Okay, guys, here's the final chapter!

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V. Lobotomy

When Sands woke up, all was very peaceful. In fact, he felt calmer than he ever had before. He didn't feel particularly aggressive; he thought he might be content to sit where he was all day long.

A few thoughts kept returning that he did not really understand. For some reason, he kept seeing himself holding guns. He remembered a yellow t- shirt, and a woman, and something metallic that spun. And three letters kept floating around in his mind... C, I, and A. Or maybe they were G, J, and V. He wasn't really sure. But, he did not care to bother himself with figuring them out.

And for once, the darkness was silent, completely silent. No thought flitted through his mind that were not his own. Even when that nasty little voice had been quiet, he had always felt its presence. Now there was nothing. He was alone in his head at last.

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Christine stood somewhat angrily in the open doorway to the cell, looking in at Sands, who was sitting quietly on a bench that had been set up for him against the far wall. Matthew Evans stood behind her, peering over her shoulder.

She eyed the scars on either side of and in the middle of his forehead, which were just beginning to heal. "Was this really necessary?" she said in a hushed tone which did not fully conceal how agitated she was.

Evans shrugged, and spoke in a normal tone. "Someone thought it was. And you don't have to talk all quiet; he's not going to respond."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember how I told you he used to talk to himself all the time, and yell?" Upon a nod from Christine, he continued. "He still mutters some stuff, but he's much calmer. He doesn't say anything else at all unless you ask him something, and even then it takes a while to get a straight answer out of him. A bunch of agents and doctors came in and tried. You should have seen how pissed they all got. All he kept saying for five minutes or so was something about throwing shapes... whatever that's supposed to mean."

Christine sighed in exasperation. Did those nameless agents and doctors have any idea that they had just destroyed the mind of one of the most brilliant agents in CIA history? Boldly, she strode over to the sitting man, and kneeled down in front of him as if she was speaking to a child.

"Agent Sands?"

Unlike previously, when he had moved his head to follow her own movements, even though he couldn't see her, it seemed that he hadn't even heard her. He simply continued to sit quietly, off in his own little world.

"Sands?" she tried again. Nothing. She gently touched his forearm.

"I wouldn't expect too much if I were you," Evans said from the door. She shot him a cold look and he shut up right away. She was just about to try his name again when she heard something that was barely audible.

"I throw shapes..."

Her head snapped back over to Sands. "What was that?" she asked. "Did you hear that, Mr. Evans?"

"Hear what?"

"He said something!" she said rather excitedly. "Throwing shapes."

Evans gave a look of indifference and stepped back to lean in the doorframe.

"Throw shapes..." Sands muttered. "They catch them..."

"Who? Who catches what?" she tried, but he did not answer. Well, even if dear Mr. Evans isn't the brightest candle on the cake, he had a couple things right, she thought. "Do you know who you are, Agent? Can you tell me your name?"

He just sat for a few moments, as if thinking hard about the answer. "I restore the balance to this country," he whispered. Christine frowned. "Shoot the cook," he said.

What the...? "Who?" she inquired in confusion.

"Shoot the cook," he insisted. "It's too good."

"Agent Sands," Christine said firmly. "Do you know where you are?"

He made a noise as if humming to himself, and he lifted his head and 'looked' somewhere past her shoulder.

"Sands!" Her frustration was mounting by the second. She waited and tried not to have a nervous breakdown.

But all she got for her patience was, "Set them up, watch them fall..."

Christine exhaled sharply and stood up, angry and disappointed. There was no doubt at all in her mind that Sands had been completely mad, but there were so many things she had wanted to ask him. It would have been worth being called "sugarbutt" a thousand times. Now she would never get her answers, and the CIA had lost its best agent.

She exited the cell, and Evans looked up at her as if to say, 'Told you so.' In irritation, she looked back at Sands.

"Watch them fall..."

Somehow he seemed more of a madman now than when he had been calmly informing her that he didn't care how many agents had to die for him to keep his freedom, even more than when he had been threatening to kill her without use of his hands or his eyes.

How the hell did he even do that?

She shook her head and felt a wave of pity for the man sitting on the bench: a genius degraded, an agent corrupted, a legend brought to ruin.

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End.

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::hides under desk:: Don't hate me! Please don't hate me! Please! Okay, well... hate me if you must. But I didn't mean to do it, I swear! The idea came to me while watching "From Hell" and wouldn't leave me alone! ::flashes winning smile:: So... care to review?

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