connection, his gaze took in the Huangpu River. Boats floated serenely along its currents, helping him relax. He was approaching what he believed would at last be the final stage of his journey and had not yet pulled together a concrete plan to survive it. Elements, ideas, yes. They scrambled up from dark places, plans crueler than he was comfortable with, but still he thought at them. He had been sleeping poorly, his tactical mind too busy grinding through possibilities. Too busy reviewing all possible permutations. Looking for another way out. It was difficult to enjoy the chaos of Shanghai, caught up still with the need to jump at sounds

in the night. Tunisia had been a regrettable failure on his part, a failure that cost an anonymous man his life. He still felt some dim sorrow for that, and the dull sound of the skull's impact on stone remained fresh to him. Many a restless dream ended with the bony crunch. Not so much thought for the man by the edge of the Turkish sea; Ben could still regret the innocent bystander. Those that stood directly in his path, he had begun to resign himself to their harm. “Lot 2331, sir.” “I only care about the one,” he murmured in response. Footsteps thudded past the locked and bolted door of his suite and he flicked his gaze toward it just in case. No. Merely room service to another visitor. Rapid Mandarin fluttered through the hallway, followed by a soft chuckle. Time passed, he waited. And thought. There was more than one auction going on, it occurred to him. The other one was far more critical. He couldn't predict the shape of the final lot. “A small break. The 2340 set will begin very shortly.” “Thank you.” It was just a whim, a little game to pass the time while he thought. He had last sensed Rainsford's men at the Turkish border, though he wasn't naïve enough to think that had been the last time they were so close. The train towards Vladivostok had held too many appraising stares and he had departed early just in case. Perhaps his hunters were still at the Russian port, waiting for him to appear. He doubted it. And if there were men in Shanghai, what of it? He was safe in the hotel, the staff fond of the eccentric, private persona he had displayed for them. Meanwhile, though, Rainsford was clever, and no doubt Ben had left him angry. Left him more cautious. He knew what would be waiting for him. Tahiti, the secondary port. The old DHARMA dock. And the hunter and his traps. God. All he wanted was to go home. It was so close. It had been so long. He thought of Alex (thoughts now dim and re-colored with nostalgia rather than real memory, hazy around the edges and tasting of loneliness) until the phone broke into his thoughts once more. “2342.” The assistant rattled off the opening litany of bids. “One hundred and eighty.” “Done, sir. Already upped.” He considered, temporarily changing the tracks of his mind. The diary wasn't of real interest to him, but it was something Charles wanted. That was enough to give faint amusement. “Two hundred forty.” “Done. And upped by bidder 755.” “Of course.” Ben smiled to himself. There was no mirth to it, just a meaningless, automatic reaction. His mind was too busy. He drove the bidding to three hundred thousand and then a little more. Three hundred sixty. And lo – he had cost Widmore nearly four hundred thousand dollars for an obscure and waterlogged item that perhaps a half dozen people in the world had real care for. It was petty, but it gave him brief and bitter contentment. Counting coup, one of the oldest games in the world. Games. He had long since tired of this one. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, in his own home. His mind crunched on, but certain aspects of the scenario remained the same. Again: A dock. A submarine. A waiting hunter. Why would Rainsford waste time tracking him at this juncture when all he had to do was stay in the right place? He'd proven to the man that he could wriggle free from snares, so why would Rainsford stress himself to place another? No. There were very few options. If the hunter was not dealt with, Ben would be hunted forever. One jackal chasing another through an endless desert. He shook his head. He would have to bid it all on a risk. A costly, horrible risk. “Sir? Was there else I could do for you?” “One moment.” His brow furrowed, and then smoothed out as he made his final decisions. Alex. He needed to return for Alex. It was worth any cost. “Yes. Contact Mr. Norton and have him

stand by the other phone. I have instructions I need sent on. He'll understand.” “Yes, sir. Good evening to you.” And a click. He read half his book before he arranged the dialing of the butcher's number, then contemplated while waiting for the intercontinental connection to be established. A junk sailed up the river, brightly colored lamps decorating its prow. It seemed to be guiding other boats towards home. Ben wanted to pretend it was guiding him as well.

Libera me Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit, atque ventura ira. Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra. Dies illa, dies irae, calamitatis et miseriae, dies magna et amara valde. Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem. ~ A portion of the exsequiae sung prior to burial The sonar buoys pinged in the dead of night, heralding a large vessel's approach towards Tahiti. It would be three hours until it docked, under the guidelines of assumed speed. Rainsford's men were in position several hours in advance, spread under cover around the wooden pier and net-camouflaged at the start of the treeline. The team at the archipelago's lone international airport saw nothing. Rainsford wasn't overly surprised; there were a lot of possible ways for a man like Ben to get to this point. What was important was this place and this time. He lurked close to the creaky central pier, unmoving and meditative. Like an asp waiting in a jar for its victim to reach in. An earbud pinged different tonalities at regular intervals, the sound set as quiet as possible. No contacts. Nothing unusual. Then at 0200, a longer, soft beep that identified it as the sonar tech. The submarine had stalled just over the horizon, less than a half hour away. Rainsford's lips pursed. Had they been caught out? He thought for a while, then gave the signal to remain in position. And then another contact came to tell them the submarine was again on approach. ~*~ Waiting. Deeper in the tropical snarl, buried in a stand of trees perhaps a hundred yards or so away from the drive that wound through the jungle between road and dock. In his sightline was the nearest soldier. Beyond that, a slightly obstructed view of the dock. Ben didn't stare at the man's back, believing entirely in the psychic weight of a human's gaze. He merely waited. If he remained so very still, he would not be noticed in the wild green. He knew about jungles. They could fool the eye, if a man watched too long. All day, creeping closer. He wasn't trained like Rainsford's men and he knew his flaws, so he compensated with pure overzealous caution. He had enjoyed enough close encounters. He kept his thoughts blank. Either all would work as planned, or he would die. Part of him knew that these scenarios were not entirely dissimilar. ~*~ The submarine ascended and then pulled up to the dock shortly before 0300. Then it sat there, the peeling DHARMA decals drying and curling in the pre-dawn air. No one emerged, not from land or sea. Rainsford and his team held still. And they waited. At dawn, a flurry of activity. Spotters pinged an approach. The hatch of the submarine opened and three men emerged. Rainsford pinged a soft command to hold and observe. The three men met a black truck that came speeding down the unpaved road. The unmarked vehicle delivered a set of boxes, all fairly small. Too small to contain a man. The three men took the boxes individually towards the submarine and the vehicle drove off. Spotters would observe the truck and track its destination. The hatch closed again when the men were done loading. No one was left on the dock. An hour later, Rainsford's radio pinged once more and he held a hushed conversation. The

truck was a perishable food delivery. Nothing contraband, and no leads on Ben's location. Rainsford's eyes narrowed into slits. And he waited. At noon, another emergence. One man, carrying a thin black briefcase. Ordinary, curling hair, a brown jacket. He stood on the dock for a few moments. Then he proceeded forward to linger on the beach. His hands fiddled with the case's handle, watching the driveway, looking expectant. Rainsford observed him carefully while the man shifted his weight. No one approached. The man sighed, swore a little, then walked towards the drive. After a few moments, noise filled the air as the submarine sealed itself, pulled away from the dock, and began to submerge once more. Rainsford's eyes widened, baffled. He pressed a specific set of tones into the radio. The moment the man reached the midpoint of the winding road and was out of sight of the dock, three men immediately surrounded him, snatched the case away, and pressed him to the ground. Rainsford himself did not move. He'd delegated in case of a scenario like this. ~*~ Ben could hear them clearly. “Stay on the ground!” the soldiers barked. None of them were Rainsford. Ben supposed he was lurking elsewhere on the beach. Likely among the stones right by the pier; the man had both confidence and pride. The man on the ground gasped, clearly frightened. He shivered where he lay, rocks making soft noise underneath him. Ben watched, his face emotionless. They interrogated the islander. Demanded answers from him in increasingly hostile tones. Was he one of them? What was he doing? “Delivery, I was told to make a delivery!” To whom? “I don't know, they didn't say.” One of the soldiers shook the man after every vague answer. He knew nothing. There might have been a car arranged to come for him. There might not be. If not, he was to go up the road until he found a phone that they used and wait. What was in the case? He didn't know and he didn't have a key. More shaking. Where was Benjamin Linus? The man shook his head insistently. He didn't know. One of the men cocked a rifle at him. The man began to cry a little, terrified. Ben only watched. He felt tired, but he didn't move. “What do we do with him?” “Hang on, let me radio.” A burst of chatter that Ben couldn't catch. A wait for a response. More chatter. Then a name: Harriman. Ben's lips thinned. “Okay, restraints.” A set of plastic cuffs were produced and they knotted the man up. A whistle, another burst of radio traffic, and the sound of a vehicle's approach. A beige and white van, ugly and beaten. They blindfolded the islander and put him within it. The vehicle peeled off and the small team looked at each other for a while. “Dunno what the Brit thinks what he'll get out of the guy, but hey, his show. Boss says we're out of here.” Ben closed his eyes while the three men left. He assumed a handful more remained in the area. So far, perfectly according to plan. He felt slightly ill and very cold. ~*~ Time. And only time. As evening approached, Rainsford's frustration grew. The sonar techs reported the passage of the submarine, headed out towards uncharted depths and its presumptive return to an unmarked island. The pings became lazier. The six men that remained with him were tired and Ben remained steadfast in his refusal to fall into his trap. The likeliest guess was that he'd set the other man up to see what sort of surveillance Rainsford had placed. The opportunity to grab the islander was too potentially useful, and Widmore would have been annoyed to not have some sort of captive if given a chance. It was a nice move, if so. Worth the agent's approval.

More time. And nothing. Rainsford closed his eyes. Opened them again. He thought for a long while, coming to a serene conclusion. He smiled once, a thin and meager little thing, his eyes half lidded and his body weary with long stillness. “All contacts, give it up. He's not going to pop tonight. Withdraw to base.” “You sure, sir?” “Yes, I am. Go on. I'll bring up the rear.” ~*~ They left. One by one, crawling through scrub jungle and up the road. A final radio report from the men in the van. They'd gotten the case open. And then Rainsford was alone, the way he liked it best. He remained still for a while yet. He wanted to delay the moment. Ben did not emerge, no bravado duel, no sign or sound. Disappointing. But perhaps... perhaps... He shrugged a little, rose from his hiding place, and stretched. Things creaked and popped in his skeleton. He was getting a little older, bit by bit. Life sneaking away from him. It didn't bother Rainsford at all. He knew his place in nature. Rainsford walked toward the drive, up the beach. He paused and looked behind, toward the dock. Nothing. So disappointing. But the sonars would declare if they had to reset the observation. Rainsford wouldn't miss a chance to meet Ben again. He wouldn't miss it for the world. He began to walk lazily up the road, hoping vaguely. And then. ~*~ click ~*~ Rainsford smiled. This one was genuine. Broad, red-lipped, fine white teeth. It filled his vulpine face. Moonlight shined down on him, and he welcomed it with his widening eyes. He didn't turn around. “That's much better. I was getting very concerned.” Silence. He sensed movement, likely Ben moving behind him for better positioning. “Really, you should immediately pull the trigger in a situation like this. Don't hesitate like that. But it's free advice. I won't move on you. Let's just talk a moment instead.” He put his hands up, his posture relaxed. His voice was cheerful. “You know, I was really hoping it'd be something like this. The guy you gave up. That was cold, my friend. Nothing in his suitcase but blank paper. Did he even know? Or did you just pick a name and send a message to your buddies for him to be sent out like Abraham's son?” Nothing. A soft inhale. Then, with the faintest waver, “I just wanted to go home.” “What, this isn't fun?” He turned his head very slightly. There was a short silhouette behind him, doubled by a moonlit shadow that stretched down the road. A dull, faint voice came from it. “I have a daughter.” Rainsford laughed. “How long since you've seen her, man? Maybe you've got memories of a daughter. You're not the type to get that close to people, not based on what I saw today. Widmore's going to kill him, you know.” ~*~ Ben's hold on the gun didn't falter. His face twitched slightly at Rainsford's words, crooked lips curving. “I'm sorry for him.” His voice sounded flat to his own ears.

“Doesn't matter if you say you are or not. It was you giving up or giving him up for a chance to get past me. You know that. You made your choice. I respect that.” Rainsford turned his face back towards the moon, where Ben could no longer see his profile. “You and I, we do what we do because it needs to get done. Because it's how things need to be. Dogs in the desert, man, we just eat what the lions leave.” The other man's voice was calm, distant. “And sooner or later, there's always a moment like this one. A moment where the game's not in your control anymore, and the best you can do is just take it.” A chuckle. “This whole job turned out to be a bit like suicide, you know. In a way. Just moving over for the next player in the role. I don't mind. You understand. Think of it like your logos. We're just carnivores in nature.” “I'm not like you.” Ben's lips felt numb. “I've watched you, my friend. You will be.” Ben shot into the back of Rainsford's head, unblinking. His memory, he thought, full of dim recognition. He shot again, into the fallen man's back, emptying the clip. And his soul. He sighed, turned slightly, and then abruptly vomited into the grass. It was finally over. It had just cost almost a year of his life, several other men their own lives. Taught him to give up people when it was useful for him to do so, taught him to think like both a hunter and a trapped animal. Taught him even more lessons in how to kill. It occurred to him, as he remained hunched over, his stressed body still reacting to its psychological weight. Could it possibly be that this, this was what Jacob had wanted all along? He closed his eyes and made a hollow rasping noise. There was nothing left in him to release.

Valedictio Look and remember. Look upon this land, Far, far across the factories and the grass. Surely, there, surely they will let you pass. Speak then and ask the forest and the loam. What do you hear? What does the land command? The earth is taken: this is not your home. ~ Karl Shapiro, Travelogue for Exiles It was another month before the submarine docked again, this time in Portland. And Ben was there, waiting calmly at the pier for it to complete its berthing. Standing straight, hiding the stillpresent weariness as the ocean-salty wind blew through his hair and ruffled his clothes. Hiding everything behind the towering, baroque structures of his mind. Hate, exhaustion, the knowledge that, in actuality, nothing was done. Jacob would always have more tasks for him. Always. Behind the veil on his heart, he tended to the steadily building blue and white flames of his feelings for Jacob. He would not think on them again. Not consciously. Not while he was under the island's gaze. But it would always be there. Unless. Unless Jacob came forward himself this time and finally acknowledged him as the island's son. Then he might be able to forgive. Understand, even. It was the only thing he wanted from the man. A piece of him still wanted to hope. It was a very small piece. ~*~ Richard brought Alex to the docks to watch the submarine arrive, and when Ben emerged from the hatch, she was the first thing he took notice of. He smiled for her as best he could, still feeling heavy with all he had done. Perhaps here now was his redemption; that which he had done it all for. He pushed away a crawling sensation of unreality, of almost not recognizing this taller creature with her hair tied back. The little dresses had given way to tomboy sensibilities, and there was dirt on her knees. She looked like her mother. He reached for her, feeling a mix of hopeful relief and sudden fear, offering a hug. She moved forward to him very slowly, permitting it. “You missed my birthdays,” she said. She sounded withdrawn. “I'm very sorry, sweetheart. I couldn't help it.” “That's what everyone says.” Her voice had a sharp little edge to it. “Where were you, daddy?” He paused. This was not what he had pictured, had hoped for. “I had work to do, Alex.” He hugged her again. She remained still, her returning hug very light. “It's not something to talk about, but I missed you very much.” She nodded against his shoulder. “You're not going to go away again, are you?” “I hope not.” “Will you promise?” A tiny little waver. He felt he had no choice but to lie. The hollow feeling started to come back. “I won't leave you, Alex. I promise.” “I don't believe you!” And she pulled away and darted off. Richard looked at him with a helpless expression. Ben had gone cold all over. His mind was silent.

~*~ “They got Tom off the sub a mile offshore without any problems. Guess the Tahiti dock really was being watched, we weren't sure. Tom caught up to Widmore in London a few days afterward, got this tape recorded. Transmitted it just a little while before we set out to pick you up in Portland.” Ben watched the footage get keyed up on the Pearl's monitors. He already suspected what he would see. The young islander in a brown jacket. The blindfold. The beating. Widmore's glance towards the camera. “Poor man.” Richard shot him a look. “You didn't know this would happen?” “Hadn't a clue. I just recommended the case to throw someone off if he did get followed.” “Yeah, well. If you hadn't asked for fresh surveillance on Charles, we'd never have known.” “Fate, perhaps.” He made himself sound sorrowful, a careful simulacrum of the real thing. It still rang empty in his ears. Meanwhile, his thoughts ticked on. He should probably make a copy of the footage for himself sometime, keep it somewhere. “Charles is acting more openly against us. Risky business on both our sides. But it was what Jacob wanted...” His voice trailed off. Richard was still looking at him. Then the ageless man shook his head. “Maybe. It was all just such a mess.” “Has Isabel been working on new security for the docks?” “Of course she is. There's new keycard technology coming up, biometrics... she's having fun, I guess. Ben-” He cut Richard off. “Good.” He took his glasses off and left them on the console, fixing the taller man with wide blue eyes that seemed to blink less and less. “Richard, I don't know how to tell you how long it felt and how strange it seemed out there. I'm very glad to be home.” He offered an open, self-deprecating smile. Richard dropped his own gaze. Ben took a venture. “I was wondering about... Jacob.” Richard shook his head again. He licked his lips before he spoke. “It isn't a good time right now, we'll have to wait. He sent word that he's glad you're home. That you did well.” “I see.” Another quick, simple smile. Something flickered inside of him and then died again. “Of course.” ~*~ Mail, on the island, was a boring and uncomplicated process. Unless they were awaiting something unusual from the sub's mainland business, Ben delegated the matter to others. He never received personal mail of his own, having made no connections through Mittelos Bioscience that he wanted to maintain. Sometimes the others did. More or less, it was often only business correspondence. To find an envelope delivered to his home, three months after his return, was a surprise to him. The return address labelled it as a letter sent from Shanghai, the address that of the hotel he had used. He waited until late at night, when Alex had finally gone to sleep, to read it. The letter was unsigned, but it didn't matter. He held it gingerly in cold fingers, as if it might rise and bite. Benjamin, Your man is dead. I have seen to it. You and I both know that it is you who are responsible for this. You wear his blood. He gave me enough information to assess that. That's a very dark act, boy. Very dark. All this for what? To go home? Like a child weary of playtime, up after dark, and whining in the fields to be let in? You vile, goblin-eyed, little rat. You come forth into my world, scatter my life, and then you

began to react as if you were innocent. I might have ignored you in time, left it as nothing more than harrying observation. Let you go. But you persisted. You gamed with me. You killed my men. What was I to do? I have buried the man. It is more than you might have done, upon reflection. I have had Rainsford buried as well, and now his people will not work with me. I suppose you've won that much. To succeed against him, knowing what I know and what you did not – I know what you are now, boy. I have always known who you are. You're a killer. Not a leader. A trained pet, a shackled bird of prey. You're Jacob's last weapon of war, and damn him, too. It's all that you are, and you set yourself on me. You began this. It will end with you. Do you have any idea how badly I want to kill you? I tell you, boy, I dream of it. Yes, thought Benjamin Linus. He had gone numb, and but for hate, he distantly wondered what real emotion was left in him. I know. And when you find a way, I will be right here. ~Fin ”A little wisp of soul, carrying a corpse.” Epictetus