Sands woke with a start. Instinctively he tried to open that which were no longer there. When light and sight failed to materialize, he remembered. No eyes. Oh yes, that.
Well, CIA agents were trained to get as much information from all their senses as possible, so he'd make the most of that training.
First up, ears. They'd been fairly useful to him up to now. A slight humming sound, something that sublimated into a vibration that encompassed his being. Something like the engine of a large vehicle or perhaps a generator of some kind.
Also, a regular beeping sound every few seconds. Not loud, not even irritating. Just there. No sounds of breathing, moving. Alone, then.
Okay, one down, three to go. Smell. Yes, a bit of a chemical, sterile odor in the air. A hospital room?
Touch revealed that he was lying on some kind of bunk or bed, no sheets, no pillow. A little raised platform on the side of the bed. Not very informative.
He wasn't about to try and taste the bed. But he would have loved some pibil and a very large tequila. In hindsight - Hindsight? Who could have known that word would turn out to be so appropriate? - he shouldn't have shot that cook. Who knew where he'd get such a good meal again?
Sands grinned to himself. The point was, of course, that no-one else would get it either. Ah, balance.
A sudden whooshing sound caused him to sit up in alarm. His head exploded with pain at the unexpected movement and he groaned out loud, clapping his hands to his face. No sunglasses, of course. His second groan was because he encountered the gaping holes where his eyes used to be.
"You'd better lie down again," a soft but authoritative feminine voice told him. He heard her approach his bed, footsteps muffled on the floor.
He wanted to refuse just because it was all he could still do to be in control of his life, but some inner bit of common sense spoke up and informed him that it was exceedingly stupid to refuse the help of a doctor at this point in time. Once he felt up to it, he could take whatever steps needed to regain control.
So he sank back onto the bunk. Things improved markedly. "I think you're right," he muttered.
She stopped at the side of the bunk, next to the little platform he'd identified. "Your body has endured considerable trauma. We have patched up the bullet wounds and stopped the infection in the eye sockets, but it will take time for you to fully heal."
She leaned over him to look at his eye socket and Sands tensed. He did not like people touching him. He did not like anyone close. She must have sensed his tension because she drew back. "Relax," she said. "You're safe now."
What was that supposed to mean? "Perhaps if you would be so kind as to explain who you are and where the hell I am, I can determine that for myself," he told her politely.
"I am Dr. Crusher," she said. "What's your name?"
"Sands," he said brusquely. "Where am I?"
"Well," she hesitated. "You're on the Starship Enterprise. We're currently on our way back to the Alpha Quadrant."
What the hell? Was this some kind of sick, sick joke? How could this woman tell him that he was on some fictional spaceship from a TV series?
"I may be blind, bitch, but I'm not a fool," he snapped. "What's the deal here? You're holding me prisoner for the cartels? Or are you with the Company?" He knew it was useless; he would get no straight answers.
She sighed, as if she realized the impossibility of proving any of her statements to him. "I'm telling the truth, Mr. Sands. Sensors picked up a sub-space anomaly and we discovered life signs in it. We transported you aboard."
"Oh really?" Sands asked at his most sarcastic. "And just how did I end up in a sub-space anomaly?"
He could hear her shaking her head. "As near as we can tell, you fell through a plot hole."
That's just peachy, he thought.
"Mr. Sands?"
Sands turned his head towards the source of the voice. A masculine voice, very precise, British accent.
"Captain Picard, I presume."
"Yes, I am," the man said. "How did you know?"
Sands gave an irritated sigh. "I know all about you. Back when I could still enjoy the marvels of television, I did watch Star Trek, you know."
"Star Trek?" The voice was full of sincere confusion. Great actor, even without a script.
"Oh, cut the crap!" Sands said wearily. "You know and I know that this is all bullshit. I just don't see what the point is of telling me this fairytale. What reason does anyone have to fear a man with no eyes?"
Plenty of reason, of course, but he wasn't going to mention that just yet.
He heard the man draw a chair closer and sit down. The cultured voice resumed. "Can we for a moment assume that I do not know what you are talking about?" he asked. "Perhaps if you told me everything that happened I could determine what is going on."
Sands frowned. Why would the Company need to debrief him in such a stupid, roundabout way? Unless it wasn't the Company. Who then? And once again, why the silly Star Trek stuff? It made no sense at all.
"You want to know everything? Okay, I can do that." Sands gathered his thoughts. "My mission was to overthrow the Mexican government while ensuring that cartel badass Barillo and his puppet general Marquez don't take power in the process. To that end I recruited a guitar-slinging gunman, a retired FBI agent and a little chewing-gum selling boy. With me so far?"
He swallowed.
"Then I was betrayed by a federal agent bitch who turned out to be Barillo's daughter, and the cartel bastards drilled my eyes from my head and let me go. We had a wonderful shootout. I killed the bitch, the mariachi killed the cartel boss and his puppet general and the FBI agent killed the doctor who took my eyes. El Presidente is still in power. The chewing-gum boy saved my life before he disappeared. Everybody had a good time. And that's what I did last summer," he concluded. "Any questions?"
A small silence followed his exposition. "One question," the man said at last. "When did this happen?"
"Two days ago," Sands snapped. "November second, the day of the dead. Don't you watch the news?"
"It might be in the archives, Mr. Sands." The voice sounded sad. "But nothing like that has happened in the last two hundred years."
"Ah yes, we're still in Star Trek world," Sands remembered sarcastically. "Why are you keeping this up?"
"I assure you, we are not pretending anything," the man said. "I have no idea what 'Star Trek' is, but you are on the Starship Enterprise..."
"... boldly going where no-one has gone before. Yes, I know," Sands said. "And I suppose you're a bald guy who looks like Patrick Stewart."
"Who?"
"It's no use," Sands sighed. "I can't see, did you notice? There is no way you can prove to my satisfaction that I am on some starship that I happen to know is fictional."
His interrogator sighed. "It would be hard, yes. But what if we could supply you with technology that would restore your sight?"
Restore his sight? Even as his heart leapt at the words, Sands knew it was a pipe dream. But still, why not call the guy's bluff? "What, a silver Alice band like your Lt. La Forge wears?" he asked. "Sure, if you have a spare I'd be much obliged."
"You really do seem to know all about us," the voice mused. "Yes, similar technology. We can procure such an item as soon as we return to the Alpha Quadrant which will be within this week."
Of course the guy doesn't have anything like that, Sands reflected bitterly. Just as he'd expected. But why was he feeling so disappointed?
"Okay," Sands said. "Let me borrow La Forge's Alice band for two minutes. I'll check out the window that we're really in space and then I'll believe you. How's that?"
The feminine voice of 'Dr. Crusher' spoke up and Sands jumped. He'd forgotten that she was there.
"I'm afraid that is impossible," she said. "Lt. La Forge's visor is specially fitted to his optic nerves. The same would have to be done for yours. They are not interchangeable."
"Of course," Sands agreed. "So, I'll deny everything you tell me for a few days? I can do that."
"How about believing us for a few days?" 'Picard' asked. "You can revise your opinion as needed when you have your proof." He sounded amused.
What the hell, Sands thought. Why not? "Let's agree that I'll pretend to believe you and you can pretend that you believe that I believe you," Sands suggested.
"Good. Then we'll assign quarters to you as soon as Dr. Crusher sees fit to release you from Sick Bay," Picard said. "I would also like you to have a talk with Counselor Troy. She's an..."
"... empath," Sands said. "Okay, let's say I believe you. You don't want to subject your empath to me. Friendly warning."
"Nonsense," Picard said. "She can help you." He turned away. "Good day, Mr. Sands." The door whooshed open and Picard's footsteps receded. The door whooshed closed.
"Damn, that's well done," Sands muttered.
"What is?" Crusher asked. Sands jumped again at her voice.
"The sound effects," he snapped. "The bloody sound effects."
This is so nuts, he thought. I'm going to freak right out. Right after I take this nap.
Sands lay grinning to himself like some horror movie skull as he listened to Troy running weeping from Sick Bay. He'd warned them. Not that he believed for one second that the woman really was a Betazoid empath on a starship. But she sure had reacted like one, if he had to be honest. Luckily, he didn't have to be honest. In fact, he had to lie to himself very convincingly to hold onto his sanity. Whatever sanity he had left, of course.
The interview had been short and not very sweet. The door had done its whoosh trick and footsteps had approached. "Mr. Sands, I am Deanna Troy," she introduced herself.
He pictured her in his mind, looking the way she had the last time he'd caught an episode. Dressed in that tight-fitting body suit and looking very sexy. He heard her gasp as she sensed his sudden lustful feelings.
"I'm sorry," he said, not feeling repentant in the least. "I'll keep my eyes off you if it would make you feel more comfortable."
Somehow he could tell that had made her feel worse. He smiled. He was such an evil bastard sometimes. But then, he'd never liked shrinks. Nice to be able to get a little revenge.
He heard her draw a breath to steady herself. "Mr. Sands, I am the ship's counselor. You seem to have experienced some severe trauma, mentally as well as physically, and if you want to talk about it, I can help."
She really believed that, too.
"Listen babe," he told her. "Any connection between your reality and mine is purely coincidental. I doubt that you even realize what it would be like to get inside my head."
He allowed himself for a moment to really feel his rage, hatred, madness and overwhelming fear of the future... felt it and held onto it as the only stabilizing force in his chaotic life. Reveled in the power he drew from it.
That was when she had left. Poor woman. Yes. Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. Still living la vida loca. Pity the poor shrink.
Not long after Troy's departure, Sands became aware of an advancing storm. Even before the door had done its whoosh, Sands knew who his next visitor would be. He'd seen the show, after all.
"I sense the approach of an alpha male," he told nobody in particular. "Must be the first officer of the illustrious Enterprise."
His visitor paid no heed to his rambling. He must have been upset for he grabbed Sands by the arms and pulled him upright, shaking him. "What have you done to her? She's crying!" he almost shouted into Sands' face before suddenly noticing the empty gaze. "Oh my." He let Sands go abruptly.
"Not a pretty sight, is it, Commander Riker?" Sands asked gently. "Perhaps the good doctor would give me back my sunglasses so that I can stop horrifying gentle ladies and brave men."
Riker dissolved into incoherent apologies as Sands grinned. The man had been ready to punch him for his callous treatment of the pretty counselor. It could almost be useful, this handicap. What decent man would hit a blind man? Even a blind man as annoying as Sands knew he was turning out to be.
"Come now, Commander," he soothed. "I'm sure you haven't set today aside to humiliate yourself in public."
Riker growled. At least, that's what it sounded like. "You had no right to treat her like that," he snarled.
Sands felt sincerely perplexed. "Like what?" he asked. "I warned the captain not to send her. When she did come, I was completely honest and open about my feelings. Should I rather try to deceive her and everyone about myself?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't do that to my rescuers."
Riker snorted and stormed out.
"I don't think he likes me," Sands said aloud. If he remembered correctly all the comings and goings, the doctor should still be around. "Doctor Crusher," he called. "Do you perhaps have my glasses anywhere? I'm tired of being the local freak show."
"You didn't have any glasses with you when we transported you aboard," she told him. "What kind of glasses would you prefer? I can request a pair from the replicator."
The replicator. But of course.
"Some wraparound Ray-Bans would be just peachy," he said.
He heard her move off to the left, fiddle with something and return half a minute later. "Here."
Thankfully she didn't attempt to place the glasses on his face herself, perhaps sensing that that would earn her a fist in the nose. He held out his hand and she placed them there. He put them on with an indescribable sense of relief.
"Thank you," he said fervently, surprising himself. It was silly, really. He couldn't see what he looked like and what did it matter what other people saw or thought? But there it was. With his injury exposed he felt as naked and vulnerable as the day he was born. That bit of plastic was worth more than a full suit of armor.
She chuckled. "That's the first positive thing I've heard you say."
He'd said that aloud? Losing it, Sheldon old boy. Better watch out. Figuratively speaking, of course.
"Damn," he said. "I must be slipping in my old age. It won't happen again." He meant it, but knew that she thought he was joking. Well, no harm in that. "Tell me, doctor, how long will you keep me here flat on my back?"
"At least until tomorrow," she said. "You can't be in a hurry to alienate the rest of the ship's crew, can you?"
"I've been a bit of a jerk," he admitted. "You can't know how much I hate being in this position."
So much so, that somewhere inside him a voice was screaming. Screaming ever since that drill had descended towards his eye. Screaming all the time. It really was all he could do not to scream out loud.
"Perhaps I can imagine," she said. He heard her reaching out to him.
"Don't," he warned. "Please don't touch me." She drew back. "Thanks. Tomorrow, you said. Any chance that I might get some food before you kick me out?" Might as well put forth the friendly façade. Like she said, it's no good alienating all these people. At least not until he knew what was going on.