Sands couldn't figure why he'd let the kid drag him down to a market. All the noise and people pressing against him, scurrying about their meaningless business, was irritating beyond belief. But Chicklet had wanted to go to the busy market since they had arrived in the city almost a week ago.

‘Too indulgent, Sands,' he'd thought to himself. ‘You're not his fucking dearest uncle no matter how often you two pretend it.' He was disgusted by the thought that at this rate the kid could end up with him wrapped around his little finger the way Sands kept his hand tightly wrapped around the boy's shoulder.

They'd made it here. He could give the little fucker more money than the kid would ever have seen in his lifetime selling fucking chewing gum on the streets. But he couldn't bring himself to tell the kid to fuck off permanently. Worse yet, he was becoming increasingly aware that he was actually planning things around the damn ankle biter. He'd denied it to himself at first but his mind had only pointed out the hotel on the beach they were currently occupying as evidence that his choices were becoming increasingly affected by his traveling companion.

He'd never hated the beach before but walking on sand was a nightmare when he couldn't see. The uneven, shifting substance he'd learned was difficult and very unsettling guide or no. How fabulously ironic that his self hatred had risen to such a level that he even hated the substance that shared his name.

And he certainly wasn't about to go swimming in the ocean only to find himself going in the wrong direction and getting lost at sea. And he certainly didn't get a room with an excellent view (or so Chicklet told him) of the beach just so he could check out all the senoiritas.

That only left one reason for his choice – it was for the kid.

Sands sighed and tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder a fraction as yet another person bumped into him. He had developed a very strong aversion to anyone touching him. Chicklet knew enough to warn him before ever touching him but the passers by that brushed against him every few seconds put his teeth on edge.

//I have what you need. Come see my stuff. Come, come, I have what you need.//
He heard the vendor say this from some distance, his voice carrying above all the others. Sands had been hearing it a few times as they slowly made their way through the crowded market. As they approached the man he'd been hearing, the voice suddenly stopped its constant repitious announcement.

//Senior, for you I have what you need. Come, come, I have more than junk.//

"Believe me, you do NOT have what I need," Sands told him in English.

And what did he need? Sands asked himself. A fucking babysitter, or social services (not that there really was one of those down here), hell, maybe even a pedafile to rid him of the kid. But the thought of being without a working set of eyes, even if they weren't his own, scared him far more than he was about to admit.

‘And there it is you asshole – just what you need. A new pair of eyes. Well, it's not like they sell THOSE at the market now is it? You're not going to have this kid guiding you around everywhere forever now are you? Sure, you'd probably get by without the little bastard but it'd make things a lot harder wouldn't it? You want to have to rely on strangers for information? You could do it, but you'd miss the convience, the security. If only you could fucking see your own hand in front of your face!!!' Sands yelled in his mind.

"You definitely don't have what I need," he mumbled under his breath. Of course being distracted by his inner ramblings had led to Sands paying less attention to what was going on around him (‘See? You're going soft having him around. Not even being careful, It's a wonder you ever got a job with the CIA in the first place,' chided his inner voice.). Someone bumped into him and before he could even get to his gun his glasses were knocked off. He heard them clatter onto the stone ground below and hoped like hell they weren't crushed underfoot by some idiot.

After snapping several colourful phrases at the area where the person had gone (it was so hard to track anyone in this melee of people) Sands felt the hard plastic of his glasses being pushed into his hand. For a split second he'd thought maybe it was a gun being given to him and he'd had to fight the impulse to raise the glasses and aim them.

Taking the glasses from the boy Sands replaced them on his face. He hadn't heard anyone scream in terror this time so he could only imagine that nobody had seen his lack of eyes, or at least not for long enough to notice. Of course the fact that he'd ducked his head making his long hair curtain around his features had probably helped too.

//Senoir! Senoir! I really DO have what you need! Boy! Bring him here.// Sands could hear the man close by and knew he was addressing them.

//He saw your face// Chicklet informed him before Sands felt him heading in the direction of the voice. Following behind a couple steps he heard the boy gasp. This time Sands didn't hesitate. He pulled two guns from under his overshirt and aimed them where he'd last heard the vendor's voice. He struggled to make out the man's sounds from the din of the loud market.

The boy put a hand on his arm lightly and made a sound telling him that wasn't right, it wasn't why he'd gasped. Sands carefully reholstered his guns (and vaguely wondered if anyone had seen his little over reaction). He assumed not since nobody had screamed.

The vendor, he must have been on old man by the sound of his voice Sands reasoned, spoke again. He sounded a little less enthusiastic, a little more reserved.

‘Probably not used to men with no eyes pulling guns on him in broad daylight,' Sands reasoned. ‘Usually that only happens at night,' he finished with a mental smirk.
Moving a couple steps farther Sands could feel the cool shade of the little tent the vendor cramed his stuff into. It reeked of tobacco and sweat even though it was open on two sides and the breeze drifted through.

"So what is it that makes you think I want your crap, old man?" Sands asked. It was the boy who answered.

//He has glass eyes for sale in a box// Chicklet informed him. He gently took Sands hand in his own and guided it to the open display case of fake eyes. Sands ran his hand lightly over the round objects, surprised by their cold feel in the sweltering mid day heat. His fingers traced over the rows, feeling the slippery cold of the rounded glass pieces interrupted by the felt of the case between them.

//What colour were your eyes before?// Chicklet asked, seemingly unaware that if he were someone else and asked the same question of Sands he'd be risking a bullet as an answer.

Sands didn't answer him, just kept feeling the cold, fake eyes. He couldn't imagine what they would feel like in his empty sockets, didn't want to think what the stretching would feel like, the cold against still dying nerves.

//I have any colour you might want, Senior. Maybe you would like these brown ones here. They are very strong// said the old vendor, his voice quite now that he was not shouting to attract customers.

Sands stopped his fingers on a pair in the last row at the top.

//I'd like these// he informed the vendor in Spanish.

//I am sorry senior but that pair in not finished.//

Sands felt the perfectly smooth shape, gently rolling his fingers from one eye to the other.

//I have not put colour on them yet.// explained the old man.

//I want this pair// insisted Sands.

//But they are not finished// replied the vendor.

The little boy looked into the glass orbs, seeing his own reflection peering back at him.

//They look like mirrors//said Chicklet. He looked closer and noticed that they had a slight hue to them, that his reflection and the reflection of the market had a slightly distorted colour. It looked like gasoline had been poured over them, reflecting tints of green and pink and blue that was not there. They didn't look like eyes at all, more like small pool balls made of curved mirror.

Trailing his fingers over them one last time Sands insisted that he wanted to buy that pair, his hand coming to sit subtly on the butt of the concealed gun he knew the vendor was aware of…
As they left the market with his new purchase, Sands found himself wondering just how the hell he came to be there, how his life had become this.

Six weeks earlier:

Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands had had some crap days before. An average person would label their day as bad if they stubbed a toe, lost their keys or had a flat. For Sands a bad day generally consisted of either getting severely hurt or fucking something up royally. (Now, if someone ELSE fucked something up he'd kill them and that alone saved the day from being considered a total loss – removing their incompetence from the equasion balanced it nicely and the day wasn't, in fact, ruined.)

So as for the day of the dead, Sands had no trouble what-so-fucking-ever labeling the day not only bad, but horrible, the kind of day you tried to black out of your mind. Not that doing that was any easier when your sight was blackened out forever…

So yeah, November 2nd had fulfilled his categories for bad and then some and taking down Aldjrez hadn't made things better – they would forever be unbalanced cause there was no way to ever repair what had been done to him. Not that they hadn't tried at all…

Chicklet had led him from the carnage as obediently as before. The only difference was Sands was no longer giving him instructions on where to go. As the effects of his injuries caught up with him, the CIA agent was barely on his feet and staggering badly by the time they arrived at the doors of a town doctor.

Sands had caught only the initial few lines of the boys exchange with the doctor before he'd collapsed. He didn't want to, didn't feel save here, but his body made the choice for him and before Chicklet was even finished introductions he'd passed out.

Now Sands had only once before visited a doctor in Mexico and had swore never to go to one again. Of all the stupid and irritating things to happen, he'd developed a nasty ear ache. Sands had always been leery of swimming in the ocean and he was still convinced that getting nasty sea water in his ear had led to the infection. He'd tried to ignore it and fix it with the astonishing variety of over the counter drugs available in Mexico. After a week and a half of the constant pain Sands had finally given in. He could have dealt with the pain but the dizziness was starting to make his work difficult. He'd finally had no choice but to go seek out a doctor.

He'd quickly become so irritated with the doctor that he'd left angry and more sore than when he'd arrived. He'd sworn to himself the only reason he'd left the man standing was so he could inflict more pain on the "cactus screwing locals". Or so he'd said at the time. In reality he just didn't want to listen to the sound of a gunshot at close range with his ear throbbing. Plus there'd been several "disease ridden little ankle biters" in the waiting room. Better the so-called-doctor keep the little bastards going so they could hopefully "infect every last donkey humping whore" in the city.
Yeah, he'd spewed some pretty choice words THAT day. Part of him knew it was possible he'd just picked a particularly bad doctor, hell, they had all kinds of those in the US. Still, he resolved not to let another one of those fuckers touch him again, not in this dusty shit-hole of a country anyway.

But then, as it turned out, Sands came to realize that there were far worse "doctors" than old men who talked about the weather and other nonsense while you were in a hurry and hurting like all fuck, and poked your sore ear with too much force. Maybe the first old bastard had been an omen.

But seeing as how he was bleeding to death from three gunshot wounds, missing his eyes, not to mention unconscious, Sands really hadn't had much to say about the third Mexican doctor he found himself under the care of. Well, he hadn't said much at first. Over the next week he'd said plenty.

Sands really didn't remember much about the first several days. He hadn't really been aware enough to even understand that he was staying with the doctor, nor that Chicklet was still at his side. Unfortunetly for him he was aware enough to feel a whole hell of a lot more pain than he'd hoped for.

The first semi-clear memories he had were of waking four days after their arrival (not that he knew what day it was at the time mind you) to the sound of a child crying. He remembered lifting his head to see what was going on only to be assaulted by the double pain of stabbing knives in his head and the sick, sad realization that the reason he couldn't see what was going on had nothing to do with the fact that he was lying down.

You'd think such a realization couldn't get any worse, but as it turned out with each repetition of this waking and remembering sequence, the understanding got progressively more thorough and worse.

One of the times Sands had woken (and gone through the obligatory, "Why can't I see?!? Oh yeah. Fuck." routine in his head, he'd heard sniffling and snorking. It was the kind of sounds someone made when they were trying to finish crying and weren't making an effort to keep it quiet. How nice. It's not like he'd been trying to sleep in here.

He'd opened his mouth to say something but had come up with only an innarticulate, "Haurmpf." Oddly enough, so far as the little snorker was concerned, this apparently had been the magic word.

Sands suddenly found himself being all but smothered as a child hugged him fiercely. In retrospect Sands wondered if the kid had known he was safe from his wrath since it was just too hard to shove the small body away, never mind kick him like the initial impulse had been. Despite his pain an exhaustion, had the kid not been careful where he held onto Sands, there would indeed have been kicking. Perhaps a bit of tossing even.

"What? What is it?" Sands had asked, unsure if his tone sounded bored because he really didn't care, or if it was the drugs that were keeping him down.

‘The hell should I give a damn about some snotty nosed little vermin? I've got bigger problems here. Hello! No frickin' eyes!' he thought.

"Senior," the boy began before letting out another gosh awful, wet, snorting sound that Sands tried desperately to ignore with limited success give the close proximity. "You understand me now?"

‘What the fuck? Of course I understand. Why wouldn't I?' he thought before hazy memories drifted through his brain. Voices, he'd heard making sounds that had been speech just beyond his ability to comprehend at one point. Voices moving around him, fluffing in and out, especially a higher pitched one (‘this kid's') in particular he now realized.

‘How many times had they already gone through this scene?' he wondered. Chicklet had know enough not to put pressure on any of his sore (heh, try fucking fire and acid mixed feeling!) spots when he;s quickly scampered over and hugged him. Kid knew what he was doing. This had definitely happened before … he just couldn't remember it. Or something.

"Yeah … yeah, your coming in loud and clear. Whaddya want?" he said, softly. It should have been biting, should have had a "fuck off" edge to it, but the words sounded hollow and deadened to his ears.

"Senior," Chicklet began, with just a touch of hesitation. "They are dead. My family, they are all dead!"

Though the words were full of emotion and raised in volume and pitch as Chicklet finished his speech, those words were a thousand times more deadened than any Sands had spoken.

As the boy pulled closer and buried his head against Sands chest, the reality of those words sunk in. This wasn't the sound of hysteria or disbelief. This child understood exactly what it meant. Sure, he probably couldn't totally grasp all the finer details of how his life had changed given his age, yet the boy had clearly wrapped his head around the idea. There wasn't surprise or confusion in his words, only a hollow sound of a boy who had had his life shattered and admitted it, accepted it without question, though not without tears.

In that moment Sands hated that he knew this, that he knew the difference. Though time and space were between him and his past now, there were some things he could never forget.

As the boy sobbed against his chest, Sands had long forgotten about kicking the little bugger for grabbing him. Rather than say a bunch of unnecessary, meaningless words he wouldn't probably mean anyway, he simply wrapped his unwounded arm around the shaking form and pretended he was laying with his eyes closed rather than MIA.

*******

That had been the last time Chicklet had cried (around Sands, anyway) while they were still staying with the doctor.

Sands had been more than ready to leave a couple days later. Well, in his head anyway. The doctor had been genuinely angry with him for even mentioning he was about ready to take off. Though it had irritated him at the time (and he was fairly certain that the good doctor had slipped an extra dose of painkillers into his IV while he was talking just to keep him from going anywhere for the moment until he could set his patient straight) it had been sort of reassuring. He was paying the Doctor (a ludicrace amount of money) for his medical skills, not for his emotional reaction. If it were simply the matter of keeping around a paying customer the doctor would have simply told Sand's he'd die were he to leave. No, someone who gut reacted like that for a stranger (so much as someone you'd treated for bullet holes and missing eyes could be considered a stranger) was dedicated to what he did. Pain in the ass to hear the old bugger get all bent out of shape at the mere mention of leaving, it did leave Sands more confident that the guy hadn't just got his licence in some back alley a didn't screw up the work he'd done.

Not that he could see how it looked.

So it had gone on for some time but eventually Sands had insisted he really did have to leave. He still felt like absolute crap and could barely walk to the john and back without feeling like he was going to pass out but it was now or never. He knew where everything here was now and had a terrifying idea that maybe if he didn't get out and start exploring new places soon, he'd be too afraid to. The idea of being trapped in by his own fear made Sands want to shoot himself.

And so after much fussing by the doctor, they'd left.

*******

As it turned out they made it exactly 2 blocks from the doctor's house before it because clear that Sands couldn't travel any farther that day. They'd checked into a crappy little motel. If Chicklet had found this odd or pathetic he kept it to himself.

Sands laid down on the bed carefully. He would have loved to flop right onto it but that would have hurt. 2 blocks. 2 measly blocks. So if they were so measly why did he feel exhillerated?

‘That'd be the adrenaline that's wearing off pretty damn quickly,' Sands reasoned noticing his hands were shaking as he ran them through his hair. He listened as the kid plopped down on the other bed. Didn't sound like he jumped on it but he certainly bounced down with more effort than was entirely necessary.

‘Hmm, bruised but maybe not broken,' Sands though idily when he identified that perhaps not all the childlike behaviour had been wiped out by the boy's family's death.

"Chicklet," Sands started, squirming uncomfortably to get a bit higher on the bed and sit against the headboard.
"Yes?" the boy asked, ever attentive. Sands heard the thump of the bag the boy had been carrying, crammed full of the stuff Sands had made him retrieve from his last digs and loads of pills and crap given by the doctor, as it hit the floor. Repeated sounds were becoming easier to recognize.

"Look, I'm not going to beat around the bush here. You got any other family you can go off to? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?"

There was a long pause before the boy answered. "No, my father's brother used to live just outside town but he died. I don't know the rest of my family, we moved to this area a few years ago, when I was smaller. My mother's family used to live with us when I was a baby but I don't know where they are now. I don't know how to find them."

"You go to school?"

"I used to. I was very good at math. I haven't been in almost 1 year now. I had ot provide for my family."

Sands sniffed. Fucked up country. But then it wasn't like he'd never seen American parents use their children to make money before.

*sniffle sniffle*

‘Oh for the love of Christ he better not start that shit up again!' "Listen, kid. You want a job?" A questioning sound came between the sniffles from across the room. "Here's the deal. I need a guide for a little while. I need to go collect money I have in a few different places."

"Oh, like the hotel?" Chicklet asked. He was referring to one of the intown small stashed Sands had had him retrieve to pay the doctor.

"Kind of. Except I don't need you to go to places in the city. We have to travel. You be my tour guide in this shit hole country?"

Chicklet had, of course, very enthusiastically agreed.

Later that night Sands still lay awake. He could hear the soft breaths coming from the other bed. The sound was familiar already. He heard it enough times at the doctor's home. Though he had no idea about much of the first part of his stay, Sands knew Chicklet had stayed with him nearly all the time during the latter (and far more lucid) half.

He sure as hell hadn't asked for a little kid to follow him around like a lost puppy but he'd be lying if he didn't acknowledge the advantages. He had a hard enough time getting around rooms let alone across the country. His wounds were mending but when bullets tear through muscle it takes time for everything to grow together again. Getting around was maddeningly difficult. And he didn't even want to think about his lack of eyes.
They had to go collect his money. Sands couldn't think long term right now. For the first time he could remember he had no ability to plan for anything past his next several moves.

And that disturbed the hell out of him.

So the plan, short sited as it was for the moment was to go hunting for his nuts.

Sands boss a few years back had called him a squirrel. He'd joked that Sands s[read himself over so much area and ferreted so many things away is so many places he'd probably forget half of them by spring. Of course the man had been talking about Sands remarkably long list of informants (and to think that was only the ones he told the man about!). But he never forgot anyone or anything he left hanging.

Sands had money hidden away in a number of locations throughout Mexico. It hadn't been a big deal to hide away a few thousand here and a few thousand there while still working. Hell, most of it wasn't even company money. Sure, they provided in initial cash, but he'd been the one to maximize it. Some was in bank accounts, some in safety deposit boxes, some in hotel safes and even some with some semi reliable people. But not one cent was traceable and not a peso would attract attention of the CIA. It burned to think of the money he had in American accounts that was basically lost to him now (that is unless he wanted to end up dealing with his employers – which he most certainly did not) but knowing he'd buried as much as he had throughout Mexico made him smile at the memory of being called a squirrel. That had not been his reaction at the time, and Sands suspected old Brocker still had the scar to prove it.

Right, so that was the plan. Go collect his money. What happened after that he wasn't sure.

Letting his mind drift away from the blank that was his future, Sands found he was again listening to the constant rythum of Chicklet's sleeping breaths.

‘Gosh, there's another thing. What the flying fuck are you doing dragging some probably disease ridden brat around for? Huh?' Sands sighed. ‘Coming up the stairs I'd say it was more him dragging me than the other way around. Face it, you need his help. And you're going to do that same thing you always have – Find someone who has what you need and get it from them.'

He omitted his normal last line of disposing of said person after he got what he wanted. Sands might be totally fucked up and corrupt beyond repair but he wasn't about to waste some kid when he'd outlived his usefulness.

He'd known people who were fucked up enough to do that and it was one of the admittedly thin lines between him and them.

‘Most of those distinctions are gone now aren't they?' he realized, remembering his job was gone. ‘A thoroughly amusing career right down the shitter.'

Sands reached up to rub at one of the bandages over his eye. ‘Over the giant gaping chasm that used to house you eye, you mean?' Those had to be changed every damned day. Hell everything but the bullet wound in his arm still needed daily messing with. ‘Enjoying being cared for by a child?' his mind mocked him. ‘Well I'd rather it be Chicklet than some doctor.

The doctor they'd stayed with had been more adept at changing bandages. Chicklet was careful but had the awkward clumbsyness of a child. On the ptherhand, Chicklet was willing to go on the road with him whereas the doctor would probably have him in bed for a month. Besides, when Chicklet touched his face it didn't make him twitch with unease. He didn't imagine the boy cringing in disgust. It made little sense for surely the doctor had seen far more gruesome things in his days than the boy, but all the same, Sands just felt saver trusting his sockets to the smaller, more bumbling fingers.

Not that he sounded exactly thankful when the kid was cleaning them out.

The swearing and threats that comes out of his mouth almost surprised him. Almost. The boy had simply apologized quickly and continued and for this lack of reaction Sands was greatful.

When he'd woken the next morning Sands had not been in the best of moods. He'd fallen asleep at some point during the small hours (not that he could have known exactly when) and was miserably tired when a chirpy voice woke him.

"Good morning Senior!" a voice had called out, entirely too close to his ear. Startled, he'd jumped just enough to set every new hole in his body to scream in pain.

An involuntary pained cry had escaped his mouth and Sands had curled into a sore, cranky and very pissed off ball.

"I am sorry," Chicklet said, sounding very sincere. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Just don't get so close when I'm sleeping. It creeps me out."

"You didn't mind at the Doctor's house," Chicklet pointed out, confused.

"Yeah, well, you know what, kid? I was also stoned most of the time too. Now can you go fuck off and find some coffee?" Almost as an after thought he added, "And some cigarettes?" Damned doctor had gotten rid of all his.

"Yes," the boy said. Sands waited, still not getting out of bed in the hopes that if he remained still the pain would lessen some. After a few moments Sands noticed the sound of the door to outside was curiously missing and instead there was the rattling and scraping of someone rummaging around.

"That doesn't sound like you leaving," Sands pointed out.

"The Doctor said you must take these pills when you wake up."
"Just go get the coffee, I'll take care of that," Sands said, his voice edged with irritation.

"But senior, you cannot tell which are which. They are all almost the same size," Chicklet said, carrying the rattling pill containers to the bed.

And that had been the end of Sands patience. Chicklet was lucky the of the two things within Sands reach to throw the man had chosen the pillow rather than the gun tucked underneath.

"Get the fuck out," he'd said in a cold voice that lacked the obvious anger his throw had, yet was no less…

"No," the boy had responded.

Sands' eyebrows shot up, pulling painfully on his empty sockets. It was not very often someone didn't respond to THAT tone of voice when he used it.

"No?" he asked almost mockingly, beginning to reconsider his guidelines about not killing people while they were useful to him.

"No!" Chicklet said sounding even more sure of himself. Sands could picture the child standing there, little arms crossed over his chest, a look of defiance on his face. "Doctor told me that if I wanted to help you I had to do exactly what he said," the boys voice faltered slightly, no longer as full of bravado. "Even if it meant going against what you said."

Sands pulled the gun and pointed it at the kid. Or at least, where he thought the kid was. In his slowest, deadliest voice, Sands said, "Put the pill bottles on the bed and get the fuck out."

There was a very long, silent pause (which was distinctly irritating to Sands since he couldn't look at the boy and see what was going through his head) before Chicklet answered.

"No. I am going to help you like the doctor said. I don't want you to die."

‘Okay, so the little bastard is a brave fuck. Maybe not the brightest since he's the one with a gun on him and he knows I can still use it, but still – kids got balls.'

"Alright," Sands conceded. He wasn't entirely sure why he gave in then. Maybe since he knew the kid had a point. Maybe to show the kid he respected what he'd done, even if didn't understand why he did it.

*****

After taking the pills and sending Chicklet out for smokes, Sands began to change his plans slightly. He'd intended to spend the day taking care of a few last things in the city before they left. But once the drugs kicked in he not only felt less pained, he felt downright dozy. He was definitely going to have to sit down with Chicklet and find out exactly what the Doctor had left him with. Much as he enjoyed not being driven nearly mad with pain, he was less than comfortable with the idea of being stoned and vulnerable. This was not the safest city for him now should his employers finally get around to looking for him. Though he could now walk around the room without moaning over every little movement, there was just no way he could fight off anybody right now. Yeah, they were definitely going to have to cut back on the meds.

*****

Later that morning, now full of nicotine and buzzing pretty heavily, Sands had Chicklet tell him what all the pills the doctor had given him were. It was true that they were close in size but there was enough variety in shapes and textures that Sands felt confident he would have little trouble telling them apart.

"Toss these out," he instructed Chicklet pushing two containers of strong painkillers across the little table.

"But Senior, the Doctor said you would need those for at least another couple weeks," Chicklet protested.

"Need them or just want them? I though you said only the antibiotics were necessary."

"Yes, but he said you would be in much pain, especially your legs if we were walking a lot. He said you should take these."

"Nope," Sands said, taking a drag off his tenth cigarette since the boy had brought them. He knew the buzz he was feeling wasn't from the smokes. He hadn't been prevented from smoking for that long. "Won't be able to function with that much junk in my system. Now throw them out."

He heard the boy sigh and the clunk of something hitting the garbage can.

"Good, now here's what I want you to do. There's three places in this town that I have money put away. I was going to go there myself but I think maybe I'll stay here and have you go. Think you can handle it?"

Sands knew what he was doing. He knew how to make sure the kid felt important. ‘And if he feels important to you he's much less likely to fuck you over and steal your money and leave you here waiting. Wait, he wouldn't do that, right? Well, better safe than broke,' he decided.

"Oh yes, I can do that," Chicklet said, happy he could do something to help Sands. The man had been strange with him all morning and he wanted a little time away. "But you will be safe while I'm gone?"

"Hey, remember last time I had a problem with some guys?" Sands asked with an almost vicious smile on his face.
Chicklet nodded, not entirely comfortable with that look. As long as he knew Sands was safe, he though he would enjoy going out for something to do. He'd spent many days inside helping the doctor and staying with Sands. Chicklet was used to being outdoors and moving around the city most of the day. Being inside all the time made him fidgety and they strange way Sands had been talking all morning made him a bit nervous.

"Okay I'm going to jot down the addresses for you. Just say you're picking up for "The Sandman" and if they give you any grief tell them I said, "Fuck off and give the kid the money." Got it?"

As he spoke, Sands reached for the small pad of paper and pen he'd found lying on the table earlier. It took him three sheets since he had a hard time lining up the words he couldn't see but he wrote out the directions and handed them to Chicklet.

"I can't read this," said Chicklet sounding distinctly ashamed.

‘Well shit. You're handwriting has already degraded to the point that it's illegible. That's disappointing to say the least.'

He sighed and tried not to rub and the bandages over his eye area. "That's okay, kid. I just thought I'd still be able to write for a little longer," he said doing his best to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"No, Senior, it's not that. The letters look okay, the lines are just very slanty. I mean I can't read English."

Huh. Snads hadn't even though about it until now but they'd spoken the entire time sine he'd woken at the Doctor's house in Spanish. In fact, now that he thought back, the only time he'd spoken in English had been when he'd cursed and gotten angry with Chicklet earlier. He'd just automatically written the directions in English without thinking.

"Well, we'll see about fixing that later. For now let's see about this," Sands had said, writing the directions again, this time in Spanish. He tried to ignore the indulgent smile he'd given the kid. He shouldn't be happy enough to smile just because he could still write well enough for someone to read it, right? Nor should he be smiling at the kid and offering, what? To teach him to read English? What was he? A blind grade school teacher here?

‘Wait a sec, that might come in handy.' Yeah, there could be times he'd need the kid to read stuff for him and it might not always be in Spanish.

Ripping off the paper (and it was only one this time since he now had a better idea where the edges of the paper were) and handed the slip to the kid. "We're definitely going to have to get you reading in English. How well do you speak it?"

"Not much," Chicklet admitted. "But I understand well." He sounded hopeful.
"Yes, you certainly do," Sands remembered how the boy had been able to follow his instructions when he'd needed to get to the centre of the city. "But we're going to have to get you speaking too."

Sands sent the boy on his errands and laid back down on the bed. He hoped it was the drugs that had made him nearly reach out and ruffle the boy's hair. Yeah, once the junk cleared his system he'd be back to normal.

*****

The next day they'd got on a bus. Was a time that would have been a simple enough task but Sands was more than pissed off when he realized how much more difficult everything was now. He hoped (but knew better) that the reason he found it hard to get around was the still aching holes in his thighs and not the total darkness he was forced to navigate in. By the time they'd made it to the bus station, he was beginning to wonder if maybe he should have listened to the doctor and stayed in bed, or at least in the hotel, for a bit longer.

He let Chicklet guide him over to some chairs in the waiting area while the boy took care of buying their tickets.

Sands decided he was in hell. The bus station was full of noisy travelers talking too loudly in several languages. There were whining children, people bumping against his knees as they brushed by unexpectedly. The air didn't move a bit and it was so stuffy that getting air into one's lungs took great effort even if sitting still.

And to top it all off there was not one (as you'd expect) but TWO crying babies. Yep, it was hell alright and there was no way to tell what was going on around him or who was about to come up and rob him or kill him. Sands was armed as always but his guns did little to reassure him as the sounds around him nearly choked the sanity right out of him. Someone could be standing beside him right now with a gun to his head and he wouldn't know until it fired. There could be CIA agents in the corners, radioing that he'd been found and about to swoop in and take him in. Every person who brushed by could be about to attack him-

"I got the tickets!" Chicklet said enthusiastically as he bounded up to the seated Sands. "I had to tell them it was for me and my uncle," he said, proud of his quick thinking when the man had asked who he was traveling with. He probably wanted to make sure the boy wasn't running away from home with some other kid. The man had been most adamant that children were not permitted to be on the buses without an adult.

"You don't mind that I told them you were my uncle do you?" Chicklet asked when he'd noticed that Sands still had not responded to him. In fact, it seemed like the man didn't even know he was there. Chicklet watched as Sands head jerked ever so slightly as if he was trying to follow sounds or conversations but with little success.

He leaned over and put his hand on Sands shoulder. Before he was aware of what was happening, the boy had a gun shoved against his stomach, it's presence blocked from the view of others by his own body.

Slowly he removed his hand. "Senior, it's me, Marcos." Seeing no change in Sands, and feeling the gun pressed against his stomach threateningly, he continued, "Chicklet, you call me Chicklet. I went to get the tickets."

As abruptly as the gun had appeared it was gone and Sands the boy watched as Sands took a deep breath and shook his head a bit as if to clear it. "Uh, good. Good job," he said distractedly. "Hey, you want to go wait outside?"

Thinking of the long trip ahead stuck in the bus Chicklet happily agreed. They went outside the station.

As they went out of the doors Sands wondered idily, ‘Why not have this place open like most everything else?' He felt the slick glass of the door as they walked through it. ‘Huh, trying to make it look like an American building. Too bad the enclosed glass building deal only works when you have the air conditioning to back it up.'

He really didn't want to think about how he'd just pulled a gun on the kid. After getting the rest of the painkillers out of his system he had indeed been quite a bit less tolerant where the boy was concerned, just as he'd expected. But pulling a gun on him was not necessary, even if the kid had startled him in the middle of a … he really didn't want to label it as a panic attack. ‘More like a paranoia attack. Whatever.'

"Listen, Chick," Sands said as they walked away from the building. "Don't ever touch me without a warning again. Got it?"

"Yes," Chicklet said. He was beginning to realize that he had better learn to be more careful around Sands. The man was different now. He wasn't mean to him but he was a lot less mellow, much quicker to anger, harsh words more frequent. Being scolded and yelled at, ridiculed even, were not new things to the boy. He had been on the receiving end of a considerable amount of verbal abuse over the years while trying to sell him chewing gum. But having guns pulled on him was a new experience. He'd never even held one before meeting Sands though a friend of his had shown him his older brother's gun before.

But even when angry tourists and strangers yelled at him and chased him away it was much easier to forget than when Sands got angry with him. Every time Sands snapped at him it felt like hearing his parents say they were disappointed in him. Or, at least, how he'd felt back when they'd cared enough to say those things to him.

No, he didn't care for having Sands angry with him in the least and he never wanted to feel the cold metal of the man's gun pressed against his belly. The bus station had been full of people but not one of them had known the little boy in the faded yellow shirt was momentarily in fear for his life.
The rules had changed some. Sands had changed since they had left the doctors and Chicklet was determined to not find himself at the end of an angry man's gun again.

"I will be more careful Senior."

******

Chicklet had been right: the bus was boring. Less than 10 minutes into the ride he was fidgeting. He saw Sands scowl at his movements and tried to limit his wiggling as much as possible. He stared out the window at the dusty, unchanging scenery.

Sands had felt nauseus at the first lurch of the bus. It's bumping, swaying movement continued in an unending pattern. At strange thought occurred to him: would he know if the bus was going to crash? Would he have any warning at all? Would he feel a sharp pull of the wheels? A tilt before they landed in the ditch?

Sands had never been able to sleep in cars or buses. Never. He had never totally trusted they wouldn't crash. It wasn't like he thought he'd be able to change things in the least could he see the presumably dull scenery out the window, but at least he'd have some warning before the end.

‘I'm totally at the mercy of some half drunk bus driver who probably never had to take a legal driving test in his life. And I could probably life with that if I could at least SEE what was going to happen … where we're going.' He felt the boy wriggling in the seat next to him. The kid was not too good at staying still. ‘Ah. What the fuck. I need something to do, something to focus on other than ever tiny correction the driver makes to the wheel.'

"So Chick, tell me about the people on the bus with us," Sands said. He did have an vague, idle curiosity about who their traveling companions were, but more he wanted to do a little testing on the boy's observational skills.

"There is a woman at the front and two old men about half way down. There is a young woman and her baby on the otherside. And the bus driver too."

‘Hmm. Not great. Lets try again,' Sands thought.

"Okay, this time I want you to describe them to me," he prompted.

"The woman at the front is wearing a crinkly, long black shirt and skirt."

"Uh huh. What else do you notice about her?"

"She looks sad. And she's holding something. It's something small."

‘Getting better,' Sands thought. "Anything else?"
"She looks old, but her hair is not white. I think if she smiled she would look much younger and prettier."

The boy was silent for a few moments before continuing, "She is sitting near the bus driver, at the front of the bus."

"Yeah, you said that. Why do yout think that is?"

"I think she does not want the old men to talk to her."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because she won't look at them now." The boy paused to think again. "She started out looking around the bus and out the window but now she just looks at what's in her hands."

"So she was looking at the men before?"

"No, they were looking at her. They were…" they child searched for the right word, "staring at her like they wanted something. Like the men look at the girls who work on street corners."

"Okay, can you tell me anything else about her? Anything else she's saying with body language?"

"Body language?" Chicklet asked, not sure what Sands mennt.

"Uh, the way she sits, the way she moves, does any of that make you think something else about her?"

Again the boy paused before answering. "She's leaning towards the bus driver. She's in one of those seats at the front that faces sideways and she leaning more towards the bus driver than the other way. I don't think it's on purpose. She's not leaning a lot."

‘Good, he's giving more details on his own.' Sands was ready to finish the test with one more question, "Why do you think she might be leaning towards the driver?"

"Well … he is very big. Maybe she thinks he will protect her from the old men."

"Mmm hmm," Sands said, waiting for the boy to continue.

"Maybe she doesn't normally ride the bus alone. Maybe she usually has a man with her. She doesn't look frightened but I think she would rather sit with the bus driver if she could."

"Alright, here's what I want you to do. Go up to the bus driver and ask him how much longer till the next stop. When you're up there I want you to look at the lady in black and see if you can spot anything else that would tell you more about her."
"You mean like a badge?" Chicklet asked remembering the ID badges many women wore to get into the factories.

"If she has one, sure. But if not just look and see what you can tell me. Now go."

Chicklet walked up the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. He went by the young woman and her sleeping baby. He passed the old men, catching part of a dirty joke one of them was telling the other. At the end of the rows of seats the aisle widened and the seats lined the sides of the bus, facing each other, with an open area for standing passengers. Chicklet looked at the woman as he passed. He noticed she was holding a locket. He quickly asked the bus driver his question and got a rudely waving hand in response. He was also told to go back to his seat.

As the boy passed the woman in black he too a closer look a the locket in her hands. She was looking down and he had just enough time as he walked by to recognize that one of the pictures on the locket was of her, looking younger and happier. The other picture was of a hansom man, he looked very happy too.

Chicklet passed the rows of empty seats, the old men and the woman and her baby and finally flopped down in his seat next to Sands.

"Well?" Sands asked expectantly.

"She is holding a locket with a younger picture of herself and a man."

"And?" Sands asked. If the kid got it right now then the whole game wouldn't be in vain.

"I think the man in the picture was her husband and he died. She looks sad and she's wearing black clothes. I think maybe he died not too long ago since she looks so sad. I think she stays near the bus driver because he reminds her of her husband, because she thinks he can protect her somehow."

Sands smiled a big, toothy, a rare sincere smile. "Very good. He husband died one week ago and she is going to visit her friend. She's not scared to travel but she misses the company of her husband and doesn't like when men leer at her."

Astonished, Chicklet looked from the woman (still absorbed in looking at her locket) to Sands and back again. "How do you know that?"

Smirking, Sands admitted, "I heard her talking on the phone outside the bus station while you went walking around."

Before boarding the bus Sands had instructed Chicklet to go get rid of his excess energy. He had not been looking forward to sitting with a child who was fidgeting around. He'd told Chicklet to "fuck off and take a damn walk or something" then been bored himself while waiting for the bus alone. Sitting on a stone bench outside, smoking a cigarette, he'd started to listen in on a woman's phone conversation. Well, her end of it at any rate. Though he's lost track of her later and didn't know which bus she was taking, he suspected by Chicklet's description that this was the same lady on their bus. Only one way to find out though. He recalled her description of the new travel bag she had purchased for this trip.

"Did you notice the green and yellow stripped bag she had with her?" he asked the boy.

Now Chicklet was even more amazed.

******

They repeated the game again with the young woman and her baby. Sands hadn't heard this woman before so he decided Chicklet would have to go up and get confirmation. The boy had reasoned out that the baby was hers (because it looked like her – Sands thought that wasn't much to go on since such things were always so objective but he let it go) and that she was not beautiful but she was happy and excited. She had nice clothes and her nails were pained with no chips. Chicklet had decided that she looked like she had made herself very presentable before getting on the bus. Chicklet thought that she was going to see her husband or her boyfriend but not a parent (he mentioned something about her shirt being nice but a little tight and more suited to attracting attention of a man). Sands told the boy to go talk to her but not to say what they'd been talking about or the conclusions he'd come to. He had to get information from her without being obvious.

Sands was disappointed that they were just a little too far to hear. He could make out the odd word in the conversation but most of it was lost on the rumble of the bus. When the boy returned several minutes later Sands could hear the pride on his voice.

"Her name is Anna and her baby's name is Nicos. They are going to visit her fiancée and she is very exicted to see him since he has been away for sometime because of work."

"Excellent. And how did you find this out?"

"I asked her about her baby and she told me where she was going without having to ask her."

‘Good. He has no problem getting people to open up to him. Handy.' "She didn't get suspicious when you started talking to her? Where's you learn to start talking to strangers so well?"

"I had to get people to talk to me for a moment to sell them gum, Senior. They seem to trust me easily, the ones that don't kick me away that is."

Sands felt a twinge of something inside him. He'd nearly kicked the kid away himself at first. It wasn't anger he felt and it definitely wasn't shame about almost treating the kid badly. He didn't even think he could feel shame anymore, let alone aver something like a gut reaction to a nusance he'd not even acted upon. Still, he felt something when the kid mentioned it and he was not comfortable with that in the least.
"Well, you'll never have to deal with that crap again. Not going to be selling gum to tourists again."

"Senior? Why did we play that game? Why did we guess about the people?" It confused the boy. He'd enjoyed it well enough and thought he would get much better if he did it some more, but he;d never played any game like that before with his family.

"I need you to tell me the most important things very quickly. I need you to look at a person and tell me what I can't see anymore and I need you to quickly size people up. We're going to be going into some pretty dicey places Chick, and I need you to be my eyes, to tell me what I need to know. Can you dig it?"

"Yes, I can unearth that," Chicklet said enthusiastically. The last question's wording had confused him a bit but he wanted Sands to know he could do what was needed.

Sands laughed at the literal translation error. They would have to work on the boy's English because somewhere in his own translations something wasn't working when it came to more obscure phrases. But English could wait till their next ride. Afterall, there were still two more passengers on the bus to practice Chicklet's observation skills with.

******

The bus ride had taken almost 4 hours and had many stops alone the way. Sands repeated the game with the boy as more passengers boarded the bus, using questions to guide Chicklet's observations and assumptions. By the tenth person, Chicklet was consistently picking up on the more important details and was proving to be reasonably accurate in his conclusions. Sands was now convinced that the boy had a gift for getting information from people easily. The boy had no difficulty approaching the strangers and they clearly trusted his apparent innocence enough to be open with him. Perhaps it was that the boy seemed harmless, indeed WAS harmless.

At least for now.

Sands had him doing nothing more than getting basic information from the passengers, just simple things like destinations, traveling reasons and the like. All useless information but it not only kept both himself and the child occupied, it also gave him a chance to evaluate the boys skills.

‘Might be an ignorant peasent in some ways but he'll have his uses. Might just need an innocent looking boy to get what we need,' Sands thought recalling some of his stashes. Though most of his money wasn't in banks, it was not all going to be easy to get to. Whether he choose to admit it or not, having no eyes and still being considerably compromised by his numerous recent injuries, Sands was going to have to play things a little differently that before.

And having an innocent looking child with him was going to be less of a hinderence than he'd initially thought. Several years of navigating the dangerous streets of Mexico, trying to scrape out enough money to help his family had taught the boy many skills and Sands made up his mind to sharpen those abilities. He wasn't about to go stumbling into potentially dangerous situations blind with untrained help.

He heard the boy coming back to his seat. Chicklet let his small hands bump against the seatbacks as he passed the rows and it made a soft thumping noise that Sands now easily recognized.

He also clomped along like a small pack of elephants in his childish haste.

‘Yeah, we're going to have to do something about that soon.'

Chicklet told Sands about the last man he had spoken to. The child had been mostly correct in his observations that the man was going to pay for a new plot of farmland, a small bag clenched tightly in his callused fingers.

"Is this way we sit in the back of the bus? So we can see everyone?" Chicklet asked, having noticed for the first time that from their vantage point they could see all the passengers.

Sands choose to ignore the "we" in the last question. In the past that would have been the right reasoning. He never liked the feeling of people sitting behind him where he couldn't see them. It had unnerved him from the time he was in grade school and the feeling never went away.

But now? Now they were seated there for a different reason. Sands hadn't thought of asking Chicklet to play their game when they'd taken their seats originally. He'd just automatically headed for the back of the bus, the boy in tow.

Sands didn't know if he's chosen the back of the bus out of habit and need for security or because he wanted to delay the end. Still feeling the bus weaving ever so slightly on the bumpy road, he wondered if he'd chosen their position because he wanted to be the last passenger to crash into a ditch if they went off the road. Or had he chosen it so he could be the last to arrive at their destination? Was he just delaying their progress unconsciously because he had no clue what to do with himself beyond rounding up his money?

Sands sighed, and left the confused thoughts alone. "People don't do things for no reason, Chick. They might not know WHY they do it, but there's always a reason for their actions."

The boy simply nodded and said nothing more in response to the nonanswer.

*****

Their first stop had been easy. It was nothing more than getting some cash from a hotel safety deposit box. The place was a bit more upscale than they needed (‘not like you're going to be oogling a pretty lobby now are you?') but Sands didn't have the energy to go out and find another hotel to hole up in for the night, not when they were right there at the front desk of one already.

Chicklet had never stayed in so nice a place before and though he kept his enthusiasm to a reasonable noise level out of deference to Sands obvious tired state, he still couldn't help but talk excitedly about the hotel. Sands was mildly disgusted to find himself taking comfort in the excited, running speech of the child as he described the plushy hotel. The description matched the one in his memory and this confirmation that the place still remained the same despite his inability to see it for himself, soothed Sands in a very real way.

By the time they made it to their room Sands barely had the energy to open the door and had willingly given the card key to the excited boy. Cjoosing the first bed his shins bumped into, Sands flopped down, regretting now laying down more carefully the moment he jarred the holes in his legs.

His "eyes" didn't feel too great either. Sometimes he wanted to put a cold wet cloth on top of the bandages as if to ease the pain of eye strain. Of course given that there were no eyes under there to have been strained (and the thought of getting an unnecessary wetness on the bandages creeped him right out) he didn't bother. Sands did, however, pull off his black sunglasses and set them on the nightstand that he knew was likely to be beside the bed.

‘Yup, right there,' he thought as the glasses in his hand bumped against the wooden surface. "This room isn't the same layout as the one I had before but some things are still consistent. Now I have to figure what those consistencies are.'

Stiffling down the whine that wanted to come out of his throat, Sands better centred himself on the bed.

Chicklet watched as Sands moved around. The man's movements were slower and clearly pained. Thought his temper had held most of the day, Chicklet knew he had to be careful what he said now that Sands wasn't feeling well. The boy hadn't missed the fact that in Sands moving further onto the bed, the man had also removed his gun and slid it under the pillow.

"Senior, there are pills in the bag. Perhaps you want one now that we are here for the night?" he asked, steeling himself for the possible wrath about to come down upon him. He hated getting yelled at and threatened by Sands but he also did not like watching the man in pain.

"I told you to throw those out. You better have-" Sands began in a slightly threatening voice.

"I did! I threw away the ones you didn't want but there are some those pills the doctor gave you. He said they were not as strong and to give them to you if you refused the other ones."
Thinking about the dull pain in his eyes and legs all day that had been exacerbated by the bumping of the old bus, Sands asked, "And it didn't occur to you to mention this before?"

Chicklet heard the voice was full of irritation and maybe even a touch of mistrust. He'd known it wasn't going to be easy. The doctor had warned him that to help Sands the best he might have to go against him. "Doctor told me to try to get you to take the strong pills. He said if you wouldn't take them to wait a day and see if you changed your mind before telling you he sent others."

"So the ol' doc wanted me stoned and you thought it was a good idea, huh? Think you need to make decisions for me little boy?" Sands asked. He was beginning to sound downright sinister.

Chicklet wanted very much to leave the room then. He wanted to go home. He wanted to sit down at dinner with his family, wanted to hear them all laughing and talking over one another. He did not want to be in a hotel room with an armed, angry man in a city he didn't know.

Chicklet remembered he had nowhere else to go. His family was dead and, unless he wanted to try supporting himself solely on the sales of chewing gum, he was stuck.

Feeling frustrated and angry he threw the bottle of Tylenol at Sands as hard as he could, feeling momentarily pleased when it thunked off the man's forehead. Chicklet turned and ran out of the room and down the hallway to the stairs, not bothering to look back.

*****

Sands bit back the yelling insults that were on his lips the moment he heard the door slam.

The boy had left.

He removed his hand from where it had involuntarily slid under the pillow the moment something had bounced off his forehead. Getting up to follow after Chicklet, he nearly tripped over something. Reaching down he felt the rough fabric of the boy's knap sack under his fingers. So the boy was coming back.

‘Oh I know I'm not feeling THIS relieved about it cause that would be disgusting,' Sands thought, mental voice dripping with personal sarcasm. He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Alright, so now I know where the kid's breaking point is. Just a stupid kid, just doing what the doctor told him would be best. He wasn't trying to hurt me or poison me. Fuck it. Even if he doesn't come back it doesn't matter. Don't need him – it just makes things easier. Yeah.'

Sands got up and felt around for the thing that had been thrown at his head. ‘Little bastard is lucky it didn't hit one of my eyes … er, eye holes. That would have hurt like all hell, he thought as he searched for what had to have been a pill bottle. He heard it rattle when it hit the sheets. Finally finding what he was looking for Sands again realized that even simple things were going to take a shit load of time now that he couldn't see. Just finding a pill bottle on top of the rumpled sheets took a good minute when it could have been located in a half a second by sight.

‘And that there Sandy old boy is the reason why you need the little gum peddler. You found it on your own but look how long that took. Stupid, simple thing took way too long. What if it had been your gun you were searching for, huh? What if you needed it in a emergency and it was right in front of you Goddamned nose and you didn't know it?'
He could get by with out the kid but for how long? And at what cost? He wasn't mad that he'd had to search around for the container by fumbling with his hands. Afterall, he needed to get better at it. What was done was done and what he hadn't accepted he sure as fuck wasn't about to start thinking about now … not till he'd taken care of what he needed to to, till he had him money. Even if the kid had been in the room he still wouldn't have had him find the container. Sands wasn't helpless afterall. But if he'd needed something quickly, if it had been en emergency it would be a hell of a lot easier to have a working set of eyes to guide his hand.

‘No, I don't need him but it would definitely make things a lot easier,' Sands thought as he felt the bottle, finally managing to open it. He shook out a pill from inside and felt it with his fingers. It was a different shape than the pills he'd felt earlier. This one was long and narrow whereas the others had been round and flat. It felt similar to the basic over the counter painkillers you could buy at a drugstore in the States. There was imprinted letters on the side but there was just no way his fingers were sensitive to make those out.

Refusing to let the situation make him feel more frustrated, Sands dry swallowed a couple of the pills and sank back on the bed. He tried to think about something other than how easily he could be poisoned and the pounding headache residing in the space that had once enclosed his eyes.

*****

Chicklet stopped running down the stairs after a couple flights. Sands was not following him and there were no gun shots echoing in the stairway. He doubted the man wanted shoot him but Chicklet was no fool. He had seen many men snap over the years and let loose their darker sides. When he was 6 he'd peeked through a window of his Uncle's house and seen the man nearly beat his aunt to death in a rage. This was the same uncle who had only the night before bounced him on his knee and talked to him about visiting the market. Chicklet never understood just why his uncle had done what he did but the boy had formed an early understanding that people were not always predictable and that some men were more likely to become violent than others. Though he'd seen his uncle bring flowers everyday and lay them at the door to his house while his aunt stayed with them to recover, he'd never felt the same about the man. And there was something about the way Sands talked that reminded Chicklet of his uncle. He wondered if he would see the same thing in Sand's eyes as he had seen in his uncle's had the agent not been stripped of them.

Chicklet opened the door leading into the lobby. Sands had told him it was a tourist hotel though Chicklet had known that before they had set foot in the place. Looking at the elegant patterns on the carpet and finely crafted chairs the boy couldn't help but wonder if all American homes looked like that inside.

He wandered around in the lobby for awhile before the front desk manager called him over. It was the same man who had checked them in earlier and retrieved Sand's money.

"Why are you not in your room, boy?" he asked.

Looking up over the high counter, Chicklet said, "My uncle wanted some privacy." Remembering Sand's instructions earlier in the day, Chicklet explained, "He told me to take a walk."

"Go outside then. The lobby is no place for a child!" the man all but snapped.

"Rico!" a voice chided from the small office behind the desk. "Don't be so mean to our little guest." Out of the doorway came an older looking lady. "He sent you out here alone?" she asked.

Chicklet was confused at the question at first. He tried to think as Sand's had taught him earlier. If he was this woman why would he ask that? Well, Sands had enough money to afford an expensive place so since he was with him, she probably assumed he wasn't used to wandering the streets alone. Maybe in this town they didn't have as many children out alone, especially those who did not live there. Indeed, he had noticed since their arrival that it had less street vendors than he own town and appeared to be somewhat more affluent. The woman seemed to be asking him this because she was worried about him and she looked like she was probably a mother herself. Chicklet looked at her blouse and noticed a faint stain he remembered seeing on many of his own mother's shirts. It was on the shoulder, right where babies had a knack for spitting up.

Deciding she was safe to talk to, and since the man had moved over to the end of the desk and was now talking on the phone, Chicklet answered the woman. "He was angry with me. And I shouted at him and ran away."

"Go sit at the table over there," the lady said as she pointed to a small table with two arm chairs across the lobby. "I'll make you a sandwich and you can tell me what happened."

Chicklet obediently when and sat down to wait. This woman reminded him of his mother and right now, especially after his fight with Sand's, he needed to wanted very badly to sit down with her. She joined him soon after and he told her about the fight (though not the details of his "uncle's" injuries) as he ate the sandwich she made him. It was nice to be able to talk to someone. Chicklet had been left with only Sands, and previously the doctor, to talk to since his family had been killed.

Thinking of his mother and the rest of his family, Chicklet put the rest of his sandwich back on the plate, suddenly no longer hungry. He had been so busy staying with Sands that he had barely thought about what had happened. Suddenly he remembered running up to the door, finding it hanging open…

Chicklet found himself being hugged by the kindly woman as he cried. She was kneeling down next to his chair, holding him against her. Through blurry eyes he saw the stain on her shirt against his cheek.

She shushed him and rubbed his back, apparently uncareing that they were in a hotel lobby. Chicklet suddenly felt acutely aware that they were right out in the open and that he was sobbing like a child half his age in the arms of a stranger. At least they were the only ones there. Well, expect for the front desk man, the kind lady's husband.
Chicklet sniffled and looked aver to see he was still on the phone, and glaring back at him. Chicklet pulled away from the woman, wiping at his eyes. He began to apologize but she interrupted him.

"Shh, it's okay. I know when you fight with someone you live it can be very upsetting. It's okay to cry," she said encouragingly, just as she would have were this one of her own children.

Chicklet choose not to correct her about the reason for his outburst. He nodded and sat back in his seat as she took her own as well, on the other side of the table again. Sniffling into a napkin, Chicklet saw the man at the desk was still looking at him. He felt his cheeks redden with embarassement under the intense stare.

"Oh, don't you mind him now. My husband is just clueless when it comes to children," she said dismissively. "It's the people we care about the most that always seem to make us the most upset. I love my husband but sometimes his I tell him I hate his work. He gets angry and we fight. I always cry but we make up everytime."

Chicklet wondered what could be so bad about working in a hotel that she would need to start fights with him about it. His mother would have been extatic had his father found employment in a nice hotel like this one. His mother would have been very happy if he had bothered to find employment of any sort.

"Now tell me," she began, "what are you going to say to you uncle?"

"I will say I am sorry for throwing something at him. And I will try to be more patient with him. I know he is not well."

"You tell him I said he needs to be more patient with you. I think he forgets you are still a little boy."

Had someone else called him that, Chicklet would have been offended, but it was clear that the comment was not a dig. "I was just doing what I thought would help him," Chicklet said, dejectedly.

"I'm sure you were, dear child. Why don't you go back up there now? He's had time to cool off. I'm sure he will be in a better mood now," the woman said with a smile.

"Go outside and play, boy," the manager commanded. Chicklet hadn't even noticed him come up behind them.

"Rico, it is too late for a boy to go out and play in a strange city," the woman chided.

"Out!" the man barked with an angry, dismissive flick of his hand. His hotel issue shirt sleeve had raised just enough for the red, barbed wire tattoo on his left wrist to show.
Chicklet noticed the fear in the woman's face now. Something was not right here.

"Okay," Chicklet said as he slowly rose from his chair. "Thank you very much for the sandwich," he said sincerely to the woman. He had enjoyed their talk very much until now. Despite her earlier warmth, she now merely nodded slightly and kept looking down at her lap.

Chicklet headed for the front doors and walked out into the night.

*****

Sands was half asleep when the phone began to ring. Reaching for the phone his hands quickly found the receiver on the night table beside his glasses.

"Yeah," he half mumbled into the phone. All he heard was a click then a dial tone.

That was never a good sign.

His still lingering pain and stiffness now totally forgotten, Sands quickly rolled out of bed, taking his gun with him. Within about 5 seconds he had his bag in one hand, gunin the other, and was about to head out the door. He leaned against the doorframe, his ear positioned between the jam and the heavy wooden door. A slight wisp of air made it's way through the small space.

There was no sound coming from the hallway.

A click from across the room made Sands whirl around instantly. He stood absolutely still, muscles totally tense. His legs were apart in a stable stance, his left heel against the edge of the door. Gun raised in a two handed grip, Sands stopped breathing, silent and focused totally on any sounds coming from across the room. He though the windows must be on that side. Did the hotel have a fire escape? He thought he remembered one from his previous stay but now he wasn't sure. He heard another noise and it was a whole lot louder than the small creak. There was most definitely a fire escape and there were people coming up it in a big hurry.

Sands wanted to walk across the room but knew there was no point - he wouldn't be able to see what was out there. He wouldn't even be able to see any furniture in his way and in his exhaustion, he still hadn't familiarized himself with the layout. From his current position he could monitor both entrances of the room. Standing right at the doorjam, he could hear noise from the hallway. His boot heel against the door edge would feel any attempts to open the door. A person could shoot through the wall, there was that risk, but since he was near the door way there was likely to be more structural supports, more materials between him and any bullets than further down the wall. If someone knocked the door down he wouldn't be smooshed and could pull back his foot. He would have preffered to take cover behind some furniture but without knowing his surroundings this seemed to be the best alternative. He couldn't have covered both entrances from (where he though) the bathroom was.

Turning his head slightly, Sands still heard nothing from the hallway, no tell tale ding of the elevator doors, no thumping of footsteps. The clatter on the fire escape was another story. Whatever goons were on there sounded more like a pack of wild elephants than a group of assassins.

Realization dawned on Sands and he listened more carefully. Now that he really focus on it he noticed that there was only one set of feet plowing up the metal staircase. It was the banging of the rickety metal against the side of the building that accounted for most of the clatter. There was also a softer "thunk thunk thunking" sound that was naggingly familiar. Despite the person's speed, they were dragging their hands against the rails.

If this was an assassin he was one sloppy, hurried son of a bitch.

After listening to the silent hallway for another check, Sands turned his attention to the wall that led to the outside and the fire escape. The window was closed but the racket of a person charging up the fire escape came through loud and clear. Sands did not lower his weapon, nor did he relax his focus.

The clatter grew louder and then abruptly stopped. There was a wrapping against the glass pane.

"Senior!" he heard a muffled voice shout thought the closed window. "Don't shoot me!"

Not wanting to step away from the door to the hallway, Sands nodded exaduratedly so the boy would see then motioned with his gun for him to come inside. There was a scrpaing sound then he heard the window open carrying in the sounds of the night city outside and a child awkwardly climbing/falling inside.

"Senior! I think something is wrong!"

"You don't say," Sands drawled as he raised a finger to his lips to quiet the boy's overly loud voice.

Hurrying to Sand's side, Chicklet stage whispered, "I think that man who gave you the money, I think he is trying to kill you!"

Half listening to the boy, and half monitoring the hallway sounds through the door, Sands asked, "Why'd you think that?"

"I was in the lobby and he kept looking at me funny and he was on the phone."

"Uh huh," Sands said, trying to decide his next move.

"And he kept telling me to get out."

"Uh huh," Sands said again, this time less impressed. Maybe the boy just got spooked. But with the hang up phone call? Probably too much coincidence. "Anything else?"
"Umm," the boy thought. Suddenly it clicked. "He had a tattoo of red spikes on his wrist!"

"Around his left wrist?" Sands asked.

"Yes! That's the Combrono gang, isn't it?"

"You got it kiddo. And those guys … not my biggest fans. That bell hop fucker must have tipped them off," Sands concluded, mind moving a mile a minute. That bell hop fucker must have tipped them off," Sands concluded, mind moving a mile a minute. The Combronos were notoriously vicious but not particularly well organized. They were also not well funded and tended to rely more on brute force and knives over guns and planning. In order for them to inflict damage, they generally needed to be close to an enemy and have a clear line of sight. Thought they would probably attack in two groups (one at each entrance to the room) they were unlikely to have radios to keep in contact with each other.

That was more generallys, probablys, and unlikelies than Sands was comfortable with.

He heard noise in the hall. It was coming from the far end of the hallway but the sound of muffled footsteps still made it's way through the door to Sand's ears.

Remembering the sound of the boy falling through the window, Sands guessed it's height from the floor. "When I tell you I want you to go sit under the window facing this way. If you hear any noise from outside I want you to wave your hand like this." When he went to demonstrate, Sands was more tempted to use his waving hand to smack himself upside the head.

‘Okay. That's just not going to work now is it, you blind fucktard?'

Yeah, on second thought, scratch your hand on the carpet like this." Sands demonstrated, his nails raking harshly against the burbur making a soft scraping sound. It wasn't a loud noise but the nub of the carpet made a distinctive sound as it was disturbed. He'd noticed earlier when he'd been dragging his feet a bit though he hadn't really thought about it until now.

"If it's getting loud and they're close to just bang against the floor," Sands said, thumping the heel of his hand against the floor. It was no louder than footsteps and wouldn't likely raise too much suspicion if heard. "And stay the fuck down so I don't have to try not to shoot you. Now go!" he whispered sharply, standing back up.

He heard the child skuttle across the room then stop. He hoped the boy knew enough to stay down. Leaning back against the doorframe, Sands put his ear to the crack. The foot steps were heavy but cautious. Idily, Sands wondered if there was much furniture or outcroppings in the hallway that could have served as cover, if perhaps the men were moving slowly because they expected him to pop up at a moments from behind a divider.

Sands heard the "scretch scretch" sound from across the room.
They were approaching the room from both sides.

Sands barely breathed as he listened to the men in the hallway closing in. Dimly, he recognized that Chicklet's frantic scratching had since turned into thumping on the carpeted floor. The boy was banging his hand with considerably more force than Sands had shown him and it did indeed sound very much like footsteps.

The men in the hallway had finally arrived just outside the door. Sands heard no voices but he did feel the tell tale slight jiggle of someone trying the handle. The card key locks prevented the handle from moving but the door shifted fractionally just the same. The tiny friction against his boot heel was just the feeling he was waiting for and Sands swiftly and silently moved a half dozen steps along the wall.

Feeling with his bare hand, he was pleased to feel cool tile beneath it. He was at the entrance to the bathroom, it was right where he thought it would be. Carefully tucking himself around the corner, Sands waited. He could still hear Chicklet's frantic banging on the floor, the muffled thumping sound. He could just make out the creaking sounds of what sounded like a couple of men cautiously coming up the fire escape.

Sands listened to the three sounds, the child's hand hitting the floor, the men outside the building, and the enemies just on the otherside of the door. He slowly put his gun just around the corner. There was no need to peek, his gun hand alone was all that was exposed.

The sound of a key card sliding into the lock on the door and the beep of unlocking that followed (‘bastard hotel fucker!') helped Sands aim.

The door flew open, banding against the inside wall. Sands fired three silenced rounds in rapid succession. He heard a body hit the ground.

Chicklet crouched in terror, no longer keeping up his job of warning Sands of the men on the fire escape. They sounded like they were still at least a floor below, though they were moving faster now. Chicklet had bigger concerns though. His eyes widened as the door burst open, the force so strong it hit the wall with a loud bang. The large man who came swiftly through the door staggered to the side and slumped down as bullets impacted with his neck and chest. Chicklet saw Sand's gun poking out from the bathroom, now still.

A moment after the first man's body hit the ground another came charging in. Suddenly in the doorway was a man with a delicate but deadly throwing knife raising his arm, aim focused on the boy. Chicklet nearly forgot the sound of the men just outside the window as he gasped, seeing the glinting knife about to leave it's owner's hand.

Sand's fired again, having refocused his aim. He struck the second man in the shoulder, then as the man fell, the second bullet imbedded itself in his chest.
Sands heard Chicklet shriek. He stepped out of his hiding spot and fired the rest of his clip into the space just above where the terrified scream had issued.

Though neither could have seen from their vantage point, Sands bullet had struck the man armed with the knives in the shoulder just as he was about to let go. It caused his throw to go wildly off target. It did not hit its intended victim, but instead imbedded itself in the left eye of the man crawling through the window. When the body fell onto Chickelt he screamed, and Sands fired at the fallen man, ripping holes into his upper back. He also hit the guy behind the impailed man sending his startled enemy over the side of the fire escape.

Sands stood totally still. The only thing he could hear from across the room was the rattling, squelching sound of someone trying to breath through blood.

"Chick!" he called, hoping the boy hadn't been hit.

There was no response.

***********

Not stepping forward, but still turning his head to change the angle, hoping to get a clearer sound, Sands strained to pick up anything other than the death rattle coming from across the room. The terribly laboured breathing hitched then there was a tell tale thump as the body fell fully onto the floor from where it had been half hanging from the window. Sands raised his weapon, not sure what was happening.

Chicklet pushed and shoved at the dying man above him. He was imprisoned by the mass of flesh as the man's limp torso pinned him against the wall and pushed him against the floor. With a mighty heave he pushed the dying body away enough to crawl out from underneath.

"Sands!" he cried as he stumbled across the room.

Sands lowered his gun. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder's when the child nearly crashed into him. He held the child at arms length as one would to look someone over.
"Are you hit?" he asked quickly.

"No, no you got them," Chicklet said, looking quickly back and forward at the bodies on either sides of the room.

"Is anyone still alive?" Sands asked. Though he had heard the death rattle from across the room stop, he wasn't about to talk any chances. If one of the men were injured, but holding still, they could still be at risk.

"No, they are all dead," the boy informed him. Chicklet's tone sounded strange as he remarked, "There is a lot of blood."
"We gotta get out of here sat, Kiddo. Grab the bags it's time to skedaddle," Sands said as he reloaded his gun.

Carefully they left the room, Sands taking the boy's offered hand without comment as they stepped over the bodies.

Sands easily decided on the stairs down. For a brief moment he almost considered the elevator as stairs were absolutely a nightmare for him with the still healing wounds in his legs. He quickly decided against the elevator for obvious security reasons and was very thankful to discover that given the excitement of the situation and the mild painkillers he felt almost no pain on going down the stairs. He was still somewhat stiff, but it only slowed him down a touch. At every floor he paused, waiting for someone to come barreling out the door but it didn't happen. Soon they were on the street and moving quickly.

"Find us an alley," Sands instructed, close on the boy's heels.

After a few moments, Chicklet led him down a deserted alley. They both leaned against the dirty wall and caught their breath.

Thinking about the boy's earlier words, Sands asked, "Is there blood on you?"

Looking down at his shirt, Chicklet confirmed that there was indeed blood on him. In truth, there was a lot of blood on him, though thankfully not his own. It was all over his bright yellow shirt in a spray of red. His left shoulder was also soaked and stuck to his skin.

"My shirt is covered in blood," he said.

Sands did not like the sound of the kid's voice on bit. Either he was very, very blasé about blood and being nearly killed, or he was quite possibly going into shock.

"Okay, Chick, here's what I need you to do. Take off that shirt and leave it here. Change into a clean one, got it?"

The boy did as he was told, swallowing thickly as he pulled the soaked fabric away from where it clung to his skin. He went to grab another one from his bag only to find that in his haste he had grabbed only Sands bag. His own was left in the hotel room.

"I forgot my bag. I don't have a shirt," the boy said sounding far too upset for the current problem.

"Just grab one of mine. You did grab MY bag didn't you?" Sands asked. There were several guns he was very attached to in that bag and he would probably have to risk going back for them had the boy forgotten his bag. Of course if he had to go back there and deal with who knows how many pissed off gang members then he might be temped to turn said guns on a forgetful boy once they were returned to him posession…
"I have your bag," the boy said, thrusting it at Sands. He fumbled around insode and pulled out a tee shirt then handed it to the boy. Sands hoped that it wasn't a very attention getting one.

Once he heard the boy pulling it on Sands asked, "Is there any blood on me?"

"No," Chicklet said, looking at Sands in the near darkness. He had seen the man well enough in the hotel to notice that, unlike himself, Sands didn't look like he had just survived a gory horror film. "Your clothes are black, if there is any blood I can't see it."

"Good. Now, we need to get a taxi and get the fuck out of Dodge."

***********

Paying the taxi driver a considerable amount over his regular fare, Sands arranged their ride to the next town. It was not really that far away, but it was far enough away to keep them safe from retribution for the night. He was glad it was only a disorganized gang he had run afowl of or there was no way they could have stopped for the night so close by. As it was, they were going to have to leave first thing in the morning.

Sands and Chicklet stopped by a restaurant that was just closing up for the night and bought some take out dinner then checked into a much less fancy hotel for the night. The owner was slightly offended at the rather large number of strange questions from his late arriving guests. After convincing them that he ran and owned his small hotel, hated both gangs and the cartels and, for reasons unknown to him, showed both his wrists to them (though only the boy seemed to pay attention, his creepy uncle still wearing sun glasses well into the night) he finally sold them a room. He was just happy to get the two out of his office so he could go back to watching tv.

As they ate, Sands questioned Chicklet.

"So, how do you know about the Combrono gang? I didn't think they had made it as far as your town."

"My brother's friend, he told us about them. His cousin was with them. He visited once and showed us his tattoo."

"Ah. So, uh, what were you doing in the lobby talking to the desk guy?"

"I wasn't talking to him," Chicklet said defensively. "I was talking to his wife. She made me a sandwich and told me not to be upset."

Sands recalled their earlier argument. He was not familiar with how to go about smoothing things over with a child. He really didn't think he feel sorry about what he'd said earlier that had apparently bothered the boy so much he'd needed to find a fake mommy to cry about it to. He didn't really give a shit because the boy was here with him and he'd returned to warn Sands just like he was supposed to.
‘But the boy's "feeling" might have been hurt or something. Gotta fix that, can't have him running off all the time. Damned inconvenient. Okay, how to fix this? How to make him trust and feel important?'

"You did a good job picking up on his tattoo and figuring it out. You have to always be aware like that, always notice when someone is acting strangely, especially when they look at you while they're on the phone. Stupidest thing and a dead give away but people still do it without realizing it." Setting down his fork and lifting the bag from the floor to toss to Chicklet, Sands asked, "Now, are there any pill is there for me to take? Aren't you supposed to remind me to take those antibiotics twice a day?"

Chickelt caught the bag (it just barely missed landing in his food but he didn't mention it to Sands). He smiled as he dug out the pills. Sands wasn't mad at him. Sands wasn't going to be angry over the doctor's pills. Sands was happy with his recognition of the gang tattoo and attention to details.

It was enough to make him forget all the blood he'd seen splattered on the walls and covering his shirt earlier.

************

As it turned out, whether Sands was happy with him or seemingly frustrated enough to hold him at gun point, Chicklet still remembered what he's seen in the hotle room. Really, it wasn't the worst thing the boy had ever witnessed. The problem was, it reminded him of what he;d be trying to intently to block out of his mind.

After he'd taken Sands to the doctor's on the Day of the Dead, and been reassured several times by the distracted physician that the patient was not going to wake for some time, Chicklet had left to find his family. The town had still been in chaos to a degree, but now things had settled some. Or perhaps the fighting had simply moved to the other side of the city – Chicklet wasn't sure. Whatever the reason, he'd been able to navigate his way to his family's home.

It wasn't a place in which he spent all that much time really. He had always preferred to be outdoors and had first been in school and later had to take on jobs to help support his family. Though he'd spent most of his time peddling chewing gum over the last year, this was still the place he returned every night for supper. His family was not perfect and he knew it, but then Chicklet had never known anyone with a perfect family so he felt no real jealousy or concern in particular, he simply accepted his families shortcomings without comment.

When the fighting in the streets had broken out he had thought of his family, especially his older brother who was likely to be out of the house as was he, but after running into Sands he had nearly forgotten them. No, forgotten wasn't exactly it … more like realized that it was unlikely they would accept his help and even more unlikely they needed it. He may have been a contributer of money but he was still a child in his parents and siblings eyes and even if he'd raced across town amidst gunfire and revolt, he would be more likely to receive harsh words on the foolishness of traveling rather than holing up during the chaos. Besides, he had Sands to help right there.

But after the fighting had lessened Chicklet was eager to check in with his family. His parents did not worry after him normally but, given the circumstances, even his mother was quite possibly worrying about him. Chicklet was eternally frustrated with the way his family expected that he go out and earn money like an adult yet when it comes down to decisions of importance, they still treated him as a child.

It was with his customary mixed feelings of love and confusion that he had yanked open the front door to his home. His announcement of his safety died on his lips before it was ever shouted. In one moment he knew he would never again feel angry about being treated like a child by his parents, never argue with his brother, never laugh with his sisters.

He'd backed away, closed the door and never returned.

*********

Now carrying a slightly heavier bag, Sands and Chicklet boarded another bus. Chicklet led the way to seats at the back without being told, hands thumping against the seat backs whenever they were empty. There were more passengers on this bus than the one the previous day.
"Are we going to play the guessing game again?" the boy asked Sands.

Pushing the loose hair away from his face in a tired gesture, Sands said, "Yeah, but not yet. Need to do some thinking." He tipped his head back against the head rest and considered his decidedly shitting plan as he felt the bus lurching to a start.

Going around and picking up all his stashed money was going to be a real pain in the ass. There were no two ways about it though, it had to be done. But it wasn't like he wanted to carry around stacks of cash in his bag. That just wasn't smart or feasible in the amounts they'd accumulate within a couple more stops. No, he was going to have to open a bank account. But which bank? Overseas was a great long term possibility but for the moment it would take more organization and connections than was available to him. CIA might (and really, most likely would) be monitering bank transactions. Probably nobpdy would pick up on his deposits if they were done slowly and spread around. He'd be traveling anyway so it wasn't like he'd have to make a large deposit. But if someone WAS paying attention and picked up on the pattern, used it to track him, maybe even predict his movements around the country… It did sort of give him the heebee jeebees. Then again, nobody had ever been aware of his creation of all this off these books money stashes in the first place.

How to do this? It wasn't the long term that scared him, though that was mainly because he refused to give in and consider the fact that he really didn't have a plan that went beyond getting all his money together and holing up somewhere. What worried him for the moment was how to stash away the cash in a more readily accessible place than physically spread out all over the country without having to do a lot of arranging. Yeah, a bank was definitely the best bet for then moment. If only he could figure a way to keep it under possible CIA radar. It wasn't like they were watching the security cameras of EVERY bank in Mexico but Sands wasn't overly keen on marching into the Banco D'Athletico and plopping a sack of cash onto the counter either.

It pissed him off to no end that his brain had most definitely been fucked up with the removal of his eyes. Simply planning was somewhat difficult now and he hoped like all fuck that the reason for that had more to do with exhaustion and lingering physical injuries, than with some kind of real organic brain damage.

He sighed and slumped down in his seat a bit, not even keeping up the pretense of being a sighted person "enjoying" the view out the window. He gave in for once and let his mind wander a bit into the normally restricted topic of his unseeing future and very dark present.

He stayed like that, deep in somewhat disorganized thought until the sounds of Chicklet rustling around in his bag pulled him back to the moment.

"What're you doing?" he asked the boy.

"Sorry. I was bored. I though maybe…" Chicklet felt like he'd been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, though Sand's had seemed to be fine with his using the bag before. It was half true, he was bored but he hadn't really been searching for something to entertain himself with in the bag. He;d been making sure he didn't forget to pack any of Sand's pills or bandages when they'd left the hotel early that morning. Seeing all the supplies safe and sound (along with several stacks of cash, some clothing and a whole bunch of assorted guns) had made him again thankful he'd moved them from his own bag to Sand's one the day before. If he;d left the stuff behind, he;d have had to return to the hotel room of blood and death to retrieve them. He'd sworn to the doctor (and more importantly, to himself) that'd he'd look after Sands for as long as the man needed him and if that had entailed going abck to that awful room to get the pills and bandages then he;d have done it. He'd go back there for Sands but there was nobody else he'd be willing to return to that room for.

Seeing all the bodies and blood had reminded him very vividly of finding his family. True, yesterday it had been bad guys lying in pools of drying blood, but it still made his own barely repressed memories of his parents and siblings come crashing down on him. Chicklet barely remembered leaving the hotel, running down the streets, getting a taxi. At the time his mind had been much too full of images of bodies torn and full of holes, of his own mother's outstretched hand covered in blood and seeming to be reaching for her missing son.

He had come very close to getting lost in his head last night. But he knew Sands needed him and in the taxi, somewhere on the journey between towns, he'd left his bad memories. Chicklet wondered just how long it would be before they caught up with him like a man with a gun, waiting to catch him by surprise and cripple him.

"Bored?" Sands voice interrupted his unwanted thoughts. "Well I'm not exactly running a guided tour here." Sands gestured towards the window. And, despite his last words, in a voice that was not loud but had the distinct inflection of a tour guide or narrarator he said, "On your left, ladies and gentlemen, you will see a big cactus. Note its distinct similarity to the male genetalia. You will also see and a very large expanse of absolutely fuck all. There's plenty of dust to go around, folks. If you look directly down, you will see the amazing swirls of the grainy stuff as kicked up by our vehicle. Now look quickly, cause it's goes by fast. Those of you with good eyes might even catch a glimpse of an occasional carcass of bones, or small half dead tree. And on our right you will also see a poop load of nothing save the occasional … you guessed it, cactus. If you look closely, folks, you will notice that this particular cactus closely resembles a popular style of sex toy that several of you pathetic fuckwads no doubt make us of on a regular basis."

Chicklet giggled all through Sands speech. He took the funny tone to mean that the man was not serious and it was alright to laugh at him, that he wouldn't find a gun barrel pressed against his nose.

With his voice returned back to its normal, almost too smooth tone, Sands remarked, "Of course my accuracy may well be crap. I guess that's another job I won't be qualified for. A shame, all those years at tour guide school gone right down the pisser.
Recognizing the more serious turn, Chicklet stopped his giggling. Taking a risk, he said, "You were right though, that's pretty much what it looks like," though he did not mention that Sands had made no mention of the bright blue sky, nor of the deep, rich browns and gold tones of the earth. He thought for the first time that perhaps you nolonger know colour when you can no longer see it.

"Easy guess," Sands dismissed. In truth though, he felt just a little bit better than he had while mentally moping about his situation just a few minutes ago.

******************
Enter The

******

Two lone figures walked along the dusty highway, the harsh midday sun beating down on them. The first was a man, tall yet not overly so, his movements suggested balance and agility as well as a fair amount of strength. He didn't look exactly menacing, yet there was an air about him that suggested the wise stay well back lest they tempt him to strike, like a disturbed snake. The guitar case in his hand bobbed slightly in a consistant rythum with his even steps. His pants and jacket were dark despite the fine layer of dust that clung to them. His expression was one of grim determination.

Just last night El had been comfortably relaxing back into a pattern of retirement. He'd returned to the tiny guitar town recently and was settling back into his sedated life of simplicity and security. As he switched his heavy guitar case to his other hand and wiped the sleeve of his mariachi jacket across his sweaty face, El wondered why he'd left so soon. Well he knew WHY he'd left, just wasn't sure why he'd been so quick to jump at the offer to get away from his calm, predictable existence after just getting back to it.

************

Yesterday evening he'd gone to a friend's house on the edge of town. Rico and his family had been taking care of El's dog while he'd been away. El had stopped at the edge of their drive, leaning against an old sign post. He'd seen the kids in the yard running and playing with his dog, squealing and romping around in the last of the sun's rays. He couldn't tell who's smile was bigger, the children's of the dog's as the group fell in an exhausted heap, apparently ready to end their disorganized game of tag.

Rico's wife, Elda, had called the children in and the group quickly got up to head inside the house.

"Domino!" El had called out as his dog had been slowly following the kids. The dog whipped her head around and look comically startled to see El there. She'd run to his at near break neck speed. El kneeled down and let her crash into him, knocking them both over. He laughed as she stepped on his chest and licked him on the face. He sat up and hugged her, felt her wiggle excitedly against him.

"The fearsome El Mariachi. Something tells me if they saw you like this, the masses would no longer believe the legends so easily," Rico said, coming up to El and Domino.

El gave Rico a rueful look as he stood up. Domino promply sat on his foot and grinned up at him, mouth wide open, her long tongue lolling out.

"They'll never know though will they," El said in more of a statement than a question.

Rico gave him a nod before the two headed up to the house.

"She's missed you terribly you know," Rico said, gesturing to the dog who was all but glued to the side of El's leg.

"Seemed to be having a good time when I came."

"She does like the kids. Loves to play with them. Elda likes her too now. Feels safer when I'm out at market with her around."

They made their way up to the long porch that ran along the front of the old home. As soon as the men had taken a seat Domino promptly curled up at El's feet and fell instantly asleep, exhausted from all the playing.

"Does Tino not stay with her anymore?" El asked. Tino was Nico and Elda's eldest son. El knew the boy usually stayed with his mother to assist her.

"No, no he doesn't," Rico said, a very unhappy look on his face. The man rubbed a hand back and forward along his jaw, his brow wrinkled in concern. With a sigh, Rico continued, "Tino left. He said he was going to Puerto Viarta to work."

"You did not agree with this?" El asked, already knowing the answer.

"I did not. But the boy, ah, El. He used to be so good, so caring. He looked after Elda so faithfully after the accident. But now…" Rico shook his head and stood, walking a few paces and staring out at the darkness.

El remembered the boy. He'd seemed very responsible and sincere. He'd been a great help to his parents after Elda was injured when their pickup had been in an accident. El had liked the boy, and had been something of an uncle to him, to all Rico's children really, but he'd been closest to Tino. El had regarded him as the son he himself was never destined to have.

"What has happened, Nico?" El asked, fearing the answer.

"I have not heard from him in months. I fear he is dead. Elda is just worried sick about him, she cried every night for her boy."

"He has not written you?" El asked. This just didn't sound like the responsible young man he'd known.

"He did, at first. Then the last time, in the last letter we got he was saying how he'd found a way to make lots of money."

"Carrying drugs," El finished, shaking his head.

"I don't think so, no," Rico said. "In fact he said it was any business with the cartels. But there was something, just reading between the lines…"

"What?"

"I… I think maybe he was, oh god," Rico paused, hand covering his face. "I think he was selling his body.

"I see," El said. For all his compassion, Tino was a rather gullible boy. Picturing the child in the city, without a way to support himself, too stubborn to go home empty handed, El could easily envision him being drawn into the wrong life by skillful liars.

Clearing his throat and standing, El said, "I will bring him home to you, Rico."

"No, I wouldn't ask you to do that," Rico said.

"You cannot go, you need to stay here and support your family," El stated, Rico nodded sadly. "I can go, he will come with me."
"Maybe I'm wrong, maybe he's fine…"

"If he is then I will remind him to write his parents more often. If he is not … I will find him for you. I promise you this."

"I don't know how to thank you," Rico said, a look of gratitude on his face.

"You watched over Domino for me, it is I who owe you," El said with a smile.

Rico didn't believe the two favors were at all equal but he refrained from saying so.

Getting up, El said, "I will drop her off again in the morning, early before I leave."

"Take her with you, she's missed you. It would break her heart if you were to leave her again so soon."

El was about to contradict the man when he looked down to see Domino leaning against leg, looking up at him. "Alright, you can come along this time," he said to the dog. She got up and wiggled against him earning a pat on the head.

"Don't worry, Rico. I WILL find him," El said as he shook hands with his friend before he and Domino headed back to town for the night.

***************

And so the next morning El and Domino had left for the city. El knew he could look a little intimidating at times, especially when he had a determined look on his face. He remember far too vividly how Carolina had warned him he could look "meaner than a rattlesnake" when he was set on doing something. As it was now El couldn't tell whether it was he or Domino who was scaring off their potential rides as he attempted to hitchhike.

Domino was not a beautiful dog. She may once have been a more attractive canine but for as long as El had known her, she had been best described as intimidating (because dog ugly was too harsh a description). Domino was a blue and beige brindle pit bull mix. She was large, probably weighing in at around 85 pounds, mostly muscle. Her head was massive and when she grinned, the open mouth was wide enough for El to fit both fists inside. He rows of broken and ragged teeth would quickly put one off the idea of trying that though.

El had rescued the dog when he'd found her near death after being on the losing end of a vicious dog fight. The scars still adorned her body, both from bites and tears of other dog's teeth and from the terrible beatings she had clearly suffered at the hands of humans. Her face was cross crossed with white lined scars and her ears had been so closely cropped she had little more than stubs left. Her tail was about half a normal length.

So no, she was, at first glance, not a very attractive looking dog.
El glanced down at the dog walking beside him. She looked up and caught his eye, nudging the side of his leg affectionately as she kept walking. Looking over the scars on her back, El though he would probably look rather similar without his clothes on. He had not lived a very easy life ever since being thrust into his role of gunslinging mariachi and he too bore the scars of his adventures. El thought it was a good thing at least one of them got to cover their scars with clothing, though at the moment it was so hot he almost wished he was the one who could go without.

But then they would DEFINITELY not get a ride.

After unsuccessfully signaling another car for a lift, El said to Domino, "If only they could see you with playing Rico's kids."

Domino shot him a look which he could swear meant, "Hey buddy, what makes you think it ME they're afraid of?"

El switched the heavy case back to his other hand and sighed.

It was going to be a very long walk.

************

Sands and Chicklet spent more than a week traveling around collecting stashes of money. In that time Sands had healed some though it was still maddeningly slow and of course the most serious of his injuries would never really heal. He was however, finding moving around to be a bit easier, was learning ways to help keep from catching corners with his hip or shoulder and dealing better with uneven grounds.

Chicklet was enjoying his new role as bank depositor. He liked taking the large (to him anyway) sums of money and going into banks with his story about how he was doing his uncle's errands for him as the man was sick today. Sands waited outside, or at their hotel explaining he didn't want to be on so many security cameras. Chicklet didn't really know exactly what it was that made Sands so uneasy and paranoid often but he accepted any strange requests made of him. He was also becoming much more aware of who was around him at any given time, especially when he was away from Sands.

During one of his trips to the bank, Chicklet was nearly mugged. Chicklet had made sure he was walking near a friendly looking tourist couple when he left the hotel. He'd learned long ago that there were some visitors to his country who would as soon kick him into the gutter as talk to him yet there were others who would be quick to a young local boy. Selling gum on the streets had taught him this type of sizing up people long ago. Best bet was any woman who appeared to have children, or have had them in the past but wasn't too old.

Chicklet had waited out front the hotel for just the right people to follow. He did not trust the police at all but the tourists he was following looked like parents for sure. While following them down the crowded streets he'd even noticed a small gold charm on the lady's necklace that said "Mom" – the type a child might give to their mom on mother's day.

He'd been walking down the street towards the bank when a clearly doped up man had tried to yank him into the alley. One yelp and the couple had turned right around. The husband was quite large and as he moved to see what was the commotion was Chicklet's attacker let go of the boy's arm and took off, unwilling to risk an altercation with the beefy man.

Chicklet bent down and pretended to have mearly stubbed his toe and the couple turned and walked on, satisfied nothing was wrong. Chicklet stood up, clutched his bag of money closer to his chest and walked just a little farther away from the buildings and alleyway entrances. He kept the tourists in sight until he made it safely to the bank.

When he returned to Sands later that afternoon he decided not to mention what had happened, afraid Sands would blame him or point out his stupidity. But Sands had seemed to know something was wrong from the moment he entered the room. Unable to skirt the relentless and often tricky questions, Chicklet had finally fessed up to what had happened. To his surprise Sands did not blame him and seemed pleased by the way the situation had been handled. Sands had even complimented him on his good choice of people to use as unwitting protection before going back to bed.

That worried Chicklet a lot. He could tell that Sands was healing, for it was still the boy who changed the bulk of the bandages. Yet the man seemed more exhausted than ever. Sands walked less stiffly but he was still clearly pained by midday and was barely even awake by evening. Chicklet was beginning to wonder if maybe they shouldn't just stay in one place for a week or two so Sands could rest, rather than racing around the country. Chicklet wasn't sure just how much money there now was (mainly because it was not all in one account and Sands held the passbook information) but surely it was enough for them to hole up for awhile.

On the bus the next day he'd suggested they stay at one hotel for a little while. Sands had seemed suspicious when he suggested it though. Chicklet wondered if the man could possibly think he would betray him now. It hurt his feelings a bit to think it might be so. Remembering what Sands had said about people always having a reason for the things they did, even if they didn't always know what it was, he explained that he wanted to go to the beach and stay there for a little while, that he wanted to go swim in the ocean and watch all the tourists.

Sands had agreed. The boy's request made sense, especially since he was dog tired of moving around so much. The busses still made him feel sick and apparently healing on the go was more difficult than he'd thought. He could use a week or so off and their next destination was a large tourist trap city anyway.

"Alright, Chick. Let's take a little vacation. What the hell," he said, feeling the rough bus ride and looking forward from a break of the relentless traveling. Most of the money had already been gathered. It wasn't a lot, nowhere near what he'd had ferreted away in the States. There was the overseas money but unfortunetly, he doubted that would be accessable as it had long since been discovered by his employers, actually just prior to his arrival in Mexico. And that little discovery had been the first in a series of really bad luck incidences culminating in the Day of the Dead mess.

But hey, he had enough money now ammased that he could within 6 months make enough to live (or hide) in comfort for several years. Figuring how to turn the money into a bundle was what he'd have to do over the next week or so. But he'd done it before and he would do it again.

He listened as Chicklet tried to read aloud form the only book they had with them, a biography of Judy Garland. The boy butchered the sentences in his broken English but at least Sands would get to hear the rest of it, for he surely was never going to finish reading it.

The boy's spoken English was, thankfully, coming along very quickly. Comprehension was never really a problem since the boy understood the language reasonably well already, though he had never really spoken more than a few phrases and words. At each hotel Sands would tell the boy to find something English to watch on the tv. Most nights Sands ended up dosing to old repeats of Friends on the tv, the laugh track irritating but not enough so to bother telling the boy to turn it down.

It was on one of these nights when he'd been half asleep, the noise of the tv droning in the background, that things began to change for Sands. What set the kid off he was never really sure but he heard an irritatingly familiar snorking and gasping sound a little too close to where he was. The kid knew enough not to touch him unannounced but it didn't stop him from invading personal space (something Sands had become more sensitive to since the day of the dead) when he wanted something.

"What is it, kid?" Sands asked, sounding bored though it was probably more the constant exhaustion that caused the dull tone.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Chicklet asked timidly. The moment the words left his mouth he regretted asking.

"What?!? Fuck no!" Sands responded automatically. He pushed himself from the almost laying position, to sit back against the wooden headboard. "What would make you ask a thing like that?"

"It's just that I, *sniffle* I can't sleep some nights. I feel alone. I miss my family."

Sands sat silently, listening to the boy intently. He'd actually been surprised this hadn't happened sooner. Through Chicklet had not gone into much detail at the time, Sands had assumed the boy had witnessed something pretty grizzly. He was long overdue to want to talk about it. Sands just wasn't sure he had the energy to do so right now.

"I used to share a bed with my old brother. I used to get so mad because he'd kick me in his sleep. I begged my father to make another bunk for me but he said there wasn't room and he didn't have the money. *sniffle* I miss them so much," Chicklet said before he started really sobbing.

Sands felt the bed dip as the child plopped down on it, sitting beside him. Sands sighed, natural instincts warring with training. His internal argument was violent but brief and in the end he found himself with an armload of sobbing Chicklet.

It was the first and only night the boy shared his bed.

It was also the first night since finding his family with their brains blown across the livingroom that Chicklet really slept soundly. The boy hadn't been able to tell Sands everything he'd wanted to say but he did feel much better than before.

Sands got absolutely no sleep at all. It wasn't that the boy was restless, indeed the body next to him never moved nor made a peep. Instead Sands was kept very much awake but the strange questions that kept running rampant through his mind. What the hell had happened to him that he was willing to let some kid (albeit a somewhat traumatized one) sleep in his bed? For crying out loud, he was a man who had shot cooks over the quality of meals! He'd shot people without a second thought, and most times it had nothing to do with kill or be killed. What was wrong with him and was he all the more a monster for in a way feeling more comfortable with the kid beside him even now?

*************************

The next day Sands had gotten out of bed before Chicklet woke and they'd said nothing about the sleeping arrangements of the previous night. Chicklet had convinced Sands to go to the market with him and there the rather odd purchase had been made.

Late that afternoon Sands had been sitting out on the veranda. By all appearances he was a dark clothed, somewhat pale tourist gazing out across the beach at the ocean from behind dark sun glasses. Yet if an observer got closer, they might notice that on his lap rested a small box, its hinged lid open, burgundy velvet lining protecting its contents. Sands ran his finger tips over the glass eyes, the smooth surface errily cool in the warmth of the day. He thought again about trying to put them in, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the thought of touching his eye holes. It was ridiculous, part of him thought. Wasn't like he hadn't had eye holes before – it was just that in the past they were nice and full of functioning, if a bit too intense, real eyes. He had yet to even clean the damned things, still having the boy do it each morning. Chicklet had told him several days ago that they no longer bled when cleaned and that the last of the scabbing was coming off. Sands hadn't had the nerve to ask how they looked, how HE looked now.

He continued gently brushing his fingers over the glass eyes, angry that he didn't have to nerve to try them.

On the beach gulls flew and swooped around, searching for any food left behind by messy tourists. A few young children still splashed around in the surf. A small group of American teens were still slowly packing up their belongings, already late for the all you can drink bars (or so they said loudly enough for Sands to hear them). Though he was lost in thought over many things Sands was, in a way, enjoying the "view". It didn't take too much effort to imagine some of the scene before him, the beach, the ocean, the birds and tourists. The funny thing was he could not seem to conjure up an image of the sky at dusk. No matter how hard he tried the picture in his he was incomplete, the sun set just refused to join the rest of the images in his mental picture.

Envisioning the sunset was much safer than trying to sort through all the deeper, darker thoughts that rolled around in his mind. Fingers still tracing the glass orbs in the box, Sands continued to try to picture the sky well past the time the sun actually set and the beach was finally emptied of the rest of its guests.

*******************

Chicklet had been acutely aware that Sands was in a funk all day. He'd neively thought a trip to the market might shake the man from his mood but the boy realized now that that had been a bad idea. He'd left Sands alone after they returned to their current rooms.

Chicklet looked out through the large window at Sands, still sitting on the veranda. Even from inside, he could see the tension in Sands posture, his shoulders hunched, brow furrowed, despite the slouch. He wondered if perhaps this "vacation" time of theirs was a mistake.

Chicklet had been enjoying staying in one city until something reminded him of his family. He couldn't remember just what it was that had set it off, but something had bought it all back to him and he might just have been bursting through the door of his family home as sitting in front of the tv in their hotel room. He'd been mostly successful in pushing thoughts of his family out of his mind until then.

Watching the only person he had left in the world, obviously in a terrible mood, Chicklet regretted having troubled Sands the night before.

****************

Sands had been feeling restless by evening so he decided they would go out for dinner. He'd become increasingly more short tempered and irritable as the day had progressed. He left his usual firearms at the hotel, opting to carry only his spare, smaller conceled gun. Now, walking along the street, Sands could feel the small pistol chafing against his sensitive areas and regretted the decision. As it turned out, dinner had not been good enough to worry about anyway, not that he'd been indulging in that past time lately anyway.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you think you might want to be a bit more careful!" Sands snapped at Chicklet when his toe caught on part of the uneven sidewalk. Part of him knew it was his own fault more than that of the boy's, but the bigger part didn't care and lashed out immediately without thought. Sands hated nearly tripping, especially in public.
"Sorry," Chicklet said for what seemed like the millionth time that evening. To him it seemed like Sands was almost looking for things to blame him for. It was beyond frustrating for the boy and the change in Sands' behaviour over the course of the day was continuing to unnerve him.

Thinking aloud, Chicklet said, "You're as fast to get mad as that day you stopped taking the pills." Chicklet stopped in his tracks, causing Sands to nearly trip over him. "Wait, that's it!" He thought, maybe Sands wasn't angry with him about bothering him the night before, about sleeping in the man's bed. "You need more of those pills, those purple ones for the infection."

"Those are just fucking antibiotics you little moron, you keep telling me the doctor insisted on them until they were finished and that was this morning…" Sands trailed off. It wasn't like a lack of antibiotics would account for his change of mood like a lack of mind fluffing pain killers would unless…

Sands spun around and grabbed Chicklet by the throat. He had the boy pinned against an alley wall before the boy even knew what hit him. It was hard to breathe as Sands' forearm pushed brutally hard against his throat.

He squirmed and whimpered but the pressure didn't lessen. This was a million times more terrifying than the time he'd nearly been mugged just a few days ago by a stranger. As he pulled and clawed desperately at the arm that entrapped him, Chicklet couldn't believe this was the same man he'd traveled around with, who he'd lived with, who let him share his bed the just the night before.

Soon all rational thoughts were gone from his head and Chicklet just pulled and kicked and gasped as hard as he could. Finally he went still, his mind bouncing around to seemingly random memories and thoughts, finally stopping at one very vivid one of being a child and watching an orange cat toying with a mouse, stopping its attack only when the mouse played dead. Of course each time the mouse had moved the cat had resumed its deadly game. He'd been only 6 at the time and his brother had brought him to watch. He'd been so amazed he hadn't even thought to stop the cat until long after the mouse was dead. He'd felt badly about it for a week afterward.

Feeling the child finally stop struggling, Sands leaned forward, intimidatingly close. //What colour were those so called antibiotics my little traitor,// he hissed in his coldest and most controlled tone.

Allowing the child just enough air to wheeze out an answer, his suspicions were confirmed when Chicklet again said they were purple. Sands shook his head slowly, back and forward, a snear on his face. Chicklet didn't dare move a muscle.

Sands had had enough experience over the years with a wide variety of mood altering pharmaceuticles that it suddenly was very clear to him what had been happening. He had long since given up the use of any sort of anti psychotic, tranqualizers, etc. in favour of relying on his tenuious self control. He did though, clearly remember that when he look mood enhancers, they invariably made him a lot less edgy and whenever he when off them (always at the extreme protest of whatever doctor or psychiatrist he was dealing with at the time) he seemed to be more irritable then any other time.

The feel of the pills had always seemed somewhat familiar to his ever more sensitive fingers. Couple that with the colour and the feeling…

"You stupid little shit. How fucking dare you screw with my head!" he snarled out, his thumb digging deeper into the soft flesh beneath it. The frightened, pained whine of the child went unnoticed by his ears.

His tone still deathly soft, Sands continued, "Should never have believed your little act boy. Always against me-"

"No, no, please!" Chicklet managed to squeak out. He wasn't sure why Sands seemed to think he'd betrayed him but the boy wasn't about to die like this over a misunderstanding.

"Please what you little fuck?" Sands asked, his tone almost singsong. Part of him was aware that he was marching straight off the deep end here and that if he stepped back he'd probably find a better explaination. He knew this wasn't rational but something that had been building inside him for weeks was begging to be unleashed. He'd tramped down on a lot of darker impulses and the two unnecessary holes in his head still cried out into his brain for revenge. Without anything to keep down his dangerous tendencies, the need to lash out had been barely controlled during the course of the day, and, to some degree, the past few weeks.

Feeling Sands lean closer against him, pinning him with his body against the rough brick wall, Chicklet fully understood that Sands was not really the person he'd thought he'd been traveling with. Struggling to draw breath, he wished for not the first time that he'd been killed with his family on the day of the dead. Sands was not the only on in that alley to feel deeply betrayed.

Though terrified and young, the child's thoughts were far more rational that that of Sands. The swirling mess of confusion, and anger and weeks of inability to do anything to restore the severely skewed balance had come to a head for Sands.
Totally focused on the shaking, small body pinned against the wall and himself, Sands spoke, "I trusted you, child. I don't trust people. That's their mistake, not mine. Their weakness. You've made a fool of me, fucked with my head. Oooooh Chick. Hell, I even let you sleep in my bed."

Sands tsked and shook his head as he reached for him concealed gun, slowly unzipping his fly.

*****************

El had expected many things when he arrived in the city. He was warry of anyone who walked the same street as him, who seemed to be following him. He was on edge, feeling like he could be recognized at any moment. He was waiting for someone to start trouble with him for it always seemed to find him whether he was to seek it out or not. He was expecting at any moment his guitar case would be rightly make him suspect. So, basically, he was feeling the same sense of dread he'd come to feel whenever he arrived in a new town or city. He did not find trouble everywhere he went but the odds of it finding him, especially in a city this size, were pretty high.

El expected something would happen, possibly the very night he arrived in the city. What he did not expect was to be hit squarely in the chest and stomach by a child running at top speed, a look of terror on his face. El had not been expecting the boy to plow right into him as he came around a corner.

With reflexes honed by years of necessity, El grabbed the boy by the shoulders.

"What is going on?" he asked the gasping and shaking boy.

The child started talking too quickly, tripping over his own words, gesturing at the far end of the alley he'd run from as though the very hounds of hell were at his feet. El was about to tell the boy to stay where he was while he when to check it out when the child looked at him fully for the first time. The panic in his face receeded as he focused on the man before him.

"Mariachi, you must come quickly! They are going to kill him!" he shouted, grabbing El by the arm and pulling him as hard as he could back down the alleyway. El followed but ducked back around the side of a dumpster. He could hear the yells of men at the end of the alley, their shouts echoing badly in the space despite the amount of cardboard and trash that littered the relatively narrow space.

El popped open his case removing two guns and hitting the safety off before they had even cleared the side of the red velvet lined interior. He glanced at the boy's expression of wide eyed awe as he slammed shut the lid.

El peered around the edge of the dumpster they were crouched behind. He quickly realized that there was little need for such caution as the men were so engrossed in their task they would likely not have noticed him had he simply walked right up behind them in the first place. Watching the circle of loudly cursing men, El asked the boy, "Who are they beating?"

"He is my uncle. You have to stop them or they will kill him!" The flash of uncertainty that crossed the child's face was not lost on El and though he doubted the honesty of the answer, he could not ignore the sincerity of the child's plea.

"Stay here," he commanded, looking the boy right in the eyes. There was a sort of familiarity there but El had noticed that since the death of his daughter, there were many children who caused that sort of feeling within him. It was a look in their eyes, perhaps it was the confusion and fear that was burned into his memory along with the blood soaking into the dusty ground as his small family of three died.

Old memories stirred up El stood up and quickly approached the group of men. They were in a semi circle, five in total. Four cheered on as the fifth kicked a body on the ground that was curled up and shifting with the force of each kick.

Though Chicklet did not regret getting help for Sands, he could not watch and turned his face to the dumpster as El quickly and efficiently disabled the men. The boy cringed as he listened to the cries of pain and crack of gun shots. When all was silent for a few moments he dared to look. Surprisingly, there were no bodies, though Chicklet did see one man hobbling as ran off. He could see Sands laying on the ground, not moving. El had one of the men, the one who had started it all, on his knees, a gun pointed at his forehead.

"You will meet me in that bar in 2 hours and explain this," El instructed. "If you do not, I will hunt you down. Do you believe me?"

The man on his knees nodded very enthusiastically. El motioned with his gun and the man scrambled at get away, tripping in the process.

Chicklet hurried over to Sands, their earlier altercation nearly forgotten. He touched the fallen man's shoulder and was rewarded with a weak moan.

"I don't know what to do for him," Chicklet creid out, looking up at El. Despite the past weeks of helping Sands, Chicklet suddenly felt very young and clueless.

Hearing the desperation the boy's voice, El reached down to pull the boy's "uncle" into a sitting position against the wall.

"Mi Dios!" El exclaimed softly as he took in and instantly recognized the beaten man. "We need to get him inside now," he told the boy.

***********

It took some time to get back to the rented rooms on the beach but somehow they managed. Sands was barely conscious throughout and though he had an arm slung over the shoulder of each of his companions, the going was slow. Chicklet's height, El's guitar case and Sands inability to put one foot in front of the other were all certainly contributing factors. Domino brought up the rear, growling deeply at anyone who stared at the group for too long.

Once inside the rooms, El dumped Sands onto the bed, eliciting a soft grunt of pain from the bleeding and bruised man. El did not like the way Sands immediately curled up into a ball, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle. The action hinted at possible injuries more severe than those readily visible. How the man's sun glasses had managed to stay on and intact was a mystery to El.

El pushed aside Sand's dirty and blood matted hair. Sands had been hit a number of times. There were several cuts on his face and a larger one just at his hairline that was still seeping blood. His right ear was covered in blood and El was not surprised to find a bloody lump just above there as well.
El shook his head and sighed. When he went to remove the black glasses a small, cold hand grabbed his wrist.

"Don't," the boy warned him. El was confused by the boy's insistence but he did as he was asked.

"Help me get his jacket off," El said. Together they got the bloody shirt and torn jacket off Sands. El gave Chicklet a list of things he needed to help Sands and was somewhat surprised when the boy returned with most of them almost instantly. He sent the boy to the receptiondesk to get a few more medical supplies he really didn't need. El did not particularly want an audience and he sort of doubted Sands did either.

Truthfully, El hadn't really considered what had become of the CIA agent after the day of the dead. This was certainly not what he would have guessed though. And how could it be that this man was linked to the boy in the yellow shirt?

Cleaning the blood from the pale skin of the unconscious man beneath him, El wondered aloud, "How can one man raise so many questions?"

" ‘s my God givn' talent," Sands slurred. He'd been almost able to turn out the pain and the world for a few minutes when he'd felt someone rubbing a warm, wet cloth against his pained skin. He might have been able to ignore the not entirely unpleasant sensation (indeed, it was the only feeling that was not fully classifiable as painful at the moment) had it not been for the soft humming and then voice that was naggingly familiar. "And will you knock off the humming already. It's like a broken jukebox from hell inside my head as it is."

"Well I suppose we're all cursed with one talent or another," El said quietly as he continued to wipe up the drying blood, his free hand unconsciously flexing to alleviate the frequent cramping it was eternally afflicted by.

***********

El walked down the street toward a bar he'd passed on the way into the city. It was one of the few not aimed at tourists but was not run down enough to ensure totally seedy clientel.

El was alone having instructed Domino to stay with Sands and the boy. Having her head scratched by the child while being told to guard the two, Domino had not looked like she was about to go anywhere.

El opened the door and quickly spotted the man he spoken with earlier. The guy was quite average looking, a few years younger than El from the looks of it, and not especially well off. That he'd shown up at all was many several in his favour as far as El was concerned.

Passing by a few seated patrons (and thankfully appearing to draw no special attention), El made his way to the small table at the back.
A waitress brought the seated man a beer and took El's order at the same time.

"You told me the man in the alley deserved it, that they all do. You said you could convince me of this. Were these just the words of a man with a gun to his head or do you really have something to tell me?" El asked. He usually would simply take a seat and let the other man do all the talking but tonight had been a strange night and El found himself more inclined to just get things moving quickly.

"You're not from around here are you?" the man asked. El indicated this was correct. "You know what happens in this city now? You have heard the rumours?"

"I have not," El said, though he suddenly had a sneaking suspicion what was going on.

"They come here…" the man stopped as the waitress dropped off El's drink. When he began again his voice was not loud enough to carry but had enough frustration and anger that El had no doubt in the man's words. "Fucking filthy rich gringos. They screw with your children! That's what. Some kind of sick tourist attraction, that's what they've made it into." El made a noncommittal sound for the man to continue. "I'm not a violent man, you know. I just couldn't see another of those bastards hurting one of our kids. You shouldn't have stopped me. God only knows what he's doing to that boy."

"You and your friends have made it so that I'm sure nothing is happening now. I doubt it was as you think though." El wasn't under the illusion that Sands was a good man but, if nothing else, he very much doubted the agent would do something stupid like go after a child in public. "Sands is not always what he appears," he added, remembering how the man had fooled him in the past.

"I know we shouldn't have ganged up on him. We are just so tired of seeing this happen and nobody stop it. If I see that man again going after-"

"If he was truly doing what you thought I will take care of him for you," El said his dark meaning clear. "However, perhaps he is here for another reason. Maybe the US Government has sent him here for the same reason I came, the same reason you cannot sit back anymore."

"If you are here to help we will not stop you. As for him-"

"He is United Stated CIA. His government may have sent him here to stop this," El reasoned. He wasn't too clear on exactly what the CIA's roll in Mexico was but considering the last thing Sands had been arranging he thought this was no less likely.

"I pray you are right and this in only a misunderstanding."

"If it is not, you have my word that I will put an end to him," El said, meaning it. He would need to speak with Sands when the man was more coherent. In the meantime he planned to get as much information as he could. "I'm here looking for a boy I believe may have been a victim of this thing that is happening here. Maybe you have seen him. I want to tell you about him and then we will talk about what is happening here."

Seeing that someone who had both the ability and desire to address his concerns, the man began to fill El in on exactly what activities had begun to occur in his city.

unfinished

Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairings: Sands/El (eventually)
Rating: R
Summary: While on the mend, Sands takes a trip to the market and makes an interesting purchase.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Robert Rodriguez and Sony Pictures. No money made, no harm done.
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