Chapter Text
Oliver woke up alone, face down in an iron-barred prison cell. The air smelled stale with a hint of wet metal. It left an iron taste in the back of his dry throat. The only sounds were his own breathing and a faint distant rumble of a massive but far away machine somewhere beyond the long dark hallway the cell faced. The floor below his naked cheek was pockmarked cold cement wrinkled with fractures. A single strobing lightbulb swayed above him. His uniform was missing, replaced by navy sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. There were no marks, no bruises—at least not any new ones. He was barefoot, goose bumped, and alone.
Oliver rolled over, twisted his knees beneath him and hopped up without touching his fingertips to the floor. His stomach growled, his limbs felt stiff, he was thirsty, his bladder was full, and his facial hair was slightly longer… He’d been unconscious for at least a day, he estimated. The last thing he remembered was walking to a bar with…
Oliver banged his fists against the bars and shouted, “Barry?” His gruff, gravelly voice echoed down the unlit, empty hallway. “Barry!” Nothing answered. Oliver cursed, then busied himself combing every inch of the cell looking for a way out or something he could use as a weapon. All he found was dust and grime. The walls were tall and perfectly smooth. He couldn’t climb them even if there was something to climb up to. Pushing and pulling on the iron bars did nothing but wear him out.
A scream. Male. A scream of pain, Oliver deduced. It came from the other end of the black hall. Minutes later there was the sound of a door opening and every lightbulb in the hall flashed on. Oliver counted six pairs of boots marching towards him a whole quarter minute before he actually saw the black-uniformed men. Two dragged a limp, face down body between them. The man’s gray shirt was splattered with blood, his navy sweatpants were ripped, and there was a black device around each bare ankle.
The lead soldier unlocked the cell door, then hesitated and ordered Oliver to step away. Oliver stood his ground in the center of the cell. The soldier took out his sidearm and pointed it at Oliver’s chest and, still, Oliver wouldn’t move. He did move, then, immediately when the soldier put the gun to the unconscious man’s head. Oliver raised his hands in surrender and backpedaled until his back hit the far wall. And then he dove forward—dove forward because the soldiers tossed the unconscious man into the cell like he was nothing more than a bag of garbage. Oliver caught him under the armpits and the man’s forehead bounced off his shoulder. The archer fell with the man’s momentum but slowed it, gradually, and landed with the man’s back on the inside of his left leg. Oliver held the man against his chest for a moment, and then settled him snugly down into his lap with his left arm beneath his shoulders and neck.
Startled, Oliver inhaled sharply when he discovered open blue eyes. He wasn’t unconscious after all. “Barry?”
Barry Allen closed and re-opened his eyes in a slow blink. He didn’t make eye contact with Oliver, only stared up at the ceiling, straight past him, like he wasn’t there. His bruised lips were slightly parted, and blood dripped from a cut half an inch from his right eye. His breaths were consistent but very shallow. He didn’t move in Oliver’s arms. Not even a twitch. A red light on the devices around his ankles blinked.
Oliver shook him. “Barry. Barry!” he barked. Barry blinked again. He still stared at nothing. His eyebrows were creased mid-frown. Oliver snapped his fingers in front of Barry’s eyes and shouted his name louder. “Barry, look at me! Look at me!”
The proverbial lightbulb went off in Oliver’s head. He suddenly remembered that he knew that stare. He’d seen it on dozens of faces… Including his own. Nausea crept into Oliver’s throat. He swallowed the heat of it, ordered the tears to stay away, and changed his tactics. Gently, he took Barry’s limp left hand in his right and interlocked their fingers. He adjusted Barry’s head so that his chin was against Oliver’s chest with their eyes staring straight at each other. With his left hand he massaged Barry’s shoulder.
And then he whispered, in a big brother’s voice, “Bare… It’s me.”
Barry blinked again. His face remained expressionless.
Oliver kept massaging Barry’s shoulder and squeezing his hand. “It’s Oliver.” Oliver counted to ten before he spoke again. “I’m here.” Barry’s pupils dilated slightly. “I’m here.” Barry blinked quicker—blinked normally. Something like a spark reawakened in Barry’s eyes. His face remained expressionless, but some light returned to his eyes. “I’ve got you.”
Barry didn’t make a sound, but his chapped lips formed the name, “Oliver.” He squeezed his friend’s fingers.
Oliver summoned a sincere smile. He nodded. Barry nodded back at him. The speedster swallowed twice, then licked his lips. He squeezed his eyes as tight as he could, then opened them as wide as he could. Meanwhile, he stretched his back, arms, and legs long and wide, and Oliver heard his joints creak and crack. Minutes passed before he tried to speak again and, this time, he succeeded.
“Ollie…” Barry whispered, “it hurts…”
Oliver’s chin briefly trembled. “What did they use on you?”
Barry frowned. The thousand-yard stare started to return but it retreated when Oliver gave him a little shake. “Fists. T-taser. Knives. F-fire. And…” Oliver looked down at the black devices around his ankles. “Those.”
“What are they?”
“They emit soundwaves that break…” Barry swallowed hard and then looked up into Oliver’s eyes. “My ankles are broken… And those things are scheduled to automatically break them again in an hour.”
To Be Continued