Chapter 7: THE DIVIDE
"We should move everyone to the caves."
Jack's voice carried across the morning fire, where a dozen survivors had gathered for what was becoming an informal leadership council. The doctor stood with his arms crossed, medical bag at his feet, the certainty of salvation in his posture.
"Fresh water, natural shelter, protection from the elements—it's the logical choice."
"Logical for who?" Shannon sat on a piece of luggage, picking at her fingernails. "What about rescue? They're going to be looking for survivors on a beach, not in some cave."
"We can maintain a signal fire—"
"A signal fire isn't the same as forty people waving their arms when a plane flies over."
The argument had been building since yesterday, when Kate and I had returned with news of the water source. Half the camp wanted safety. The other half wanted visibility. Both sides had points. Neither side was wrong.
I sat on the periphery, watching the factions form.
Beach versus caves. The first major split. Jack and Kate on opposite sides for once.
The dynamic was playing out exactly as I remembered from the show—except I was in it now, and my positioning mattered.
"What about you, Sawyer?" Kate's voice cut through the chatter. "You found the caves. Where are you staying?"
Forty pairs of eyes turned toward me. I took my time answering, letting the attention settle into discomfort.
"Beach," I said finally. "Better sight lines."
Jack's expression flickered—surprise, maybe disappointment. He'd expected me to support the discovery I'd helped make. The con man choosing comfort over community.
"Sight lines for what?" Michael asked.
"Whatever else lives on this Island." I stood, stretched, made a show of casual indifference. "You all saw that bear. You've heard that thing in the jungle. I'd rather see trouble coming than have it trap me in a hole."
"The caves have multiple exits," Jack argued. "Natural defensible—"
"I ain't planning on defending anything, Doc. I'm planning on running if I need to."
The honesty of it landed strangely. Sawyer the coward, Sawyer the survivor, Sawyer who'd cut and run the moment things got dicey. The mask fit, even when I was telling a version of the truth.
The meeting dissolved into smaller arguments. I drifted toward the water's edge, letting the white noise of surf cover my thinking.
Let them split. Let them argue. When the Others come, they'll need both positions—beach for visibility, caves for shelter. The divided camp is actually smarter than unity would be.
Unless I was wrong about that. Unless my meta-knowledge had already corrupted enough that the strategy I remembered no longer applied.
The pilot died on schedule. The polar bear attacked on schedule. The triangulation will fail on schedule.
So far, so predictable. But small changes accumulated. The gun training might matter later. My relationship with Kate was developing differently than canon Sawyer's. And Locke...
Locke had seen something in me. Something that wasn't in the script.
---
Kate found me an hour later, packing supplies from the wreckage into a waterproof bag.
"You're hoarding again."
"Preparing." I didn't look up. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" She crouched beside me, close enough that I caught the scent of salt and jungle on her skin. "You give Jack the gun, teach people to shoot, then hole up on the beach with extra rations. What's your angle?"
"Maybe I don't have one."
"Everyone has an angle."
True. Especially you.
I stopped packing. Met her eyes. The green was vivid in the morning light, sharp with intelligence and the particular wariness of someone who'd spent her life reading threats.
"You're staying at the beach," I said.
"I'm staying where I can see the sky. Rescue could come tomorrow."
"Could. Probably won't."
Her expression tightened. "Why do you say that?"
Because I've watched this story play out. Because rescue doesn't come for a hundred days, and half the people on this beach will be dead or transformed by then.
"Just a feeling."
"You have a lot of feelings for a con man."
"Con men are in the business of feelings. Reading them. Using them." I zipped the bag, stood. "You think something's coming, don't you? That's why you're staying. Not rescue hopes—you want to see whatever crawls out of that jungle before it reaches the caves."
Kate's silence was confirmation enough.
"So we're both paranoid," she said finally. "Does that make us allies?"
"Makes us neighbors. Close enough."
I walked toward my claimed territory—a patch of beach near the southern rocks, far enough from the main camp for privacy, close enough to reach quickly if needed. Kate watched me go, and I could feel her cataloging the conversation for later analysis.
She's learning to read you. That's dangerous.
Also useful.
The duality of it sat uncomfortably in my chest.
---
Sayid gathered his triangulation volunteers at noon.
Three positions around the Island, three improvised directional antennas, one coordinated signal capture. In theory, it would pinpoint Rousseau's transmission source. In practice, someone was going to stop it.
"You're not joining them?" Charlie appeared at my elbow, looking rough around the edges. The withdrawal was starting—I could see it in his fidgeting, the sheen of sweat that had nothing to do with tropical heat.
"Not my skill set."
"Thought you knew everything."
"I know when to let other people handle things." I reached into my pocket, pulled out the half-crushed pack of cigarettes I'd been saving. "Here."
Charlie blinked. "For real?"
"Nicotine helps with other cravings. Or so I've heard."
His hand shook as he took the pack. He knew I knew—about the heroin, the addiction, the desperate need that was eating him alive. But I'd given him something useful instead of judgment.
"Thanks, man." His voice cracked. "I mean it."
"Don't mention it. Literally. My reputation can't handle acts of kindness."
He laughed, surprised, and walked off toward Claire's position near the medical tent. I watched him go—the recovering addict, the future hero, the man who would die drowning in a flooding station to save everyone he loved.
Small kindnesses. They add up.
Or they didn't. I couldn't know yet which of my interventions would matter and which would dissolve into the chaos of butterfly effects.
Sayid's team departed into the jungle—him, Kate, and Boone splitting toward their assigned positions. I stayed on the beach, watching the tree line, waiting for the sabotage I couldn't prevent.
Locke's going to attack him. Knock him out, destroy the equipment, delay any contact with Rousseau. Because Locke thinks the Island doesn't want them rescued.
I could have warned Sayid. Could have stopped Locke before he acted. But the consequences of that intervention spiraled in directions I couldn't predict—Sayid's suspicion would land on the wrong target, Locke's faith would shatter prematurely, the whole social structure of the camp would shift in ways that might be worse than the original timeline.
Some changes aren't worth making.
The justification felt hollow. I was letting a man get hurt because it was convenient for my long-term planning.
Is that the person you're becoming?
I didn't have an answer.
---
Evening came with no word from the triangulation team.
The camp settled into uneasy routines—fire building, food preparation, the quiet conversations of people trying to pretend the world hadn't ended. I sat apart, cleaning the knife I'd borrowed from Locke's kit, watching the jungle swallow the last of the daylight.
Jack passed by twice, his concern for the missing teams poorly hidden beneath busy work. Shannon and Boone argued about something trivial near the water rations. Claire laughed at something Charlie said, and the sound was so unexpected that several people turned to look.
Normal human moments. In a completely abnormal situation.
Somewhere in that jungle, Sayid was lying unconscious with a head wound. Somewhere deeper, Locke was sabotaging equipment and telling himself it was for everyone's own good. And somewhere beyond all of that, the Others watched us like specimens under glass.
I finished with the knife. The blade gleamed dully in the firelight.
Tomorrow, Sayid comes back injured. The suspicion falls on me because I'm the easy target. Locke walks free because nobody can imagine the man of faith doing something so violent.
And I let it happen.
The weight of that choice settled into my bones. I'd made it deliberately, knowing the cost, accepting that some people would suffer for my strategic patience.
This is what meta-knowledge does to you. It turns every moment into a calculation. Every choice into a cost-benefit analysis.
I thought about the pilot—the man I'd tried to save and failed. The fixed point that proved some deaths couldn't be changed.
Maybe this isn't a fixed point. Maybe Sayid's attack is something I could have prevented.
But I didn't.
The fire crackled. The jungle stayed dark. And somewhere in that darkness, John Locke was proving that faith could justify almost anything.
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