Disclaimer: Me? Own Agent Sands? What a frightening thought. Nope, the guy is just living in my head for the time being. I am not responsible.
AN: This is my first official foray into this fandom. I hope you like it. As the summary says, it's slightly AU. My apologies if you have a major problem with that. I sat my muse down and this is the story he told me. Take it or leave it. This may become something bigger; I'm not sure. Again, the muse is completely in control here. It all depends on what he decides to give me. So you'd better enjoy it while it lasts lol!
Debate
He leans against the wall, heavily, blood pouring from his wounds, streaming down his face. His hair falls forward, but he doesn't seem to notice. Ramirez' voice.
"See you around."
"Fuck you."
I'm special agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. I work for the CIA…
Not anymore.
No. I have no eyes. I have no eyes, IhavenoeyesIhavenoeyesIhavenoeyes…
His head is swimming, so he finally lets go, slides down until he's sitting, legs stretched out in front of him, head leaning against the building.
What now? Is this it? Do I sit here and wait to die? Do I try to get up, go looking for help?
No. Never ask for help. Always help yourself.
But how? How do I help myself this time? I have no fucking eyes, for Christ's sake!
He sits there for what seems like hours, days, weeks, months. Maybe he loses consciousness, maybe not. He can't remember. All he knows is the pain. Everywhere, pain. His arm, his leg, his eyes. No, not his eyes. His empty sockets, screaming in pain. Footsteps approach. This is not Ramirez, he's already gone, the fucker. And it's not the kid; this person is far too big. He makes a strange jangling sound as he walks.
Fuck. It's The.
The footsteps stop.
"You failed, Agent Sands."
Sands attempts a derisive snort. It comes out sounding more like a sob.
"Yeah, no shit Sherlock."
Leave me the fuck alone!
No! Don't leave! I need help!
"El Presidente is still alive."
"Well, good for him."
"You are dying."
Well, thank you Captain Obvious!
"So it would seem."
"Do you want to die?"
Yes. Anything is better than this.
No! I don't! Help! Get me to a hospital! Please!
"I don't think it matters so much what I want. Are you planning on helping me? Or are you just gonna stand there?"
The effort of speaking is draining what's left of his energy. The adrenaline is gone; the pain is all consuming. It drums in his ears, so he can't hear what the mariachi says next, if he says anything. He finally loses his hold on consciousness, still wondering if he will live or die.