Disclaimer: Keep in mind that none of this is mine. It's sad, I know, but that's the price of a fanfiction author. It's all Robert Rodriguez's, that genius.

Author's Note: Back to the original storyline. Like I said, every other chapter or so will be it's own mini vignette that ties in with other little mini vignettes. It's confusing, since we're still near the beginning. I hope you guys will be able to distinguish the different storylines as the fic goes on.

Not to mention I'm using my Matrix theories to write some of Sands' ponderings about the joys of getting shot. ;)

Oh, and Miss Becky? The answer to your question about Alaska will be up next chapter. Or at least I hope it answers your question.

Wandering Stars

Chapter 2: The Anatomy of a Shot

Fresh in his ears, Sands heard screaming, but he couldn't decipher whose it was. It could have been his. Hell, it should have been his. No man could experience such pain and let it pass. Oh no, it's pain like this that never passes, that haunts people in their dreams, torment them, have them wake up screaming and praying the don't ever fall asleep again. They'd never sleep again if it meant the pain would be gone for good.

He felt like he was falling, couldn't see where he was going to land. He was out of control and it scared him shitless. The drugs still maintained their strong hold on his senses, but he could still feel there was something missing. Balls, check. Ears, check. Feet, check. Eyes…

And some random chunks of his arm and legs, thanks to those bastards that shot him. But right now his main focus was the two holes on his face; twin mouths screaming bloody murder at the top of their lungs for satisfaction that nothing could bring.

That's the odd thing about getting shot. You're running along just fine until you hear the scattered bursts of thunder. You think it's an oncoming storm, but the skies are clear. It was guns, aimed right at you. They never give you any warning before they fire, you never know for sure if you're in the firing range. Until you get shot. Not even a sighted man can see a bullet coming. This thought gave Sands the briefest hint of satisfaction.

Getting shot was the second worst agony you can experience, a messy and shocking blow to your reflexes, and god, did Sands know this. He had been shot up before, yet each time he thought he was ready, he really wasn't. Nothing can ever help prepare anyone for getting shot, no matter how strong you say you are.

But let's get back to being before your own little firing squad. The second a bullet pierces your skin, that heartbeat of time and space where you don't feel any pain, your brain doesn't register the foreign hunk of metal embedding itself into your skin. That's the next second; an explosion of red and pain convince you that you really aren't fine anymore, that you've run your ass off only to still end up meeting a sticky end. You fall, more from the force of the blow than anything else. That's when you start to really believe that you've been shot, when slamming into the pavement is all anyone really needs to wake up.

Then there's the screaming and the bleeding and the shock, dizziness and risk of death, but this was the fun part. The only terror came from lying there, watching your own blood poor out of your skin, where it's supposed to stay inside or at least not leave in such colossal amounts. Each drop that hit the ground made your head feel considerably lighter until pain did not exist anymore. Neither did consciousness. It was like a drug, one that came for free.

Excuse me, sir. You look like a nice guy. Can I trouble you to chase me around a bit and then shoot me where I'll undoubtedly bleed like a motherfucker?

Too bad Sands couldn't see the blood anymore.

But he could pin-point each one of his bullet scars, blindfolded. Each time a bullet was BANG!into his skin, it was also BANG!onto his brain. Some scars never truly healed. Neither could his screaming echoing in his skull be erased.

***

It was all a blur of color, shapes and sounds up until now. Sands remembered someone trying to pull him to his feet. He remembered hanging like a dead weight on anonymous shoulders, anonymous arms holding him steady to keep him from falling. Not steady enough to ease the pain, though. Or his screams, or the cold. Or anything else, for that matter. In fact, he felt no different than if he had been back on the ground.

Sands tried to make a little film reel inside his head of what he assumed was going on, but no matter how serious he was or how hard he tried, everything came out as a badly-drawn cartoon. Colored stick figures with squiggles and scribbles for hair, clothes were just shapes with colors creeping outside the lines. Blind men can't draw, not even in their heads.

He tried to fight, and he sure made one hell of an impact on the man who was carrying him - someone else's blood was now on Sands' face and hands as well as his own. But whoever it was did not drop him.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Each step pained Sands. Whoever was carrying him wasn't being very careful. Hello! Blind, shot-up man here. Ever hear of the phrase 'Handle With Care'? God, it was so cold. Just like Alaska, only there was no snow. But how would he know? He couldn't see it anyways. What was the difference between a freezing Alaskan snow storm and a freezing rain of Mexican dust?

Sands realized he was clutching the fabric of his rescuer's shirt in his hands, so tight that he almost thought he would fall if he let go. "So…fucking cold." His speech took a lot of his effort, and he dropped his head when he got no response to his complaints and shivering. Honestly, who was this guy? Did he not realize that someone freezing in Mexico was a bad sign?

Giving up on all signs of making contact with his carrier, Sands bit back a scream when the man's last foot-fall sent a painful jolt up his spine, his brain equally distributing it to every part of his body. Fucking brain. Why won't you ever work for me? Oh god…

Brace yourself. This is going to be one hell of a ride, and he knew it.