A/N: So this chapter was the ball ache of the century. Anyway, it's done now, and is here for your reading pleasure. This may be the last chapter I post for a week or two as I'm getting dragged into hospital tomorrow to have my chest carved open on Wednesday. So you know, as excuses go, it's not terrible. Still, rest assured I will be typing away in my ward once I'm conscious again, so hopefully it won't be too long a wait. Hope you enjoy this one in the meantime.
Turn
by Flaignhan
It's a full two days later before Natasha's transfer gets fully signed off by the powers that be. Happily, there are no more appointments with Doctor Ulyanova, but that does mean that she's subjected to double arts and craft sessions. During a clay workshop, she was caught tracing one of the pink, bumpy scars on her wrists with the tip of her index finger, and the co-ordinator promptly removed the blunt plastic clay knife from her vicinity. To make matters worse, Isabella and Anastasia's absence only results in more drawn out sessions, with no idle conversation to take the edge off of the tedium. Every time her mind wanders to them, which is often, she feels sick, and has to push the thoughts from her mind, because she can't do any more for them any sooner. She can't afford to put the entire assignment at risk because she was stupid enough to make friends, then let it get to her when they're at risk of falling victim to the very process she's been sent here to destroy. She's so close, too close to fuck it up now. She doesn't know whether she's over the biggest hurdle or not. Either getting in is the hardest part, relying too much on too many variables for her liking, or taking down the entire facility is, with too many security protocols and nothing but a magic hair clip for her to defend herself and/or kill with.
There is one faintly glowing ember of confidence left, deep down in her chest, underneath all the over-analysis, the paranoia, her worries about Isabella and Anastasia, and her near constant background yearning for Loki. That one ember reminds her that being unarmed has never affected her success before, that her resourcefulness and ruthlessness will ensure that Yanayev will get his just desserts, and she will take down every god damn brick of that facility. More than that, though, she'll get Isabella and Anastasia out, before they can do any irreversible damage to the girls, and more, even than that, she'll be back in New York within the week, and even better, back to Asgard, back to Loki, and hopefully, if he's been doing his reading, back to one of the best damn poker players in the nine realms.
She almost smiles as she's escorted down corridors, towards the exit, catching herself at the last second. She reminds herself of pale, clammy skin and unnatural blue eyes, and it's as though icy water has been doused over that last ember as she exits through the final set of doors, where a people carrier is waiting, door open. Two heavy set men in dark blue scrubs are standing beside it, hands clasped in front of them, unreadable expressions on their faces. Natasha can smell the dirty on them. The difference between them and the care home staff is so obvious to her that she can't believe nobody's even questioned them before.
To her surprise, Doctor Ulyanova is waiting for her as well, her arms folded across her chest, her whole body trembling with the cold.
"Good luck," she says, teeth chattering as she bares them in a smile. "And should you wish to talk to me, the centre has my phone number, so you can call me any time. I know you're not really a chatter box, but I thought I'd mention it, just in case…" She glances down at her feet, unable to maintain eye contact with the hollow, steely gaze Natasha sends her way.
"Thanks," Natasha says softly, catching Ulyanova by surprise. She looks up in shock, as though she's not convinced she's heard her correctly.
"That's all right," she says uncertainly. "You're still my patient, as far as I'm concerned, even if you do move elsewhere."
"Has anyone ever called you before?" Natasha asks, hoping her question doesn't sound suspicious to her escorts. Ulyanova frowns, staring at the ground and shuffling her feet.
"No," she says quietly. "But then I hear the centre's very comfortable and the doctors are very good. I guess everybody forgets about me, even if I don't forget about them." She smiles sadly, then holds her hand out to Natasha, who shakes it, before getting in the car, fastening her seat belt, her mind whirring. The shorter, stockier escort climbs into the driving seat, while the other climbs into the back with Natasha, sitting directly opposite her, his large form spilling over onto the seat next to him. He slides the door shut, and as they pull away, she hears the click of the automatic door lock.
She stares out of the window, the sky darkening, snow lightly fluttering past the window. She considers Ulyanova for a while, eventually coming to the conclusion that she doesn't realise where she's sending Natasha off to, where she's doubtlessly sent dozens of other patients, with the best will in the world, labouring under the delusion that these drug trials are yielding positive results for the patients, as opposed to those at the top.
If Ulyanova isn't involved, it does beg the question of who is. Most likely someone who either hasn't taken a hippocratic oath, or has long since discarded its onerous sentiments.
"The last one was talkative."
Natasha's skin prickles at the mention of Isabella and Anastasia, but she simply shrugs her shoulders.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Natasha stares out of the window, resting her forehead against the glass as the road widens out and becomes bumpier, the sets of oncoming headlights growing less and less frequent.
"She was good fun," the escort continues, with all the persistence of Ulyanova, but none of the decency. "Much easier to wind up than you are. But then she was mental."
Natasha grinds her teeth, her stomach churning at the idea of Isabella getting upset by this asshole. Anastasia would have given as good as she'd gotten, but it's a question of whether Anastasia will exhibit a sense of protectiveness over Isabella, and face off any taunts with her own poisonous comebacks, or whether the idea of ganging up on Isabella will be too tempting to pass up.
When they arrive at the gates, the guards take a full walk around the car, one dropping to his knees to check the underneath, while the other opens the door, pops his head in, then stares at Natasha for a good few seconds, before turning to the escort opposite her and raising an eyebrow. After a moment of silent communication between them, the guard retreats, slides the car door shut, and the gates are opened for them. They proceed slowly along the track, which, once they're inside the perimeter of the grounds, becomes a smooth, tarmac road, complete with line markings, speed limits, and give way points.
The building itself is a very boring, boxy sort of place, with small tinted windows, whitewashed concrete walls, and heavy, reinforced doors. When they pull up, the escort holds up a finger, instructing her to remain in her seat, while he and the driver get out of the car. After a short interlude, during which the driver rapidly smokes a cigarette, Natasha is beckoned to join them. She keeps a firm hold on her small plastic bag with her few items of clothing - the black trousers she travelled in, a couple of t-shirts, and some pyjamas provided by the care home.
From the corner of her eye, she sees the driver stand in front of a retina scanner, then swipe an ID card through a reader, before the small LED light above it turns green and the doors slide open. The escorts flank her, making her feel claustrophobic, and she absentmindedly traces the scars on her wrists as she looks around, her movements purposefully jittery as she takes in all the details of the obsessively clean reception. She can smell the disinfectant that the floors have been scrubbed with, as well as the sickly air freshener that tries and fails to mask the harsh, chemical smell. There are doors to her left, doors to her right, and straight ahead is a desk, with a small office behind it. The receptionist on the desk, a woman with more lipstick than should really be necessary, bares her teeth in a smile as they approach.
"Good afternoon gentlemen, what do we have here?"
"Irina Dezhnyov," the escort says gruffly, dumping a folder on the receptionist's counter. She pulls it towards her and flips open the cover, her eyes scanning the first page before she clicks a few things on her computer, then whirls around on her chair, to face the office behind.
"Anna! Will you show Miss Dezhnyov to her room please?"
A nurse appears from the office, also wearing dark blue scrubs, her hair tied in a high pony tail. She nods towards the doors on the right, and Natasha starts walking towards them, her escorts hanging around the front desk to speak further with the receptionist. Anna takes her ID card out and swipes it while her iris is scanned, and there is a quiet clunk as the magnetic locks are released.
Anna doesn't have much to say, and so they walk in silence, Natasha making mental notes of door numbers, staircases, and eventually, they stop at a door on the right side of the corridor. Anna presses a few buttons on the control panel next to it.
"Put your hand on the reader."
Natasha does as she's told, and waits, stock still while her hand is scanned.
"It's so you can come and go as you please during the day," Anna says. "Everything you need is in this section of corridor. Lounge," she gestures to the opposite door, then crosses the corridor and pushes it open. Inside is a fairly simple room with a number of armchairs and a large television fixed to the wall. "You'll eat in dining room next door," she gestures to the next door along from it. "Dinner will be in twenty minutes. Just go in."
Natasha nods silently.
"You'll have a meeting with your consultant tomorrow afternoon. I'll take you to see him after lunch."
"Okay."
Anna returns to Natasha and reaches past her to push open the bedroom door. "Everything you need should be in there. If not, ask someone."
Natasha nods and steps inside. Just before the door swings shut, however, she catches the door and turns around. "Where are the other patients?"
"I'm sorry?" Anna bristles, clasping her hands in front of her, and Natasha worries that she's said too much.
"Doctor Ulyanova, she said there were a lot of patients here."
"Oh," Anna says, relaxing a little. "Oh they're all in separate areas. We find that they respond better with a more tranquil environment. Often these sorts of situations can result in patients setting one another off."
"Like crying babies?"
"Exactly," Anna says with a wry smile. "Now, make yourself at home before dinner."
Natasha lets the door swing shut and the magnetic locks click into place. The room is slightly nicer than her one at the care home - the bed is a little wider, the mattress a little thicker, and the duvet a little fuller. The walls are painted a calming pastel shade of green, and Natasha sets her clothes down on top of the dresser. She opens the door to her bathroom and pokes her head inside, the automatic lights flickering on to reveal a simple, but modern set up, with the shower head looking like it packs more of a punch than her previous accommodation. Closing the door, Natasha heads over to the bed and lays down on it, staring up at the ceiling, one arm resting across her forehead. She doesn't know how long it'll be before she can take action, but what she does know is that she needs a better tour of this place than the one she's just had. She's seen one section of corridor on one level of the entire building, and she can't make any destructive plans until she has a vague idea of layout. If she had to hazard a guess, she'd say that everything she needs to focus on is probably on the left side of the building, completely separate from the residential section. The top floor may be dedicated to offices, potentially Yanayev's, if he was keen to have a view of the surrounding forests and tracks.
Try as she might, she can't keep the uncomfortable swirling feeling in her chest at bay. Isabella and Anastasia are here somewhere, but Anna's answer about each patient having their own section doesn't add up, given the size of the building and the number of patients that are supposedly here. Isabella and Anastasia are the newest recruits, after herself, so maybe there's enough room to house a few people, before Yanayev and his people do whatever they're planning. She tries to swallow down her worry, but the more she forces herself to not think about it, the more she finds herself thinking about Loki, and that only makes the swirling transform into a very obvious ache in her ribcage. She tries to remind herself that she'll be done soon, she'll be back with him and all will be fine and Fury will give her a break because this hasn't exactly been a walk in the park. She'll be able to spend her time playing poker and reading books with Loki. Maybe he'll even teach her to skim stones in the forest lagoon. She's never learned, never taken the time to master a skill that doesn't involve murder or survival. After all of her patience with him, all of her gentle encouragement towards a more stress-free way of life, it would be nice for him to teach her something, and maybe he can learn a little bit of patience and tolerance in the process.
She sighs heavily, and with her mind still worlds away, she pushes herself up from the bed and leaves her bedroom. The dining room door opens without the need for any scanning, and inside is a table big enough for four, perhaps six at a push, and yet there is only one chair. On the table is a selection of food, far too much for one person, steam spiralling up into the air from the various plates. It looks almost as good as the feasts on Asgard, and Natasha takes a seat, before she begins helping herself to food. As she fills her plate, an uneasy thought strikes her. Surely they must know that the food at the care home is dire, and this welcoming feast is the proverbial gingerbread house in the middle of the forest. She raises her plate in front of her face and sniffs at the food cautiously. Maybe the treatment begins as soon as she enters the building, and it's this thought that results her deciding to fully inspect her bedroom later on, in case there are any suspicious air vents.
She puts her plate back on the table, then picks up her fork and scoops up some mashed potato. She takes a cautious bite, rolling it around in her mouth to check for any oddities - an unusual texture, a foreign flavour - but there's nothing. She eats slowly, knowing that if she doesn't eat at all, it will raise suspicion, but if she wolfs it down, she's in danger of not feeling any potential ill-effects until she's consumed too much to do anything about it. She tries the vegetables next, which look particularly appealing given that the peas are a bright, cheerful shade of green, the carrots a vivid orange, and the cauliflower fluffy and white. She'd almost forgotten how vegetables ought to look, after her stint in the care home, but she can taste the full flavour of them as she chews, glad to finally have something other than bland mush to swallow down.
After half an hour of caution, she's feeling just fine, and so she tries her luck with the chicken, the skin of which is beautifully crispy, the meat tender and juicy. She can't taste anything wrong with it, and she wonders whether she's being overly paranoid, or whether there can be such a thing as overly paranoid in a place like this. She doesn't know their method of treatment at all, whether it all goes ahead under the guise of proper medical treatment right until the last moment, or whether they take them out as soon as they get through the door.
Having thought far too much on the subject, Natasha pushes her plate away and leaves the dining room, her stomach half full, while her paranoia eats away at her. She places her hand flat against the scanner outside her bedroom, and the door unlocks. As soon as she gets inside, she leans back against the door, narrowing her eyes as she looks around the walls. There's an air vent on the far side, in the corner above her bed, and Natasha scans the rest of the room for any potential hidden cameras. There are so few things in the room that hiding one, even a small one, would be a challenge indeed, but if the rooms were built with surveillance in mind, then maybe it's not such a big ask after all. She looks up at the ceiling, and spots the smallest pin prick in the plaster, one tiny black speck that would otherwise go unnoticed. She pulls her eyes away from it and looks down at the floor, trying to estimate what coverage it has. She glances at the ceiling above her bed, and there's no speck there, nor is there a speck above the door, just the one in the centre of the room which she would guess covers most of the main floor space.
She heads over to the bed, climbing onto it, the mattress sinking beneath her weight. She stands on her tip toes, using one hand to balance herself against the wall, then gently levers off the plastic cover of the air vent. She's not sure whether it's a sigh of relief, or disappointment that escapes her, but all she can see is a normal air vent, no exposed pipes, nothing out of the ordinary, and her heartbeat, which has been racing for the last few moments, begins to settle. She hates the paranoia that goes hand in hand with an assignment such as this. She hates feeling like a scaredy cat, checking for every fiendish possibility, her fears at risk of revealing her true identity. But, as she reminds herself, whenever she feels that way, scared keeps you safe. Had her dinner been poisoned (and she's still not sure it wasn't) and she'd scoffed down plateful after plateful, she may have turned into one of those victims that has left Bocharov in therapy. Had she not checked for cameras, she might have done something foolish and given herself away in full view of her captors. And had she not checked the air vent for any sinister alterations, she might have been killed in her sleep, none the wiser, assignment failed.
And she would never have seen Loki again.
She lays down, that horrible thought causing a nasty pang in her chest, and stubbornly tries to clear her head. It doesn't work, however, because she's worrying about him, constantly, and when she tries to get herself a nice blank headspace, he comes to the forefront of her mind, goading her, taunting her, and throwing up all the dreadful possibilities that she might return to. She considers briefly his skeletal frame when she first saw him, in the dungeons, and hopes he's been eating at least enough to maintain his still waif-like form. If she returns and he's taken steps backwards, if he's unhealthy, after how long it's taken for him to be able to stand without his legs quivering, she knows she'll be devastated. She has a very selfish need to return to a perfect Loki, after everything these last few weeks have thrown at her. For once, she wants him to look after her, she wants him to bring her food and set her at ease and calm her down when she wakes in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.
She knows the nightmares will come, once she's out of here. Once she's stopped living one, they'll come for her, and only time will be able to eke them from her. She closes her eyes as the sky outside grows darker and darker, and eventually her lights flicker out, signalling it's time for sleep. She wonders if Isabella and Anastasia are in the next section of corridor, or on the floor above, lying in bed, arguing with one another about what the future holds for them. She wonders if Anastasia, fearing her own demise, is more poisonous than ever, or whether she'll be attempting to butter Isabella up, trying to convince her to keep her.
She taps her fingers against the bedspread, trying to gauge the amount of time passing, but she can't. It's only hours later, when the night outside is pitch black, and she can barely see her hand in front of her face, the silence pressing in upon her like a ten tonne weight, that she realises it must be the early hours of the morning. Deciding there's no time like the present to get her extended tour, she gets out of bed, skirting around the camera's viewing range cautiously, then kneels in front of the door, trying to force her eyes to see better in the dark as she inspects the handle.
She reaches up to the back of her head, and a familiar golden hilt materialises in her hand. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders as she takes it, and tries to lever it through the gap between the door and the door frame. She manages to catch the latch with the very tip of the knife, but when she pulls at the door she realises that the magnetic locks are still in place at the top. She scowls, sinking her teeth into her lower lip thoughtfully. After a moment, she stands, rising onto the very tips of her toes, arms outstretched, knife in hand, and she slides it through the metal plates, the green light above it flickering to red before a loud, piercing alarm sounds.
Natasha withdraws the knife rapidly, and it morphs back into her hair clip, which she secures in her hair swiftly, while her brain whirs, wondering how the hell she's going to explain this. She can hear footsteps running down the corridor, and she closes her eyes, remembering running for her life on the helicarrier, while Bruce, transformed, gave chase, his only desire to tear her limb from limb.
She bangs fiercely against the door, her palms slapping against the wood, throwing her shoulder against it. She can feel her heart racing, beads of panicked sweat forming on her brow, her breathing fast and shallow. The magnetic lock clunks as it releases, and the door is pushed open, Natasha falling back onto the floor, the harsh light of the corridor outside blinding her.
Within seconds she's being gripped by the upper arms, and she struggles, kicking her legs out.
"Let me out of here! Let me out!"
The nurse locks her arms around Natasha's chest, holding her fast against her, but Natasha continues to squirm.
"Irina, please - "
"There's something under there!" Natasha cries, pointing a shaking finger to the dark space under her bed. "I heard it! You have to let me out, please!"
"There's nothing under there," the nurse says emphatically. "Noth - "
"I heard it," Natasha wails, pushing herself and the nurse away from the bed with all the force her legs can muster.
"Irina, there's nothing, I promise you - "
"There is! There is!" Tears are spilling down her cheeks now, her entire body trembling, but the nurse simply holds her tighter.
"Irina, if you don't calm down I'm going to have to call someone to sedate you, and neither of us want that."
"There is…" Natasha whimpers, her hands gripping at the roots of her hair. "There is…"
The nurse releases her as she starts to settle, then shuffles to the front of the bed, lowering her head down to the ground to look underneath.
"Nothing," she says, pushing herself back up and dusting off her palms. "You see? All this fuss over nothing."
"I heard it," Natasha whispers, covering her eyes with her hands. "I heard it…"
"There are lots of people working here, even at night," the nurse says gently. "Perhaps you heard one of them."
Natasha shakes her head and takes some deep breaths, her hands trembling as she pushes a loose lock of hair away from her face.
"Come on, let's get you back into bed." The nurse stands and pulls back the covers on the bed, gesturing for Natasha to get in. After a moment, Natasha reluctantly stands, steadying herself against the wall, before she staggers over to the bed and falls into it. The nurse tucks the duvet over her and places a hand on her shoulder, while Natasha stares at the wall, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.
"All right?" the nurse asks.
Natasha nods once, and after the nurse gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze, she bids her goodnight and leaves the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her, immersing the room once more into darkness. Natasha can still feel her body trembling, and pushes away her memories of the helicarrier, searching for something more comforting in the murky depths of her mind.
She tries to grasp at her last night with Loki, of the feeling of his arms locked around her, his breath on her neck, his lips grazing her shoulder. But the more she tries, the less she can get a firm grip on it. The memory dances away from her, until she can no longer remember the exact angle of his cheekbones, or the texture of his hair, tangled between her fingers.
The thing that upsets her the most, however, is that she can no longer recall the exact colour of his eyes.
"Do you regret your actions?"
"I regret getting caught," Natasha says coolly.
"Have you tried seeking support from your family?"
Natasha lets out an exaggerated sigh and stares at the ceiling, her hands resting in her lap. "My parents died when I was a kid. I have no brothers or sisters, no aunts or uncles. No family. No one."
The consultant makes a note on his pad and frowns. "What about friends?"
"Don't have those," Natasha replies. "Never found much use for them."
She hears the sound of his pen scratching on his paper and taps her index finger against the back of her hand, waiting for the next question. She knows exactly what he's doing. Double checking to make sure that she definitely doesn't have anyone who might come looking for her, who might notice her absence from the world.
"It says in your notes from Doctor Ulyanova that you have a boyfriend."
Natasha rolls her eyes. "Past tense, I think. He's serving a pretty considerable jail sentence and…that's not my problem."
"And how long has he been in jail?"
"About a month now, I think? I've kinda lost track of the time…" Her hands fiddle in her lap and her teeth pull on the inside of her lower lip. She knows she was at the care home for four weeks at least, her only mode of time keeping being the number of times she was served the almost-edible pasta.
The consultant nods, his bushy eyebrows still drawn together in a frown as he flicks through her file.
"Well, the process is fairly simple," he says, putting her file to one side and looking up at her from behind thick lensed glasses. "You'll have your first course of treatment today, and will start to feel the effects immediately. We'll be giving you the drugs intravenously, and you'll need to be restrained as muscle spasms are a fairly common side effect and we don't want you hurting anybody."
"What other side effects are there?"
The consultant twirls his pen in his fingers, his eyes piercing Natasha as he considers her. For a moment, she thinks she's gone too far, asked a much too sensible question for someone who is supposedly a danger to themselves and/or society. After a moment, his gaze softens, just a touch, and he starts to speak.
"You'll suffer some discomfort for a few hours," he says, placing his pen on the desk and steepling his fingers under his chin. "But after that the chemical imbalance in your mind should start to level out, and with that, the physical pain will lessen, until it disappears entirely."
"So it's just one dose? One dose and I'll be cured?"
"That's what we're working towards, but obviously these are trials and as such there is some room for error. It might take another course or two to be fully effective."
"Right," Natasha says simply. "So you're just gonna pump me full of drugs and hope for the best?"
"Providing we detail the results, that qualifies as science," the consultant says with a smile.
Natasha suppresses a shudder, her eyes meeting the consultant's cold blue gaze. He picks up the telephone, dials an extension number, and after a few moments, Natasha hears a tinny voice answer at the other end of the line.
"Yes, Miss Dezhnyov is ready for her first round of treatment. If you could send somebody to collect her?"
Natasha's heart rate doubles, adrenalin pumping through her. She knows that if she allows herself to be strapped down, if that IV comes anywhere near her, she's worse than dead. She'd been hoping for a little more time to get her bearings, to find Isabella and Anastasia, but she imagines they've already cleaned her room out and thrown away all of her belongings. It's not like they think she'll be needing it after her first dose of drugs, and surely they'll need to get it ready for their next human experiment.
She sits quietly, finger tapping on the arm of the sofa while she waits for her escorts to arrive. The consultant continues to watch her, his eyes magnified to alien-like proportions behind his large glasses. Eventually, the door opens, and the two escorts who came to collect her from the care home enter the room, the large, rotund one who had sat opposite her and tried to provoke a reaction from her is first in line, while the shorter, stockier one with nicotine stained fingers follows on behind.
"Treatment room?" the first one asks.
The consultant nods, and gives a dismissive wave of his hand, shooing the escorts and Natasha from the room. She gets up and heads towards the corridor, each escort placing a hand around her upper arm, gripping her firmly as they lead her down the staircase until they reach the ground floor. They frogmarch her through to the reception, but when they get to the wide, open hallway, someone else has just arrived.
Natasha recognises him instantly from the photograph; his bulbous nose and thick black moustache an immediate giveaway. He's wearing an expensive looking, tailored grey suit, his tie fastened with a chunky knot at the base of his throat, a black leather briefcase in his hand.
"Alexei!" he says cheerfully, approaching them. "How are you, my good man?"
"Very well thank you, Mr Yanayev," the larger one responds. "Very well indeed."
"And you, Pavel?"
"Wonderful, Mr Yanayev. You're looking very well yourself!"
Natasha wants to vomit at the level of sycophancy gushing from their mouths, and so she stares at the floor, trying to block out their conversation. She's so well practiced at disappearing into the depths of her mind by now that she manages to lose track of the conversation completely. That is, until Yanayev tilts her chin up with his index finger so he can look her in the eye. He tuts and shakes his head.
"Far too pretty to be trying to kill herself."
"I didn't realise being pretty went hand in hand with having a happy life," Natasha says stiffly.
"Ah, the depressed ones, always so much fun," Yanayev says fondly, smiling at Natasha. She resists the desire to clench her hand into a fist, and even more the desire to land that fist squarely in his face. Her skin prickles uncomfortably as he runs his eyes down her, and Natasha grits her teeth, waiting for it to pass.
"We're just taking her for her first course of treatment, Mr Yanayev," Alexei says. "She'll be good as new by tonight."
Yanayev bares his teeth in a grin, and Pavel sniggers, his fingertips digging painfully into Natasha's arm.
"I'll see you gentlemen later on, I have a meeting with Mr Ivchenko from the care home."
After a couple of overly polite and enthusiastic farewells, complete with good wishes and promises to speak later, Natasha is hauled towards the doors on the left side of the reception. Beyond those, she is marched down a long corridor, and for a moment, she thinks she's going to be taken through the single door at the end, but instead she is dragged off to the right. Alexei pulls his ID card out of his lanyard in order to swipe it, but before he can, there is a blood curdling scream.
Natasha whips her head around to stare at the door at the end of the corridor, knowing full well that the sound came from inside that room. Alexei pauses, twirling his ID card in his fingers, then glances at Pavel.
"Shall we show her?" he asks darkly.
Pavel narrows his eyes. "I'm not getting in trouble for it."
"Don't be such a wimp," Alexei says, then pulls Natasha over to the door, Pavel reluctantly following, his hands dug deep in his pockets as he casts a glance over his shoulder. Alexei slides his ID card and the retina scanner emits a bleep as it approves entry and the door unlocks. He pushes it open, and, one hand grasping Natasha firmly, he hauls her through the doorway, Pavel close behind, shutting the door after them.
The room is large, dimly lit, though in the centre there is a wealth of bright white spot lighting. A balding man in a white lab coat stands in front of two women, who both look like they've seen better days. Their clothes are torn, their faces dirty, and there is something in their posture, slightly crooked, that leaves Natasha feeling uneasy.
"This is what's gonna happen to you," Alexei murmurs, dragging her through a maze of metal containers covered in white sheets. Natasha tries to catch a glimpse of what's under one of them, but Alexei is moving too quickly, only stopping when they reach a collection of lab benches in the centre of the room, surrounding the brightly lit area. The two women are confined by what resembles a boxing ring but instead of ropes strung around the perimeter, there are thick shiny wires. Natasha feels sick, and the closer they draw towards the women, the more and more she begins to understand Bocharov's silence on the matter. Up close, she can see that their eyes are wild, darting around the room, panicked, an unnatural glaze settled over the top of them.
Suddenly, there is a short, sharp, burst of a whistle, and Natasha flinches, Alexei chuckling.
"Sit!"
The two women in the ring sit down on the floor, their eyes still flitting all over the place. The whistle sounds again.
"Lie down!" The man in the lab coat narrows his eyes, surveying the movements of the two women carefully as they both follow his orders. He's about to raise the whistle to his lips for a third time when he notices their presence and turns around. "You shouldn't be in here!" He looks furious with the them, eyebrows contorted into an angry scowl.
"Just wanted to give her a preview!" Alexei says, throwing Natasha forward so she can be seen clearly. She lands on the floor, her elbow jarring against the concrete painfully, and then looks up, meeting the narrowed gaze of the man in the lab coat. He smirks, and there is a burn in Natasha's throat as stomach acid rises.
"A preview? Well take a look at this, my dear." He blows the whistle, loudly and shrilly, then says one word. "Kill."
There is not even a moment's hesitation between the two women, not one second of questioning, nor doubt. They launch at one another, finger nails shredding skin, teeth sinking into flesh, the hisses and the growls and the screeches emanating from them like nothing Natasha has ever heard coming from a human. Hers eyes widen and she scuttles away from the ring, her heart pounding in her chest as she hears the sickening crunch of bone and the desperate howl of pain coming from the skinnier woman. Natasha collides with a metal cage, the white sheet covering it spilling down on top of her, blocking her vision until she manages to pull it away from her.
A flash of sparks blinds her, and Natasha shields her eyes. The heavier woman has thrown the smaller one onto the wires at the edge of the ring. Apparently they're live, because the smaller one's body judders and shudders, current coursing through her, until she is thrown back, landing on the floor of the ring, the singed ends of her hair smoking, the acrid smell of burning flesh finding its way to Natasha's nostrils. She gags, but before she can even think about being sick, she is seized by the neck. Strong skeletal fingers tighten around her, crushing her windpipe, and Natasha scrabbles at them, digging her nails in and prising the fingers away from her.
Alexei and Pavel, eyes wide, rush forward, but Natasha kicks out of them, until she finally breaks the grip of her attacker.
"Get her out of here!" the man in the lab coat yells. "Now!"
Natasha scrambles away from the cage and away from Alexei and Pavel, pushing herself to her feet and staggering past benches and ducking between the metal containers, quickly losing them in the labyrinth of cages.
"If Yanayev finds out about this - "
"He won't find out about this!"
"Just find her!"
Natasha skulks between the cages, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, rather than what the sheets are hiding. It's difficult, her stomach churning, her hands trembling, with the knowledge that there are hundreds of cages in here, each containing a patient who is granted no more space than a dog confined in a kennel. The time has come to act, and after all the waiting she's done, all the paranoia and the worry and the anxiety over not being able to get into the facility, she should feel relieved, but she doesn't. It's not just because this place is like something out of a horror movie, not just because of the sickening treatment of the victims, because while all of those things are affecting her, while she is more scared than she has ever been in her life, that they might just manage to catch her when she least expects it and strip out any last essence of humanity, the fact is that she's shaken by the experience. Her limbs feel weak, her legs jelly-like and unreliable. She knows very well that her time in the hospitals has left her strength diminished, her energy levels low, her muscle memory hazy, but she had always assumed that when the occasion came she would rise to the challenge, and her body would serve her as well as it always has. She was not prepared for the hand that shot through the bars of the cage, and even that brief struggle has drained some of her energy. She hauls oxygen into her lungs in an attempt to compensate, but all it does is quicken her heart rate further, blood pumping forcefully through her veins.
Ever since the consultant informed her that one dose would be enough to cure her, Natasha had written off the idea that she might be able to save Isabella and Anastasia. Now, as she makes her way through the cages, she finds herself tugging sheets off of them to glimpse their inhabitants, before moving on to the next one. She needs to be sure, needs to know that she won't be leaving them behind. If there's even the slightest chance that she might be able to get them out unscathed, she has to try. She owes them that much.
She ducks low as the patter of hurried footsteps sounds nearby, a few rows away, and Natasha races along at a crouch, pulling down the sheets as she goes. It only takes the briefest of glances to know that she's not found Isabella and Anastasia yet, but when she gets to the end of the row, she finds herself face to face with Pavel. He seems just as surprised to see her as she is him, and he makes a grab for her, but she dodges and he falls to the floor. He recovers quickly, pushing himself up, and opens his mouth to yell out, but Natasha must have autopilot engaged, because she has him in a headlock instantly, her spare hand gripping his jaw as she sharply tugs it to one side. There is a loud crack, and Natasha drops him to the floor, where he lies, motionless. She doesn't waste any time, and hurries along the next row, pulling the sheets down from the cages until, from the corner of her eye, she spots a head of lank, dark hair. She skids to a halt and backtracks, crouching down in front of the cage, her fingers curling around one of the bars.
She's sitting in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her head bowed. She's skinnier than Natasha's ever seen her, and it's only been a few days since they spent an afternoon splashing watercolours onto large sheets of paper. Her heart pounds in her chest, knowing that she's going to get her answer, one way or another.
"Isabella?"
She looks up, and Natasha's heart leaps, but then she sees her eyes, clouded, with that same abnormal glaze that the girls in the ring had.
"Anastasia?"
There's a split second in which Natasha clings on to her last shred of hope, but then Isabella pounces, bony fingers outstretched, teeth gnashing, and Natasha throws herself back from the cage, colliding with the one on the far side with a clatter. Isabella's hand reaches through the bars, grasping for her, but Natasha doesn't have time to worry about that, because the heavy footfalls of Alexei are getting louder and louder. He rounds the corner, beads of sweat dripping from his brow, then breaks into a sprint when he sees her, lunging for her.
Natasha rolls to the side, and Alexei crashes into one of the cages, upsetting the pale blond man inside who shrieks, his arms reaching through the bars to try and grab at Alexei. His hand closes around Alexei's ankle but Alexei kicks out viciously at him and he recoils. Natasha springs to her feet and Alexei lunges again, but she grabs him by the wrist and twists it until she hears a satisfying snap. His other fist collides with the side of her head and she finds herself trying to blink away the stark whiteness that has clouded her vision. She lashes out blindly, her knuckles connecting with him, and he stumbles, her vision clearing, eyes readjusting to the low light around the cages.
"You can't escape this," Alexei says, blood dripping from his mouth. He spits, a splatter of red landing on the floor, then wipes at his face with the back of his sleeve. "You were stupid enough to try and kill yourself, and this is what you get for it."
"Yeah," Natasha says, her eyes fixed on him as she tries to gauge his next move. "I'm the stupid one."
There is a brief look of confusion on Alexei's face before Natasha spins, her hand flying to the back of her head, her dagger materialising right on cue. She sinks it into his chest, his eyes widening with surprise, then she twists the knife a full one hundred and eighty degrees before wrenching it out of him. He falls face first to the floor, blood pooling quickly around him. He twitches for a moment, then stills, and Natasha wipes her dagger on the back of his scrubs, before she looks around, getting her bearings. She takes one last look at Isabella, who has retreated back to the corner of her cage and is now gnawing on her own forearm. Natasha turns and runs.
When she arrives back in the centre, the man in the lab coat has just ushered the victor of his patient death match back into her cage. Natasha approaches silently, drawing her hair up into a tight knot and securing it with her hair clip. He locks the cage door, covers it with a sheet, and then turns. She gleans more satisfaction than she ought to from the terror that lights his eyes, but she doesn't enjoy it for too long, and swiftly breaks his neck before he has the faintest chance of calling for help. Natasha takes the corner of the sheet and wipes Alexei's blood from her hands. She can feel nasty bruise forming on her cheek where he hit her, and is sure that she'll have another set of finger shaped bruises around her neck to match the ones she was given by Frejir. Working quickly, and trying to block out her surroundings - the scratching of nails on metal, the occasional hiss or shriek, an angry thud - Natasha takes the lab coat and pulls it on. It's far too large for her, and she has to roll the sleeves up three times before she can use her hands properly. In the pocket is an ID card, which will solve half of her problems for her. The solution to the other half of her problems is sitting in her victim's eye socket, and it's with a sigh of resignation that she lowers herself to her knees, taking hold of her dagger once more.
Were she anywhere else, she would consider this barbaric. But really, that's all relative, and despite having killed three people already, she is a veritable saint in comparison the man lying before her. There is a nauseating squelch, followed by a pop which makes Natasha's stomach lurch. She rips the eye from the skull, wiry optic nerve and all, then stands, slipping it into her pocket and wiping her hands on the bloody sheet once more. She secures her hair, her face sliding into a mask of normality, then approaches the lab benches.
At every other bench, next to the sinks, are four small gas taps. She turns the first four on, and then the second four, and then all the rest, the gentle hissing almost lost amongst the restlessness of the patients. As the air starts to look wavy and fluid, Natasha heads towards the door on the far side of the lab. She takes one last look over her shoulder before she slides her ID card through the reader, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she will never be able to wipe out this much red.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."