Only a Moment

Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and all things related to him. I'm just a poor working stiff trying to amuse myself.

Rating: A hard PG-13 for swearing

Summary: A "missing moment" from the film, after Sands kills Ajedrez.

Author's Note: Hi everybody! I've missed you all. g

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Dying was not fun.

You'd think, after all the times he had dealt out death, that he would have known that. But watching people die was not at all the same thing as having it happen to you. Some of those people even made it look easy. Bullet to the head, hey, not much required of you there, just fall down and boom, you're dead. Dying by inches, on the other hand, was hard work.

And it was not fun.

Oh yeah, and it hurt. Like a motherfucker. Strangely, not his eyes – what eyes, fuckmook? – but the gunshot wounds. Three holes in his body that should not be there, all of them screaming with loud tinny voices that this wasn't right this hurt this fucking hurt!

At least he had taken her with him. That bitch, that fucking beautiful bitch. Ajedrez. He knew it had been her idea to blind him. Why would Barillo want such a thing? Just shoot the spy and be done with it. No, this had Ajedrez's signature all over it.

He wished, oh how he wished, that he could have seen the look on her face when she realized he had killed her. That would have been worth losing his eyes for. Just to see that look.

The sounds of gunfire and screaming were still there, somewhere in the distance. For a time he had worried that those things were getting closer, but they didn't seem to be. That was good. Dying in the dust of a stupid shitty little Mexican town was bad enough, but for everyone to see it would be infinitely worse.

He wondered vaguely about the coup. Who was winning. What kind of ruler Marquez would be. El Mariachi was probably dead by now, and that meant nothing stood between Marquez and the top spot.

And all that money? Dust in the wind, baby.

The pains in his body chose that moment to rise up and demand his attention. A breathless whine escaped his throat. Oh Christ, but it hurt. Of all the ways he had imagined dying over the years – thinking of his own death had never frightened him – this was not one he had ever considered. This excruciatingly slow, utterly humiliating death.

His fingers scrabbled at the dust. Maybe he should write an epitaph. No one else would. What could he say? Good-bye, cruel world? Eat at Joe's? Go fuck yourself?

A cracked smile curved his mouth.

Faraway, came a sound. Not gunshots, or screaming or swearing – the people of this town were surprisingly vocal in their curses – but something else. Something higher-pitched. Something clear. Pure.

A bell.

Sweet Christ in heaven, it was the kid. The kid on the bike.

The kid had come back.

Suddenly, dying didn't seem like an option anymore. Was he really going to just lie here and bleed to death without protest?

That was a big "fuck no."

Gathering his strength, he raised his hand high into the air. Over here, kid. Get your ass over here.

Help me up. I've got a coup to follow. A country to fuck over in return for what's been done to me. Balance to restore. Same old song and dance, can you dig it?

Sheldon Sands could dig it.

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