AN: I don't own Batman.


He lay there in his prison, bloody and beaten from his encounter with Bane. He watched at as the mercenary destroyed his Gotham, his city, from afar. And he couldn't do anything.

He had sacrificed enough. His parents. His teacher (twisted as he was). His reputation (after taking the blame for Dent). His cape and cowl (even though he returned from retirement). Alfred. Rachel.

Rachel. Oh God, how he still loved her. He couldn't find the will to keep going after he'd lost her. Eight years, for eight years he cut himself off from the world, not knowing what to do with himself, his life. Never in his life had he felt so alone since the night of his parents' murders.

And then life threw him a curveball. He was suddenly back in the game.

He felt the thrills and chills of his old days. He felt the desperation, the exhilaration that came with his night job. How he hated it, and yet how he loved it at the same time. He felt that he could make a difference donning cape and cowl.

But now, now he was stuck in a prison, injured in mind, body, and spirit. He felt helpless, desperate, hopeless.

Then he felt the rage.

He was at angry at Bane, who was destroying his city.

He was furious at the government, for deciding to negotiate with criminals.

But most of all he was full of wrath at himself, for letting himself get beaten.

Batman was a symbol. He should be indomitable, immortal, indestructible.

Damn it all he was going to take back his city.

His city. His Gotham. And nothing was going to stop him.

Nothing.