NOTE - This chapter is pretty violent - so you have been warned.
And thanks so much to ashs2dust, IamCarolina, xnickelodeonxx, Joy, FloraBlue, Moriarty-Assbutt, Szilorsi, , CrazyOtaku13, Princess of Mirkwood2, Katherine, Blackwidowww, Point Mann, and one lovely guest for all the reviews, as well as the faves and follows. You are magical.
7 Solitary
Lithium toxicity may occur on an acute basis in patients who accumulate high levels during ongoing chronic therapy.
Natasha groaned and shook her head, trying to rid the slurry of feedback from her brain. She was able to get on her knees, although she had to keep her forehead pressed onto the padded ground. It felt as though she were looking through thick red bars at something dirty and white.
An unknown amount of time passed before she was able to sit up and take inventory of the room where she was held: a tiny closet of a room with padded walls and noise-canceling tiles on the ceiling. For all she knew there was no entrance or exit. The scuffed white she had seen was the cotton batting covering the entire place: a claustrophobic, muted little cave.
With nowhere to go or sit Natasha leaned back against the wall, crossed her ankles. She wanted to scream, curse, punch Loki in the face for his betrayal, but she knew she had to ignore that anger and reserve her strength. The injections had tried her stamina and flexibility to the limit. She had days left at the most before she lost her sanity, and that time had just been sliced in half by the increased meds.
If she rested and reserved her strength she could take down any poor fool who was sent in with food. Or water. Or more injections.
Her mind skittered away from the last possibility. Natasha breathed slowly, forced her psyche into a relaxed state. She pretended she was back in Manchester, looking at the lily-of-the-valley blossoms by the heated fountain. The snowflakes fell lazily from a gray sky, dotted the old walkways like stars.
I imagine I am with you.
What a crock! She couldn't believe she had considered it seriously. The next time she saw the god of lies she would make him regret the one he told her.
No. Relax, Romanov. Snowflakes. Blossoms. White flowers against green leaves, and the sharp cold of the wind. The tinny sound of Japanese pop coming from a student's radio. A smell of sausages and chips from nearby cafes.
There was a slight clink, and Natasha jumped into combat position, crouching low so she could take down the visitor. Perhaps they would be holding a tray, which she could use as a weapon; it would also mean their hands would be engaged and make getting out that much easier.
That idea faded when a narrow opening near the floor appeared and widened. A cardboard tray holding a small bottle of water, more oatmeal, and a paper napkin was pushed through before the aperture slid shut. So everything was automatized including food delivery.
Stifling her disappointment Natasha ate the food, bland as it was, and drank half the water. She decided to save the rest in case she wasn't fed again for a while.
The slot opened again, and a pan slid into the room. With a sinking heart, Natasha realized its purpose; at least it was better than soiling the padded floor. Screwing up her face, she used it and dried off as well as she could with the napkin. An instant later it was withdrawn.
Obviously she was being monitored. "I'll do whatever you want," she said to the ceiling. "You can torture and pump me for information. I know a place where money is stashed, the kind that can't be traced. There are several deposit boxes in forgotten vaults filled with krugerrands, diamonds, and bonds. Another holds a secret the government would ransom in a heartbeat for an obscene amount of money. Just let me go and I'll give you all of them."
There was no response, although she seemed to detect a sort of consideration from the unseen watcher. A different type of click sounded, and two sets of slots, one on either side of her, opened. Clamps shot out, captured her wrists, and pulled her flush against the wall.
If she had been on her game it never would have happened; she could have escaped the mechanisms, used the clamps as weapons. But after several rounds of modified lithium Natasha's reaction time had slowed considerably. All she could do was watch as the clamps tightened on her arms. Two hypodermics emerged from the slots, slid under her skin, and the deadly liquid pumped into her veins.
Her mind took longer to clear after that round. Once she was able to think, Natasha guessed she had been out for about an hour; she was able to estimate the time by the red marks on her skin where she had passed out, by the sting where her right leg had fallen asleep.
Soon she wouldn't be able to avoid the injections at all. No one was going to come inside the cell where she was held. She tried climbing up to the sound-canceling tiles but fell heavily on the padded floor, wincing and cursing.
Her addled mind pictured the cell on fire, flames licking the padded walls until the smoke overcame her. Was that how it had happened in the hospital fire? Were patients stuck inside their rooms, unable to move, helpless to do anything but watch their own bright death as it approached?
Natasha shook her head and the flames disappeared. It's not real, she told herself. I'm hallucinating.
The fire was replaced by snakes, silent as they slid through the food delivery slot and directly to her legs. She felt their scales on her skin as they moved up under her hospital gown.
She pinched herself, smacked her face with her open palm. The snakes faded, leaving her with chills that shook her body followed by the heat of severe fever.
Was this it? Her enhanced system had overcome many things in the past, but could it fight back against the continued onslaught of super drugs? Natasha put her head in her hands and wept a little. The tears seeped through her fingers. If she was crying, her entire physique was starting to weaken.
No, she refused to go that way. If she died, it would be on her own terms - as the Black Widow. Natasha got up, felt her way to the bottle of water, allowed herself one small sip. The warm liquid cleared her mind, allowed her to start a new series of plans. She was being watched, so perhaps she could enact a Beijing scenario – make them think she was dead, send someone in for the corpse, and when they did she would take the orderlies down. Make them pay.
Before she could gather her wits enough to begin the scenario the slots opened once more, and she was pulled back against the wall by the clamps. The needles stuck her skin, and it all happened again.
The next time she woke she heard an oily snick. At that point any sounds equaled more injections in her confused, tilted, padded world. Natasha tried to move, eyes widening with horror as she realized while she was out someone had placed her inside some kind of shroud, tight enough to make any movement impossible. Her only view was through a slit in the metal casket surrounding her.
A line appeared in the padding of one white wall and widened into a doorway. Dr. Holmes entered with a hand truck; he whistled when he saw her. "You'll make a wonderful addition to my collection. I deserve a small celebration..." He removed a tiny bag filled with white powder, dug out a helping on the nail of his little finger, and held the stuff to one nostril. Natasha heard the sound of his short, strong inhale followed by a long "Aaaaah."
So the doctor himself was using. Was there any way, immobilized as she was, of forcing that to her advantage? She tried not to consider the fact his drug habit in front of her meant he already considered her as nothing more than a bag of bones.
She felt the floor tilt as he put her metal pod on the hand truck. The wheels squeaked as the doctor rolled her casket down a hall filled with doorways. As they passed voices could be heard begging for water, for food, for more injections.
Natasha was loaded into a service elevator, the kind with rippled insulation blankets instead of finished walls. A small click echoed down the shaft as the doctor pressed a button, and the sensation of descent followed. Her stomach rolled slightly, and she counted backwards to stop herself from being sick inside the shroud.
She couldn't even wriggle her fingers or move a toe. White blossoms, Natasha thought. Swing dancing. Japanese pop.
I imagine I am with you.
The elevator doors opened, and she was pushed forward. "Gas chamber over there, next to the extraction room," Dr. Holmes said. He came into view of the slit in front of Natasha's eyes as he pushed a button; a light turned on to reveal a lab behind a pane of glass.
The bright interior leapt into her vision, revealing something like the illustrations from Grey's Anatomy. Inside the room a body hung on a large hook; at some recent point the man or woman - it was impossible to tell which - had been completely flayed.
Hurriedly she closed her eyes and prayed the sight wouldn't stay with her for long to haunt her future dreams. "Whass point?" she managed to croak. Her voice was hollow inside the metal prison.
"Organs," he replied cheerfully. "We harvest them and sell them on the black market. Alas, the enhanced lithium increases antidiuresis. But you wouldn't understand what that means…"
"Kidneys," Natasha interrupted. Speaking made her shudder, and she swallowed again so she wouldn't vomit down the front of the metal shroud and choke on her own puke. "You can't sell the kidneys."
"Yes, well done." His voice was light as though a failing student had just produced an unexpectedly good answer in class. "It's unfortunate because the kidney market is so profitable. Still, we use every other scrap available: eyes, skin, even hair. And the skeleton of course – third world markets, you understand."
"Murder Hotel," Natasha said. "Chicago World's Fair. Dr. Holmes."
There was an extended silence. "My name is indeed taken from that illustrious genius, as are the plans for this hospital. I used his ideas: the hidden passages, the laboratory, the back entrance for receiving and shipping. You are much more intelligent than I thought…"
"Of course she is, you idiot. She's the Black Widow." The low voice came from the other end of the long, dark passage.
Through the slit in her metal shroud, Natasha saw Loki; he carried a scalpel and wore an expression of utter fury. Behind her the doctor lunged as though he were reaching for something; Loki's hand flicked and the tiny blade sang past her coffin prison.
There was a meaty thunk, and a large object dropped to the floor. Whatever it was didn't move again.
She was just able to watch Loki approach. A set of keys appeared in his hand, and he fiddled with the side of the iron encasing her. After a few minutes and a long string of Norse curses, Loki managed to get the shroud to open from a hinge in its side, like an Iron Maiden without spikes. Natasha fell out, her knees completely weak, and he caught her before she could hit the floor.
She tried to talk but couldn't make her mouth work. Loki lifted her up in his arms, cradling her head with one hand. "I am sorry," he whispered. "I did not mean for you to be taken to such a place or be forced to see those horrors. Natasha, I am so very sorry."
Something was wrong with those words, but Natasha was too tired to figure it out. "Doctor?" she managed to ask.
"Dead."
Her head nodded against his shoulder as he retrieved the scalpel, not agreeing with anything Loki said but because she simply couldn't hold herself up any longer. There was a series of bobbing movements as they seemed to be leaving the hall, going down a stairway, out into a garage flickering under fitful neon lights. "Wait," she croaked. "Files. Information."
Loki waved a memory stick at her. "Here. It's all here."
A clang behind them. Natasha knew who it was as soon as she heard the voice: "Blood! Gonna be a lot of blood!"
Carl was there, wielding a baseball bat. He hit one of the supports of the garage, making another metallic, singing noise.
In one smooth motion, Natasha plucked the scalpel from Loki's hand and threw the knife. It landed with a singing hiss in the man's left eyeball, quivered, before he fell on the ground with a loud smack.
"You wanted blood, asshole? You got it." It was the last thing she could say before her head swam and she began to cough, thinking her throat might rip with the effort.
Loki opened a car door – somehow, he must have stolen a set of keys - and placed her carefully into the vehicle. Natasha felt the faux leather of a truck seat under her and heard the rev of an engine, followed by the squeal of tires forced into a death spiral.
A bump as Loki steered the truck up a ramp. The white splotch of Rebecca's face, shouting and waving a Colt Commander in an amateurish fashion before she dove out of the truck's way.
Sudden pops of sound as she shot at them.
Tree branches, brushing the windshield of the truck hurtling into the darkness.
Loki's face, intent on the forest in front of them.
Natasha gagged and retched, wondering if it was all another hallucination or really happening before she passed out.