Angel of War

Chapter 6: The Call & The Promise

She gasped for air. 

Sounds and feelings started to stream clearly into her mind. There was static. She opened her eyes. Fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Then the pain started to register. A groan choked out of her as she tried to move. She wasn't strapped down this time. Her head felt like it was full of coins, clunky and heavy. She carefully rolled on her elbow to sit up, but stinging stopped her. She turned her wrist to examine it. There were staples sticking out around her arm, pulling the skin together over a dark incision. Specks of white crowded her vision. She fought it, propping herself up with the other elbow. She'd seen blood before. It was fine. There was a pull at her neck when she moved. Her fingers discovered more staples and scabbed tissue there. What had happened to her? She was dressed in dark-stained overalls. Oh yes… The tiled floor triggered recent memories; cold air and sunlight, metal and… him. That man. Heisenberg. He was smiling… And then reminders of pain. 

She forced her eyes shut. Where were they?  'My factory.' Why did she feel familiar when thinking of him? He smiled at her a lot. He made her feel safe… safer than what? But they'd just met. How? She had woken up to him before and he helped her. He told her about Miranda and some other people with large names. Miranda? Mother… Those eyes that made her feel insignificant. The needles and screaming. She opened her eyes. Just tiles here. No eyes. She looked around. No Heisenberg either. 

She tried moving her legs off the hard surface. They were heavy. There were wedges of metal on either side of her calves. Asymmetrical bands of wire and strips were holding them together. The skin between looked dark and bruised, but it just felt numb. 

She lifted the fabric of the pants to move each leg over the side and questioned if she should try standing. The floor rumbled under her boots when they touched it. It was steady and strong, coaching her heartbeat to fix itself. The thought of being in crisper air encouraged her to move. 

A shooting pain erupted from each leg like getting pricked with pins on every nerve. She steadied herself against the table and pushed through the nerve warnings until she was standing. There was a workbench across from her. Surely she could walk that distance. Each step became easier to ignore. Soon she was feeling around the metal fragments on the bench like a kid in a sandbox. She looked around the room with her hands busy, noting the jars of fleshy contents, tools, and scribbled notes. But where was he? She pocketed one of the smooth metal knick knacks before shuffling to the doorway to wander around.
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He had taken a well needed break after fixing her up again. This was now being established as him having a few drinks and taking a nap face-first into the desk. He didn't wake at the shuffle of boots in the doorway. 

He did, unfortunately, wake to the phone ringing. 

He groaned and with a lift of his fingers, the phone's receiver was summoned over to his still heavy face.

"H-hello?" He tried clearing his throat as quietly as he could in case it was Miranda and he needed to sound presentable.

"Ah, Lord Heisenberg." It was Dimitrescu. "I was just calling to make sure you weren't so blackout drunk over your failure that you missed the meeting." He groaned more internally this time as he grabbed the receiver. He could hear her snickering daughters in the background. This needed a deep breath.

"Would it kill you to mind your own damn business?" He took great pleasure in cutting off her amused scoff by hanging it back on the dialer. 

"Fucking witch…" She always knew the worst times to jab at him. 

He rubbed at his eyes with the tips of his gloved fingers. Hair all draped in front of his eyes, he almost didn't see her when he turned to the room over his shoulder. But there she was, standing with clasped hands in the doorway. FUCK.