Title: Coincidental
Don't own them; just borrowing.
When he receives the name of his next mark, he knows immediately who this will hurt. Post-island Sayid, with slight Kate/Sayid undertones.
"Confidence Man," "One of Them," "The Economist" and "There's No Place Like Home." I think that's it.

There are no coincidences. Sayid knows this, perhaps better than anyone, so when he receives the name of his next mark, he knows immediately who this will hurt. (He thinks of her, then, her face as they'd stepped off the plane, no one waiting for them. And he'd always suspected they were more alike than they'd ever dare to admit.)

There are no coincidences, so he is not surprised when he recognizes the mark's last name. He is more surprised, maybe, that this is the first time the jolt of recognition has coursed through him.

What he does not expect, however, is to recognize the man's face.

He slides onto a barstool, two down from his mark. When he orders his drink, he makes no attempt to hide his accent; as he'd expected, the other man looks up. It's a few moments before Sayid sees the recognition cross his face.

"You...you're the interpreter."

Sayid raises an eyebrow slowly, picking up the drink that he has no intention of consuming. "Either you have a very poor memory, or you're too kind in the way you remember me." He'll make no pretense as to who he used to be.

The mark smiles gently. "We all did what we needed to do, Son." A beat, then, "You were on the plane. With my daughter." The smile is gone now, and Sayid sees hints of a deep pain in its place. It's too familiar, and Sayid looks away.

"Yes." It hadn't been a question, but he answers it anyway. (He remembers her now, how she'd felt when she'd huddled under his arm as they'd stepped off the lifeboat onto the sand of another island. He'd felt her fear in the slight tremble of her shoulders, but now he thinks maybe the fear had been his.) "Yes, I was."

Outside, Sayid dials the number from memory. "I made contact."

If Ben expects him to elaborate, to mention how this mark is different from the others, he doesn't say so.

It's easier than one might think, walking undetected onto the grounds of a military shooting range. He finds the mark relatively quickly; the range is practically deserted at this hour of the morning. He removes the Beretta from its holster and his hands aren't shaking but he thinks they should be.

"Sam Austen."

The man turns.

(Sometimes, he can still feel the back of her hand, when he'd pressed it to his lips. He'd tortured one of their own, but the thing he remembers the most is that she hadn't wanted him to leave.)

He pulls the trigger.