He'd attempted to put in contact lenses once—squinting at the pathetic rubbery circle on his fingertip, making sure it was turned the right way—and found it demeaning.

The numbers—the fucking numbers—always make sure the numbers were turned the right way, they'd said. Except he hadn't even been able to find these so-called numbers.

The thing looked totally transparent to him. He couldn't see the fucking numbers, much less make sure they were turned the right way. Could it have been a cruel joke played on him by the optometrist? While that seemed unlikely, he could imagine why the doctor might have wanted to get even with him in some way. (He had, at one point during the examination, called the doctor…what were the exact words?... A scum-sucking fraudulent money-hungry bastard? Yes, that had been the phrase.) And sending him on a maddening hunt for some non-existent numbers was as good a way to get back at him as any, he supposed.

Sands knew that this was a stupid theory—he wasn't kidding himself—but blaming his failure to find the numbers on that smug, condescending doctor made him feel just a little better. The man had also charged him an obscene amount of money (granted, the Agency would be picking up the charge, since they were the ones making him take this required examination in the first place, but still. It was the principle) just to breathe in his face and make him read aloud some tiny letters in a crappy font—where were the chart-makers' sense of style? A nice Lucida would have been an improvement.

And it had been torture to go through the whole hour without a gun. Sure, it probably wouldn't have been the wisest thing to use it right then and there in the office, but that hour would have been significantly less excruciating had he at least been given the option of pulling it out and pointing at someone. It made him irritable, not to feel the gun in its customary spot, not to feel its nose nuzzling against his hip. Gun innuendo is just the best, isn't it?

Conspiracy theories aside, he had to grudgingly admit the existence of those fucking numbers. He was aware of the fact that this brand of lens was meant to have numbers printed somewhere on each one. Still, after a good two minutes' worth of staring, all he could see was that blank rubbery circle. Well, gee, it's kind of like a condom, he mused, only less useful.

Fuck you, Acuvue.

No, he'd never quite gotten the knack of putting in contacts. Anyway, he thought, enhancing one's vision artificially, bypassing the so-called hassle of glasses, seemed like a really pretentious thing to do, akin to taking steroids or something. It was cheating.

And he'd always relied on his own innate skills to get the job done. Suffice it to say, he wanted nothing to do with those lens things.

And, truth be told, he'd never really been the greatest at touching his own eyeballs.

…Well, that wasn't a problem anymore.

A smirk twitched at one side of his mouth at this realization. I never need to put in contact lenses again.

It was brilliant.

"…I'm such a fucking optimist."