Title: Lost and Found
Part one
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG-13 (Bloody and a tad graphic-for now)
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone-lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.
Disclaimer: We don't own Sands or El, although we're really like to.
Archive: We'd be uber honored.
Authors notes: Our writing is in role play form, and so the styles of each character vary ever so slightly. We don't show any separation of character, because it should be pretty clear just by reading it. Sands is played by Frost (empathicfrost@hotmail.com) and El is played by KC (brashwillturner@aol.com). Oh yeah, and the title is.decidedly tentative.
Gunshots in the distance and sand and wind in his eyes--where his eyes used to be--Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands was... lost. In a world he didn't know. One of darkness and complete and utter confusion. Where the hell is the balance--why has it left me? I put it there. I -organized- that balance! Where are my eyes? Oh god, my eyes... my eyes... Those gunshots were nothing. Nothing at all. Just noise. Much too loud, and at the same time way too quiet. Was it to the left of him? It didn't make sense. Then again, he'd long ago fallen down completely to the dusty sidewalk, letting his eyes (or lack thereof), legs and arm bleed freely on to the already stained Mexico. The sound vibrated through the ground and it just didn't matter where it was truly coming from. It was everywhere, and he was nowhere. Nowhere in Mexico. Where had his beat gone off to? Probably left him, along with his eyes. They'd been brown. Now everything was dark red and bloody. Or so his mind imagined for him. It was his head that hurt the most. Dusty grains of sand and earth flew freely behind sunglasses that weren't nearly as protective as he'd have liked them to be. Were his eye sockets filling up with sand? Was his face covered with more dust than blood now? It wasn't worth moving his arm to touch his face. Not even a bit. In fact, maybe he would never move again. Maybe he was dying. A little voice in the back of his mind laughed. Well, death isn't so bad, right? You deserved it. No. He didn't. He set it up. It should have fallen. He should be god damned -watching- everything fall. Right now. But instead, he was curled up on the side of the street, and bleeding his life away. How unfair was that? Fuckers. Each and every one of them. At least he'd gotten some bit of revenge already. And his ex-girlfriend was laying dead in a street somewhere else now. Good. At least she'd died first--even if it was only going to be by an hour or so.
There is ash where sand once was. And there is a foreign silence where a festival rally once pulsed aloud with voices, like the heart beats of them all sounding in alliance and community. That has been laid to waste. The smoke bristles angrily from the street and from the fingertips of the burnt alive that had not managed to escape like the others. The stench is a howl in that silence. No, it is not all silence... there is a whistle from the wind, and it grieves low and pitiful through the alley of spilt bullets and blood mixed with cinder which make a pale and sickly red paint on the cobbles and the curbs. And on El's boots. The wind and its whistle play puppy by his side as he walks and sees and listens. And though Mexico's son absorbed the wasteland, he felt stoically released from its horror and as detached as the silence, and at a loss for self. So though he was watching, he was absent, he was trying mutely now to find something. Not particularly anything El had lost, but something he knew was lost. Perhaps the solution to this search was as simple as hand to pick the man up, or as simple as punch in the face - or maybe not. Mexico dealt only the wild card. And from a distance, when he saw the stained shadow pressed pitifully against a wall and swimming in it's own lifeless pool, El knew that his search was not going to end simply. He wasn't going to say anything, no; he wasn't - because it would not matter. The lost one wouldn't hear it anyway. What did they do to you? And he picked Agent Sands up. Shh
Too far gone, and far too weak, Sands didn't even notice the noise of the man walking up to him. He should have. Chains on pants were something noticeable. To a person who wasn't blind, bleeding and thinking himself deaf with too much noise as well. What he -did- notice though, was that he was being picked up. No, no, no. Fucking no! You do not touch me! You will -not- strap me down to another table! There is nothing more you can take from me! A low groaning noise emitted from his throat, and it was more than likely meant to be a very threatening sound. His gun was lost, he noticed. Very likely forgotten on the ground in the street. Left with Ajedrez. He thrashed as wildly as he could, however. Must get free. Don't god damned touch me! My -eyes-! It didn't matter who it was. There was no one friendly left in Mexico. No one on his side--whatever side that was--and most definitely not anyone that didn't want him dead. That was already happening. Let me die in peace, on the ground of this fucking country, I can't afford to die any other way. I can't take more losing of limbs or bodily parts. I don't want to be weak.
It hurt to thrash, however, and the arms holding him were too strong, and he felt himself fading further into the blackness. Was that possible? It was all black now. No! No! He bit his tongue sharply, and mostly on purpose. I won't pass out here! And I most definitely won't die by your means!. Let. Go. Of. Me! He tasted blood in his mouth, and the back of his mind wondered distantly just how hard he'd bitten his tongue.
The question over the American's state of life had been answered with the first fitful buck in protest to being lifted from the festering swamp of blood and dust he had been soaking in - Sands was alive. The next question, concerning the amount of time the American most likely still had, was also answered as the thrashing grew weaker, and as the poison of his blood loss rushed through the small man, El could nearly feel those last staggering grasps for power and strength of a man who was about to die. So he did not make any move to stop the fit, only continued to walk with the wild thing in his grasp, undaunted. What did they do to you? Could a doctor even conjure anything that would help you now? There was no way to tell, but what he did know, however, was where the wounded were going and being seen to. El had even led some people there himself as he had returned to the fringes of the slaughter. The church, the strong, impenetrable stone fortress of the church. All El Mariachi had to do was take Sands there, assure that he was shown notice and leave - maybe it would be simple after all, certainly it would be easy to walk away after that, wouldn't it? Of course. El does not second guess himself. Shhh. Do not fight now. The fight is over, my friend. Why is there so much blood you cry?
He wasn't crying blood, damn it, he was bleeding it. Large, large difference. Usually involving things like sight. Fear was unbecoming of a CIA agent, and so, Sands decided with his last amount of might that he wouldn't be scared anymore. He paused in his thrashing for a long moment, and one would very likely expect that he has passed out--or maybe even died. He -had- lost a lot of blood. Three gun wounds, some would note later. Two missing eyes. Where -had- they gone off to?
But then, he wasn't going to play dead, fuck this. In a tone that was weak, though attempting to manage strong, Sands spoke. "Put me down now, or I'll kill you." The twisted agent was in no such state to do so, but he'd never said -when- he was going to do it. Blood left his mouth when he spoke, his bitten tongue showing off an anger of it's own.
Who on earth was holding him? Part of the cartel--wanting to bring him in for further death? He'd killed the Barillo's daughter, and that was something that they'd kill him for. No more little eye gougings.
It would be easy enough to use the excuse of the agent being caught up in the crossfire of the coup. No problems with the government there, eh? Sands frowned and kept himself still, gathering what little bit of strength he had left--he would be needing it.
"You," The empty voice drawled, gruffly burnt and hoarse and sounded like 'Ju' with the dense accent, "can kill me after we get to the church, Agent Sands." It was his offering and held no note of dishonesty or honesty- it was nearly as mournful and pitiful as the wind's teary whistle. The possibility of the lost one killing him were very slim, but not impossible, as he was expectedly unexpected and curiously three armed. But El, he did not care for thought much, and so decided he wouldn't do it. "I promise." This was a breath of mute relief as the cobbles twisted and the smoke faded and the blood ocean was left behind them. The church was near and the sun chapped arch was clear over the slope of a roof, with a bell and cross on top like a giant, all seeing eye watching over the town, and watching to make sure that El and the lost one found their way to the others. As someone did spot them and rush forward, it was a strangely unexplained reaction when the Mariachi shied away from their offer of assistance, firm on delivering the bloody creature to the inside himself, to the doctors within, to a chance of life. He wanted no one else to bring the CIA agent to that, it felt oddly like obligation and protectiveness. What had once been so strong - was so weakened. Luckily, the wounded around the church were not talking, barely whispering, and everything was placid and dry. Except for the blood that proceeded each booted step as it poured gently from a wound El did not understand or want to understand the measure of. If Sands was not seen by a doctor immediately who could somehow help slow the blood loss, he was to be lost with the ashes filling Mexico's newest, largest wound.
It was so quiet now, that he thought, perhaps he was truly going deaf as well. The man promised? Sands, while drifting in and out of consciousness at an odd rate, would have blinked at that one for a moment, and then grinned. He couldn't blink anymore, so he allowed himself a small and wicked grin. "I'm going to enjoy killing you." Any man that promised his life to another just so it could be thrown away deserved death anyway.
Clink, clink. What the hell? The American's head tilted back weakly, and with no real support to hold it, it bobbed in the open air, in time with that odd clanking sound. What -was- that noise? He knew it, he knew he knew. It just.... eluded him for the moment.
Clink, bob, clink, bob. His head felt heavy, and his eyes felt like they were going to take over his face. His limbs tingled, and he couldn't think straight anymore. He was given the promise of a kill at some point, and as much as he didn't believe the other man, he decided to let his last thoughts before blackness be ones of him murdering another. Not such a bad thing.
Better him than me.
Words left his lips, that he didn't even understand, a cascade of lost confusion. "Mariachi chains. Let go..." And then he was limp in the other man's arms.
More wounded among wounded usually went without extra attention, and so of course, this could not be the case with them. They drew eyes, they drew shattered little shrieks of breath and wrung shivers from those who had seen hell and yet had not seen someone in Sands condition alive. There. Was. Blood. Everywhere. It was black and it was purple and it cradled the face of the American in shadowed mask so thick that most of the people who stared at them now, were probably wondering if there was still a face left, for surely the man must be alive, why else would the Mariachi have brought him? They moved to allow him crossing, to reach the heart of the apse between the aisles. But there was no seat or cushion or bed unoccupied, and so, in accordance with the swiftly approaching doctor, El carefully maneuvered himself to the ground and supported the waif weight of the Agent with his arms, physically repulsed by the lightness of the body and the slack neck he tried to lift with a calloused and numb hand. The doctor's face was not important; El watched the man's hands carefully as they set upon Sands to tie up the bullet hole bleedings first, while the Agent continued to unconsciously sob blood. Sob blood, it was the only way El could rationalize it. When the doctor asked what happened, he was given no reply, not even a grunt from the limp human mattress with a proud sash around his chest.
... And when the glasses were removed. There was only ruin. And El was not going to be leaving as soon as he'd expected.
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG-13 (Bloody and a tad graphic-for now)
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone-lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.
Disclaimer: We don't own Sands or El, although we're really like to.
Archive: We'd be uber honored.
Authors notes: Our writing is in role play form, and so the styles of each character vary ever so slightly. We don't show any separation of character, because it should be pretty clear just by reading it. Sands is played by Frost (empathicfrost@hotmail.com) and El is played by KC (brashwillturner@aol.com). Oh yeah, and the title is.decidedly tentative.
Gunshots in the distance and sand and wind in his eyes--where his eyes used to be--Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands was... lost. In a world he didn't know. One of darkness and complete and utter confusion. Where the hell is the balance--why has it left me? I put it there. I -organized- that balance! Where are my eyes? Oh god, my eyes... my eyes... Those gunshots were nothing. Nothing at all. Just noise. Much too loud, and at the same time way too quiet. Was it to the left of him? It didn't make sense. Then again, he'd long ago fallen down completely to the dusty sidewalk, letting his eyes (or lack thereof), legs and arm bleed freely on to the already stained Mexico. The sound vibrated through the ground and it just didn't matter where it was truly coming from. It was everywhere, and he was nowhere. Nowhere in Mexico. Where had his beat gone off to? Probably left him, along with his eyes. They'd been brown. Now everything was dark red and bloody. Or so his mind imagined for him. It was his head that hurt the most. Dusty grains of sand and earth flew freely behind sunglasses that weren't nearly as protective as he'd have liked them to be. Were his eye sockets filling up with sand? Was his face covered with more dust than blood now? It wasn't worth moving his arm to touch his face. Not even a bit. In fact, maybe he would never move again. Maybe he was dying. A little voice in the back of his mind laughed. Well, death isn't so bad, right? You deserved it. No. He didn't. He set it up. It should have fallen. He should be god damned -watching- everything fall. Right now. But instead, he was curled up on the side of the street, and bleeding his life away. How unfair was that? Fuckers. Each and every one of them. At least he'd gotten some bit of revenge already. And his ex-girlfriend was laying dead in a street somewhere else now. Good. At least she'd died first--even if it was only going to be by an hour or so.
There is ash where sand once was. And there is a foreign silence where a festival rally once pulsed aloud with voices, like the heart beats of them all sounding in alliance and community. That has been laid to waste. The smoke bristles angrily from the street and from the fingertips of the burnt alive that had not managed to escape like the others. The stench is a howl in that silence. No, it is not all silence... there is a whistle from the wind, and it grieves low and pitiful through the alley of spilt bullets and blood mixed with cinder which make a pale and sickly red paint on the cobbles and the curbs. And on El's boots. The wind and its whistle play puppy by his side as he walks and sees and listens. And though Mexico's son absorbed the wasteland, he felt stoically released from its horror and as detached as the silence, and at a loss for self. So though he was watching, he was absent, he was trying mutely now to find something. Not particularly anything El had lost, but something he knew was lost. Perhaps the solution to this search was as simple as hand to pick the man up, or as simple as punch in the face - or maybe not. Mexico dealt only the wild card. And from a distance, when he saw the stained shadow pressed pitifully against a wall and swimming in it's own lifeless pool, El knew that his search was not going to end simply. He wasn't going to say anything, no; he wasn't - because it would not matter. The lost one wouldn't hear it anyway. What did they do to you? And he picked Agent Sands up. Shh
Too far gone, and far too weak, Sands didn't even notice the noise of the man walking up to him. He should have. Chains on pants were something noticeable. To a person who wasn't blind, bleeding and thinking himself deaf with too much noise as well. What he -did- notice though, was that he was being picked up. No, no, no. Fucking no! You do not touch me! You will -not- strap me down to another table! There is nothing more you can take from me! A low groaning noise emitted from his throat, and it was more than likely meant to be a very threatening sound. His gun was lost, he noticed. Very likely forgotten on the ground in the street. Left with Ajedrez. He thrashed as wildly as he could, however. Must get free. Don't god damned touch me! My -eyes-! It didn't matter who it was. There was no one friendly left in Mexico. No one on his side--whatever side that was--and most definitely not anyone that didn't want him dead. That was already happening. Let me die in peace, on the ground of this fucking country, I can't afford to die any other way. I can't take more losing of limbs or bodily parts. I don't want to be weak.
It hurt to thrash, however, and the arms holding him were too strong, and he felt himself fading further into the blackness. Was that possible? It was all black now. No! No! He bit his tongue sharply, and mostly on purpose. I won't pass out here! And I most definitely won't die by your means!. Let. Go. Of. Me! He tasted blood in his mouth, and the back of his mind wondered distantly just how hard he'd bitten his tongue.
The question over the American's state of life had been answered with the first fitful buck in protest to being lifted from the festering swamp of blood and dust he had been soaking in - Sands was alive. The next question, concerning the amount of time the American most likely still had, was also answered as the thrashing grew weaker, and as the poison of his blood loss rushed through the small man, El could nearly feel those last staggering grasps for power and strength of a man who was about to die. So he did not make any move to stop the fit, only continued to walk with the wild thing in his grasp, undaunted. What did they do to you? Could a doctor even conjure anything that would help you now? There was no way to tell, but what he did know, however, was where the wounded were going and being seen to. El had even led some people there himself as he had returned to the fringes of the slaughter. The church, the strong, impenetrable stone fortress of the church. All El Mariachi had to do was take Sands there, assure that he was shown notice and leave - maybe it would be simple after all, certainly it would be easy to walk away after that, wouldn't it? Of course. El does not second guess himself. Shhh. Do not fight now. The fight is over, my friend. Why is there so much blood you cry?
He wasn't crying blood, damn it, he was bleeding it. Large, large difference. Usually involving things like sight. Fear was unbecoming of a CIA agent, and so, Sands decided with his last amount of might that he wouldn't be scared anymore. He paused in his thrashing for a long moment, and one would very likely expect that he has passed out--or maybe even died. He -had- lost a lot of blood. Three gun wounds, some would note later. Two missing eyes. Where -had- they gone off to?
But then, he wasn't going to play dead, fuck this. In a tone that was weak, though attempting to manage strong, Sands spoke. "Put me down now, or I'll kill you." The twisted agent was in no such state to do so, but he'd never said -when- he was going to do it. Blood left his mouth when he spoke, his bitten tongue showing off an anger of it's own.
Who on earth was holding him? Part of the cartel--wanting to bring him in for further death? He'd killed the Barillo's daughter, and that was something that they'd kill him for. No more little eye gougings.
It would be easy enough to use the excuse of the agent being caught up in the crossfire of the coup. No problems with the government there, eh? Sands frowned and kept himself still, gathering what little bit of strength he had left--he would be needing it.
"You," The empty voice drawled, gruffly burnt and hoarse and sounded like 'Ju' with the dense accent, "can kill me after we get to the church, Agent Sands." It was his offering and held no note of dishonesty or honesty- it was nearly as mournful and pitiful as the wind's teary whistle. The possibility of the lost one killing him were very slim, but not impossible, as he was expectedly unexpected and curiously three armed. But El, he did not care for thought much, and so decided he wouldn't do it. "I promise." This was a breath of mute relief as the cobbles twisted and the smoke faded and the blood ocean was left behind them. The church was near and the sun chapped arch was clear over the slope of a roof, with a bell and cross on top like a giant, all seeing eye watching over the town, and watching to make sure that El and the lost one found their way to the others. As someone did spot them and rush forward, it was a strangely unexplained reaction when the Mariachi shied away from their offer of assistance, firm on delivering the bloody creature to the inside himself, to the doctors within, to a chance of life. He wanted no one else to bring the CIA agent to that, it felt oddly like obligation and protectiveness. What had once been so strong - was so weakened. Luckily, the wounded around the church were not talking, barely whispering, and everything was placid and dry. Except for the blood that proceeded each booted step as it poured gently from a wound El did not understand or want to understand the measure of. If Sands was not seen by a doctor immediately who could somehow help slow the blood loss, he was to be lost with the ashes filling Mexico's newest, largest wound.
It was so quiet now, that he thought, perhaps he was truly going deaf as well. The man promised? Sands, while drifting in and out of consciousness at an odd rate, would have blinked at that one for a moment, and then grinned. He couldn't blink anymore, so he allowed himself a small and wicked grin. "I'm going to enjoy killing you." Any man that promised his life to another just so it could be thrown away deserved death anyway.
Clink, clink. What the hell? The American's head tilted back weakly, and with no real support to hold it, it bobbed in the open air, in time with that odd clanking sound. What -was- that noise? He knew it, he knew he knew. It just.... eluded him for the moment.
Clink, bob, clink, bob. His head felt heavy, and his eyes felt like they were going to take over his face. His limbs tingled, and he couldn't think straight anymore. He was given the promise of a kill at some point, and as much as he didn't believe the other man, he decided to let his last thoughts before blackness be ones of him murdering another. Not such a bad thing.
Better him than me.
Words left his lips, that he didn't even understand, a cascade of lost confusion. "Mariachi chains. Let go..." And then he was limp in the other man's arms.
More wounded among wounded usually went without extra attention, and so of course, this could not be the case with them. They drew eyes, they drew shattered little shrieks of breath and wrung shivers from those who had seen hell and yet had not seen someone in Sands condition alive. There. Was. Blood. Everywhere. It was black and it was purple and it cradled the face of the American in shadowed mask so thick that most of the people who stared at them now, were probably wondering if there was still a face left, for surely the man must be alive, why else would the Mariachi have brought him? They moved to allow him crossing, to reach the heart of the apse between the aisles. But there was no seat or cushion or bed unoccupied, and so, in accordance with the swiftly approaching doctor, El carefully maneuvered himself to the ground and supported the waif weight of the Agent with his arms, physically repulsed by the lightness of the body and the slack neck he tried to lift with a calloused and numb hand. The doctor's face was not important; El watched the man's hands carefully as they set upon Sands to tie up the bullet hole bleedings first, while the Agent continued to unconsciously sob blood. Sob blood, it was the only way El could rationalize it. When the doctor asked what happened, he was given no reply, not even a grunt from the limp human mattress with a proud sash around his chest.
... And when the glasses were removed. There was only ruin. And El was not going to be leaving as soon as he'd expected.