Post by CIA Agente Arenas on Jul 3, 2008 23:34:36 GMT -5
Title: Welcome Back
Fandom: OUATIM
Rating: PG. Surprising, wouldn't you say?
Summary: Best when read while listening to "Adventures in Solitude" by The New Pornographers.
We thought we lost you
We thought we lost you
We thought we lost you
Welcome back.
"We knew you’d see things our way."
"Welcome back, Agent Sands."
"You’ve made the right choice."
"We thought we lost you."
Hot air spikes through his chest—he barely draws breath of the stale air barely circulated by the ceiling fan. Hair hangs damply around his neck, sweat drips off the ends, lands on his skin. It’s hot—too hot, too stuffy, suffocating—and they’ve forced his hand, given him a pen, trapped him in a cage, begging him to sign on the dotted line.
"Welcome back."
He doesn’t say no, can’t say no because they’ll close the trap and trap him and he can’t have that. Sweaty skin prickles at the idea. Can’t have that at all. It’s more than keeping the balance; it’s keeping control, sanity, cool, calm, sane, alert, smart, alive. Especially alive.
"What do you know about Mexico, Agent?"
Not that it matters. They don’t care what he knows. It’s never mattered. What does is how they use him. A gun doesn’t need to know the life history of the person it’s going to kill. Point, aim, fire. Don’t think. When thinking’s involved, so is humanity. If humanity is eliminated, control is held. Control, control, control.
Sweat trickles down his back, stains his white cotton shirt. He breathes deeply, just. Swallows. Keeps his mind empty for traps, flaws, anything that will gum up the firing mechanism.
"Do you understand?"
He does understand. His safety’s off. Point, aim, bang bang.
Time stops. The ceiling fan swings whisper-quiet. He holds his breath. Eternity passes.
Sweat’s still oozing wetly, making his skin clammy, even as his lips dry out from the shallow breath of air into and out of his mouth. His tongue swells with dehydration. Swallows. Breathes deeply. Counts the beads of moisture rolling off his shoulders.
Control. Control, control, snap. Gone, fluttering in the breeze, like the ends of the bandage bandanna around his head. Drugs slither and squirm out of his system: he’s numb, empty, cold, dark, weak, sad, inadequate, dead.
Especially dead.
"We thought we lost you. Welcome back." Doctors with half-hearted smiles he can hear in their thick Spanish. Days, hours, minutes, seconds later, it’s more of the same; "you almost died, señor," this and "you’re so lucky," that. He licks his lips, lost in time, another casualty of war.
"Sheldon, we thought we’d lost you. God it’s good to see you again, boy."
"However…"
"However, things won’t be the same. You can understand that, can’t you, son?"
Funny thing is, he does understand. His collar’s off; he’s shooed out of the cage with a hearty "get the hell off our property."
He breathes again--full, healthy, clean breaths. He’s never been more alive.
Fandom: OUATIM
Rating: PG. Surprising, wouldn't you say?
Summary: Best when read while listening to "Adventures in Solitude" by The New Pornographers.
We thought we lost you
We thought we lost you
We thought we lost you
Welcome back.
"We knew you’d see things our way."
"Welcome back, Agent Sands."
"You’ve made the right choice."
"We thought we lost you."
Hot air spikes through his chest—he barely draws breath of the stale air barely circulated by the ceiling fan. Hair hangs damply around his neck, sweat drips off the ends, lands on his skin. It’s hot—too hot, too stuffy, suffocating—and they’ve forced his hand, given him a pen, trapped him in a cage, begging him to sign on the dotted line.
"Welcome back."
He doesn’t say no, can’t say no because they’ll close the trap and trap him and he can’t have that. Sweaty skin prickles at the idea. Can’t have that at all. It’s more than keeping the balance; it’s keeping control, sanity, cool, calm, sane, alert, smart, alive. Especially alive.
"What do you know about Mexico, Agent?"
Not that it matters. They don’t care what he knows. It’s never mattered. What does is how they use him. A gun doesn’t need to know the life history of the person it’s going to kill. Point, aim, fire. Don’t think. When thinking’s involved, so is humanity. If humanity is eliminated, control is held. Control, control, control.
Sweat trickles down his back, stains his white cotton shirt. He breathes deeply, just. Swallows. Keeps his mind empty for traps, flaws, anything that will gum up the firing mechanism.
"Do you understand?"
He does understand. His safety’s off. Point, aim, bang bang.
Time stops. The ceiling fan swings whisper-quiet. He holds his breath. Eternity passes.
Sweat’s still oozing wetly, making his skin clammy, even as his lips dry out from the shallow breath of air into and out of his mouth. His tongue swells with dehydration. Swallows. Breathes deeply. Counts the beads of moisture rolling off his shoulders.
Control. Control, control, snap. Gone, fluttering in the breeze, like the ends of the bandage bandanna around his head. Drugs slither and squirm out of his system: he’s numb, empty, cold, dark, weak, sad, inadequate, dead.
Especially dead.
"We thought we lost you. Welcome back." Doctors with half-hearted smiles he can hear in their thick Spanish. Days, hours, minutes, seconds later, it’s more of the same; "you almost died, señor," this and "you’re so lucky," that. He licks his lips, lost in time, another casualty of war.
"Sheldon, we thought we’d lost you. God it’s good to see you again, boy."
"However…"
"However, things won’t be the same. You can understand that, can’t you, son?"
Funny thing is, he does understand. His collar’s off; he’s shooed out of the cage with a hearty "get the hell off our property."
He breathes again--full, healthy, clean breaths. He’s never been more alive.
