Voices lilt and fade. Her eyes feel too heavy to open. She manages to part them for a second, but there is only blackness. At first she thinks maybe she has gone blind, but then she feels the rough material of a hood over her head. She squirms against the restraints binding her wrists behind her back, and her ankles to the legs of a chair.
"She's coming around, I think. You should go and get him." She thinks it is a man's voice, but everything is muffled under the hood. She inhales slowly, trying not to panic or draw attention to herself. Something is beeping faintly. She wonders if it is her heartbeat, then realizes that is a ridiculous thought.
Her memory is in bits and shards, like a jumbled up puzzle as she tries to figure out what's happening. The pieces start to come together as she remembers. She and Samar had been driving to a house in New York. They had stopped for gas and coffee. They had been looking at maps and plans of the house. Reddington. They were trying to lure Reddington to them so they could kill him. And then what? There had been a truck that came out of nowhere. Her head hurts like fucking hell, so she assumes that she hit her head.
Footsteps rise and fall. Her head feels leaden; all it wants is to slump down, chin to chest. Her stomach cramps with the urge to vomit and she swallows hard, refusing to puke on herself in the black hood. She thinks she could have a concussion. She thinks she should stay awake. She thinks this could be it. This could be the end.
Samar. She wonders where Samar is, if she is here somewhere, if she is even still alive. The thought comes suddenly and sharply and stabs her in the side of her chest as she inhales.
She loses consciousness again before she can even start to cry.
When she comes around again, it suddenly strikes her that she is not in a hospital.
Of course it should have been her first realization when she woke earlier, but her head does not seem to be functioning properly. She's grappling through the pathways of her brain, trying to sort things into the right order. She has been in a car accident. She's in terrible pain. She could possibly have a concussion or other life threatening injuries, but she is not in a hospital. She is tied to a chair with a hood over her head.
She thinks perhaps she is dreaming when she hears someone mutter, "Yeah, I'm sure it's here. It's the girl. No, she's not awake yet. She's been in and out." She hears a cell phone snap shut. Someone clears their throat and spits. Someone else, or maybe it is the same person says, "He's not going to be happy about the state she's in, you can be as sure of that as you can be of that chick being Masha Rostova."
Under the hood it is impossible to tell what time it is, or how long she has been like this. Her whole body aches. Her mouth is painfully dry. Even in the darkness she feels dizzy. It's hard to breathe. She strains her ears, trying to listen for Samar's voice, or even just to hear the other voices mention another woman, but there is nothing.
"Samar," she tries to call out, but her mouth is so dry that her voice is barely more than a rasp of wheezing breath. She wonders if she's broken a rib as she loses consciousness once more.
When she wakes again, she is lying in a bed. The hood is gone. The room is dimly lit when she opens her eyes. Her hands are bound to the metal sides of the bed, but they are bound in soft restraints, the kind used in hospitals for psychiatric patients. A hospital bed. "Oh thank god," she exhales. She wonders if the previous scenario, of being bound and hooded in a chair, had been nothing more than a feverish dream, but this thought is quickly chased by the realization she is still bound. She struggles against her restraints and a searing pain rips through her side. Definitely a broken rib. It hurts to breathe. She twists her hands in the padded cuffs and tries to lift her head off the pillow, but pain pushes and stills her in the bed.
"Relax," she hears. The voice has come from across the room. "You've been in an accident. You're safe now. Well, for the moment, anyway." There is someone there she cannot see. She thinks maybe she recognizes the voice, but she is not certain. Her head is still a foggy mess of agony and confusion.
"Samar?" She says. "Where-" she starts to ask, but then coughing robs her of her breath. Water. She needs to drink something.
As if reading her mind, a figure emerges from the shadows across the room, and approaches her with a cup of water. It is a man in an immaculate suit. Her eyes widen as she realizes it is not Red. He holds the cup out towards her and then when he realizes she is bound and cannot reach for the cup, he sticks a straw into it and angles the straw towards her lips. She sucks greedily at the water he has offered, and then tilts her chin up to get a better look at him.
"Easy," he says. "You don't want to choke. Little sips for now."
"Samar," she says again when she is done drinking. "Where is she?"
"Oh? The woman you were with in the car? I don't know. I had asked only for you, so I assume they left her where she was."
"If you hurt her," Liz starts.
"Hush, now. I've not done anything to her. Like I said, she was of no consequence to me. And I do apologize for the rather rough treatment of you by my crew. They have been dealt with accordingly. It was not my intention for this transaction to be so dramatic."
"Where am I?" She strains, trying to get her head up off the pillow so she can look around, but a wave of pain renders her weak. She whimpers.
"You have a broken rib and it would seem you've had a nasty blow to the head." His well manicured hand reaches out and presses a button on a machine next to her. "This should help with the pain."
"What day is it?" Liz manages as the drug floods her bloodstream.
"It's Friday."
"I've been here for four days?" She gasps. "I've got to go. Samar!" She tries to call out and is sorely disappointed that her voice is so faint.
"Now, now. Relax. You're not going anywhere, Masha. Or do you prefer to go by Elizabeth now?"
Liz's eyes snap open and try desperately to focus at the figure in front of her. Everything is blurry as she clings to the final shreds of consciousness with all her might.
"Who the hell are you?" She exhales the question and realizes it is suddenly not painful to breathe. Whatever he gave her is working quickly.
"I've been imagining this moment for the last twenty five years," he replies. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back before her, but then he, the room, and everything in it fade to black as she drifts off again into a deep oblivion.