Prologue: The Passenger

"Do you have any seats left flight 815?" the woman asked impatiently, tapping her passport on the ticket counter.

"I'm afraid not ma'am, but we do have a later flight, I can pull that up for you."

"No—it needs to be 815."

"I'm sorry, there aren't any—"

"It's fine," she interrupted, "I'll be back." She scanned around the terminal, looking for someone pliable. An older couple was looking for the right place to check in—but that wouldn't be right. There was a man in a wheelchair—but she couldn't ask him, and she needed two tickets. A Korean couple was arguing by the escalator—a possibility, though she wasn't sure either of them would speak English.

She noticed a younger couple in an intense conversation. The woman was tan and thin with dirty blonde curls. Her dark-haired boyfriend looked enthralled by her every word. They were an easy mark—trying too hard to look successful. "You two," she snapped. They looked up.

"Are you on Oceanic 815?"

"Yes," the man answered.

"I will pay you both $500 if you switch to the next flight to LA."

They looked at each other. "Are you serious?" asked the blonde woman.

"I really need to be on that flight," she explained.

"What do you think, Nikki?" the man asked.

"I mean we can just take the next flight? And it's $1,000, Paolo. We could use the money."

"Okay—but make it $1,000 each, and we'll do it."

Nikki rolled her eyes.

The woman barely reacted. "Fine."

"Do you have it in cash?"

She nodded, and reached into her backpack, pulling out a billfold. She counted the money out discretely and held it out to them. The man reached for it, but she pulled it away.

"We talk to the ticket lady first."

She marched them back up to the counter. The attendant looked mildly annoyed.

"They'll switch to the next flight," she said, tilting her head in their direction.

"Are you sure?" the attendant asked the couple.

"We made a deal," Paolo replied.

The attendant rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said. "What's your information?"

They handed her the tickets, and she typed their details into the machine.

"There will be a three-hundred-dollar fee to change your seats—are you sure you want to do this."

"Yes," Paolo replied, nodding.

"You're all set, then" the attendant told the couple, handing them newly printed tickets. "You'll leave about four hours later."

The woman shook Paolo's hand, passing him the wad of bills. "Thank you. You won't regret this, trust me."

He frowned at her, and walked away into the terminal, one hand on Nikki's back.

"Alright ma'am. Let me see your passport. We'll get you on this flight."

She reached into her back and selected a passport. She quickly glanced at the information before handing it to the attendant.

The attendant looked at the picture and back at the woman, confirming that the pretty, professionally dressed young woman the passport photo was the same person as the scowling, sunburnt traveler standing in front of her in a black tank top and drab cargo pants.

"You're Swiss?"

"Yep," she replied curtly.

"French Swiss or German Swiss?" she asked, trying to make conversation.

"French," she answered, "but I grew up in Canada," she explained, pulling out two more passports. She flashed the Canadian passport at the woman. "Dual citizen."

"Oh, I see." The attendant replied, and started typing the woman's information into the computer. "I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite," she muttered quietly.

The woman laughed. "It's been a rough few days." She handed the woman the third passport. "I also need to book the seat next to me for my husband."

"Sure," the attendant said, obviously tired of dealing with her. "Where is he."

"Not sure at the moment, but I'll take his boarding pass."

"Any checked luggage?"

"Nope," she replied, lifting up her olive-green camping backpack. "Just carry-on—for both of us."

The attendant forced a smiled. "Alright then, here you go Mrs. Moriarty," she handed back the passports and boarding passes. "Have a nice trip."

She hurried through security and found the gate.

She looked around nervously at boarding, checked her watch, and pretended to make a phone call.

As the line started to thin out, she collected her things and stepped up to the counter. "My husband got a call he had to take" she lied to the flight attendant. "He went up to the lounge to use the computers." She handed the man her extra boarding pass. "I just talked to him—he'll see what he can do, but he might not make the flight—I have to get back to the office for a meeting, so I can't wait here with him."

"There's not much time left, ma'am," the attendant told her. "We'll keep an eye out for him, but we can't wait for him."

"That's no problem, we understand. No need to make any announcements. Whatever happens, happens."


On the plane, the woman was finally able to relax. She glanced around at the passengers. They didn't know what they were in for. She'd lived through a lot—she'd nearly drowned, years ago. But she'd never been in a plane crash.

She rummaged through her backpack, placing it on the seat beside her. She checked that everything was in order. The envelope wasn't bent—that was good. The passports were all there. She'd spent most of what remained of the cash on getting Nikki and Paolo off the flight, but that was obviously worth it. And she wouldn't have much need for cash once they arrived.

She fought the urge to open the envelope. She needed that comfort, but it wasn't worth the gamble of anyone seeing what was inside. There was no one sitting beside her, but still she couldn't risk it. She sighed.

She had told the ticket lady the truth about one thing—it had been a long few days. She'd only had four days to get to Sydney. It had taken a harrowing boat ride and three flights to get here. She hadn't showered since she was in the Turkish airport, and even that was just a quick one to get rid of the worst of the grime. She was exhausted. And she knew she would need the energy when they got to the Island.

The plane took off without incident. Her adrenaline spiked a bit as the wheels came up, but she settled down quickly. She took a coffee and an LA Times when the flight attendant came by. She flipped through the pages idly. There wasn't too much happening. She read a story about the state of the war in Iraq, and—with morbid curiosity—a story about a varsity swimmer at Yale who had dropped dead of an aneurysm.

She yawned, and flashed a knowing smile at the large man across the aisle, who reacted with an involuntary grin. Then she leaned into the window, and went to sleep.

She dreamed of the beach. She couldn't see it for some reason, but she could feel it, and hear it, and smell it. She walked down, feeling the dry grass crunch under her feet, then turn to cool sand, hearing the waves lap against the shore. In the dream, she sat down in the sand and waited, but no one could hear her shouting, and no one came.

She was jolted awake when the turbulence started. This was it. She reached under the seat and grabbed her backpack. Clutching it as tightly as she could. At first, nothing happened—just normal turbulence. Then the plane started to rattle violently, and it was ripped apart, and it was hurtling down.

Everyone was screaming. Her heart was pounding—even though she knew it would probably be alright. She stayed as calm as she could, and held on to her bag, knowing the contents were critical to her survival.

She lost consciousness on impact.


Chapter 1: A Significant Other

When the woman woke up, the crash site was still in chaos. The plane was burning—she could see some charred bodies among the dozens of injured, panicked passengers—screaming, crying and wailing for help.

The bag. She looked around. She'd lost it in the crash. Fuck.

She dragged herself to her feet and scrambled aimlessly around the crash site, looking for it. She was dizzy. She touched her forehead, and felt a warm wetness oozing from her hairline. Blood.

She kept going. Before she could do anything else, she needed to get the bag.

She spotted it behind a piece of the plane. She ran to it, and dropped to her knees, checking its contents. Everything was in order. The relief washed over her. She pulled two Swiss passports out and slipped them into the pocket of her pants. She tightened the drawstring on the top and clipped it shut. She put it on, clipping the chest strap. She wasn't losing it again.

"Are you okay?"

She spun around. A handsome man with short dark hair was staring at her with concern. She didn't reply.

"I'm a doctor."

"I think my head is bleeding," she told him, tilting her head forward so that he could see the damage.

He looked at the injury, gently running a finger through her hairline. "What's your name?"

"Audrey," she lied.

"I'm Jack," he told her, carefully examining the wound. "It doesn't look deep, Audrey," he told her. "But you might have a concussion. Try to find a place to sit and take it easy."

"I can't," she told him. "I need to find my husband."

"Was he sitting with you?"

"No, he was a few rows away." She pulled the passports out of her pocket. She opened the first—her own—and put it back in her pocket. She handed him the other. "His name is Dean."

He looked at it, frowning.

"Have you seen him?" She asked, her voice wavering with genuine emotion.

Jack shook his head.

"I need to go look for him."

"You're in rough shape, Audrey, you need to sit. If he's here, he'll find you."

She smiled at him, sadness in her eyes. "You're not married, are you?"

He was taken aback "not anymore," he replied, confused.

She looked out at the ocean. "It's just a concussion. I need to find him."

His brows furrowed as he considered whether it was worth arguing with her. "Just be careful," he said eventually. He tried to hand the passport back to her, but she refused to take it back.

"Keep the passport, doc," she told him. "If he shows up, give it to him, and tell him I'm looking for him." She bit her lip, pretending to fight back tears. "If you find him, and he's not…" she trailed off. "At least you'll have a picture."

She patted Jack on the shoulder and darted of down the beach, shouting out for Dean and making some show of looking through the survivors.

Then she ran off into the jungle.


The night after the plane crashed, Benjamin Linus woke suddenly from a horrible dream.

He had been standing at his kitchen window. There was a man he didn't recognize holding a gun to his daughter's head. He had others with him—they looked military—mercenaries. There were different men in his house—none of whom he knew—backs against the wall. They seemed to be helping him to defend his home from these invaders, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

The mercenaries were demanding that he come out of the house—they were connected by walkie-talkie, and Ben thought it strange that they were both on the same frequency. He could see that Alex was sobbing. The mercenary had forced her to her knees and put the walkie-talkie to her mouth. They were serious, Alex said. They had killed Karl.

He tried to calm Alex down. Then he tried to call the man's bluff. He couldn't kill Alex—it would break the rules. There was no need to leave the house.

Besides, he announced through the walkie-talkie, she wasn't his daughter. He had stolen her as a baby. She was just a pawn. And if that man wanted to kill her, he could go ahead and do it.

And so he did.

And that's where the dream ended.

Ben had woken up with a sickened feeling in his stomach, his blood chilled by his memory of the nightmare. It had been such a vivid dream. It wasn't out of focus—not disjointed or contextually inconsistent. It had felt real.

He shuddered, exhaled loudly, and went back to sleep. His sleep was restless—there were other dreams, some that felt almost as real as the nightmare. But those dreams faded from his memory each time he woke. The memory of the nightmare, however, lingered.

In the morning, he got up, and followed his usual routine. He wondered idly if the dream was a symptom of his condition. He made a mental note to ask Juliet.

Though, he noted to himself, she wouldn't be happy with him—given where he had sent Goodwin.


The woman marched through the forest, forcing herself not to stop. It was a long walk, and there was no time to waste. She had everything she needed in her bag—there was water, a flashlight, some snacks. She had considered buying a mini vodka on the flight to ease the nerves, but she had decided against it. She needed to stay sharp.

She had gone to sleep against a tree for a few hours once night fell, but it was a restless sleep. Today, her back was hurting, and her feet were sore. But she was anxious to get to the barracks. She needed to keep going.

She was a few hours into the second day of walking. She knew the way, and she had a good sense of direction, but she knew that the Island had its way of turning one's head around. And she knew the dangers that hid around every corner.

When she heard the rattling noise and a rustling in the treetops, she knew what it was. But she was nervous, nonetheless.

"You can't hurt me," she shouted at it, feigning confidence.

She saw the tail end of what looked like a black cloud out of the corner of her eye. Then it disappeared, and the air was silent.

It emerged in front of her all at once, crackling with energy and rattling like an old train. She instinctively took a step back, but she kept her chin up.

"I know what you are. I'm not afraid of you. There's nothing you can do to me."

It inched closer to her.

"I'm a piece in play, but I'm not like the rest of them. I'm from a different game," she called out. "I am not yours to judge."

The cloud enveloped her, and she stayed as still as she could, waiting for it to give up. She could feel it searching for something—she had a strange, implicit awareness of its consciousness. It whirled around her angrily for a few moments, but in a flash, it was gone.

She exhaled. She hadn't been sure that would work.

The rest of the trip was a bit easier. It was mostly downhill, and she knew where she was headed.

It was dawn the next day by the time she arrived at the clearing in front of the sonic fence. She walked along the border for a while, until she found one of the cameras. She waved at it for a few minutes, swinging her hands in the air as dramatically as she could. She hoped there was someone paying attention.

It was very early in the morning, so she knew it would take a while for someone to get to the fence. She plopped down on the ground, making sure she was in the camera's frame. She lay back into the grass and stared at the sky, watching as the pinks and purples burned away to blue. She was more nervous now than she had been in the jungle. She wasn't sure how they would react. She was prepared for anything, but a small part of her hoped that it would all just work out right away.

That was foolish, of course. She had no reason to think they would believe her. They would be confused—him especially. She sighed. It wasn't going to be easy.

She heard the rumble of an engine in the distance a few hours later. It stopped out of eyesight—presumably they wanted to keep their options open.

She hopped to her feet to watch the group approaching her. She recognized the tall, dark haired figure, but no one else looked familiar.

As soon as they were in earshot, she raised her hands in the air. "Take me to your leader," she shouted glibly.

"You're speaking to him," Richard Alpert called out.

"No, I need to talk to Ben."

"Who?"

"You can't bullshit me, Richard. I need to talk to Ben."

Alpert stopped in his tracks.

"Who are you?"

"A friend. I need to talk to Ben."

She pulled her passport out of her pocket and tossed it through the fence at him. She raised her hands above her head and waited.

He walked over and picked up the passport. He opened it and frowned. "Where did you get this?"

"It's a long story."

"Is your name really Audrey Moriarty?"

"What do you think?" she scoffed.

"Did Jacob send you?"

She frowned and scrunched her nose. "In a roundabout way. I guess."

Alpert gestured to the group to stay put and walked up to the sonic fence. He waved at the camera, and the whirring noise stopped.

"Come on then," he told her. "We're going to restrain you, just to be safe."

"Fine," she said. "Just take me to him. You're looking well, by the way."

He blinked. "Have we met?"

She smiled. "In a manner of speaking."

Alpert took her bag while someone ziptied her hands behind her back. The group walked her up the hill to the van. She looked wistfully out the window as they drove. When the little yellow houses appeared in the distance, she smiled. The man sitting next to her noticed and shot a look at the woman on her left. The woman shrugged.

When they arrived at the Barracks, Alpert hopped out of the van first. "Juliet," he called to a blonde woman walking by, "where's Ben?"

"At home, I think—why, what's going on?"

"A survivor just showed up at the gate."

"What? Already?"

"Talk to Mikhail—check to see if she was actually on the plane," he instructed, handing Juliet the passport. "And find out if we have any records of her."

She opened it and looked back at Richard confused.

"Please, Juliet, I don't have time to explain."

"Alright," she agreed, and trotted off.

Alpert opened the van door, taking the woman's bag with him. The rest of the group disembarked. Alpert held the woman's arm as she hopped out.

"Alright, we can talk to Ben now." He started leading her towards a house.

"I thought that lady said he was home."

Alpert raised an eyebrow.

"I know this isn't his house," she continued, exasperated. "This will be a lot easier if you just assume I know everything."

Richard looked back at the group that had accompanied him to the fence. "You all can go," he told them.

"You better have a lot of answers, Audrey." Alpert said, attempting a menacing tone.

She met his stare, rolled her eyes, and laughed through an exasperated smirk.

When they reached Ben's house, Alpert rang the doorbell.

A girl answered the door. She looked at the woman, and then up at Alpert.

"Alex, is your dad home?"

"Yeah, I'll go get him."

The woman stared at Alex openly. Her expression was unreadable, but she was clenching her jaw tightly to keep her face still.

"Who is this?"

"Honestly, I don't—just go get your dad. Then get out of the house for a while."

"You should go hang out with Karl," the woman interjected, with a grin. "Your dad will be very distracted for the next few hours. He won't ask too many questions."

"How do you—"

"Alex. Your dad."

She disappeared down the hall. "Richard Alpert is here, and he has a weird woman with him," she shouted. The woman couldn't make out Ben's muffled response.

Alex reappeared, grabbing a bag from the floor of the hall. She slipped out behind Alpert. "I don't want to know," she said, noticing Alpert about to speak.

Alpert led the woman into the kitchen and sat her down in one of the chairs. "Don't move," he instructed.

"I am literally sitting on my hands, don't worry."

Through the walls, she could hear him having a muffled conversation with Ben.

"So she had a passport with a last name that I use—that could be a coincidence, Richard."

"It's not. She knew which house was yours. And she knew about Karl, of all people."

"Karl?"

"Your daughter's friend."

"I know who Karl is, I just—Karl?"

They turned the corner into the kitchen.

She looked over her shoulder at them. It took all of her willpower to keep her emotions in check.

"Hi," she said, her voice small.

"Who are you?" Ben asked, dismissive and annoyed. He buttoned the top of his green shirt. He must have been in the middle of getting dressed.

"You found out two days ago that there is a tumor on your spine."

His eyebrows shot up. Alpert looked stunned.

"Oh Jesus, Ben, did you not tell Richard?"

"He just got back last night. I haven't had the chance to—how did you know about that?"

"I know a lot of things. I also know that there was a spinal surgeon on my flight."

She paused to let that information sink in. He blinked slowly.

"I also know that your first thought—just now—was to start concocting some hare-brained plot to manipulate him into operating on you."

Ben gaped at her.

"I'm here to help you, I promise."

"Jacob sent you?"

She shrugged. "Can I take a shower?"

Ben glanced back at Richard questioningly. "Did you know about this."

Alpert shook his head. "I did not."

"Can you at least cut my zipties?"

"Why should we trust you?"

She laughed. "I don't know—you probably shouldn't. I'm here to help you, Ben. I know you're paranoid, but why would I do all this to trick you?"

"What's your real name?"

"Jennifer Gale," she said with a straight face.

His frown deepened, and she started giggling.

"How did you know about the balloon?"

She rolled her eyes. "Ben, there is a tumor on your spine, and it will kill you. That's why I am here. The sooner you accept that I know everything, the better. Let me help you."

He stared her down for a minute, trying to intimidate her. He had a way of communicating all sorts of evil intent with just a look. She remained unimpressed.

"Alright," he acquiesced, gesturing at Alpert to cut her restraints. With her arms free, she quickly grabbed her backpack from the floor and ran off down the hallway.

"I'm taking a shower," she called over her shoulder, walking straight into Ben's bedroom. She locked the door behind her.