Sands could see.

He sat at the back of the room, feet up on the empty chair beside him. He was dressed in what could pass as normal clothing today, no cowboy garb or cheesy T-shirt. It was a rare thing. Today he observed his teacher standing at the head of the class, waving his hands in exaggerated gestures as he talked. His name was Professor Jonathan Saunders, and of all Sands’ teachers, he was the best. He was an older man, with shortly cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a deep voice. He was quite a bit taller than Sands’, with a thicker build, and adopted a confident stance at the head of the class.

In his day, he was probably quite an officer. It was the way the teacher spoke, the way he looked directly into your eyes when he taught, that had drawn Sands to this conclusion. That, and the fact that said professor was always full of little tidbits of handy tradecraft. This was the one of the few classes where Sands actually took notes.

Today Professor Saunders was talking about how to quickly disable an enemy in a conflict.

Good stuff.

"… and that’s that. You’ve got him, end of story." He wrapped up, concluding the second technique taught for the day. "The next technique I’d like to talk about is one of the most important, so please get out your notebooks if you haven’t already."

Professor Saunders went over to his desk, trading his blue dry marker for a red one. Walking over to the whiteboard he began writing on it while speaking. "If you knock out an opponent’s sight quickly, they are vulnerable and the rest is easy. Go for the eyes with mace, pepper spray, your fingers, a knife; hell, even stuff you might be drinking could work. Anything you can think of that’s in immediate reach could be used. Remember; don’t ever waste time. If your life is threatened in the field there is only one rule, and that is to survive."

The professor stepped away from the board. Although his explanation had been a paragraph, what he wrote on the board was short, simple and to the point.

The words on the stark whiteboard burned into Sands’ eyes and etched their way into a corner of his brain. The words written in red marker on the whiteboard suddenly looked like they were dripping. It was as if they were written in blood.

As he listened wide-eyed as the professor continued his lecture, the room suddenly began to spin. His surroundings seemed to grow darker, and he felt as if he was going to pass out.

The classroom around him was changing. Suddenly Sands wasn’t sitting any more; he was lying on his back, feet and hands tied. The professor’s face morphed and twisted, and suddenly it wasn’t Jonathan Saunders anymore. No, now he was looking at Ajedrez’s face in uncomfortably close proximity. He wanted to scream, to thrash angrily at his bonds, but he found it within him to stay calm. No, he wouldn’t give them all the pleasure of seeing his discomfort.

Did he just say that out loud?

The sound of a drill, becoming louder as it came closer. Evil deep within those eyes moving towards him, evil that liked to torture, evil that corrupted a soul far more than even he could imagine.

A flicker of silver as it caught the light.

Pain.

The room disappeared.

Sands screamed in pain, the sound so harsh that it was as silent as death. It held an agony so intense that if sound had actually passed Sands’ lips it would have been inhuman, but the scream echoed in his mind so loudly that it didn’t need to emerge from his mouth, which simply opened in a silent scream.

"Officer, officer? It’s all right. It’s just a dream." A musical, feminine voice entered Sands’ thoughts and he realized then that he was moaning out loud. He stopped and took a shaky breath.

"Are you OK? That must have been some nightmare you were having," the nurse said sympathetically.

"No, it wasn’t a nightmare. It was a memory."

She was silent for a moment as he slowed his breathing. "I’m sorry."

Sands wanted to be upset by the sympathy, and was preparing to snap back with some angry retort or other, but he stopped himself before the thought made it to his lips.

Sands shoulders slumped in defeat. He was tired, angry, frustrated and, as his dream had so humbly reminded him, feeling extremely vulnerable.

"I originally came in here to tell you that you have a visitor Officer Sands." She continued, sensing how he was feeling. "Would you like me to send him in now?"

‘Do I have a choice?’ Sands thought, but he only asked curiously "Who is it?"

"An Officer Eric Cameron."

"Uh sure, it’s fine with me."

A couple of minutes later he heard the door open and Cam’s familiar voice echoed around the room, "Howdy. Thought I’d just drop by and see how you were doing."

Sands moved his head towards the voice and asked, "And why would you want to do that?"

"Hell if I know."

"I suppose I owe you my undying gratitude for coming to my rescue, but I’m not going to give it. Why don’t you fuck off? Then we’d both be much happier." He was being an asshole, and he knew it. Still, he knew of no other way to deal with Cam.

However, Cameron wasn’t going to bite. He had known Sands long enough to expect such a reaction. Cameron went on as if Sands hadn’t said anything at all. "I brought you something."

Sands’ eyebrows shot up. "Hmm, knowing the way we used to get on at the Farm I guess I better ask if it’s pointy, sharp or filled with bullets."

Cam chuckled and set a medium-sized cardboard box on top of Sands’ lap. "None of the above. Call it a get-well gift of sorts. It’s not wrapped or anything, hope you don’t mind."

Sands’ mouth hung open slightly for a moment at a loss for words, before he shut it firmly and shook his head slightly as he found his voice again.

"Well I don’t know if I can accept it now. Unwrapping it is all of the fun."

Sands reached down and poked the box hesitantly, like someone would poke a wounded or dead animal with a stick.

He moved over the box with his hands before he grabbed hold of it, moving it right up against his ear.

"Well, I don’t hear any ticking…" He shook it, but only heard a dull thud as the object shifted from side to side in the box before he continued sarcastically. "Oh gee, I hope it’s not fragile."

Cam smiled at Sands’ little show. He could see that Sands was unsure, suspicious and very wary… it was all written on his brow as he tried to cover it up by shaking the box around and acting like a kid with his first Christmas present. "It’s not fragile, no."

Sands plopped the box back on his lap, then absentmindedly fingered one of the top flaps, considering his plan of action. This had been most unexpected.

Making his decision, Sands opened one flap and then the other, his hands tentatively reaching down into the box and feeling inside for a moment, before resurfacing with an unidentified object from the simple brown box.

Cameron smiled, and took the box back out of Sands’ way. He’d had the idea about a week ago and since then had tried to work up the courage to give it to him. He stood by silently, watching Sands’ confused face as he tried to figure out just what he was holding.

Sands’ brow furrowed in confusion. He still wasn’t used to not being able to see, and it took some concentration to figure out what he was holding. It was oblong in shape, with a deep hole on one side and a…

Somewhat unwillingly, a sly smile crept across Sands’ lips. He turned the object over in his hands slowly, feeling out all its edges, and then set it on his head. He was feeling better already.

It was a cowboy hat.

He didn’t know exactly what it looked like, but it didn’t matter. The shape was unmistakable.

He was still Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was still the CIA Cowboy and he was still alive.

He’d be damned if he let anyone take that away from him now. It was all he had left.