Author's Note: We may have been completely crazy for this one. But it was to good to pass up...And yes, in the Blood Series, there will be more details of Sands' break downs, and the apparence and disapparence of his alter ego.

Thank you for the great reviews. This chapter is dedicated to Scarlett Burns, who had originally tossed the idea of the two personalities in a story together, back and forth with me. To Washie Demon, who's an excellent writing partner. And to my alter ego!

His head was throbbing, and sounds around him were slowly coming back into focus. He raised his hand gingerly to his head, and rubbing his forehead, feeling cold sweat. He squeezed his eyes tight, before attempting to open them.

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, they widened. "Oh shit...oh shit...oh shit!" He muttered over and over again, before scrambling off the bed, into the wall behind him. The room was dark, but there was enough light for him to see in. And he didn't like what he saw.

He stared at the bed aghast, trying to piece together what had happened. There laying in the middle of the bed was the body of Kelly, the prostitute. And Sands was pretty sure she was dead. He stared, with out blinking, before he forced himself to move to the bed. He crawled onto it on his knees and over to Kelly's body. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at the cracked ceiling.

With a trembling hand, he reached over and touched Kelly's face. It was starting to go cold. He ran his fingers down her cheek, to her throat and felt for a pulse. It was then he noticed the lacerations on her neck. "Shit...shit.. shit!" He muttered, finding no pulse. He ran his fingers over her eyes, shutting them, and looked around the room quickly. As he went to move off the bed, his hand brushed something and he looked down.

A coil of nylon lay just under the covers. Sands wrapped his hand around it, pulling it out slowly. It was one of the nylon stockings Kelly had been wearing and Sands realized in a all to sickening way, that it had been what was used to strangle her.

"Well, you've done it now..." The voice said, in an I-Told-You-So tone.

"Done what!" Sands snapped back out loud. "I have DONE anything!"

"There's a dead prostitute, laying right there in front of you, Sands, and you're the only one here."

"That's not my fault!" Sands snapped back.

"Are you sure?" The voiced asked. "You ARE very capable of killing her with out a sound. You're an assassin. You're trained to kill in silence."

"I didn't kill her!" Sands snapped, defending himself. "I know I didn't..." He began to trail off. "I can't remember..." He whimpered desperately.

"That's right, you can't remember, so it's very possible that you did it."

"SHIT!" Sands swore, flinging himself off the bed. He looked wildly around the room. Then a second voice in his head spoke. And Sands knew this one. It was his own, his calm, collected self.

"Take a deep breath, Sands." He commanded himself. Sands shut his eyes and breathed deeply, standing straighter.

"Right." He muttered to himself, keeping himself calm. "Destroy evidence. Remove fingerprints. Check of any other sign you were here." Sands snapped into action. He grabbed the bed sheet and ripped it off the bed. There was no blood, but after what he was sure they'd did, there was genetic evidence he'd been there.

He wadded up the sheet and tossed it into the corner for now. Leaving the corpse in the bed, he turned his back on it and headed into the small bathroom with out turning on the light. He scanned the small cracked room a moment, then grabbed a wash cloth off the side of the sink and used it to turn on the hot water. This wasn't the way he preferred to remove his finger prints, but it would have to do.

Using the now hot, sopping wet rag, he shut off the water and went back into the room. Quickly and silently he wiped down any surface he might have touched. He knew it was possible for a few of his hairs to be present, cause he could slightly remember Kelly grabbing his hair at some point and yanking hard. But he didn't have the time to clean the place like he would have wanted to. Tossing the now cold wet rag in the corner with the sheet, he tossed the nylons with them and quickly pulled on is clothes. He'd have to discard those at soon.

Pulling on his boots he jumped to his feet and grabbed the material from the corner, used the wet cloth to turn the doorknob and left the room. As he remembered, the door opened up into an alley. Sands paused in the shadow of the door way, to listen to the sounds around him. When he was confident there was no one, he scanned the alley. Spotting a plastic bag, he stuffed the sheet, nylons and wash cloth in side. He debated over tossing it in the dumpster, but decided to take it with him for now, until he could discard it properly.

He went down the alley in the opposite direction then the way Kerry had led him in. "You still fucked up." The nasty voice said. Sands rolled his eyes with a soft sigh. He'd demanded of himself to stay calm. He'd locked down all panic and all emotion. But the one thing he couldn't get rid of, was that nasty little voice.

"Now is NOT the time to argue about this." He muttered.

"No, of course not," He heard the voice reply in a sarcastic tone and Sands narrowed his eyes on the road, annoyed at this voice.

"Do you have a name, fucker?" He growled. He could actually feel the voice grinning wickedly at him.

"Yes." It answered.

"Well then WHAT the FUCK is it!" Sands snapped back.

"Mort." The voice answered.

Sands groaned, and fell back against the brick wall behind him. This could not be happening again! "I don't need this! I don't need this! Not now, fucking HELL! NOT NOW!" He snapped, before glancing around him again, listening carefully.

"Too late for that, Pink." Mort answered. Sands squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"YOU are supposed to be GONE!" Sands muttered.

"Funny how that seems to work, eh?" Mort answered. "You can't REALLY get rid of a split personality. Didn't you ever listen to Dr. Morrison."

"That's what the pills were for!" Sands snapped.

Mort sighed. "Pink, my friend. I've hidden in the back of your subconscious for nearly ten years now. Do you have any idea what that's like? It's dark and scary in there!"

Sands pushed himself away from the wall and started walking again. "Look, Mort, we can discuss the decorating tips LATER." Sands snapped.

"Right," Mort agreed. "Right now, Pink, I think the best thing is to dump the shit."

"Yeah, that was the idea." Sands muttered, straining his ears to hear everything around him.

While he walked, he thought about all this. He was still unsure if he had killed the whore or not, but he wasn't about to ask Mort. Sands wanted nothing better, then to wake up from this nightmare, and to have only dreamed his alter ego had returned. He wanted to pinch himself and wake up in Cerise's arms.

When Sands had been in his freshman year of high school, he'd mentally snapped from the extreme pressure of his home life, trying to keep his grades up and fight his mother to remain up north with his father, after he'd run away from the eleven years she'd had him in Texas. And when he'd snapped, he'd snapped good. A second personality had surfaced. A decidedly crazier personality. One who jumped off dames in to nearly frozen lakes. One who played chicken in his first car durning rainy nights. One who even played Russian Runlet with a loaded pistol and nearly blown his own brains out. This personality called himself Mort and for eight months, was the only friend Sands had. Mort had helped give Sands the nick name of Pink, from Sands favorite band, Pink Floyd.

But as the months went by, Mort slowly grew crazier, and more often took over Sands' dominate personality. Where the teenage Sands had been intelligent, thoughtful, an artist and musician, Mort had been eccentric, sarcastic and cynical, roguish. Sands' father finally had enough and stuck his youngest son in a mental hospital for two months. While in there, Doctor Morrison, who became Sands' psychiatrist had put him on a tranquilizer, which had succeeded in killing most of Mort off. Or so Sands had hoped.

While Sheldon Jeffrey Sands had been able to get his split personality disorder under controll, finish high school in a some what normal way, go on to the Air Force and college and finally enter Camp Swampy to become the agent he was now, Mort had simply bided his time. Sands had never truly been free of him and the man should have known that. Sands had turned from a loner artist kid, to an eccentric and dangerous adult.

But now with Sands on the verge of another mental break down, Mort had broken free of his mental prison. And he was determined to have a bit of fun with Pink again, before he got locked up again. And it started with the mind games of making Sands believe he'd killed that prostitute, although Mort was very sure, Sands hadn't, and Mort sure as hell hadn't either. So eventually, they'd have to find out who it had been. As Sands walked down the dark streets, Mort began to sing softly,

" And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as razor blade
Tight as a tourniquet
Dry as a funeral drum,
Run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left
You'll find my favourite axe
Don't look so frightened
This is just a passing phase
Just one of my bad days."