Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [Who watches the watchmen?]

The moment Jack Shephard and John Locke stepped out the door to the armory Sayid Jarrah knew this Henry Gale's life was in his hands. His heart quickened in pace despite his cool exterior. All the twitches and fidgets of anxiety had been worn out of him so only his vitals racing under his skin. Not for one minute did he believe this man, but he would question him none-the-less.

----

The heat of the Iraqi desert was sweltering. Certain times of the year meant the sun's rays could easily burn into a man's skin should he dare to roam outside too long. All of this was meaningless to the man sealed up in a bunker. None of the exposed elements could touch him in his cell. The air was stale and metallic as if it had been in this particular reserve for an eternity. It reeked not only of metal, but of sweat, blood and spittle. The man was no native of this country, but a transplant as a child. Somehow he had known Iraq all of his life. Now he was being questioned on behalf of it: questioned on his plans to destroy it.

"Shall I ask you again?" Sayid asked with a frightening aura of calm.

The man's lips trembled. already dour of his fingers were dislocated, jarred up at grotesque angles. He didn't budge. It hardly gave him the image of a martyr, but instead of a child backed into a corned by some ferocious beast. The best the victim could do was squint his eyes and hope to wake up.

Sayid let out the breath his quickened lungs had been reserving quite calmly. Sweat had formed on his brow. If only it were from the heat. The toil of breaking digits was showing and the inexorable scents of those metallic fluids stuck to his brow. In one shift of an instrument the man's thumb hung down below his wrist. He cried for his god.

"I want to know how many explosives are in place!" Finally Sayid's temper flared.

At that moment the heavy metal door that seemed eternally sealed opened with an aging whine.

"Has he said anything?" one of the two officer's asked. Americans. Their pale eyes seemed much darker.

"Nothing."

"It's been fourteen hours and all you've done is play paddy-cake with him!" The man rolled up his sleeves exchanging glances with his fellow officer. "We're stepping in."

Sayid's eyes protested with an impatient glare. It was a terrible trade, but a trade none the less and to be removed from something he was drafted into brought great shame. His want for air and cleansing, however, was fully ready to lead him. He stepped out. The door closed. He could hear nothing. Everything was left to the dim imagination.

With a heavy feeling of deceit and weariness Sayid began to wonder who exactly watched the watchmen.

----

The thought of this particular scenario, among many, never crossed his mind when he was left in the room with Henry Gale. He wasn't concerned with Jack or John just outside the door and what conflict would arise as a result of his decision. He had only given Jack an answer through the door that would leave his methods to the dim imagination. The air was typically stale and didn't resemble the salty, fragrant winds above the Hatch. He was used to the trapped feeling...though trapped was the last thing he felt.