Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The city is in shambles. Broken glass fills the streets; remnants of the gangs and looters who had quickly risen to take advantage of Gotham’s lawless state. Even now with the bomb gone, carried away and detonated over the ocean, the city feels stagnated, as if held in some sort of limbo.
Aid has been slow to arrive; the outside world too wary of the very real dangers still lurking in the shadows. It seems to John Blake that the city has thrown off the shackles of Bane’s forced isolation only to find itself under a different kind of quarantine. This time however, it’s the governments doing.
People are allowed to leave, but the barriers placed at all points of entry into the city prevent anyone from coming in with the exception of those on official government business.
The quarantine has been put into place in an attempt to corral the remaining terrorists and escaped Blackgate prisoners. Assault teams patrol the streets, disappearing frequently into the sewers searching for the remaining terrorists.
The public are encouraged to stay inside, especially after dark. Those with the money and transportation to leave Gotham have already fled. The city is empty, lending it the eerie stillness of a ghost town.
Those who cannot leave are trapped as effectively as if Bane were still ruling, the continual threat of violence embodied in the gunshots which echo with frightening regularity off the city walls. The city has been destroyed.
It doesn’t matter that it still stands physically. Its lifeblood has been drained. The once vibrant and busy streets now stretch off into the distance, nothing but endless empty corridors. Rubble lines the sidewalks. The windows of empty sky scrapers gape unseeingly outward, no longer lit by the families who once lived inside. All is quiet save for the gunshots.
And yet Blake still cannot bring himself to leave. He’s not sure what he expected when he saw the bomb explode on the horizon. He had celebrated then, naively thinking the city saved. He snorts to himself, he should have known better. With life experience as his guide he should have realized that nothing comes so easily. But he still believes. Stupidly perhaps, but he will stay. This is not the end of Gotham.
The people will come back. Slowly at first but they must. Gotham is too important to let die. The government will finish flushing out the criminals and then they can begin to rebuild. It will be long and difficult but they will succeed. Blake believes this firmly. Gotham is all he has. It is all he has ever had, and he cannot imagine a life elsewhere.
After the high of the final battle, like the majority of Gotham’s citizens, even the army of police which had fought so hard to retake the city had, in the face of continued isolation, eventually chosen to pack up and leave.
It had been gradual at first. Nobody had been quite ready to face the true scale of the damage. However months of unchecked vandalism and looting have gutted the city’s infrastructure. Companies and corporations are reluctant to reinvest in the city until they can be sure of stability and profit, the hit on the stock exchange still fresh in their minds.
Even still, everybody had just kind of expected things to go back to the way they were. When the government had instead turned around and extended Gotham’s enforced isolation in an attempt to prevent the remaining terrorists and Blackgate prisoners from spreading throughout the rest of the country it had been a major blow to morale.
Followed by the relative lack of success in capturing the terrorists, the police force has slowly dwindled. People have been forced to pick up and go despite their loyalty to Gotham. Forced to move on and find places where they can afford to take care of their families. Places where they can begin to rebuild a life for themselves and provide for the future of their children.
Commissioner Gordon is one of the few who has stayed, tied perhaps as inextricably as Blake to the city. Unable to let it go, even in the face of its apparent death throes. Blake meets up with him from time to time. Together they work together to round up some of Blackgate’s less intimidating prisoners. However, Blake has quickly had to come to terms with the fact, that he is no match for the highly trained terrorists that still roam the streets.
It had taken him one confrontation, which had left him bloody, bruised, and badly shaken, to realize that he is hopelessly outmatched. It makes him wonder what Bruce saw in him. He knows that Bruce had wanted him to pick up the mantle, continue the symbol of Batman, but it has been made clear to Blake that even his training for the force has left him woefully unprepared for something of that magnitude.
Presently, Blake finds himself walking down one of the many empty streets. As he moves, he listens intently for the telltale crunch of footsteps on glass hoping that he isn’t being followed. He wouldn’t have come out so late, but he is desperately short on water. The apartment he has holed up in is surprisingly well stocked with regards to food considering the state of Gotham in the months during the occupation but running water is difficult to come by.
From what he can tell the former occupant must have been wealthy. What is left of the interior furnishings reeks of too much money. That isn’t why Blake picked the place though. He had stumbled upon it early on, in the weeks right after the occupation had ended.
When he had opened the door he had immediately noticed its weight, judging it to be constructed of steel. He had then noticed the still functional latches and deadbolts and decided right then that even if the place had no food it would be a good place to squat, at least from a security vantage. After finding the hoarded supplies of canned goods in the kitchen cabinets, he had almost forgone traveling back to his old apartment to transport the few important items he still owns; his badge, his gun, the coordinates given to him by Bruce before he had left on his suicide mission.
Now though, Blake heads for one of the few places he knows to still have working plumbing. It is a fountain; a large one, which stands at the center of a small city park. Blake isn’t sure why this particular part of the city still has running water but he isn’t about to complain. However, it is always a risk coming here, like the watering holes of the savannah it attracts both predator and prey, throwing them together in a desperate bid for the one thing they both need to survive.
Blake has been irresponsibly putting off the trip for days, too intent on spending his time tracking down fugitives and making plans to restore the city. He has been without water for over twenty-four hours and he cannot stand the thirst for much longer. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows down even longer streets. Blake is wary. He has quickly learned that Bane’s men use the cover of darkness to move unseen, almost as if they are made from shadows themselves.
As he arrives at the park he crouches behind a gathering of bushes. The park appears to be clear, the sound of splashing water from the fountain the only discernible noise in the vicinity. Blake approaches the water cautiously, on the alert for even the slightest movement. He lifts the waters bottles, tied to a rope which hangs around his neck, and begins to fill them, one after the other. It is a long process but Blake knows that the more water he can get the less often he will need to make this particular journey. His shoulders tenses slightly as he fills the bottles, adrenalin flooding his system, waiting for an attack, not knowing when or if it will come.
After what seems to be an agonizing amount of time he fills his last bottle and places the rope back over his shoulders. He turns to leave, quickly retracing his steps. As he passes by the bushes he had crouched behind only moments earlier he suddenly picks up the faint sound of murmuring voices.
Feeling his heart begin to race, he quickly throws himself back behind the cover of the leaves. He crouches there listening intently for the voices, trying to discern the direction from which they are coming. They are faint but becoming increasingly strong. Abruptly, almost as if out of thin air, two men appear from behind a parked car.
Blake breathes a sigh of relief. The bushes hide him from their line of sight. These must be two of Bane’s former men for the language they speak is not English. Blake thinks it might be Arabic but he isn’t sure and foreign languages have never been his strong suit.
Blake moves stealthily to make his escape but pauses for a moment. It is clear that whatever the two men are talking about has agitated them and he can’t help but listen despite not understanding what is being said. Their voices rise and fall sharply. It must be nice, Blake muses, to be dangerous enough not to have to worry about garnering unwanted attention.
Blake decides not to press his luck any further. He has always had a knack for moving undetected, developed from years of dealing with bullies much larger and stronger than he could ever hope to be, but he has no desire to wait until the men have finished their argument and begin to pay more attention to their surroundings.
Blake is almost out of earshot when he hears a word he recognizes. It is a name. Bane. The man responsible for Gotham’s current mess and a man presumed dead despite no body ever being recovered.
He doesn’t stick around after that. He briefly wonders what could possibly have gotten the men so riled up that they would argue over a dead man. It is almost night though, and he needs to get back to his apartment before the sun sets and the streets become even more dangerous than they already are.
Blake has enough to worry about without adding the specter of man dead for over a month to his list of fears. He puts the conversation out of his mind and hurries back towards the relative safety of the apartment. He doesn’t stop to think about much of anything until he has slid the last deadbolt across the metal door.
The next morning Blake rises with the sun. Like everything else in the city electricity has become something of a rarity and it doesn’t pay to waste daylight. Besides, early morning is usually the best time to go about the business of gathering information. The criminals have generally retreated, albeit temporarily, which leaves the remaining citizens of Gotham mostly free to go about gathering supplies and attending to their own business.
Blake walks down the street kicking stray pebbles from the piles of debris left over from Bane’s reign of terror and the final fight. It is the carefree sort of gesture that he doesn’t normally get to engage in. But the light from the rising sun shines pleasantly on his face and Blake can’t help but feel better than he has in months. It is one of the first warm days of spring and the winter has been long and cold. It is a relief to know that the constant scramble for some sort of heat is most likely at an end.
Blake meanders through the streets cataloging the damage. It will take months and millions of dollars to fix all the blown out windows and ransacked buildings. The harsh winter has done nothing but add to the destruction and he can’t help but be newly appalled. There is so much to rebuild and it just gets worse the longer the city is kept in isolation.
As he turns a corner he is startled to find himself standing in front of City Hall. He hasn’t been paying attention to where he is going and his feet have taken him here automatically, as if pulled by an invisible force.
The center of the fighting and the location of the final showdown between Batman and Bane; it has stood silent and empty for months. The criminals, the terrorists, and the people alike avoid this place and the surrounding blocks. Save for the removal of the corpses during the first few weeks after the final fight it has been left largely untouched.
Both the remaining citizens of Gotham and the Blackgate criminals fear this place. They whisper that the corpse of Bane is still hidden somewhere inside of City Hall, rotting. They whisper even more quietly of trapped spirits and vengeful ghosts. Blake assumes the terrorists avoid this place out of some sort of respect for their fallen leader but he cannot really be sure.
Blake doesn’t believe in ghosts but he cannot deny the unnerving stillness of the building and the surrounding area. Where the rest of the city still limps along this section truly seems dead.
Blood still stains the steps leading into City Hall and the empty bullet cartridges of fallen men litter the ground; abandoned where their owners had dropped gasping their final breaths. It is an eerie tableau which even the brightness of the spring sunlight fails to warm.
Blake is tempted to leave, unsettled as anybody by the location, but it occurs to him that this area untouched as it is most likely is full of useful supplies. A small brick office building to the left of City Hall catches Blake’s eye. It is nestled in between the metal and steel skyscrapers, only three or so stories high. It seems out of place here in the center of Gotham and Blake idly wonders what purpose it used to serve.
Without stopping to wonder why he begins to pick his way across the abandoned battlefield in front of City Hall.
He knows he is alone but he cannot shake the feeling of eyes boring into his back. His spine prickles uncomfortably and he quickens his pace, wanting nothing more than the relative safety of the building’s interior.
He pushes at the glass door and is unsurprised to find it unlocked. On the other side he finds himself in the sort of pleasantly impersonal reception area common to all corporate offices. The walls are a washed-out yellow color but the sunlight streaming through the plate glass windows reflects pleasantly enough off the dust particles hanging suspended in the air.
The atmosphere inside is completely different than the square and Blake cannot help but be relieved. The space doesn’t feel abandoned and out of time, perhaps he reasons because it is so much smaller than the buildings surrounding it.
Blake walks further into the office. He carelessly flicks a switch next to another glass door appearing to lead down a hallway and is caught off guard when the lights actually come on. Apparently, there is still electricity in this part of the city despite it being completely abandoned.
As he walks down the hallway Blake stops to push open the doors on either side. They mostly seem to lead into empty offices but an open door frame at the end of the hall looks to lead into some kind of shared kitchenette.
Blake walks through the door and is pleasantly surprised when he sees a vending machine. The government provides food rations at temporary shelters throughout the city but it’s nothing terribly tasty and he looks forward to the prospect of a candy bar or a bag of chips. He walks up to it and is disappointed on closer inspection to find that the glass has been removed and the contents mostly eaten.
He is surprised too. He had been certain that no one ventures into this part of city.
It is a stupid assumption on his part he realizes. After all, Blake is here and that means others like him have probably ventured through this section of the city on the lookout for anything useful.
He turns around. In his haste to get to the vending machine he hadn’t really paused to look at the rest of the room. The section he is in is the back half. It is filled with tables and chairs; presumably, where employees used to come on their breaks to eat lunch and chat with co-workers.
The front half of the room is set up like a kitchen. The counter space wraps around bisecting the room and forming a sort of breakfast bar area. A hot water heater and a coffee maker still sit there and Blake resolves to take both back to his apartment. Blake moves towards the bar meaning to get a closer look when he trips over something lying on the floor.
Whatever it is, it is heavy and awkward. It looks to be made out of some kind of leather and metal. He stoops to pick it up. He flips it over and freezes. Blood rushes through his ears as his heart begins to pound. A cold sweat breaks out across his face and he feels as though he is about to vibrate out of his skin. He can’t bring himself to touch the thing crumpled on the ground, yet he is frozen in place unable to back away.
There, lying innocuously in front of him is Bane’s mask.
Then like the flip of a switch, Blake is suddenly able to move again. He snatches his hand back and jumps away, banging into a table and knocking over chairs in the process. In his haste to get away he ends up sprawled on the ground, one of the chairs he has just scrambled over lies across his back and suddenly, Blake is hit by the ridiculousness of the situation.
He is lying on the ground, terrorized by the mere presence of a mask which can do nothing to him. Slowly he climbs back to his feet. He walks over to the mask and picks it up.
On closer inspection the inside appears to be incredibly intricate. Numerous tubes connect to one another, running from what looks to be empty vials and ending at some kind of dispersal system. Curious, Blake flips the mask over and notes what appears to be a mechanical respirator attached to the interior.
Blake realizes that this must be the reason for the metallic quality to Bane’s voice whenever he would broadcast speeches throughout the city. He wonders at the purpose of the mask. He had originally thought it was a fear tactic. A way of further cementing the image of Bane as an inhuman monster in the minds of those he wished to terrorize. Now though, Blake realizes that the mask must have served a separate purpose. Something tied more closely to the man himself.
He slips the mask into his pocket resolving to take it to Gordon the next time they meet up. He figures that the Commissioner will want to see it and he isn’t really sure what to do with it himself.
His heart has slowed to an acceptable rate and he begins once again to make his way towards the breakfast bar. He rounds the corner of the counter and is abruptly hit by the overpowering and nauseating smell of human excrement. Where the other half of the room had only smelled stale, the stench permeating this half is nothing short of an outhouse in the middle of July.
Blake gags on the smell as he feels his stomach begin to clench uncomfortably. From what he can tell it is coming from what looks to be a large storage pantry at the other end of the kitchen.
He almost turns to leave but curiosity grips him and he slowly makes his way towards the room. He pauses often, listening for the telltale signs of another person but hears nothing. He can’t quite shake the feeling though, that there is somebody on the other side of the wall.
He reaches the door and flicks the light switch. Immediately he wishes he hadn’t. The site of urine and feces covering the floor is enough to make him begin to wretch. The smell is so bad he can hardly breathe and there, in the middle of it all, curled up on a pile of damp urine soaked rags is a man so massive Blake knows that this can be no one other than the mass murderer responsible for the deaths of thousands and the almost destruction of an entire city.
At first he thinks that the man is dead. The mask Blake had picked up weighs heavy in his pocket and he stands unmoving, unsure what to do. He is loath to walk into the room. It is absolutely disgusting and the thought of picking his way through the inches of excrement layering the floor is enough to make him vomit but a morbid fascination spurs him forward.
Bane lies with his back to the door. It is a particularly vulnerable position and Blake doubts if Bane were alive that he would ever allow himself to remain in it. That is why he is so shocked upon closer inspection to see the man’s chest rising and falling.
It is so faint that at first Blake thinks it is a trick of the light. It is only when he reaches out and touches the body, expecting the waxy cold of a corpse, and feels the warmth of blood still pumping beneath skin that he realizes with growing horror; Bane is still very much alive.
He snatches his hand back as if burnt and stares at the man lying covered in the stench of his own shit and piss. “Oh how far the mighty have fallen,” a vindictive voice whispers in the back of Blake’s mind.
Blake never expected to come face to face with Bane. He had only ever seen him in the televised broadcasts when he made his speeches; the undeniable charisma of a fanatic pouring from his eyes and burning through the television screen like fire.
Blake shudders with the remembered power of the man. Even now unconscious and obviously injured his mere size is intimidating. But he is also pathetic. Slumped over, his arms covering his face, Blake can hear what can only be described as a whimper emanating every so often from the man’s throat. His fingers spasm uselessly every few seconds and dried blood cakes his clothing.
He is completely insensate to his surroundings and Blake abruptly realizes that he is nearing death. Whatever luck has kept him alive so far is nearing its end and Blake knows that if he leaves, the man will probably die within a matter of days.
Decision made Blake stands up. Like Batman, murder is a line he refuses to cross. Despite the voice whispering how satisfying it would be to viciously stab Bane to death and take revenge for Gotham and its citizens, it is much easier to simply leave. Easier to allow nature to finish what it has started and forget what he has seen here.
Blake turns to go when he accidentally hits the arm covering Bane’s face. It slides to the floor boneless, exposing the once mask covered skin to the light. Surprisingly, a teddy bear falls to the floor and Blake pauses, at once amazed and horrified by what he sees.
The man’s face is a web work of scars. Spider thin lines cross his cheeks and run over his nose. One of the nostrils is missing and the line of the nose itself is distinctly crooked as if it had been broken and then left to heal without being set. To Blake it looks as if someone has randomly gouged chunks of flesh out of his face and his lips are bisected by a thick scar which twists them into four almost unrecognizable lumps.
Blake turns his attention to the teddy bear. He can’t for the life of him understand what someone like Bane would be doing with it and the image of this terrible man curled on his deathbed clutching a stuffed animal is both jarring and unsettling.
He picks it up. It is worn with age and patches of fur are missing. Upon closer inspection he finds a seam running up its back. Inside he finds a dagger. Confused Blake puts the bear down.
He walks quickly from the room and back down the hallway. He is almost out the door when he stops. His hand hangs suspended in the air, stretched out towards the door which he cannot quite bring himself to push open. Time continues to pass and still he doesn’t move, his face screwed into a frown. He slumps to the floor cursing. Fury courses through him. He should leave.
But something is stopping him. The image of a broken man covered in his own filth and clutching a teddy bear has been irreparably burned into his mind, and Blake suddenly knows that he won’t leave this man to the death that is undoubtedly coming for him.
He is not sure how long he has kneeled there on the floor when he climbs silently to his feet. He knows it has been a substantial amount of time though. Blake walks into the building past the kitchenette and towards the back of the office. He is not disappointed when after a few minutes of searching and fumbling for light switches in darkened corridors he walks into some sort of storage area.
There he finds what he is looking for; a decently sized loading trolley which he then wheels back to the pantry. Unceremoniously, he pushes and pulls Bane’s body until it is slumped onto the platform. He is perhaps rougher than he needs to be, kicking and hitting at arms and legs which fall limply to the floor.
He refuses to feel guilty.
Blake is almost out the door when he suddenly runs back to the kitchenette. He grabs the coffee maker and hot water heaters. No sense in wasting valuable resources. Then he looks at the pantry. Hesitantly, he walks inside and gingerly picks up the teddy bear. He drops it into his pocket to lie with the mask and then walks back out into the hall.
He pushes open the door and pushing Bane out into the sunlight filled square. Behind him, he hears what sounds like the lock on the door fall into place with a decisive click. Unsettled, Blake tries to open the door again only to find that it is indeed locked.
Bracing himself he pushes forward. The trolley is awkward and loud, bumping down the city streets. Blake cringes at the amount of noise he is making; glad that it is still early enough in the morning that nobody should be around to give him any trouble.
He is praying not to run into anybody. Even without the mask Bane is unmistakable and Blake can think of no good reason to explain why he has him alive and loaded on a trolley. Thankfully the streets remain empty. Blake hopes nobody is watching out the window as he pulls Bane from the trolley and drags him through the doors of the apartment building. He sighs in relief when the door closes behind them.
Getting Bane up the stairs to the fifth floor is another matter entirely. What feels like over an hour and countless breaks later, Blake finally drags Bane through the steel door of the loft and slams the locks into place behind him.
Now that he has him here he is at a loss what to do with him. The enormity of what he has just done is beginning to hit him and Blake sinks onto one of the chairs, staring at the body lying limp in the entryway. The man is absolutely disgusting. For Blake’s own health he cannot remain in his current state. Setting aside the more difficult questions for later Blake occupies himself with matters of practicality.
Bane’s stench is already beginning to overtake the apartment and Blake quickly realizes that he is going to have to bathe him. He drags Bane to the bathroom. Even without running water he figures it will be less messy if he does this in a room with tiles and a drain.
Blake begins the unpleasant task of stripping Bane. The clothes he is wearing are caked in layers of blood, dirt, urine, and just about every other bodily fluid he can possibly think of.
Blake cannot fathom how Bane managed to survive the winter on his own. He figures though, that if the building still had electricity it is likely there was running water as well. It would explain why Bane chose to make his home in the kitchenette and it would explain who had eaten the food out of the vending machine.
But what had happened to reduce Bane to this practically comatose state is beyond Blake. The sheepskin coat is easy enough to remove but he is stumped by the leather vest.
Frustrated, he ends up hacking it off with his knife. If he nicks Bane in the process he refuses to feel any sympathy. As he peels the vest off, he is once more amazed at the network of scars covering Bane’s body.
He cannot fathom how anybody could sustain so many serious injuries and still be alive. It worries him that he has brought a man so incomprehensibly powerful into his safe house. Quickly, he puts the thought from his mind.
Brusquely he removes Bane’s boots and pants and dumps him into the tub. He is briefly thankful that whoever owned this apartment before had invested in one of those expensive sunken whirlpool setups. He doesn’t think Bane would have fit otherwise.
Reluctantly, Blake pours out his water bottles into a bowl. He is going to have to go back to the fountain much sooner than he would like and resentment, low and ugly, pools in his gut for the man in front of him.
Roughly, he scrubs the dirt and the shit from Banes body, taking a cruel sort of pleasure in the abrasive towel and the reddened, irritated skin beneath him. He stops just short of drawing blood.
He pauses again at the sight of the deep and ugly scar which runs the length of Bane’s spine. He has no idea what might have caused this aside from some sort of botched surgery. The idea of Bane’s bloody and exposed spine makes his skin crawl.
He pulls Bane from the tub when he is finished and leaves him on the cold tile. He takes the ruined clothes and dumps them in the basement where no one is likely to stumble across them.
When he comes back upstairs he finds Bane precisely where he has left him.
Bane may be clean but it is clear that he is still desperately ill. His breathing is if possible even shallower than in the office building. His skin shines with the pallor of severe illness and his eyes are sunken into his skull.
It is obvious he needs medical attention. Blake pulls him out of the bathroom, to the bed at the other end of the loft. He doesn’t really sleep there, preferring to curl up hidden behind one of the chairs in the living area.
Blake considers his options. He could leave Bane in the bed and ignore him. But Blake figures that most likely Bane will still die. He might as well have left him in the office building if he goes that route and, he will have the added headache of a body to deal with.
He can’t really see what’s wrong with Bane though. As far as he can tell there are no visible injuries to his body and yet he is unconscious and near death. Blake knows he needs some kind of IV to at least get liquid and nutrients into his body.
He doesn’t have those supplies here but he does know where he can get them. Blake casts a look at Bane. Piled under the white sheets of the bed, his mutilated face just visible over the comforter, he looks diminished somehow.
Blake doesn’t know what makes him do it but he reaches into his pocket and drops the teddy bear next to Bane’s head. He immediately feels stupid and regrets his action.
He doesn’t remove it though, figuring that Bane may very well die while he is out gathering supplies. Blake thinks cruelly that he may as well have the bear in his dying moments; a pathetically weak end for a man who had so carefully constructed and maintained an image of unshakeable strength and power during life.
Blake makes his way towards the edge of the city. He rarely ventures there as these sections are overrun with SWAT teams and government officials. He prefers to stay away. A youth spent being yanked from foster home to foster home has lead him to distrust anybody even loosely associated with the government. It is ironic, he thinks, that he chose however briefly to become a cop.
This is where most of the survivors choose to make their homes though, as it has largely been purged of the Blackgate prisoners. Blake isn’t sure how successful the SWAT teams have been at capturing the terrorists. From what he can tell they have for the most part simply retreated further into the city, continuing to elude capture.
They are probably the main reason Gotham has been under quarantine for so long and Blake feels another surge of anger at the man currently lying in his apartment.
He almost turns around then, vowing to let Bane die, but something compels him forward. There are hospitals and clinics set up in this section of the city; an attempt at restoring some semblance of normality.
Blake isn’t sure how he is going to get his hands on what he needs, or even exactly what it is he is after. His experience with the force hasn’t left him with a particularly in depth knowledge of medical care. He can perform CPR, bandage a wound, and splint a broken bone but his experience ends there.
Whatever is wrong with Bane is something far more serious and Blake is at a loss as to how to deal with it.
As he walks into one of the temporary clinics he considers how best to go about getting what he wants. It’s not a skill he is proud of but Blake has had a lot of opportunity to practice lying.
He has found in most circumstances it is easier and more effective to simply use an edited version of the truth.
He approaches the woman sitting at what must be the clinics version of a reception desk. She looks up at him and smiles. “How can I help you?”
Blake is thrown off guard. The clinics are less hectic, less makeshift than he remembers in the direct aftermath of the bomb and he is thrown off to be confronted with something resembling the order of an office. He is afraid it is going to make it harder to get what he is after.
“I need help.” He lets his voice falter, deliberately betraying some of the uncertainty he is feeling. “I have a friend who needs help,” he corrects. “Can I talk to a doctor?”
The woman looks at him uncertainly. “I can’t let you talk to a doctor until you’ve filled out this form with your name, address, and previous insurance information.”
The last thing Blake needs is this visit to go on record. He is tempted to take the form and fill in fake information but he knows as soon as the woman enters it into the computer his lie will be found out.
“Please, it’s urgent. My friend is sick and needs a doctor. I don’t have any insurance or a permanent address.”
The woman’s eyes narrow. She’s obviously suspicious now. Probably thinks that he’s a criminal. Which suddenly, Blake realizes, he is. Once again Blake is hit by the enormity of the situation and temporarily feels like sinking to the floor.
“Please.” He tries one last time. He opens his eyes as wide as they will go, purposely taking advantage of the boyish features he knows make up his face.
The woman studies him for what feels like an eternity before replying.
“Wait right here. Don’t touch anything.”
Blake is tempted to run. Most of him is convinced that the woman has gone to get the officials. But when she comes back it is with a tired looking man who is holding a clipboard and frowning. Immediately Blake is reminded of Gordon.
“This is Doctor Holt” the woman says. “He might be able to help you.” The man smiles wanly and holds out his hand. Blake shakes it and the woman retreats back behind the safety of her desk, obviously glad to be rid of the situation.
“Well, what can I do for you son?” Holt asks and Blake is once again struck by how much this man resembles the Commissioner, if not in appearance at least in demeanor.
“My friend is sick.” Blake tries again. “He needs help.”
Holt peers at him for a moment, then asks the most obvious question. “Why isn’t your friend here with you?”
“He’s weak, unconscious.” Blake adds. “I couldn’t carry him the whole way here.” The look Holt sends him is world weary.
“If your friend is sick, shouldn’t somebody go and take him to a hospital?” Blake feels himself suddenly growing tired. It would be so much easier just to turn Bane over. There is no justifiable reason for what Blake is doing and he is tempted to simply come clean. Instead, he tries another permutation of the truth, hoping that the risk will pay off.
“It would be better if you didn’t know who he was.”
The doctor sighs. “I thought it might be something like that.”
“Most people,” he continues would have come to the clinic straight away if something were wrong. They wouldn’t have waited until their friend was unconscious to get help.” Blake is silent. The doctor looks troubled.
“Look son,” he begins then stops. Blake waits for him to continue.
“Look son, I don’t want to know who your friend is. I don’t want to know who you are. I definitely don’t want this visit on record, but I need to know what happened to your friend in order to help.”
Blake feels something akin to disappointment at the doctor’s words. He is going to get the help he needs but he was almost hoping, he realizes, for a reason to offload Bane.
“Look, I just found him the other day.” Blake risks some more truth. “I don’t really know what’s wrong with him. He’s unconscious, his breathing is shallow, and he’s whimpering like he’s in a lot of pain, but I can’t see any injuries and he’s not bleeding.”
Holt is silent for what seems like an eternity. Finally he says, “I can’t really say what’s wrong with your friend; not without seeing him.” He gestures for Blake to follow him further into the clinic. “I’ll give you the supplies to set up an IV drip. How much would you say your friend weighs?”
Blake pauses. Even now, at his height and size Bane must still weigh well over 200 pounds. He hopes he isn’t giving too much away when he gives the doctor his guess but the man says nothing.
“You’ll need to hang the IV bag on something” he says. “It’s fairly easy to use once it’s set up. All you’ll need to do is change the bags out as they empty.” He pauses again obviously troubled.
“Look, I’m going to give you some morphine for the pain but you have to know that it can be addictive. It might do your friend more harm than good in the long run.” Blake shrugs. He isn’t going to feel much remorse if he accidentally turns Bane into a drug addict.
Holt gestures to the line. “This port here connects to the IV bag. This one, he gestures to a second port, is what you’ll use to give him the morphine. That’s about all I can do for you. Your friend might regain consciousness once the pain begins to subside. The IV will give him the fluids and nutrients to stay alive but only just.”
Holt looks at him again. When he speaks this time his voice is gentle. “I know he’s your friend but if he doesn’t regain consciousness within a few days it might be kinder to simply let him die.”
Blake shrugs. The doctor can’t know that Blake’s “friend” is actually Bane. If push comes to shove, Blake doesn’t really think he’ll have a problem pulling the proverbial plug. He thanks the doctor and begins to put the supplies into the sac slung over his shoulder.
“You’ll need this too.” The doctor says. Blake recognizes the item he is holding and feels slightly nauseous. “Once he starts taking fluids into his body he’s going to need to relieve himself. Until he’s strong enough to go to the bathroom on his own this is your best option.”
Blake takes the catheter, listening as Holt explains how to insert it, how often it must be used, and how to keep it clean so as to avoid infection. The thought of handling Bane’s penis make Blake slightly uncomfortable but he shakes it off reminding himself that he had washed the man just hours earlier.
He quietly thanks the doctor and turns to leave one last time when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns to face Holt who is looking oddly at war with himself.
Finally he speaks. “If your friend does get better and you need more supplies, just, just come back here. It’s easier that way.”
Surprised Blake can only nod. Its better luck than he could have possibly hoped for and he hurries out the door before the doctor has time to change his mind.
Back at the loft Blake finds things unchanged. Bane still lies unconsciously on the bed, the teddy bear resting in a strange parody of innocence beside his head.
Blake begins to lay the supplies out, meaning to at least set up the IV but the day has caught up with him and he is suddenly overcome by a bone deep fatigue which threatens to drop him where he stands.
He glances dispassionately at the bed. Tomorrow then he decides. With any luck Bane will have died in the night and he won’t have to worry about any of this when he wakes up anyway.
Blake settles down behind the chair and closes his eyes. He sleeps restlessly, haunted by dreams of teddy bears and monsters lying broken and drowning in pools of their own shit, too weak even, to lift their heads and call out for help.
It is almost a blessing when the sun rises above the horizon and Blake can open his eyes.
He goes about his business the next morning doing his best to ignore the man lying in the bed. When Blake had awoken that morning he had simply continued to lie on the floor listening, trying, to detect the sound of faint gasping breaths. Hearing nothing he had felt something like relief wash over him.
He had listened again but this time the quiet had been broken by the faint whimpering exhales from the day before. Blake had gone numb. He had slowly risen to his feet refusing to look in the direction of the bed.
He had eaten breakfast, combed his hair, and changed his clothes all without once glancing at the man on the other side of the room.
For the first time he finds himself wishing the apartment wasn’t a loft and had come with separate rooms. Sitting on a stool in the kitchen area he glances at the bag of supplies sitting on the counter.
What was the point of getting them he muses, if he isn’t going to use them? Was he lying to himself yesterday when he went to doctor? Does he actually have any intention of helping Bane?
He feels sick with himself thinking of the perverse joy he took in his rough handling of the man the day before. Bane is a monster but Blake is starting to think that his motives for taking the man aren’t wholly admirable either.
He should have left the man to die if he had no intention of helping him. Abruptly, he cuts off that line of thought. He dumps the bag of medical equipment out and starts sorting through it.
Finding what he needs to start the IV line he makes his way towards Bane. He’s no nurse and it takes him several stabs before he manages to get the needle into a vein.
It’s probably a good thing that Bane is unconscious, Blake thinks, because the man would probably have killed him at this point for his ineptitude.
Finally, he manages to start the IV line. The doctor was right. Once the needle is in, it’s surprisingly easy to get everything hooked up. He looks at the morphine but decides against it just yet.
He really has no desire for Bane to be conscious at the moment especially, considering what he is going to have to do next. Blake pulls the covers back. He had considered just letting Bane pee in the bed but he really doesn’t have any way to clean the sheets. It also reminds him too much of the state he had found the man in yesterday.
Bane is naked beneath the covers. Blake doesn’t really have any clothes that will fit him and it’s not as if the man is going anywhere in this state.
He looks down at Bane and can’t help but be impressed. The man is huge. He briefly wonders how anybody can stand to have sex with him but quickly shuts down that train of thought.
He looks down to make sure that the tubing is firmly attached to the disposable bag. The doctor had said that once inserted it’s likely that Bane will begin to empty his bladder and he doesn’t particularly fancy getting Bane’s urine all over the place.
He wipes everything down with the sterilizing solution, rationalizing that he doesn’t need the added annoyance of an infection.
Cautiously, he picks up Bane’s penis and holds it straight out from his body the way the doctor had told him to. He picks up the lubricated catheter and winces slightly as he slides it in up towards Bane’s bladder.
Sure enough, the tubing turns yellow as Bane’s muscles release and the bag begins to fill. Blake waits until he is sure Bane is done before replacing it with a new one. He holds the used bag unsure what to do.
He shrugs before going into the bathroom and pouring the liquid down the sink. It’s what he has been using as his own toilet since the water had been shut off and he figures it’s better than leaving bags of urine sitting around the apartment.
He figures that he has done enough for one day. Tomorrow maybe he’ll give the man the morphine to ease the pain. He isn’t ready today.
He picks up the empty water bottles slinging the rope around his neck. It’s still early enough in the day for a trip to the water fountain and there really isn’t any reason to continue to hang around the loft.
Resolved, Blake heads for the door. He walks into the hallway and down the stairs. He deliberately doesn’t think any more about the man lying at his mercy behind
the closed door.
The next day and the day after that Blake puts off giving Bane the morphine, finding more excuses each day to be out of the apartment. It probably would have continued like this except that when he returns on the fifth day there is a man sitting on one of the kitchen stools drinking what looks like tea.
Blake starts when he realizes that he recognizes the man. He is one of the terrorists from the fountain; the one that spoke Bane’s name.
Blake immediately goes for the gun he keeps tucked into his belt loop but the man is faster. In one fluid motion he sets down the mug, turning as he stands, and pulls the rifle from his back, aiming it directly at Blake’s head.
He stands silently. His eyes are flat and unreadable. Finally he speaks.
“Tell me,” he says his voice cold, “why is it that you keep this man in your apartment?” Blake searches desperately for any way out of the situation but with the gun pointed squarely at his head there isn’t much he can do.
“I,” Blake begins, and then shrugs, “I don’t know.”
The man picks something up from the counter. Blake feels his heart sink when he realizes it’s one of the vials of morphine the doctor had given him.
“You keep this man in your apartment, you keep him alive, yet you allow him to suffer excruciating pain despite having the means to alleviate it.” His eyes narrow and Blake swears his finger tightens slightly on the trigger.
“How did you know he was here?” It is probably stupid Blake realizes to think that this man will do anything other than shoot him, but for some reason it’s the only question his brain can focus on.
The man eyes him like one might a particularly stupid and annoying child. “I followed you” He says simply.
“When?” He’s pushing his luck. He knows it but the only time anybody could have possibly seen him was when…
“When you took my brother from the square and brought him here.”
Blake is confused. “Then why did you wait so long to come? Why didn’t you just kill me then?” He also can’t help adding inexplicably, “and if you care so much about him then why did you leave him to die covered in his own filth.”
The man levels him with a calculating and considering look this time. It makes Blake almost more uncomfortable than the cold stare he had been subjected to moments earlier.
“I did not know he was alive.” He says simply. “I suspected, but he is a difficult man to find especially," He adds, "when he does not wish to be found.” Here he pauses something like a smirk tingeing the corner of his mouth. “I chose not to kill you when it became apparent that you had neither the strength to kill nor turn my brother over to the authorities.”
“But I ask you again,” he continues, “Why did you not simply leave my brother to die? Why is he here? To torture perhaps? You must know who he is. You do not bare the look of a man so stupid as to be ignorant to his identity.”
Blake feels slightly insulted for a moment before the gravity of the situation rears its ugly head again. If he’s honest Blake has no idea why he saved Bane. He just knew that he wasn’t going to leave him. He still hates himself for the decision.
The man waits silently for an answer.
“I don’t know.” Blake tries again, “He was holding a teddy bear.” It’s a stupid answer but the man seems satisfied with it. He nods his head slowly and then without warning lowers his gun and jerks his head towards Bane.
“The mask, did you find it?”
Blake considers telling the truth but it’s the only card he has left to play and he isn’t going to give it up that easily.
“Why? Is it important?”
The man regards him shrewdly once more. “It would make the care of my brother a great deal easier.”
Blake feels the weight of the mask against his leg. He still hasn’t removed it from his pocket.
“No” He says, “I didn’t see it.” For a moment Blake is certain that the man knows he is lying but he simply bows his head and moves towards the bed.
His back is facing Blake. Blake doubts that the man even considers him a threat. He has seen how the terrorists operate and he thinks that if he were to make even the slightest threatening movement the man would kill him without hesitation.
The man motions him over and Blake moves across the room to stand by his side.
His gaze travels across Bane’s unconscious form and settles unblinkingly on Blake. “You will give him the drug. He will stay with you while he regains his strength. You will give him real food and you will see him back to health.”
“What!?” His voice is strangled and weak. “Why can’t he go with you?” Blake has done his part. His conscience is clear and he’s rapidly realizing he wants nothing more to do with this situation.
Without warning the man grabs his head, twisting Blake’s hair until he is forced to look directly into his eyes.
“He will not know that I was here. You will tell him nothing.” The man whispers fiercely. “I will know if you are not fulfilling your duties.”
“And then what?” Blake scoffs, “You’ll kill me?”
“No.” The man replies softly. “I will crush the bones in both your feet, cut off your fingers one by one and then leave you chained to the bed to die of dehydration.” Blake swallows thickly. He knows the man will make good on his promise.
“Alright,” Blake gasps through the pain of having his hair ripped out by the root. “Alright. But I still don’t understand why he can’t know you were here.”
The man looks at him, considering again. “If Bane were to find out that I was alive, he would kill you and make his way to me. There are many less faithful than I. Those who believe him to be dead and seek to take his power. They would take advantage of his weakened state. I cannot fight them all off.” The man briefly closes his eyes and looks skyward.
“What makes you think he won’t kill me anyway when he wakes up?” Blake can’t help but think this is a huge oversight in this particular plan. The man opens his eyes.
“He will be too weak. By the time he has the strength I trust you will have devised a suitable plan to convince him to spare your life.” Again the man looks at him like he is a particularly dull child.
“Yeah?” Blake challenges suddenly feeling reckless “And how do I know you both won’t just kill me once I’ve served my purpose?”
The man smiles at him. It is not a gesture of kindness.
“You don’t. You have twenty-four hours starting now to give my brother the morphine. Once it is administered he should wake within the hour.” He pauses before continuing. “You will meet with me every Friday to update me of his condition. I will bring supplies. Do not trouble yourself about it until I give them to you. I will explain what they are for.” Again he fixes Blake with a calculating look. “The mask which lies in your left pocket is crucial to Bane’s recovery. Do not lose it or you will pay in ways you cannot possibly begin to imagine. Do not lie to me again. Next time I will not be so forgiving.”
Blake freezes, not daring to look at the man. He isn’t sure how he knew about the mask. When he finally does look up he is startled to find that the man has already disappeared, silent as a ghost. The mug of tea still steaming on the counter is the only indication that anyone else has even been in the apartment.
Blake sits on the sofa with his head in his hands cursing his stupidity. What on earth had possessed him in that building to take on the care of a man responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people?
If he goes to the authorities now they will question him. They will assume he has been keeping Bane alive since the fall of the occupation and he will go to prison. He imagines Gordon’s confused and disappointed face and feels his stomach sink unpleasantly. That’s not an option.
He’s also pretty sure that if he even takes one step in the direction of the authorities the man from the fountain will materialize from the shadows and fulfill his promise of torture.
Blake is also equally certain of the fact that once Bane is well he will kill him in order to cover his tracks.
Blake is utterly fucked.
He glances at the figure in the bed and then at his watch. The twenty-four hours are slowly running out. It is already mid-morning and Blake has done nothing since the evening before but sit, unable to sleep, agonizing over his fate.
There is nothing for it. He has to give Bane the morphine. At least it will buy him some time while he figures out what to do next. The man with the cold eyes and the gun had spoken as though he had expected Bane’s recovery to take a significant amount of time.
Blake is certain he will be able to work out some sort of plan. Besides, each day the authorities gain ground in the city. The order of the clinic proves that things are beginning to come back. Perhaps they will find him before this is over and he can convince them that he has been held hostage. It’s not a concrete plan but Blake allows himself to feel hope for the first time since the other man has left the loft.
Resolved, he walks to the counter and picks up the morphine.
He makes his way across the room to the bed. He picks up the extra IV port and hooks the drug up so that it can feed directly into Bane’s bloodstream. Then he sits down and he waits.
The minutes crawl by and Blake feels as though he has stumbled into an alternate universe. One in which time has ceased to flow. He looks down at the floor.
That’s of course the moment when he feels the hairs on the nape of his neck begin to prickle.
Slowly he lifts his gaze. Dark eyes are staring, empty and emotionless, at him from across the room. Blake swallows unsure what to do or say. Then the man speaks. It is lacking its distinctive metallic quality but the strange inflection of the voice is unmistakably Bane.
“Who are you?” He begins his voice no more than low growl, roughened from the long period of disuse. “Who are you, and why did you not leave me to die as was my wish?”