He is Mr. Finch Now. He is Going to Save People.

"What changed your mind?" John Reese had asked.

"Because I lost someone too," he had said, and it wasn't a lie.

Everything else was.

Long after Reese walked away he still sits, wrapped in his coat, staring across the water and into the wind. The cold makes his leg ache, makes him remember the stray bullet that caused it, back when he used to get beaten to a pulp every week. Even so, he likes it here, outside. It feels so much better than being cooped in a building. Outside, it is a little closer to…

No. He won't think about that place anymore. It is being taken care of, by someone who is doing a better job than he ever could. This is his place, now.

Mr. Finch.

He had taken the name on a whim. Simple, elegant. A small hopping bird, unobtrusive. Unthreatening. Just a little bird that had flown its nest and left its home far behind. It had been her favorite bird.

"I stole her as a baby from an insane woman. She's a pawn. Nothing more. She means nothing to me. I'm not coming out of this house so if you want to kill her, go ahead and do it…"

He closes his eyes. Enough. Enough of that.

The truth is, he had needed to get away. The truth is, he had wanted to atone.

He hadn't really built the machine. The DHARMA Initiative did. He's had a mole in DHARMA since before he purged them from his Island. (Not his, he knows. Not anymore.) He had followed them, tracked their movements, their technology. He had bribed and cajoled and lied his way into a secret back door.

It is almost ironic. More numbers, more lists. More slips of paper. More orders. ("What was it that was so wrong with me? What about me?") But this time he is in control.

The numbers come. The numbers always come. Social Security numbers. People. (481-51-6234 2) They always come. Sometimes, they are supplemented. Added to. Rearranged. All for the greater good, of course. All people that are going to kill anyway. Bad people. Reese doesn't need to know this, of course.

(He can't think of the man as anything other than Reese because the name John still hurts too much, his great failure. John, John, and the name conjures bright blue eyes and an unwavering faith that got him killed. John, with the name of a philosopher. John.)

All he knows how to do is lie. He is good at that; he has the smooth voice, the unwavering gaze, the unintimidating stature, the impression of lofty intelligence. He can lie, and manipulate, and give orders, and follow orders. He can save people.

"Dad, they're serious. They killed Karl and my mother. Please, Daddy! Please."

Please.

Stop. He's Mr. Finch now. He's going to save people. No more thinking of that place. Nothing can be done of the past. He has the future, and a mission. He has a greater good. He has a John.

"I have this under control. Everything's going to be OK."

Enough. Enough now.

He gets up, shakes out his coat. Limps away as the wind ruffles the slate-grey water. Gets in the car. Tells them to take him home.

Home.

Enough. Enough now.