There's a strip of light about two inches away from his left eye. His right eye is more interested in something higher, but the left one is dazzled. The light is white, and pure.

He blinks.

Right eye is winning out, and his vision keeps twitching upwards. A pity. Whatever his right eye wants to look at is dark, and probably requires some thought.

He looks upwards.

Yes, much darker up there. More things to look at, though. Something flat. A ceiling. He remembers ceilings.

Something shiny, and round. A doorknob. The kind you turn. The kind that opens

A door.

He flickers back and forth, light and dark, both eyes now, brain working overtime. Doorknob. Ceiling. Door.

Nubs beneath his cheek. Scratchy.

The toothed gears of his mind find purchase. Door plus ceiling plus carpet equals hallway. Got it now. Good to see the old noggin in action. Another few minutes and he'll be breaking into bank vaults.

He fails to sit up. Instead, he lies on one side, kneels curled up against the door frame, right arm resting behind him, left arm

Left arm, oh. Left arm not really what you'd call an arm. Left arm more of a show piece.

Shit, four years it's been gone and he still wakes up trying to scratch his balls with a hunk of stiff plastic. You'd think he'd learn.

So, brain knows there's only one arm. Body isn't quite so sure. Body will get back to brain on the arm situation after a consultation and a written report. Body thanks brain for its concern.

In the meantime, maybe some head lifting would be in order. Bravely, he raises his skull centimeters above the ground until the snowstorm of pain and stars hits, setting his ears ringing. There seems to be something burning through his forehead as well.

He's a tough guy, but there's no one here to tell, so he permits himself a rather manly whimper. Bullet in his brain. Oh yeah. Forgot that little detail. No left arm and a bullet in his brain.

Without warning, all systems are back online, and he hoists himself up on his right arm so he can vomit to the left. It tastes like whiskey and prime rib, which was, now that he thinks about it, his last meal.

The puke seems unending, a warm, solid river that burns his tongue. It lets up for a moment as he catches his breath, then explodes again in one last heave, which is when the door opens.

Alex Krycek blows chunks all over Walter Skinner's cordovan shoes. Walter Skinner does not find this entertaining, though Krycek would have if the pain between his eyes had let him laugh. However, Skinner is too surprised to see Krycek alive to worry about his bodily fluids.

Krycek wipes his mouth as he looks up. The mark on his forehead is a dull red, with charred edges. Skinner holds last night's gun, but Krycek grins up anyhow.

"Morning, Walter."