Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS

A/N: This chapter contains some graphic material...no blood and guts or anything, but a very desperate Tony looking for a way out.

Chapter 3

An Unlikely Friendship with the Toilet Bowl

Sister Agatha could pretend to be sweet as pie, but Tony knew better. She could profess that she loved him as many time as she wanted, but Tony knew the truth. He didn't care if his role in the upcoming festival was one he was supposed to accept with welcoming arms. He could never accept sacrifice as anything other than murder. These psychotic people were planning on murdering him in the name of some alien god that he was sure had been made up by some teenagers overactive imagination, and sweet as pie Sister Agatha was helping them along.

She forced him to eat and drink the food that she brought to him. If he refused it, she forced it into his mouth and held a hand over his face to block his air passages, forcing him to swallow so he could breathe. It was easier just to eat what was offered, even though he knew it was drugged. Only minutes after he'd take the first bite his head would be swimming, and his eyes would be drooping.

It seemed that they had learned their lesson after his first attempt to escape. While at first they had simply drugged and watched him, he was now held to the bed by a pair of leather cuffs. Initially the cuffs had been metal, but he'd pulled and tugged and fussed with them so much that they'd cut into his flesh and made him bleed. Some sadistic part of his brain had been pleased when he'd seen just how far the metal cuffs had managed to penetrate his flesh- maybe they would slice through his artery and he would bleed to death. Instead, Sister Agatha had removed the cuffs while he slept and replaced them with soft leather ones that made him unable to make the gashes any deeper.

In all honesty, he wanted to die. He'd long ago given up on the chance of a rescue. After all, he was a cop, and he knew that the odds of anybody finding him became slimmer and slimmer as time passed by. He was never going to be found. That left him with only two options- escape or die. He'd tried escaping, but that had ended badly on his part, which left him with only death as his way out. While they planned on killing him anyway, he didn't want to give them the satisfaction. He'd rather die at his own hand then let them end his life. At least that way he'd be able to stick it to them by denying them what they sought.

Suicide was proving to be difficult though. He was chained to that bed and only allowed up when he needed to use the facilities. Without the metal handcuffs, there was nothing that he could use. He'd tried intentionally choking on the drugged food they insisted he eat, but that had been impossible. He wanted to die, but his body didn't. Today he had a plan though.

Sister Agatha let him up to pee when he woke up in the early afternoon. She unlocked the leather restraints and led him across the room to the bathroom he'd become familiar with. She never went inside with him, and he always closed the door. It was the only time he was ever allowed any privacy, and the small space had become a sort of sanctuary for him. It was only fitting that he die in the only place he'd found comfort since arriving in that god awful place.

The sink was too risky. Sister Agatha would suspect something if she heard the sink going for so long, so he bypassed it and pulled up the seat on the toilet. The porcelain bowl was full of water, and he forced the air out of his lungs before submerging his head in it. There was no time to debate and think. He had very little time before Sister Agatha came storming in demanded to know why he was taking so long.

It was fine at first, but then came the pain. His lungs began to burn and he gripped the toilet seat with white fingers, forcing himself not to let go. He couldn't let go. He couldn't. If he didn't die now, he was going to be forced to go through another week in this hell hole. He couldn't stand the thought of it.

Everything was beginning to go black. He inhaled a mouthful of water and choked on it, but he forced his face further into the toilet bowl. He was not going to let his body's desire for air stop him from doing what must be done. He needed to die. He was going to die. It was the only remaining option, and this was his last chance.

NCIS

No! No! No! No! No! His mind was screaming at him as his consciousness returned. He wasn't dead. His plan had failed. He was back in the uncomfortable bed, leather cuffs retraining him to the bed, and a fuzzy feeling in his head. With each breath that he took, his lungs ached. He couldn't believe it. While he'd been drugged up beyond his wits end when he'd made that plan, he'd been sure that it was fool proof. He'd said his goodbyes to the world before he'd gone in that bathroom, and he'd been positive that he wasn't coming out alive.

"That was a terrible thing you tried," Sister Agatha chastised him when she'd noticed he was awake. "You scared me to within an inch of my life. It was truly horrific. You will never try anything like that again."

Tony wasn't listening. He didn't care. He didn't care about her, or her stupid cult. He didn't care about himself. He gave up. There was nothing left. In a week, he was going to be sacrifice and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was too late. There was no magic miracle. There was no more suicide. There was nothing. Nothing mattered.


A/N: Poor depressed Tony :-(

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