Lost in Purgatory

Chapter 11

Even though Oliver's left Lian Yu, he's still lost.

They'd explained the situation to him more than once, but he still didn't understand what was going on. It didn't help that he couldn't even remember his own name.

In fact, he couldn't remember anything before waking up in what looked like a holding cell. How did he even know it was a holding cell, though? How could he even know what a holding cell was, when he looked himself in the mirror without even the faintest spark of recognition?

He was in an office, facing a woman across a desk. He looked down again at the document in front of him. Everything seemed real enough, though how the hell did he know that? Sure, the photo attached to what they told him was his file, was in fact of the man he saw in the mirror every morning since he'd woken up. All the distinguishing features were the same. He had matched every burn mark, every scar. Even the tattoos matched the description in the file – the Chinese characters on his abs, and the dragon tattoo on his back. Still, something wasn't right.

The first problem was the name.

"John Smith?" he'd scoffed. "You're seriously trying to tell me that my name is John Smith."

"That's not your real name, of course," the woman said, gently. He got the impression that this tone was not something she was used to. Her name, she'd told him, was Amanda Waller. Then she gave him a sharp look, almost as if she expected him to say something, to recognize it. There was nothing – no spark, no sudden 'aha!' moment, nothing.

"It's the name you gave us when you volunteered for this project."

He wanted to cry bullshit, to insist that he'd never volunteered for a thing in his life. How did he know that, though? The answer was that he didn't. He looked at the file again. It painted a wonderful picture, of someone who wanted to fight for his country, to do anything to combat terrorism, whatever form it took. None of it sounded like him. It wasn't even the missing memories – he couldn't feel it.

He looked at the woman again, and wondered how far he could try her patience. The way the men spoke to her showed the truth – they were all terrified of her, and he guessed he should be too. Maybe if he had his memories, he could do that.

"Ms Waller-"

"Just Waller, please." Aha. There. That was the real woman behind the smiling mask. No social niceties for her. Waller it would be, then.

"So, you had this special drug, which was supposed to control hostile populations, and I volunteered to have you test it on me. Is that right?" He hoped he sounded slightly naive and open, emotions which he wasn't feeling at the moment.

Waller's expression didn't change. It never had, in his admittedly limited three day experience. She nodded.

"Unfortunately, the memory loss was a side effect we did not predict," she added. "And you did a very thorough job of erasing most of your identity before coming to us, so there's nothing we can do about that."

He nodded, looking down at his file. As far as he could see, it was made of one page, most of which was used up in a physical description. He decided to act stupid for a little longer.

"Can't this drug, like, wear off?"

Waller narrowed her eyes. Maybe he'd overdone the frat boy shtick. There it was again – he knew what a frat boy was. How could he know that, when he couldn't even remember his parents?

"Unfortunately not. It was designed to be self-renewing, to be effective indefinitely. But that's not really what you wanted to ask, was it?"

Shit. She was good.