“You’re a lousy host,” Sands said, shaking his head in dismay. “Didn’t anyone tell you that threatening your guests with paralysis is rude?” He turned to Ava. “I hope he’s treating you better, Sugar.”

“He’s an asshole,” she quickly replied.

Martin ignored the barbs sent his way. Judging from the creak of Martin’s chair, Sands guessed that he was leaning forward. “Answer something for me. What does it take to make you angry?” Martin asked, slight curiosity lacing his tone. “I set you up, I betrayed you… I had your eyes ripped out! What the hell does it take?” Martin demanded, his voice steadily rising in aggravation.

“I can’t get angry with a crazy person. I can only accept that you’re a nut-job and tolerate you as best I can,” Sands said smoothly, pushing away the hair that had fallen in front of his face. “What? Am I not following the script you wrote?” Sands asked, arching an eyebrow. “I have to warn you, I’m at my best when I improvise.”

“I fucking ruined your career! Doesn’t that piss you off?”

The door opened, and someone stepped inside the room. Martin grunted as he hefted himself out of his chair and went over to the person.

Sands heard a woman’s whisper, though it was pitched so low that even his heightened hearing could only just pick up what was being said. “I got the tape,” she said quietly.

“Good.” There was a rustle of clothing, and the woman left.

Sands sighed, wondering what new ammunition Martin had just received. “You ruined my career? News to me. My old job is still waiting for me back in Virginia.”

“Even if you wanted to go back to that job, and I know that you don’t, you’re going to have a hard time going to work everyday when you’re committed.”

“There’s no hospital, mental or otherwise, that I can’t get out of,” Sands said, pointing at Martin. “I could be your therapist; if I’d chosen that side of the profession. Luckily for everyone, I didn’t. Do you know why I didn’t, Chief?”

“Because you’d be more messed up than your patients?”

“No. Because I like screwing with the mind more than I like fixing it.” Sands smirked. “That’s counter-productive for a shrink… although I could make a shit-load of money that way.” Sands chuckled as he thought about it, propping his feet on the table. “Actually, that could be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. I’d make megabucks with a racket like that.”

“You can’t take me seriously, can you?” Martin asked, clearly tiring of their banter, and growing increasingly irritated by Sands’ flippancy. “Do you know how screwed you are?”

“Do you?” Sands countered. “Don’t confuse indifference with incomprehension.” He paused, tipping his chair back and balancing it precariously on two legs. “You seem to be at a loss. I’m disappointed. You thought I’d be a total wreck by now. You counted on it. That was a big mistake.”

“Give me time,” Martin said, and Sands heard him walk around the table, coming to stand in front of him. “You’re tougher than I thought you were. But I’m not through with you yet.”

“Are you going to rough me up?”

“I did some digging into your history.”

Sands took a drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose. “Hope you had a big shovel.”

“How many departments have you gone through since joining the Company?” Martin chuckled. “Three? Four? You’ve worked as an interrogations officer, a psychologist, an assassin, a handler… I think that must be a record.”

“News flash: I don’t play well with others. Even so, your numbers are wrong.”

The rickety table groaned in protest as Martin sat down on it. “Stop the act.” Martin tapped Sands’ shin with the toe of his boot. “Don’t you remember who you are anymore?”

Sands spread his arms wide. “No need. I am whoever I need to be at any given time. It’s very efficient that way.”

“You want to know what the really sad thing is? No one will miss you. That’s how I’ll get away with committing you. No one will fight to get you out. No one cares.”

Sands forced the ring of truth in Martin’s words from his mind. “I’m not so sure about that. I’ve already missed this month’s rent. I’m pretty sure my landlord cares.”

Martin laughed and dug into his pocket. “That’s pathetic.”

“Sticks and stones. You really don’t have time for all this gabbing. Is it tea hour? Do we need to spend an allotted amount of time passing around mindless scuttlebutt like some bored housewives? I was under the impression that you were after my twenty million pesos.”

“Triggers,” Martin said, seemingly apropos of nothing, completely ignoring Sands’ last statement.

The word caused an uneasy feeling to stir in Sands’ gut, and he hesitated a moment as he pushed the unsettled sensation aside. “Careful. A change of topic like that can give you whiplash,” he drawled, hiding his growing discomfort by taking another puff of his cigarette.

“Like I couldn’t put it all together. You experimented with mind control, didn’t you?”

Sands raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The government doesn’t condone or participate in human experimentation; mind control included.”

“That’s a wonderful line of government bullshit you just recited. What about MK-Ultra?” Martin asked.

Sands almost smirked. He wouldn’t have believed his line of bullshit either, but Martin certainly wasn’t worthy of the truth. “MK-Ultra didn’t exist. However, it makes a nice bedtime story for the kids at the Farm.” Sands tapped his index finger against his cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the floor. “MK-Ultra was supposedly implemented in the fifties? Do I look that old?”

“I’m not talking about the original MK-Ultra. In the mid-nineties you were one of the top psychologists working on a very similar project, weren’t you?” Martin stood, and began pacing in a small circle around Sands’ chair.

“Maybe I should make a recording for you.” Sands paused. He lifted his feet off the table and let them drop back to the ground. His next words were pronounced slowly, as if talking to a child. “The government doesn’t participate in human…”

“That’s what happened to Cecelia Sands, isn’t it?” Martin interrupted.

Sands’ froze in mid-motion, cigarette halfway to his lips. He wasn’t sure what’d hit him harder; hearing her name out loud, or how close to the truth Martin actually was. He stuck the cigarette between his lips. Realizing how tightly his hand was clutching the lighter, he tucked it back into his pocket, forcing a laugh. “What are you implying, exactly? I not only fucked with her head, but I actually got paid to do it?”

“Yeah.”

‘So close to the truth, and yet so wrong.’ Sands rolled his stiff neck, and it cracked with an audible pop. He hurt all over, and the pain was growing by the minute. Aware that it would make his story more believable, he exhaled slowly, and a part of his emotionless mask seemed to leave with the air in his lungs.

“You want to know what I did when I worked for PsyOps at their Virginia base? Propaganda. Wartime propaganda. Do you know what I found out?” He heard Martin snort in disbelief, but continued after taking another puff of his cigarette. “If I gave a guy the correct information for seven days, he’d believe the incorrect information on the eighth day .” Sands smiled tightly, not intimidated by Martin’s vulture-like circling. “Creating bullshit is my gig, and that’s why I’m so freaking good at it. No bullshit.”

“You’re the best.” Martin stopped his pacing, standing in front of Sands again. “I know you’re lying. I have proof.”

“Oh… I never lie,” Sands said, somehow managing to keep a straight face while he said it.

Martin laughed. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“The jury is still out on that. I haven’t decided if you’re a fool, an idiot or a moron.” Sands heard a click, like the sound of a button being pressed, and knew he was right when he heard the static of a tape recording fill the room.

An unfamiliar man began speaking with a New England accent, and a tone of voice that suggested he’d practiced the art of indifference all his life.

Shrink. Sands barely managed to keep himself from squirming nervously in his chair, something he rarely, if ever, felt compelled to do. ‘Please, no.’

“…now, I want you to tell me about your husband,” the shrink said.

‘No. No. No…’ Sands’ mind chanted, not able to accept the voice he knew was coming.

A woman’s voice spoke next, sounding tired and small. “He’s made out of paper; one side’s a picture, the other side’s a blank.”

‘Oh, God. Cecelia.’ A feeling of nausea swept over him, and he fought the urge to snatch at the recorder; he wanted to scream, demand that Martin stop this… to completely pummel the sick bastard right where he stood.

But he didn’t do any of those things. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it was exactly what Martin expected. Instead, he bit the inside of his mouth; the pain and taste of blood a small distraction from the voices, which were threatening to strip away his carefully crafted mask of indifference.

“I am the mask you wear,” Sands said under his breath, flicking the ash off his burned down cigarette, as the doctor on the tape asked Cecelia to explain herself.

“He’s not real,” Cecelia said in a hushed tone, as if confiding a state secret… and in a strange way, she was. “We were strangers that lived in a cardboard house. But I tore it down,” she said, her voice faltering. “I tore down our house! Why did I tear down our house?”

Sands felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him. His hands trembled as he fought to forget, and he quickly moved to take another drag of his cigarette, in hopes of covering up his growing anxiety. “What is this? A stroll down memory lane? Stop this. Get on with it.”

Martin didn’t say anything, damn it, knowing that the silence would bother him.

“Why did you set your house on fire?” the doctor asked calmly, as if he were asking why she didn’t tie her shoe that morning.

“He said I changed, but I didn’t. He was the one who changed! That’s why he had to be burned and turned to ash. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t real anymore; he was a copy.”

Sands throat involuntarily constricted. ‘Goddamn it. Pull yourself together.’ The recording was a brutal reminder that he’d never once gone to visit her after she’d been committed; not even a phone call to the shrink to check up on how she was doing. He kept telling himself that he didn’t care. Why should he visit her when she clearly wasn’t the woman he used to know? He didn’t regret it; he had to move on with his life, and he did.

‘So why the hell does she continue to haunt me?’

“You didn’t burn him, Cecelia,” the doctor corrected her, after a brief pause.

Sands swallowed thickly, head lowered as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Even now, it was hard for him to listen to her like this.

“Yes I did!” she screamed suddenly; her voice so loud that it made the recording pop.

Sands jolted in his chair, surprised by her sudden outburst. That hadn’t even sounded like the woman he remembered from five years ago.

The door to the room opened again, a reminder that they were still at the CIA base, and a man with a thick Texan accent asked, “Can I speak with you for a sec, boss?”

Martin hit the stop button on the recorder, cutting off the doctor’s next question. “Not now,” he said, clearly unhappy about the man’s interruption.

“Uh… this really ain’t somethin’ you can put a hold on,” the Texan said.

Sands assumed that Martin made some sort of gesture to the man, because the door shut quickly. “You’re as white as a sheet,” Martin commented, turning his attention back to Sands. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Sands ground his teeth as he reigned in his anger, but said nothing as Martin left. He was trying to determine whether or not there was any possibility of turning this situation to his advantage. He took one last pull on his cigarette before slowly grinding it out on the table with a forced calm.

“Sands?”

He turned towards Ava’s voice. She’d been so quiet, he’d almost forgotten that she was in the room.

He wearily massaged the back of his neck in a futile attempt to rub away the tension that hearing Cecelia’s voice had brought on. “Yeah?”

“You OK?” she asked hesitantly.

“Peachy.” Sands draped an arm over the back of his chair. It was difficult for him to tell how Ava was taking all this; her voice sounded calm, all things considered, but that could be misleading. She was in this as deep as he was now. There was no way Martin was going to let her live with all this information. “Life’s not all tequila and skittles. Sometimes you have to take the nuts, too.”

She started towards him, stopping a few feet away, as if afraid he would bite. “What are we going to do?”

Motioning her closer with a crook of his finger, he waited until she stood next to him before answering. “This room has eyes and ears. Thula. Ingonyama ilele.” He waved his hand in dismissal, and silence settled in the room as she took the hint. Deciding to enjoy it while it lasted, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew what Martin’s urgent business was about. Taking a drag, he wondered how long it would take Martin to figure out where he’d gone so wrong.

About a minute later, the door burst open, quickly accompanied by Martin’s angry voice. “What did you do?”

Sands only answer was a sly smile as he took another puff of his fresh cigarette.

“Tell me, or you won’t be walking again.”

Sands face sobered quickly, and he shook his head. “Cecelia… that wasn’t my doing,” he said, pretending that they were still on that subject. He knew damn well that wasn’t what Martin was referring to, but he decided to play ignorant for as long as possible. It would tick Martin off. “Even if there was a mind control program, and I’m not saying there was, but if there was… why would I offer my wife as a test subject? The fact is, she…”

“I’m not talking about that,” Martin cut in, his fist slamming down on the table in frustration. “Who did you tell?”

Sands furrowed his brow in confusion. He hesitated before answering, pretending to think over Martin’s question. Finally, he shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He paused, his eyebrow’s creeping up slowly. “Oh… did you just get your ‘you’ve been screwed’ notification call? Those really blow.”

‘Damn, I should have been an actor.’

Martin went over to Ava, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her towards the door. Opening it, he told someone standing on the other side to, ‘take care of her’ before slamming it shut.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said, in a tone that Sands hadn’t heard from him before; warning mixed with insane glee.

“Your sadism is showing. So, are you going to talk me to death, or do this right?” Sands flicked his cigarette at Martin, aiming as best he could. There was no telling if he’d hit his target or not. “Nevertheless, I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I bet there are plenty of people on this base who do, though.”

Unable to sit still any longer, Sands stood up slowly, trying to minimize the inevitable head rush as he did so. He went over to Martin, stopping beside him. “Who can you trust, Officer?” he asked quietly.

Martin shoved him back, but he easily caught his balance and laughed. “Surround yourself with traitors, and eventually you’ll be betrayed.”

“I wasn’t. You did this!”

Turning his back on Martin, Sands retraced his steps back to the chair. “I’d love to take the credit for this. I really would.” Sands paused, then turned round and smiled mischievously. “So I think I will.”

Sensing the shit was about to hit the fan quicker than he had originally anticipated, possibilities of how to get out of this mess ran through his mind. With the communication delay between the camera guy and the door men, he had about twenty seconds before Martin's goons would come to their boss's rescue.

‘Twenty seconds,’ Sands thought. There were a lot of things he could do in twenty seconds.

He just had to pick the right thing. Easier said than done.

Judging by Martin’s reaction, OOS must be on their way to the base, having listened to the recorded conversation. Good ol’ Tom.

He listened to Martin approach from behind, and steeled himself for what was no doubt coming. He grasped the back of the chair just as Martin jabbed a needle into the base of his neck.

Sands didn’t give Martin any time to inject whatever drug was in the syringe, throwing an elbow back into Martin’s face. Sands knew he’d hit his mark when he heard a loud crack; he’d broken Martin’s nose.

Martin reeled back in shock, and Sands didn’t waste any time. He grabbed the back of the chair, and spun around, putting every ounce of strength he had left into the swing. The chair slammed into the side of Martin’s head.

Martin went down hard on impact, and Sands hoped that he’d be out for at least a minute.

‘Ten seconds.’ Sands dashed to the door, the chair still in his hand, ignoring the pain in his side. He jammed the door with the folding chair, then locked it too, just for the hell of it.

Pulling the syringe out of his neck, he kept it handy as he knelt beside Martin. ‘Twenty seconds.’

Martin mumbled incoherently under his breath, still trying to shake off the blow. His men outside the room began to push on the door, trying to force it open.

Sands found the officer’s gun and pulled the hammer back. “Interfere and your boss is toast,” he drawled, for the benefit of the goons listening on camera.

He rolled Martin over, so he was lying on his stomach. The movement seemed to wake Martin, since he instantly tried to get up. He froze, however, when the feeling of a cold needle piercing his skin instantly cut through his hazy consciousness.

“Let me tell you how it is, Martin. I’ve got your gun, your wonder drug, and your goons searching for a clue. I did all this blind and weaponless; it took me twenty seconds.” A twisted grin flashed across Sands’ lips. “Now, sing for me. What’s inside this particular syringe? The psychotic? Or the paralyzing agent?”

“You do anything…” He paused and cleared his throat. “… my men will kill you.”

“I’m quaking in my… uh, uh, uh,” Sands warned as he felt Martin try and move underneath him. “I’m guessing by the way you froze before that you’re really not too keen on me pumping this shit into your system.”

The sounds of his men attempting to break through the door seemed to bolster Martin’s confidence. “What the hell do you want me to do? Let you go? It’s not happening!”

Sands aimed the gun at the door and popped a couple of rounds. Regardless of whether the bullets passed through the door or not, the men seemed to stop their efforts for the time being. He turned his attention back to Martin. “I guess I’ll just have to inject this into you. We’ll see what happens.”

There was a long pause, and Sands could already tell Martin was fabricating a lie. Even so, Sands waited for him to answer. “It’s a heavy sedative.”

Sands’ eyebrows rose, and he leaned close to Martin. “That’s a very stupid lie.”

Sands pushed down on the syringe, injecting Martin with the drug, and Martin immediately shot up, throwing Sands backward. Still, it was too late for Martin to do anything.

“Motherfucker!” Martin shouted, and it came out more desperate than angry. Sands heard the sound of something dropping to the concrete floor, and guessed that it was the empty syringe.

“Lies are terrible for your health,” Sands said, letting out a sharp laugh that became increasingly hysterical as he backed further away from Martin.

He’d known, just from where Martin had tried to inject it, that it was the paralyzing agent. “That shit permanent, Chief?”

Of course, Sands knew that it was. Martin didn’t fool around with his torture. Sands decided that when this was all over, he’d have a proper freak out about how close he’d come to becoming a blind quadriplegic.

Martin began to move towards him, but seemed to have some trouble about halfway through the journey, as his footsteps became oddly timed.

Sands continued to back up until he came in contact with the far wall. Leaning heavily against it, Sands laugh started to die as he slid down to the floor. Setting his gun hand on one bent-up knee, he zeroed in on Martin’s panicked breathing.

He had no real desire to kill Martin. This was far more fitting. Still, he’d blow him away if he had to.

“You’ll pay…” Martin said weakly, and it sounded like he was choking on his words.

“I already have."

Damn, did that drug work fast; even for something injected straight into the spinal cord. If there was an antidote, there was no time to administer it.

“You know, I never switched departments,” Sands drawled into the ever-present darkness. Martin was in that blackness, somewhere, fighting against the drug destroying the nerves in his spine; no longer concerned about the blind officer at all.

Sands felt compelled to tell Martin the truth, because it was insulting that Martin thought he’d been tossed around departments like a cheap dog toy. “I’d never want to return to PsyOps? Wrong, Amigo. I never left them.”

Sands listened intently. Martin seemed incapable of speech at this point; whether it was a result of the drug, or his panic, Sands couldn’t tell.

Martin was down for the count, but Sands knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. He was quickly reminded of that fact as someone shot out the lock on the door.

Sands chuckled again; he wasn’t sure why. There was no rational reason for it. Maybe it was a reaction to Martin’s ironic fate, or relief… or maybe he’d finally shot his bolt. He really couldn’t say. But as he heard Martin fall to the ground, he seemed unable to stop the laughter from escaping his lips.

Thula. Ingonyama ilele. – Hush. The lion sleeps

Spook Speak

PsyOps - Psychological Operations