Chapter 10: Revelations

I can't do this – I can't take any more…..

Oliver could feel the water splashing over his face, soaking the cloth that covered his eyes, nose and mouth. He braced himself. Twenty, thirty times he'd been through this, but every time his body's response had been the same. Senses deceived, his airways instantly contracted. And then he was drowning, fighting for air that would not come. Panicking, he pulled at the straps and chains that held him, trying to free himself. It was useless, of course – his captors had made sure of that. Terrified, he tried to control himself, tell himself that he was strong, he could get through this. His courage was all but gone, however. Seconds passed, seconds that seemed like hours. Still the water splashed on him, choking him, sapping his will to resist…

How long? How long had this been happening? Minutes? Hours? Dazed and disorientated, he'd lost all track of time. Every attack had followed a similar pattern. One of the women would place the cloth over his face, using it to lever his head backwards. Stretching it taut over his features, she would then use the rag to hold him in place as the other woman slowly poured water over his face. It was simulated drowning, one of the oldest methods of torture known to man. As simple as it was effective, it was said that after just a few seconds it could cause even the strongest of men to break, forcing them to spill their deepest and darkest secrets to interrogators who had barely lifted a finger to make them talk. That option wasn't available to Oliver. He couldn't bring this nightmare to an end by offering up the secrets of the Justice League, because his tormentors weren't interested in getting information out of him. All they wanted was one thing - to see him suffer.

He understood what was going on, how they were trying to break him down, piece by piece. But that didn't matter; what mattered was that it was working. When they'd started to torture him he'd tried to stay focused, to shield himself mentally from what his body was being forced to endure. He'd been a prisoner before, and resisting torture was at the heart of his physical and psychological training. He'd held up well the first three or four times they'd done it to him, but then his courage had started to fail. The walls he'd built in his mind to protect himself had crumbled away like dust, leaving him defenceless and vulnerable. Pride and self-respect gone, soon he was pleading with them, begging them to stop. He'd offered them money, promised to betray his friends – anything, everything, he just needed it to be over. It was what they wanted, of course – to see him abase himself like that. They'd taunted him, laughed in his face – the mighty Green Arrow, whimpering like a scared little boy. Ashamed, humiliated, he'd wept, cried for mercy, but nothing made any difference. They were enjoying themselves too much to stop now, and so it had continued, twenty times, twenty five times, thirty times…..

Suddenly the rag was pulled from his face. He flung his head forward, coughing and choking as he gulped the air.

"Enjoy that one, fucker?" sneered the woman who had held him down. "Twenty seconds – how about next time we go for thirty?"

Oliver didn't reply. Spit and mucous dribbling from his mouth, he stared downwards. Confronting him was the mark Desaad's brand had left, seared into his chest. The iron had burnt deep into his flesh, scaring his once spotless skin. The wound was raw, but the water had washed it clean, so that the shape of the omega could be clearly seen. It made Oliver sick to look at it. Like a badge of dishonour, it shamed him, symbolised his failure to stand up to the psychopaths that had taken him prisoner. After all he'd been through, all he'd suffered at the hands of Luthor and Slade Wilson, was it really going to end like this?

"I said, did you enjoy that one, fucker?" repeated the woman, more insistently this time. She slapped him around the face a couple of times, determined to get a response.

"Please…. I can't….," mumbled Oliver, barely able to respond.

"What was that? You need to speak up, pretty boy – I can't hear you."

"Please…."

"I said, SPEAK –THE – FUCK - UP!" yelled the woman, leaning down and getting right in his face like some school yard bully. Cowed, Oliver turned his head away, not wanting to look her in the eye.

"Look at you, you worthless piece of shit!" she continued contemptuously, grabbing him by the chin and forcing him to turn his head back. "They told us you were a hero, Queen, that it would be difficult to make you crack. You're no fucking hero – you're nothing, do you hear? NOTHING!"

"Go to hell!" replied Oliver, the rage he felt inside bubbling up out of nowhere and driving away the fear that had gripped him for so long. Overcome with frustration and anger, he then did something that neither of them expected: he spat in the woman's face.

Almost immediately he regretted it. The woman lashed out, striking Oliver so hard he would have fallen over had the chair not been bolted to the floor. "That make you feel good, did it, Queen?" she snarled. "Mary, give me the knife – time we taught this fuck some manners."

Straddling him, she grabbed Oliver by the hair, yanking his head back so that his neck lay bare and exposed. A second later and he felt the touch of the blade against his adam's apple, cold and menacing.

"So handsome, so….. hot," she leered, her face so close to his Oliver could feel her breath on his cheek. Slowly, menacingly, she dragged the knife upwards, until it came to rest just under his chin. "I can see why Desaad can't wait to get inside those tight leather pants of yours – you really are something special, aren't you?"

Paralysed, Oliver eyes strained rightwards, searching for Desaad. He wasn't there.

"He can't save you," gloated the woman, reading Oliver's mind. "It's just you and me, pretty boy, and you know something? I can't wait to see you bleed."

Brutally, she jerked Oliver's head to the left. She then placed the knife at the base of his right ear. Grinning sadistically, she prepared to slice deep….

"Harriet, that's enough!"

All eyes turned towards the door. Desaad stood there, his face like thunder.

The woman hesitated, as if she was weighing the pleasure she would get from torturing Oliver against the risk of incurring Desaad's wrath still further. Finally, she lowered the knife.

"Another time, pretty boy," she whispered in Oliver's ear, before slowly getting up and retreating to the far side of the room. Desaad stepped forward, his displeasure at what had happened plain to see.

"I gave strict instructions – you were to limit yourselves to the water treatment, nothing more," he said angrily, looking from one woman to the other. "This operation requires discipline from all of us, including you. Disobedience will not be tolerated, do you understand?"

Sullenly, the two women nodded.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

"Now clean him up – I want him in the Viewing Room in ten minutes."

Eight minutes later and Oliver found himself being pulled along a dimly lit corridor. His feet had been untied, but he could barely walk; as a result the two women had little choice but to drag him to the so-called "Viewing Room." Oliver's hands remained bound behind his back, so there was no chance of escape. Even if he'd been free he doubted he'd have the strength to overpower his captors. The water torture had left him physically exhausted, but in the minutes that had passed since Desaad's intervention his mind at least had started to recover. His head clearing, he tried to put the degradations of the previous hours behind him. He couldn't undo what had happened, take back the words that had left him feeling ashamed, humiliated; all that mattered now was to survive. Whatever mind games Desaad was playing, reason told him the guys must be looking for him, and with all the resources of the Justice League behind them it would only be a matter of time before they figured out what was happening. He just needed to hang on a little longer, and then they'd find him, and this nightmare would be over…..

Viewing Room. What had Desaad meant by that? Why were they taking him there? Presumably to see something – or maybe he was the one to be "viewed"? If so, by whom? So many questions, but still he had no answers. As they came to a halt in front of a large steel door he was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. What if this was it – what if he was now to get those answers he'd been looking for since this whole thing started? What if the answers were so terrifying, so awful, he would be better off not knowing…?

Opening the door, the women dragged him inside. Two blows, one to the gut and the other to the neck, sent him crashing to his knees. Recovering, he looked up, to find Desaad staring down at him. An elderly woman stood beside him, who Oliver didn't recognise; his memory of his visit to the clinic wiped, he had no idea this was the second time he'd come face to face with Granny Goodness. Behind them was a huge expanse of blackened glass, so large it filled an entire wall. Oliver knew immediately what it was – a one way mirror, which at the press of a button would reveal whatever was going on in the room beyond.

"Welcome, Mr Queen – I hope you've had time to recover from the attentions of Harriet here," said Desaad dryly. The anger of minutes earlier had disappeared; this was the Desaad that Oliver was familiar with, as smooth as he was sinister.

"Cut the crap, Desaad," replied Oliver angrily; determined to banish for good what had happened earlier, he had no intention of displaying the slightest sign of weakness.

"Shut your mouth, boy!" snapped Harriet, slapping him hard around the head.

"I'm pleased you've rediscovered your courage, Oliver," said Desaad, amused by his prisoner's newfound defiance. "After that display we had earlier, I was beginning to worry the Green Arrow wasn't going to live up to his reputation."

"Untie my hands and you'll learn about my reputation, you sick son-of-a-bitch!"

Desaad smiled. "Ahh, the famous Queen bravado! Sorry, Oliver, but I'm afraid words won't be enough to save you this time – just like they won't be enough to save the lives of your heroic young associates."

At the mention of his friends a flicker of fear passed over Oliver's face. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but it was enough; Desaad had seen it, and it gave him the cue he was looking for.

"What – did you think this was all about you?" he asked, feigning surprise at his prisoner's reaction. "I'm afraid your vanity has got the better of you, Oliver. Breaking you is merely an entertaining diversion – something to amuse me, nothing more. No, our ambitions extend much further – to the destruction of the Justice League itself."

This time Oliver didn't reply. He felt sick, the knot of fear that had been gnawing away at his gut no longer possible to ignore…

"Yes, Oliver, we know all about your little team," continued Desaad, cool and composed. "Cyborg, Aquaman, the boy, Harper – the famous band of vigilantes, all doting on their fearless leader, the mighty Green Arrow. I wonder if they'd feel the same way if they had seen how quickly you were prepared to betray them to save your skin back there – hardly the heroic self-sacrifice they've come to expect, now was it? "

Oliver could feel his face burning with shame. Desaad's words had found their target, and both men knew it.

"Of course you've failed your team before, haven't you?" said Desaad, warming to his theme; he had the young hero on the ropes, and he had no intention of letting up now. "Bart Allen's death – does that still give you nightmares, I wonder? He'd still be alive today, if you hadn't insisted on pursuing your childish vendetta against Lex Luthor. Just like that cop friend of yours, what was his name? Caruso? Dean Caruso?"

Oliver gritted his teeth, struggling to keep his emotions under control. He knew that Desaad was trying to goad him, and he was damned if he was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him crack.

"It seems that people who know you have a habit of turning up dead, Oliver. Still, at least when we kill the rest of your band of freaks they can't say they hadn't been warned."

Oliver looked up and glared at his captor, his eyes filled with fear and anger.

"Oh yes, Oliver. They are all marked for death – Curry, Stone, Harper, all of them. Not forgetting the greatest prize of all, of course – Superman himself. We have something very special planned for your kryptonian friend, Kal-El – such a shame you won't be alive to see it."

Desaad paused for a second or two, allowing his words to hang heavy in the air. Oliver was reeling. It was bad enough that his friends' lives were in danger, but the fact that Desaad knew about Clark felt like a hammer blow to the gut. He'd done everything in his power to conceal his connection to Clark, put in place measures that nothing on earth could crack, and yet still they'd managed to discover his secret. It was as if Desaad knew everything about him, as if he'd been inside his mind…..

"You won't get away with this," he stammered, trying to convince himself as much as his captors. "You may have got me, but the others - you won't get them so easy…."

"What – you think their abilities will save them?" said Desaad, smiling broadly; the moment of his coup de theatre had arrived. "Oh, we know all about the powers of your freaks, Oliver – that's why we've been able to do this."

On cue, the blackened glass suddenly cleared, and for the first time Oliver could see what lay beyond. He gasped. There, shackled to a wall not eight feet away, stood Victor. At least he thought it was Victor – it was difficult to tell. Stripped to the waist, the young hero had been beaten to within an inch of his life. Deep cuts and burn marks covered every inch of his body, the pool of blood at his feet a terrible sign of the horrific agonies that had been visited upon him. Slumped forward so that the chains that bound him took his weight, for a second Oliver feared he might be dead. Then he moaned – a low, terrible sound, so awful it brought a lump to Oliver's throat. He felt helpless, sick. Victor was one of the strongest men he knew – how had this happened? How the hell had they captured him?

"Victor Stone, the Cyborg," said Desaad, enjoying the look of utter desolation and despair on his captive's face as he stared at his stricken friend. "As you can see, Oliver, his abilities couldn't save him – just like they won't save the rest of your little band of heroes."

"How? How have you done this?"

"How have I done this? No, no, no, Oliver – you don't understand. I haven't done anything at all. You did this – or rather he did, using that virus you had your team at Queen Industries develop."

"What do you mean? What is this?"

"You still don't understand, do you?" said Desaad, like a teacher lecturing a particularly slow student. "Here, let me explain."

Reaching out, he pressed a button to the left of the glass screen.

"Mr Queen, would you show yourself, please."

Confused, Oliver watched. A moment later and a man appeared, just inches from the screen. Stunned, Oliver's jaw fell open. The man wasn't just wearing his costume - he was him. The face, the hair, the build – everything was identical.

No….. It's not possible…..!

"Oliver Queen, allow me to introduce…. Oliver Queen!" declared Desaad dramatically, like a society host introducing a guest of honor at a charity ball. There was a murmur of appreciation from the others in the room, who were clearly enjoying the little scene that Desaad had so carefully engineered. Only Goodness remained unmoved; stony-faced, she continued to stare at Oliver, her lip curled in contempt at the fallen hero.

Oliver was struck dumb, hardly able to believe what his eyes were telling him. There, standing just a couple of feet away on the other side of the glass, was his double. It was like looking in a mirror, so perfect was the likeness. Only the man's expression gave a hint that something was wrong. The smile, always so natural and unforced in the real Oliver, was hard, almost a sneer. And the eyes – they were lifeless, like the eyes of a killer….

"Remarkable, isn't it? I still can't quite believe it myself," said Desaad, moving to the glass and peering at Bates, who stood motionless, as if waiting for something. "But here he is - the perfect doppelganger. And he doesn't just look like you, Oliver – he is you."

"No…..No, this is some sort of trick…."

"Oh, this is no trick, Oliver – I can assure you of that. As far as the world is concerned, he is Oliver Queen. A perfect facsimile – so perfect, in fact, he's even fooled your friend Victor there."

"You're lying," whispered Oliver, shaking his head. "He can't have….."

"You don't believe me? Then let me give you a demonstration – something to show you how convincing our new Mr Queen there really is."

Again Desaad pressed the button to the side of the screen.

"Mr Queen, our guest is unconvinced – would you be so kind as to lay his doubts to rest, please?"

Responding to Desaad's request, Bates turned towards Victor. Oliver watched as he grabbed the young hero by the chin and lifted his head, so that for the first time the full extent of the injuries to his face could be seen. Oliver's stomach turned. Swollen and bloodied, Victor's face was barely recognisable, his features smashed to a pulp. He looked terrified, staring like a frightened child into the eyes of a man whose behaviour was as inexplicable as it was terrifying. Sickened, Oliver realised at that moment that Victor hadn't simply been tortured – he'd been tortured by the monster who now stood before him, the monster who somehow had taken his appearance and now threatened everything he held dear…..

"Who am I?" demanded Bates, his voice a perfect imitation of Oliver's.

"Please, don't….!" begged Victor weakly; exhausted, he seemed barely to have the energy to speak.

"I said, who – am - I?" repeated Bates, each word this time accompanied with a gentle slap to the face.

Tears began to roll down Victor's cheeks. "Oliver, please don't hurt me…. This isn't you…. Please….!"

"Begging like a bitch," sneered Bates contemptuously, picking up an iron bar that lay discarded on the floor of the cell. "Call yourself a hero, Victor? You're nothing, you hear? Nothing but a - worthless – sack – of – SHIT!"

This time the words were not accompanied by a slap, but by blows to the skull from the iron bar. Victor screamed, but this only seemed to encourage his tormentor. Bates began to set about him with the iron bar, landing blow after blow to all parts of his body.

"No, stop this, please!" pleaded Oliver, horrified by what he was seeing.

Unmoved, Desaad simply smiled. Seconds passed. Still Bates continued to beat down on Victor, whose screams and sobs filled the air.

"Please, I'll do whatever you want – just make him stop!"

Still Desaad said nothing.

Unable to stand it any longer, something cracked inside Oliver. Slipping free of Harriet's grip, he lunged towards the button on the wall. It was a desperate gesture, and one which reason said was bound to fail. His hands remained tied behind his back, and he was completely outnumbered. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he did something, anything, to help his friend. He wanted Victor to know that he was there, that this was all a trick and that the man who was hurting him was a fake, an imposter. If he could just get through to him, even for just a second…..

"Victor, it's me, Oliver!" he shouted, throwing the full weight of his body against the button and hoping that somehow this activated a link with the room beyond. "He's not me, Victor! He's a fa….!"

Oliver didn't get to complete his warning. Harriet's hand clamped down over his mouth, turning his words into muffled grunts. Simultaneously she threw him against the screen, grabbing his head and slamming it hard against the glass. She then pinioned him awkwardly against the surface, one hand still pressed firmly over his mouth whilst the other twisted his bound hands painfully into the small of his back.

"He can't hear you, Oliver – just like he can't see you," said Desaad coolly. He stood next to Oliver, watching as he struggled vainly to free himself from Harriet's grip. "Delicious, isn't it? A hero of the Justice League, captured and tortured by his very own leader. I wonder what he's thinking - how he's making sense of all this? Not that he's probably thinking much at all right now, poor boy – I don't think he can take much more, do you?"

"I'll kill you for this!" hissed Oliver, pulling his head free from Harriet's grip. "I swear, I'm going to fucking KILL YOU!"

Victor screamed, blood spurting from his mouth as Bates split open his jaw.

"Say goodbye, Oliver," said Desaad. "Time to add Victor's name to that long list of friends you just couldn't save."

"What? No – please…..!"

Desaad pressed the button.

"Kill him."

Horrified, Oliver watched as Bates pulled a knife from his belt. Grabbing Victor by the neck, he aimed it directly at his heart…

"NO!"

Is this the end for Victor? Sorry, but you'll have to wait for the next chapter to find out...

Apologies for the lack of updates - I have so little time to write at the moment, and when I do sit down I'm finding it really difficult. I hope you liked this one - please do post a review if you can, because it's always great to get feedback.