Checkmate
Characters: Adam Monroe and Sayid Jarrah
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2665
Spoilers: up to "The Economist" for Lost
Summary: Adam and Sayid each meet their match. Meaning, Sayid tortures Adam, to no avail.
A/N: Originally written for comment_fic, but again, it got out of control. It isn't really addressed here, but I feel like Adam ends up being the person who got Sayid to realize he was being manipulated.
Adam got out of the elevator on the fourth floor of the Hotel Georges V. He double-checked that he had all the papers necessary for his meeting with the head of one of Brazil’s leading black market operations. He knocked on the door of suite 42.
The door opened, and a handsome Pakistani man appeared.
“Hello. I’ve been expecting you,” the man said with a pleasant smile.
With a brief lick of his lips, Adam thought to himself that, although unexpected, this might prove to be a more enjoyable meeting than he had hoped. But when he noticed that the sleeves of the man's crisp white shirt were rolled up and stained with streaks of red, Adam’s self-preservation instincts kicked in. He turned to run, but the man was too fast for him. Adam felt himself jerked into the room by strong arms, and the door shut behind them. His eyes opened wide as he took in the sight of a man dead on the floor with some wire around his neck that had been stuck in the electrical outlet. The corpse, much more typically Brazilian-looking than the man who had answered the door, was not a pretty sight.
The second to last thought that flashed through Adam’s mind, before he was knocked unconscious, was that whoever he was, this man was definitely creative.
The last thought was that he looked damn familiar, but Adam had no idea from where.
***************************************************
When Adam awoke, he found himself in a chair, securely tied to it around the torso with electrical wire. His hands were handcuffed behind him. The man who had knocked him out was now on the floor in front of him. Adam tried kicking, but the man stilled his ankles in a one-handed iron grip.
“What the hell is this?” Adam asked. He wasn’t afraid, but he did feel duty-bound to keep up the guise of normality. If there was a way to get out of this without revealing his ability, he preferred that. Adam realized that the only thing missing from this bondage was a gag. That could only mean one thing: that he was going to be expected to talk about something. Which also meant that, unless he was able to find a way to give this man what he wanted (or at least make him think he was getting it), Adam was going to get hurt. And then unhurt. And then it would be a bloody---or inconveniently not-so-bloody---mess.
“Shut up,” the man said from his position between his legs.
“I have a feeling you’ll reverse that command in a minute,” Adam replied with a wry smile.
The man looked at him curiously. “In fact, you are correct.” He pulled his belt out of his pants with his free hand. Adam could tell he was dealing with a professional. Still, he jested, trying to feel out the situation.
“Leather? Well, this is quickly turning into something quite different from what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?” the man snarled through gritted teeth as he belted each of Adam’s ankles to the corresponding chair leg.
Adam shrugged in his bonds. “Interrogation, torture, attempts on my life. The usual. I can’t say I mind the change, though.”
Sayid finished binding Adam’s feet and stood up to loom over him threateningly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this will be exactly what you expected.”
“Pity. You’re rather more attractive than your run-of-the-mill torturer. Who are you?” Adam asked.
“My name is Sayid Jarrah. And I will be the one asking questions this afternoon.” And with that, he backhanded Adam across the face.
That rang another bell, but Adam still couldn’t place him. “Sayid Jarrah? That name sounds so familiar, as does your face. Have we met before?”
Sayid smiled grimly. “No, we have not. And now, Adam Monroe, you’re going to tell me who you work for.”
Adam laughed. “I work for no one.”
“I don’t believe you,” Sayid said with calm fortitude.
“What hair product do you use?” Adam asked with bored curiosity after Sayid delivered another whiplash-inducing sock to his jaw.
His insolence won him a kick to the groin. Damn, that hurt. But pain had over the years become something to which Adam looked forward. It was simultaneously a fleetingly wistful reminder of what life as a mortal had felt like and a joyful affirmation that he was above the hoi polloi.
“My, you’re angry,” Adam observed as soon as he had recovered. The flaring of Sayid’s temper had made him even more attractive, if possible, but Adam had a feeling this wasn’t the time to mention it.
“Why do you ask?” Sayid queried.
The kick had almost made him forget to what question Sayid was referring. “About the hair product? You look like someone who has naturally curly hair. Very curly hair, despite its current state. And yet you don’t strike me as the type who spends two hours every morning with a flatiron. Therefore, I was simply curious as to how else you manage to achieve this look.”
Sayid was too dark for a blush or lack thereof to give Adam a hint. Instead of answering, Sayid ran a thumb across Adam’s cheek. “Your skin bruises much less easily than I had suspected.”
“I’m resilient like that,” Adam replied, readying himself for the next blow. When it came, both men could hear Adam’s nose break. Blood trickled down his face, but with his hands pinned behind him, he was unable to push it back into place, so it remained crooked.
“I was only asking for your employer’s name as a test, because I already know who he is. So, let me be direct now. How are you connected with Charles Widmore?” Sayid asked.
Adam was startled. “You mean the British philanthropist?” He and Widmore had had lunch together once, quite recently, to talk about some investments in water resources in Latin America. It was, in fact, in relation to this business that Adam had come to Paris to meet the Brazilian. Adam wondered how Sayid had gotten his information.
“Yes, the very same,” Sayid breathed.
“Just a bit of business regarding Bolivia. I’ll give you a cut of the profits if you let me go. You look like a dependable man, someone we’d want on board.”
Sayid smiled and it would have been terrifying if it hadn’t been so seductive. “Clever. Very clever,” Sayid mulled. “Widmore does have business in Bolivia, but that is not the issue of which I speak. Also, I have more than enough money of my own, thank you. Probably more than you do.”
Adam was surprised. “Really? I doubt it. But if so, then why are you doing this? And in particular, why are you doing this yourself? Surely you could hire others and spare those beautiful shirts.” Adam cocked his head to one side and studied the other man. “Because I hardly get the impression that you enjoy torturing people.”
That set him off. Sayid punched Adam in the face again, this time from the other side. Although one of his fingernails cut a deep gash across his face, the blow did manage to knock Adam’s nose back into place. There was a satisfying click as the bits of bone found one another and reformed into one, and almost instantly the gash closed itself up.
Sayid watched this and staggered backwards in horror. Adam sighed. The moment he had been dreading had finally arrived.
People who saw Adam’s power at work usually fell into one of three categories. The first, and by far the most common, were those wholly incapable of processing the information. Right as most specials were to fear discovery, Adam had learned over the years that it usually didn’t matter. No matter how many times most people saw Adam's skin seal over a wound, they found a way to logic themselves out of acknowledging what was going on. Adam usually let these live; rather than posing a danger of exposing him, he knew they would force themselves to forget it or think of it as a dream.
The second category always developed an acquisitive gleam behind the eyes as they watched him regenerate. He could see the wheels of greed spinning as they understood, all too well, how to profitably exploit a man who was physically powerless except for this incredible ability. Adam immediately killed these people as soon as he could find a way to plot or blackmail his way to safety.
Then there was the third group, understandably the rarest, who looked at him with disbelieving confusion that blossomed into recognition. They’d already encountered someone else with an ability---usually themselves. These cases were the most unpredictable, and Adam took each one individually. Some, like Peter Petrelli, were potentially useful enough to be worth cultivating. Others, elated to no longer feel alone, took this moment of discovery too far and became clingy and needy; Adam let them down hard, and, if they persisted in pestering him, things ended badly. Still others simply nodded knowingly; it was enough for them to finally see proof that there were people like them and then go their separate ways, cherishing the memory as an affirmation. This last sort was Adam’s favorite kind.
Sayid watched Adam’s gash heal with a wild look in his eyes---the look of someone who was watching something eerily familiar, like the third kind. Adam wondered if Sayid had an ability, or if he had only known someone else who did. The situation hinted at the latter; Adam assumed that if Sayid had an ability, he would have used a less quotidian method of interrogation.
Adam stretched in his bonds, allowing Sayid time to collect himself, and waited for the usual questions. “How are you doing this? For how long have you been able to do this? Are there others?” Et cetera, et cetera.
Instead, still looking disoriented, Sayid asked, equally to himself as to Adam, “Where am I?”
That was not on the list.
“You’re right here in this hotel room,” Adam soothed, noting how ironic it was that here he was, strapped to a chair and giving comforting words to his torturer. But it was definitely a step towards regaining his freedom.
But Sayid was looking around him, staring wildly at his hands and at Adam.
“…it can’t be,” he muttered, and moved towards Adam with a terrifying look of determination. Adam flinched, not really in the mood to get hit again. But the strike never came. Instead, Sayid pulled a chair in front of Adam and sat down.
Adam wondered if perhaps his initial assessment had been incorrect. But truly, Sayid’s intensity was not born out of greed. Here was a man who was genuinely confused and frightened… but there was no disbelief, no inability to process it. Sayid looked like someone who had been processing all too well and for all too long.
Sayid took Adam’s upper arm in his hands, and closed his eyes as he gave a strong snap. The crunching, cracking sound that resulted sickened both of them. Adam screamed, but after awhile, pantingly regained command of himself.
As nonchalantly as he could, he sighed, “If you would be so kind as to put the two halves of my arm together so the wound can heal, I would be much obliged. This is damned uncomfortable, and it isn’t gaining you any information.”
Adam had the satisfaction of watching Sayid crumble even more completely in front of him. However, it quickly turned into pity, and burning curiosity. What, exactly, was going on in the man’s mind? He was obviously replaying certain memories in his mind, but what?
Sayid stood up and walked behind Adam to set his arm. Within seconds, the unsightly disfigurement was gone, and even the redness from where Adam’s blood vessels had been broken faded away. Sayid gasped, and came back to collapse in his chair again.
“Thank you,” Adam said, feeling much more at ease now that he was whole again. “So, I take it you’ve seen others like me?”
Sayid shook his head. “Someone else who can do what I just saw? No, never. Have you?”
“Certainly. But let me rephrase my question. Have you ever seen someone do something extraordinary? Not necessarily healing, per say, but something other-worldly, as if from a comic book?”
Sayid thought, and Adam could see that his mind was far away, somewhere haunted and pained. “I have never read a comic book, but from what I gather they’re about, no,” he replied slowly.
“Then what is it?” Adam’s curiosity was so piqued that he almost forgot to maintain the soothing calm he had so far maintained to keep Sayid from realizing that their roles had been reversed, even as Adam remained strapped in the chair.
There was nothing but silence as Sayid rested his elbows on his knees put his hands over his face.
Then, suddenly, Adam realized why Sayid’s face and name had seemed so familiar. Gently, he asked, “Sayid Jarrah… of the Oceanic Six? Is that why I recognize you?”
“Yes,” he sobbed through tense fingers. Adam was astonished at the change that had come over the man in a few short minutes. Sweat poured out of him. The roots of his hair were beginning to kink. Ah, so he did spend two hours a day flatironing. Interesting.
Adam was excited. He’d studied that story over and over again; the case of the Oceanic Six had become a question that Adam idly wondered about in spare moments, but he’d been too busy in the past year to really investigate it. His own idea, which of course he could not share with anyone, was that at least one of them had an ability; there was no other way those people could have survived without the aid of supernatural powers.
By a happy coincidence a few months before, Adam had found himself at a table with the Kwon woman during a conference about Korean exports to Europe. Adam had tried to ask her about the crash and its aftermath, but had found her tight-lipped and reticent; she gave him nothing, except an even stronger conviction that he was right to doubt their incredible tale.
And now, here he was with yet another of them, a man with untold millions who for some reason was spending his time killing and torturing, and who was now having the strangest reaction Adam had ever seen someone have to watching his ability in action. Why? More than ever, he knew that something significant and other-wordly had happened to Sayid, something that was connected to whatever memory was terrifying him now.
“You’re lying. All of you. You’re lying about what happened to you,” Adam stated. He wasn’t sure why he had immediately linked his doubts about the crash to Sayid’s current fright, but the other man’s reaction was enough to tell him that he was on the right track.
“How do you know?” Sayid shook his head and pulled himself together again. Adam could have hit himself for so stupidly rousing the man out of his vulnerable state; fortunately, he had Sayid to do it for him.
“I’ve read the conspiracy theories. Nothing else,” he replied after Sayid had bandied him about this face some more.
“You’re lying,” Sayid said, but Adam could tell that all the confidence had gone out of the other man.
“That makes two of us, then, doesn’t it?” Adam retorted.
Sayid glared at him menacingly, but Adam had a feeling that before the end of the day, he would be out of this chair. But he also knew that he’d have to answer many more of Sayid’s questions before he was allowed to leave.
For some reason, he found himself almost looking forward to it.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2665
Spoilers: up to "The Economist" for Lost
Summary: Adam and Sayid each meet their match. Meaning, Sayid tortures Adam, to no avail.
A/N: Originally written for comment_fic, but again, it got out of control. It isn't really addressed here, but I feel like Adam ends up being the person who got Sayid to realize he was being manipulated.
Adam got out of the elevator on the fourth floor of the Hotel Georges V. He double-checked that he had all the papers necessary for his meeting with the head of one of Brazil’s leading black market operations. He knocked on the door of suite 42.
The door opened, and a handsome Pakistani man appeared.
“Hello. I’ve been expecting you,” the man said with a pleasant smile.
With a brief lick of his lips, Adam thought to himself that, although unexpected, this might prove to be a more enjoyable meeting than he had hoped. But when he noticed that the sleeves of the man's crisp white shirt were rolled up and stained with streaks of red, Adam’s self-preservation instincts kicked in. He turned to run, but the man was too fast for him. Adam felt himself jerked into the room by strong arms, and the door shut behind them. His eyes opened wide as he took in the sight of a man dead on the floor with some wire around his neck that had been stuck in the electrical outlet. The corpse, much more typically Brazilian-looking than the man who had answered the door, was not a pretty sight.
The second to last thought that flashed through Adam’s mind, before he was knocked unconscious, was that whoever he was, this man was definitely creative.
The last thought was that he looked damn familiar, but Adam had no idea from where.
***************************************************
When Adam awoke, he found himself in a chair, securely tied to it around the torso with electrical wire. His hands were handcuffed behind him. The man who had knocked him out was now on the floor in front of him. Adam tried kicking, but the man stilled his ankles in a one-handed iron grip.
“What the hell is this?” Adam asked. He wasn’t afraid, but he did feel duty-bound to keep up the guise of normality. If there was a way to get out of this without revealing his ability, he preferred that. Adam realized that the only thing missing from this bondage was a gag. That could only mean one thing: that he was going to be expected to talk about something. Which also meant that, unless he was able to find a way to give this man what he wanted (or at least make him think he was getting it), Adam was going to get hurt. And then unhurt. And then it would be a bloody---or inconveniently not-so-bloody---mess.
“Shut up,” the man said from his position between his legs.
“I have a feeling you’ll reverse that command in a minute,” Adam replied with a wry smile.
The man looked at him curiously. “In fact, you are correct.” He pulled his belt out of his pants with his free hand. Adam could tell he was dealing with a professional. Still, he jested, trying to feel out the situation.
“Leather? Well, this is quickly turning into something quite different from what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?” the man snarled through gritted teeth as he belted each of Adam’s ankles to the corresponding chair leg.
Adam shrugged in his bonds. “Interrogation, torture, attempts on my life. The usual. I can’t say I mind the change, though.”
Sayid finished binding Adam’s feet and stood up to loom over him threateningly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this will be exactly what you expected.”
“Pity. You’re rather more attractive than your run-of-the-mill torturer. Who are you?” Adam asked.
“My name is Sayid Jarrah. And I will be the one asking questions this afternoon.” And with that, he backhanded Adam across the face.
That rang another bell, but Adam still couldn’t place him. “Sayid Jarrah? That name sounds so familiar, as does your face. Have we met before?”
Sayid smiled grimly. “No, we have not. And now, Adam Monroe, you’re going to tell me who you work for.”
Adam laughed. “I work for no one.”
“I don’t believe you,” Sayid said with calm fortitude.
“What hair product do you use?” Adam asked with bored curiosity after Sayid delivered another whiplash-inducing sock to his jaw.
His insolence won him a kick to the groin. Damn, that hurt. But pain had over the years become something to which Adam looked forward. It was simultaneously a fleetingly wistful reminder of what life as a mortal had felt like and a joyful affirmation that he was above the hoi polloi.
“My, you’re angry,” Adam observed as soon as he had recovered. The flaring of Sayid’s temper had made him even more attractive, if possible, but Adam had a feeling this wasn’t the time to mention it.
“Why do you ask?” Sayid queried.
The kick had almost made him forget to what question Sayid was referring. “About the hair product? You look like someone who has naturally curly hair. Very curly hair, despite its current state. And yet you don’t strike me as the type who spends two hours every morning with a flatiron. Therefore, I was simply curious as to how else you manage to achieve this look.”
Sayid was too dark for a blush or lack thereof to give Adam a hint. Instead of answering, Sayid ran a thumb across Adam’s cheek. “Your skin bruises much less easily than I had suspected.”
“I’m resilient like that,” Adam replied, readying himself for the next blow. When it came, both men could hear Adam’s nose break. Blood trickled down his face, but with his hands pinned behind him, he was unable to push it back into place, so it remained crooked.
“I was only asking for your employer’s name as a test, because I already know who he is. So, let me be direct now. How are you connected with Charles Widmore?” Sayid asked.
Adam was startled. “You mean the British philanthropist?” He and Widmore had had lunch together once, quite recently, to talk about some investments in water resources in Latin America. It was, in fact, in relation to this business that Adam had come to Paris to meet the Brazilian. Adam wondered how Sayid had gotten his information.
“Yes, the very same,” Sayid breathed.
“Just a bit of business regarding Bolivia. I’ll give you a cut of the profits if you let me go. You look like a dependable man, someone we’d want on board.”
Sayid smiled and it would have been terrifying if it hadn’t been so seductive. “Clever. Very clever,” Sayid mulled. “Widmore does have business in Bolivia, but that is not the issue of which I speak. Also, I have more than enough money of my own, thank you. Probably more than you do.”
Adam was surprised. “Really? I doubt it. But if so, then why are you doing this? And in particular, why are you doing this yourself? Surely you could hire others and spare those beautiful shirts.” Adam cocked his head to one side and studied the other man. “Because I hardly get the impression that you enjoy torturing people.”
That set him off. Sayid punched Adam in the face again, this time from the other side. Although one of his fingernails cut a deep gash across his face, the blow did manage to knock Adam’s nose back into place. There was a satisfying click as the bits of bone found one another and reformed into one, and almost instantly the gash closed itself up.
Sayid watched this and staggered backwards in horror. Adam sighed. The moment he had been dreading had finally arrived.
People who saw Adam’s power at work usually fell into one of three categories. The first, and by far the most common, were those wholly incapable of processing the information. Right as most specials were to fear discovery, Adam had learned over the years that it usually didn’t matter. No matter how many times most people saw Adam's skin seal over a wound, they found a way to logic themselves out of acknowledging what was going on. Adam usually let these live; rather than posing a danger of exposing him, he knew they would force themselves to forget it or think of it as a dream.
The second category always developed an acquisitive gleam behind the eyes as they watched him regenerate. He could see the wheels of greed spinning as they understood, all too well, how to profitably exploit a man who was physically powerless except for this incredible ability. Adam immediately killed these people as soon as he could find a way to plot or blackmail his way to safety.
Then there was the third group, understandably the rarest, who looked at him with disbelieving confusion that blossomed into recognition. They’d already encountered someone else with an ability---usually themselves. These cases were the most unpredictable, and Adam took each one individually. Some, like Peter Petrelli, were potentially useful enough to be worth cultivating. Others, elated to no longer feel alone, took this moment of discovery too far and became clingy and needy; Adam let them down hard, and, if they persisted in pestering him, things ended badly. Still others simply nodded knowingly; it was enough for them to finally see proof that there were people like them and then go their separate ways, cherishing the memory as an affirmation. This last sort was Adam’s favorite kind.
Sayid watched Adam’s gash heal with a wild look in his eyes---the look of someone who was watching something eerily familiar, like the third kind. Adam wondered if Sayid had an ability, or if he had only known someone else who did. The situation hinted at the latter; Adam assumed that if Sayid had an ability, he would have used a less quotidian method of interrogation.
Adam stretched in his bonds, allowing Sayid time to collect himself, and waited for the usual questions. “How are you doing this? For how long have you been able to do this? Are there others?” Et cetera, et cetera.
Instead, still looking disoriented, Sayid asked, equally to himself as to Adam, “Where am I?”
That was not on the list.
“You’re right here in this hotel room,” Adam soothed, noting how ironic it was that here he was, strapped to a chair and giving comforting words to his torturer. But it was definitely a step towards regaining his freedom.
But Sayid was looking around him, staring wildly at his hands and at Adam.
“…it can’t be,” he muttered, and moved towards Adam with a terrifying look of determination. Adam flinched, not really in the mood to get hit again. But the strike never came. Instead, Sayid pulled a chair in front of Adam and sat down.
Adam wondered if perhaps his initial assessment had been incorrect. But truly, Sayid’s intensity was not born out of greed. Here was a man who was genuinely confused and frightened… but there was no disbelief, no inability to process it. Sayid looked like someone who had been processing all too well and for all too long.
Sayid took Adam’s upper arm in his hands, and closed his eyes as he gave a strong snap. The crunching, cracking sound that resulted sickened both of them. Adam screamed, but after awhile, pantingly regained command of himself.
As nonchalantly as he could, he sighed, “If you would be so kind as to put the two halves of my arm together so the wound can heal, I would be much obliged. This is damned uncomfortable, and it isn’t gaining you any information.”
Adam had the satisfaction of watching Sayid crumble even more completely in front of him. However, it quickly turned into pity, and burning curiosity. What, exactly, was going on in the man’s mind? He was obviously replaying certain memories in his mind, but what?
Sayid stood up and walked behind Adam to set his arm. Within seconds, the unsightly disfigurement was gone, and even the redness from where Adam’s blood vessels had been broken faded away. Sayid gasped, and came back to collapse in his chair again.
“Thank you,” Adam said, feeling much more at ease now that he was whole again. “So, I take it you’ve seen others like me?”
Sayid shook his head. “Someone else who can do what I just saw? No, never. Have you?”
“Certainly. But let me rephrase my question. Have you ever seen someone do something extraordinary? Not necessarily healing, per say, but something other-worldly, as if from a comic book?”
Sayid thought, and Adam could see that his mind was far away, somewhere haunted and pained. “I have never read a comic book, but from what I gather they’re about, no,” he replied slowly.
“Then what is it?” Adam’s curiosity was so piqued that he almost forgot to maintain the soothing calm he had so far maintained to keep Sayid from realizing that their roles had been reversed, even as Adam remained strapped in the chair.
There was nothing but silence as Sayid rested his elbows on his knees put his hands over his face.
Then, suddenly, Adam realized why Sayid’s face and name had seemed so familiar. Gently, he asked, “Sayid Jarrah… of the Oceanic Six? Is that why I recognize you?”
“Yes,” he sobbed through tense fingers. Adam was astonished at the change that had come over the man in a few short minutes. Sweat poured out of him. The roots of his hair were beginning to kink. Ah, so he did spend two hours a day flatironing. Interesting.
Adam was excited. He’d studied that story over and over again; the case of the Oceanic Six had become a question that Adam idly wondered about in spare moments, but he’d been too busy in the past year to really investigate it. His own idea, which of course he could not share with anyone, was that at least one of them had an ability; there was no other way those people could have survived without the aid of supernatural powers.
By a happy coincidence a few months before, Adam had found himself at a table with the Kwon woman during a conference about Korean exports to Europe. Adam had tried to ask her about the crash and its aftermath, but had found her tight-lipped and reticent; she gave him nothing, except an even stronger conviction that he was right to doubt their incredible tale.
And now, here he was with yet another of them, a man with untold millions who for some reason was spending his time killing and torturing, and who was now having the strangest reaction Adam had ever seen someone have to watching his ability in action. Why? More than ever, he knew that something significant and other-wordly had happened to Sayid, something that was connected to whatever memory was terrifying him now.
“You’re lying. All of you. You’re lying about what happened to you,” Adam stated. He wasn’t sure why he had immediately linked his doubts about the crash to Sayid’s current fright, but the other man’s reaction was enough to tell him that he was on the right track.
“How do you know?” Sayid shook his head and pulled himself together again. Adam could have hit himself for so stupidly rousing the man out of his vulnerable state; fortunately, he had Sayid to do it for him.
“I’ve read the conspiracy theories. Nothing else,” he replied after Sayid had bandied him about this face some more.
“You’re lying,” Sayid said, but Adam could tell that all the confidence had gone out of the other man.
“That makes two of us, then, doesn’t it?” Adam retorted.
Sayid glared at him menacingly, but Adam had a feeling that before the end of the day, he would be out of this chair. But he also knew that he’d have to answer many more of Sayid’s questions before he was allowed to leave.
For some reason, he found himself almost looking forward to it.