La Sueño

Matrix/OUaTiM crossover. Inspired by a line from Enter the Matrix. Much double meaning and metaphor expressed; catch them if you can. Takes place after Sands collapses at the end of the film. I own nothing. Oneshot.


'My eyes... My eyes, they took my eyes!'

Sands woke up. Or perhaps he fell asleep.

At least, he started dreaming. Or did he stop?

It was quite hard to tell, but the stink of blood and the sharp, hot tang of Mexican grit had gone, replaced by dank coldness. He breathed it in, tasting it, already missing with a deep, stomach-wrenching ache his empty eyes.

How am I supposed to shoot with no fucking eyes?

Chains clinked, and something human groaned a few feet away. Sands groped for it, his self-consciousness rapidly suppressed. He already hated it, this helplessness. His still-gloved hand found a slimy wall; his fingertips slipped as he edged nearer to it. Placing both hands on the reassuring solidness, he stood up.

He didn't hit his head, which was either good or bad: he hadn't decided yet. It meant his location was tall. He breathed in deeply again, concentrating. There was a strange empty quality to the air: chill and damp. The blood on his face was cold too, too cold for sunlight.

Apart from the miscellaneous human sounds coming from all directions, there was also the uneven drip of liquid, probably water. Being underground would explain it. Somewhat pleased with himself for working this out, he cautiously followed the wall to his left, and found bars.

So he was imprisoned.

He kicked it viciously with a snarl. It had been so long since someone had taken advantage of him that he'd quite forgotten the intense frustration that went with it.

'Are you one of them?'

Sands stopped still. 'One of who? Who's there?' he added, feeling like an idiot.

Silence greeted this, but the other sounds stopped, as though they were listening. Sands had a horrible vision (thank God he could still imagine) of playing a Resident Evil arcade game as a teenager, and the silence that had greeted the character's arrival into a drawing room full of zombies.

That was before all hell broke loose.

'Look,' he began, then broke off. When you were suddenly classed as 'visually challenged', it was incredible how many turns of phrase became painfully ironic. 'Where the hell am I? Where is this place?'

'This is the Château.'

'The Château?' he repeated, sarcastically. 'I'm honoured. Should I whistle La Marseillaise?'

There was a short, coughing laugh. 'They took your eyes too, didn't they?'

Sands went cold. 'Who?'

And then all hell broke loose.

Running feet thundered on flagstones to his far right, a gun fired a couple of times, and someone gave a barking laugh. Fabric flapped and rustled; a body hit the floor, and something solid and breathing slammed into the bars inches from Sands' face.

He jerked back reflexively, and fell.

Falling, falling, falling, while the sounds of a hand-to-hand battle echoed all around his prison. Blood splashed, cold and runny, onto his face and pooled in his eye sockets. A high, child's voice called strangely.

'Pistolero!'

He woke/fell asleep to someone shaking his shoulders. He lashed out with a cry, caught whoever it was on the side of the head, and sent them flying. He was hot, too hot, stifled, and it smelt of blood and sweat and dust. The cold blood on his face trickled down his neck, and he realised it was only water. The chicle boy who'd splashed him let loose a long, angry tirade in too-fast Spanish.

Agent Sands heaved himself up onto an elbow, shaking with pain. 'What... the... fuck?'

fin


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