Chapter 6
Six more hours passed. The two boys spent it breathing deeply and hoping their wounds would stop bleeding. Oliver was tired, so tired. It had been about 18 hours since he became sober. He was in pain and he was tired and his stomach growled for food and water. He wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Maybe he would wake up in just a bit, realizing this was all some terrible dream. He and Peter didn’t talk anymore. They asked all the questions they could think of in the first six hours and now they both just wanted, despite still being in denial, to grieve the rest of their lives. Oliver kept coming back to never graduating, never standing up to his mother, and never getting married. He kept thinking he would die and his parents would put the wrong name on his gravestone. He didn’t even have anyone that would argue with them on it.
Occasionally, in the six hours, Oliver found himself crying. He didn’t really want to, but it was better than crying on camera, for Mr. Stark and probably countless others to see. He wanted to go out and for someone to know that he resisted. That he fought as hard as he could. Even if he failed, the fight was honourable. They would remember that he fought.
Oliver didn’t look up when the door opened again. He knew he was probably going first this time. He knew the routine by now. They all put on their stupid little masks, the camera turns on, they threaten Mr. Stark who clearly isn’t listening and then they torture. At least the pain was predictable.
“You first again.” The woman smiled at Oliver. Smiled at the absolute dread and exhaustion dripping from his face. “I have something new this time, as this is the last session. We’ve made something custom.” She seemed excited. The camera wasn’t on yet. Oliver didn’t fight the guards, not even when they opened one of the three doors leading out of the room. The new room was small, it had another camera set up pointed at a metal surgical table. In the corner of the room, a machine stood. It had prongs and levers and buttons. Looked very complicated. The two guards hoisted Oliver up onto the table, securing the metal cuffs attached to the table around his neck, wrists and ankles. Oliver assumed electrocution.
The woman followed him into the room. The two guards left. The room was small enough so only Oliver and the woman fit. She put on her mask and turned the camera on.
“Mr. Stark. I’m disappointed. Clearly, I didn’t find good enough subjects to take from you. Well, six more hours and they’ll both be dead anyway. Neither of our problems anymore.” The woman turned back to Oliver. Oliver looked at her, empty eyes. “As I said, this is something new I’ve been working on.” She took a needle with a wire attached to the machine. “See, I’ve figured out how to direct electrical flow to specific parts of the brain.” She stuck the needle into Oliver's scalp. He gasped, straining his neck as far away as he could. “Now, the best way I’ve decided to use this lovely machine is to direct electrical current into the parts of your brain where you feel pain.” She put another needle in. “Now, I expect you will scream, after all, this machine is designed to give you the most amount of pain possible for you to feel.” She pressed a button on the machine. Lights flashed and a screen started up. She typed something in and smiled. “Now, it’s never been tested before so, this might cause permanent brain damage, but you’re going to die soon anyway. Not my problem.” Oliver felt the tightness in his chest twist tighter again. “Are You ready?” The woman waited for a response, her hand on a lever on the side of the machine.
“Fuck you, lady.” If this was his last proper moment, he would use it to fight. They would know that he fought. The woman chuckled and pulled down the lever.
Oliver screamed. The sound ripped out of his throat like a wild animal. Uncontrollable. The pain was excruciating. Pulsing up and down his body in waves of agony. He closed his eyes. He hadn’t been religious in years but god, he prayed. He fought as hard as he could. Straining against the restraints so hard they cut into his skin. His struggle opened the newly formed scabs on his back. He barely noticed. It’s not like he could stop anyway. The only thing he could do was try to get away. Please let him get away. He needed to leave. Whether death or unconsciousness or getting out of this hell, he needed out. He sobbed. Crying out for anything that would listen. Any god, any sympathy, anything he had given up on long ago. He could smell his sweat and blood mixing again, as well as a faint burning smell.
The woman pulled the lever lower. The pain grew worse. Oliver swore his head would explode. He wouldn’t even be upset if it did he just– god he just wanted the pain to stop. The scream drowned itself, falling into more of a sob, more of a desperate noise. He didn’t have the energy, didn’t have the power to keep going. God he couldn’t keep going. He tasted blood filling his mouth. He didn’t even know where from. It choked him, bubbling at the back of his throat.
The woman lowered the lever once more, to the bottom. Oliver’s eyes shot open. The bright lights of the room felt cold on his skin. The smile of that fucking woman from the bus stop swam in his vision. He couldn’t even tell if he was really seeing it. The scream came out of him without trying now. As if it was his natural state. He could feel the current flowing into his brain and ripping it apart. Washing through his body and tearing out everything it could. It was too much. It was too much. The lights were so bright. The machine was humming so loudly. The pain was like air, everywhere. It was fucking everywhere. His eyes rolled back into his head. A mighty crashing, as if the world was screaming with him, rang through his ears.
Everything stopped. Oliver lay there. Restrained on the table. In the dark. The lights had all gone out. The machine had stopped. He was still in so much pain. Too much pain to pay any attention to the noise outside he knew was happening. Everything hurt so much. Tears, snot and blood wet his face, people ran around the table he lay on. He just kept staring at the ceiling, where those bright lights had been. Kept breathing. Kept his heart beating. Another wave of pain went through him, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. He sobbed. Someone took off his restraints. Oliver didn’t move. He didn’t know if he could.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Oliver? We have to go. I– I got us a way out.” Oliver turned to look, he could barely make out Peter’s face desperately looking at him in the dark. “Can you stand?” Oliver nodded. He was so tired. It was terrible, sitting up. He did it though. He even swung his legs over the side of the metal table. He took Peter’s hand and pushed himself off the table. Peter looked at him, making sure he was alright. Another wave of pain shot through Oliver’s body. He cried out, nearly collapsing. Peter barely caught him, swinging Oliver’s arm over his shoulder. “It’s okay. Shhh, it’s okay we’re going to get out of here soon.” Oliver whimpered. Peter dragged him out of the tiny room. He didn’t know where the woman had gone, but he could just make out the guards and the cameraman. They were on the floor. It smelled like rusted iron. He tried to use his feet. To fight the pain for just moments to get through the room. They reached the door. Oliver’s head lulled on Peter’s shoulder. He was just so tired, and Peter was so soft and warm.
Peter grabbed the door and shook the handle. Locked. He readjusted Oliver on his shoulder and grabbed the handle again. This time he pulled harder. The door swung open, nearly hitting Peter in the face. He dragged Oliver through. They could make it out. They just had to keep moving.
Oliver looked up, how had he just ripped the door open like that? It didn’t make any sense. Peter was dragging him through what looked to be an empty warehouse. The windows above them showed a night sky. Deep and inky with little dots of stars. He didn’t think he’d see the stars again. He mumbled to Peter about them. Peter ignored him and kept dragging him through the warehouse. A gunshot rang out in the strangely silent night. Peter whipped his head around, and Oliver’s rolled in the general direction. The woman leaned against the doorway. One hand on her bleeding head. The other hand holding a gun aimed at Peter and Oliver.
Peter tugged on Oliver. Oliver groaned. “Come on, I know it hurts. I know.” his voice broke as he tried to get Oliver moving. “Please if we can just make it through that door.” Oliver looked at the end of the warehouse. Two heavy metal doors stood. Tiny windows show the light from outside. The wave of pain came again. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth and tried to keep standing. They could get out. It was so close and Oliver knew it he just had to keep going.
They ran, sort of. Peter ran as hard as he could half drag Oliver. Another gunshot rang out. She missed again. The third time's the charm. They were so close. Nearly steps away from the door. Peter reached out his arm, grasping at the handle. He whipped it open as hard as he could, slamming it against the wall.
A dozen swat team members stood at the open door. Guns and shields wielded. Iron man stood in front, aiming his hand at the door. They both stared at each other for a moment, neither expecting the other. Another wave of pain hit Oliver. He didn’t fight his buckling knees this time. Didn’t bite down the sob. Didn’t have restraints stopping him from clutching his head. His knees hit the floor and he barely caught himself with his forearms. He was shaking. He just wanted the pain to stop. He felt someone's hand on his back. Felt himself flinching away, the touch causing burning pain. Everything was painful. It was so much and Oliver just wanted it to be over. Just wanted to rest. He closed his eyes. Someone tried pushing him into a sitting position. He cried out, feeling his eyes roll back into his head.
Finally, Relief.