Chapter 2: The Builder's Instinct
Dawn painted the beach in shades of pearl and gold. Mac hadn't slept—couldn't sleep with the competing memories churning in his skull like a hurricane. Instead, he'd spent the dark hours arranging stones in increasingly complex patterns, his hands moving without conscious thought.
The need to build thrummed under his skin like a fever. Every piece of debris, every fallen palm frond, every chunk of twisted metal called to him with possibilities. His fingers itched to create order from chaos, to transform wreckage into shelter.
Around him, other survivors began stirring. Some had slept on the sand, others had found pieces of luggage to use as pillows. Everyone looked haggard, shell-shocked, like refugees from a war zone. Which, Mac supposed, they were.
"Morning."
Mac turned to find Hurley approaching, his vacation shirt wrinkled and stained but his expression cautiously optimistic. The big man carried two bottles of airplane water and offered one to Mac.
"Thanks." Mac accepted the water gratefully. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"You been up all night?" Hurley settled beside him on the sand, breathing heavily from the short walk. "Saw you moving around."
Mac gestured at the stone arrangements around them—spirals and geometric patterns that seemed to flow naturally from the landscape. "Couldn't sleep. Keeps my hands busy."
Hurley studied the patterns with growing amazement. "Dude, these are like... art. You just did this with beach rocks?"
"Habit, I guess."
It wasn't really a habit. Mac had never arranged stones in his life. But someone had—someone whose memories were bleeding through, showing him balance points and structural relationships he shouldn't understand. Master Builder instincts awakening like muscle memory from a dream.
"That's seriously cool, man. I can barely stack Cheerios without them falling over."
Mac smiled despite everything. Hurley's easy acceptance was a balm after Jack's suspicious questions and Kate's calculating looks. Here was someone who took people at face value, who didn't probe for inconsistencies or hidden agendas.
"We should probably start thinking about shelter," Mac said, scanning the beach. "Real shelter. Something that'll hold up if it storms."
Hurley's expression darkened. "Think we'll be here that long?"
The question hit deeper than it should have. Mac's fragmented memories whispered terrible truths—no rescue coming, months of struggle, people dying in ways that defied explanation. But he couldn't voice those certainties without revealing what he shouldn't know.
"Better safe than sorry," Mac said instead.
As they talked, more survivors began moving around the camp. Mac watched them with eyes that saw too much. There was Charlie Pace, the rock star, jonesing for a heroin fix and trying to hide it. Sun Kwon, speaking only Korean but understanding every word of English around her. Jin, her husband, radiating protective intensity. Shannon and Boone, step-siblings with a relationship that made Mac's skin crawl.
And watching it all from the tree line: Jack Shephard, already assuming the mantle of leadership whether anyone wanted him to or not.
"I'm thinking we start with lean-tos," Mac continued, his hands sketching shapes in the sand. "Basic triangular frames, maybe graduated to larger communal spaces. The key is drainage—this close to the water, we need everything elevated..."
He trailed off when he realized Hurley was staring at him.
"Dude, you're like a walking construction manual. Where'd you learn all this stuff?"
Mac's mouth went dry. How did he know about drainage and frame construction? The knowledge felt as natural as breathing, but it came from someone else's life, someone else's experience.
"Military engineers," he lied. "Had to build camps in hostile territory."
Hurley nodded, apparently satisfied. "That's awesome. We definitely need someone who knows what they're doing."
Mac stood, brushing sand from his pants. "I should survey the area. Figure out the best spots for building."
"Mind if I tag along? I'm not exactly construction material, but I can carry stuff."
"Sure."
They walked up the beach together, Mac's eyes automatically cataloging resources. Palm fronds for roofing. Bamboo stands in the jungle for framework. Pieces of the fuselage that could be repurposed into walls or floors. His mind built ghostly structures over the landscape, showing him possibilities that shouldn't exist.
The Master Builder power hummed stronger now, responding to focused attention. Mac could see stress points and load distributions, could visualize how materials would weather over time, could plan construction projects with the precision of an architect despite never having formal training.
"So what do you think?" Hurley asked as they reached a slightly elevated area fifty yards from the water. "Good spot for building?"
Mac knelt, scooping up a handful of sand and testing its consistency. "Perfect. Good drainage, protection from storm surge, close enough to the water for convenience but far enough to avoid the worst waves."
"How can you tell all that from dirt?"
Mac paused. How could he tell? The knowledge just flowed through him like water through a pipe—understanding soil composition and water tables and structural engineering that belonged to someone else's education.
"Experience," he said finally. "You learn to read terrain."
As they explored, Mac began gathering materials almost unconsciously. His hands selected pieces of debris and driftwood with unerring precision, choosing elements that would fit together like puzzle pieces in constructions he could visualize but had never built.
"Dude, you're like a magnet for good building stuff," Hurley observed. "Everything you pick up looks perfect for what we need."
Mac looked down at his hands, surprised to find them full of carefully selected materials. Had he been choosing them consciously? The Master Builder instincts operated below the level of thought, guiding his choices through inherited expertise.
"Lucky, I guess."
But it wasn't luck. Mac could feel the power growing stronger with use, his ability to see structural possibilities expanding with each decision. What had started as basic construction knowledge was evolving into something approaching architectural genius.
They returned to find Jack organizing a rescue effort for people still trapped near the fuselage. Mac watched the doctor take charge with natural authority, seeing the leadership qualities that would define so much of what came next.
"We need to help," Mac said.
"Absolutely." Hurley was already moving toward Jack's group. "Hey, Doc! Mac here knows about construction and medical stuff. He helped that guy Gary yesterday."
Jack's attention fixed on Mac immediately. "Good timing. We could use another set of skilled hands."
But instead of medical work, Mac found himself drawn to the scattered debris around the crash site. His builder's eye saw possibilities everywhere—pieces of the plane that could be repurposed, luggage that could be converted into storage, electronics that might be salvaged for tools.
"Mac?" Jack's voice carried a note of confusion. "I thought you might help with the wounded."
Mac looked up from the wing section he'd been examining. "Sorry. Just... seeing what we can use. For building."
"Building what?"
"Shelter. Medical facilities. Storage for supplies." Mac gestured at the chaos around them. "We've got enough material here to create a whole infrastructure. We just need to organize it properly."
Jack's expression was unreadable. "You think we'll be here long enough to need infrastructure?"
The question hung in the air between them. Mac's fragmented memories screamed the truth—they'd be here for months, maybe years. Some would never leave. But he couldn't voice that certainty without revealing impossible knowledge.
"Better to be prepared," Mac said carefully.
Before Jack could respond, a new voice cut through their conversation.
"Well, well. Looks like we got ourselves a regular Bob the Builder over here."
Mac turned to find a man with shoulder-length hair and sharp eyes watching him with amusement. Sawyer Ford, though he wouldn't reveal that name for days yet. The con man's smile was all charm and teeth, the expression of someone used to reading people and finding their weak spots.
"Excuse me?" Mac kept his voice level.
"You heard me, Bob. Five minutes ago you were Florence Nightingale, now you're Frank Lloyd Wright. Man's got quite the resume."
Hurley stepped closer to Mac, his expression protective. "Hey, leave him alone. Mac's trying to help."
Sawyer's grin widened. "Oh, I'm sure he is. Question is, help with what? And why's he so damn good at everything he touches?"
The challenge in Sawyer's voice was clear. Mac could feel Jack and Hurley watching the exchange, waiting to see how he'd respond. His inherited instincts—not just builder's knowledge but something deeper, more cunning—whispered ways to deflect, to misdirect, to turn Sawyer's suspicion aside.
"I've had a lot of jobs," Mac said finally. "Military teaches you to be flexible."
"Military, huh? What branch?"
"Army. Engineers."
"Funny, you don't look like an Army man. Got that soft, civilian look about you. Like someone who's never been closer to combat than a Call of Duty game."
Mac's temper flared. The inherited memories of training and deployment felt as real as his own life, even though they belonged to someone else. Sawyer's dismissal stung more than it should have.
"Looks can be deceiving," Mac said quietly.
Something in his tone made Sawyer's grin falter slightly. For just a moment, Mac let some of the dangerous knowledge show in his eyes—the understanding of violence and survival that came with the transmigrated memories. Not enough to reveal anything supernatural, but enough to suggest depths Sawyer hadn't expected.
"I suppose they can," Sawyer said after a moment. His voice had lost some of its mocking edge. "Well, Bob the Builder, you just go ahead and construct your little heart out. But maybe save some energy for the rest of us working folks."
As Sawyer walked away, Mac caught Jack studying him with renewed interest.
"You okay?" Jack asked. "You looked... different there for a second."
Mac forced his expression back to normal. "Just don't like being called soft."
But Jack's clinical gaze suggested he'd seen more than Mac intended. The doctor's suspicions were growing, and Mac couldn't afford to feed them further.
"Come on," Mac said to Hurley. "Let's start building."
They spent the next several hours working together, Mac's inherited expertise guiding every decision. He selected materials with inhuman precision, seeing exactly how each piece would fit into the growing structure. His hands moved with confidence born of experience he'd never had, tying knots that would hold under hurricane-force winds, calculating load distributions that would keep the shelter standing for months.
The work felt natural, almost meditative. The Master Builder power hummed through his system like electricity, growing stronger with each task completed. What had started as basic construction knowledge was evolving into something approaching supernatural craftsmanship.
"Dude, this is incredible," Hurley breathed, watching Mac weave palm fronds into weatherproof roofing. "You're like a construction genius."
Mac paused in his work. The shelter they'd built was indeed impressive—a sturdy A-frame structure with excellent drainage, waterproof roofing, and enough space for three or four people. It looked professionally built despite being constructed entirely from beach debris and crashed airplane parts.
"It's just practice," Mac said, but even as he spoke, he knew it was more than that. The power was guiding his choices, showing him solutions that transcended normal human knowledge. He was building better than he should be able to, creating structures that seemed to perfect themselves under his hands.
Other survivors had noticed too. Mac caught them watching from a distance, their expressions mixing admiration with growing suspicion. He was standing out too much, displaying skills that didn't fit his cover story.
"Mac."
He turned to find Kate approaching, her expression carefully neutral. She'd been watching him work for the past hour, and Mac could practically see the questions forming behind her eyes.
"That's beautiful work," she said, running her hand along the shelter's frame. "Very professional."
"Thanks."
"Where did you say you learned construction again?"
The question was casual, but Mac caught the undertone. Kate was probing, looking for inconsistencies in his story. Her survival instincts were as sharp as his inherited memories suggested.
"Military engineering," Mac repeated. "Had to build a lot of temporary structures."
"Temporary." Kate's smile didn't reach her eyes. "This looks pretty permanent to me."
Before Mac could respond, Charlie Pace stumbled into their conversation. The rock star looked pale and sweaty, his hands shaking slightly. Mac's enhanced senses picked up the chemical wrongness in Charlie's system—withdrawal beginning to bite.
"This is brilliant," Charlie said, his accent making the words musical despite his obvious distress. "Proper shelter at last. You're quite the craftsman, mate."
"Just lucky, I guess," Mac said automatically.
Charlie's laugh had a bitter edge. "Lucky. Right. Wish I was that lucky."
The comment hung in the air awkwardly. Mac caught Kate studying Charlie's shaky hands and pale complexion. Her expression shifted to concern, the same protective instinct that would define so much of her character.
"You feeling alright, Charlie?" she asked.
"Fine, fine. Just... tired. Long day, you know?"
Mac knew it wasn't tiredness. Charlie's body was beginning to rebel against the absence of heroin, and it would only get worse. The knowledge came from his inherited memories—not just facts about drug withdrawal, but deeper understanding of how to treat it, how to ease the symptoms, how to heal the damage addiction caused to human biochemistry.
Healing Hands knowledge stirring to life again, offering solutions Mac wasn't ready to provide.
"You should get some rest," Mac suggested. "The shelter's big enough for several people."
Charlie nodded gratefully and disappeared inside the structure. Kate lingered, her attention still focused on Mac.
"You're very observant," she said quietly. "Most people wouldn't have noticed he was struggling."
Mac shrugged, trying to play it off. "Medic training. You learn to spot when people are hurting."
"Medic training, construction expertise, and natural leadership instincts." Kate's tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. "Quite the package."
"I try to be useful."
"That you do." Kate paused, seeming to weigh her words. "Just... be careful not to make yourself too indispensable too quickly. People get suspicious when someone seems too good to be true."
The warning was delivered gently, but Mac understood the threat beneath it. Kate was telling him she'd noticed his impossible competence, and she wasn't the only one. He needed to dial back the perfection, make more mistakes, seem more human.
"Thanks for the advice," Mac said.
Kate nodded and walked away, leaving Mac alone with his thoughts and his dangerous powers.
As the sun set over the ocean, Mac surveyed his work. The shelter was perfect—too perfect. It looked like something a professional contractor might build, not a medic with hobby construction skills. Other survivors had started gathering around it, their expressions mixing admiration with curiosity.
"This is really something," Jack said, appearing beside Mac as darkness fell. "Military engineers taught you well."
"I had good teachers," Mac replied carefully.
Jack ran his hand along the shelter's frame, testing its stability. His expression was clinical, analytical. "The joinery work is exceptional. These knots... I've never seen anything quite like them."
Mac's heart skipped. The knots were perfect because the Master Builder power had guided his hands, showing him techniques that transcended normal human knowledge. He'd tied them without conscious thought, letting inherited expertise flow through his fingers.
"Traditional techniques," Mac said weakly. "Old school military engineering."
Jack's eyes were sharp in the firelight. "I'd love to hear more about your service record sometime. Over coffee, maybe, when we get rescued."
The words sounded casual, but Mac caught the undertone. Jack was planning to verify his story, to dig deeper into a military background that didn't exist. Mac would need to be ready with answers that couldn't be checked against any database.
"Sure thing," Mac said, forcing a smile. "I'd like that."
As Jack walked away, Mac settled beside his creation and named it in the privacy of his own mind: "Fort Probably-Won't-Collapse." The humor felt hollow against the weight of growing suspicion and impossible powers he barely understood.
In the distance, the jungle pressed close to their small circle of firelight. Mac's inherited instincts whispered warnings about what moved in those shadows—threats that would emerge in time, dangers that would test every skill he was still learning to wield.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to slip up and reveal what he really was. But tonight, at least, they had shelter. Tonight, they were safer because of abilities that shouldn't exist.
Mac just had to hope the price of using them wouldn't destroy the secret he was fighting to keep.
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