The Dark Knight Series © Christopher Nolan
Fire in the Blood © Hurlstien

A/N: This story will follow The Dark Knight canon, but will include little bits of detail from the comics as supplement material. It will also bounce between past and present, text in italics is present and normal text is past.

However, speech in italics is said in Georgian, otherwise it is English – only applies to the second half of this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Ḟirḝ iṇ tḣḝ Ḃloṓḑ

…

– 1 –

When Bane returns to the hideout, Feo knows he's been successful – not that she'd ever doubted him. A group of ten mercenaries are with him, she notes, and they walk with confidence, AK47s glinting in their hands while Bane remains at the back, his hands hooked over the lip of his bulletproof vest, mask and frame marking him clearly.

In their midst is an unfamiliar man, his hands bound. One of the mercenaries nudges him in the back with the nozzle of his gun when he walks too slowly. He is tanned, with greying hair and creases in his skin. His jaw is tight and his eyes show fear while his dishevelled suit screamed hostage. This must be Dr. Pavel.

Feo abandons her work on the electric cables she'd been bent over, and crosses the wide chamber with its low ceiling. Her dirty, navy dungarees are baggy around her legs and ruffle when she walks, the top half hanging down at the hip, tarnished buckles banging lightly against her knees while oil stains on her black fitted shirt shine in the light.

"Did you enjoy your three day jaunt?" she asks as she approaches Bane. The words are hard to keep down, as though the happiness she feels is a volcano erupting at the base of her throat, forcing the syllables up through her cage of grinning teeth and curling lips. "We've missed you around here."

He doesn't need to see her smile; he can hear it in her voice. Bane glances at her as the men with guns disperse, two escorting Pavel away at his order. "I'd hardly call being shot at and crashing planes a holiday." Beneath the muffling rasp of his mask, his voice is deep, musical and refined, like a jolly Englishman.

Feo wrestles to hide her smile, trying to return to her serious side. She swallows when she finds it hard. "So, that is him?" she looks to the dark haired man with a gun at his back being led away and into the depths of a gloomy corridor.

"Yes," says Bane, "Not much to look at, but from what Talia says he will indeed prove useful."

Feo can't help but frown at the name as they begin to walk. "You still haven't told me why we need him."

"All in good time, my dear."

"What if he refuses?"

"There are ways of making people do what you want, you know this," Bane says. "Every man has his breaking point."

They descend a flight of stone steps, and follow the corridor round to a large square chamber cut off from the hallway by a tatty curtain. A bed with a thin mattress is pushed up into the corner with a bedside table next to it, while a single cabinet and chest of drawers occupy their own walls. There is not much furniture; it is clutter that makes the room seem full; notebooks, pens, books, DVDs and video tapes are stacked and piled atop each other. A laptop is sat closed on the bed and bits of wire and electrical components are left out on the dresser, along with scrawlings of machinery designs and mechanisms.

"What happened to Jared?" she asks as they approach a small table with two crates either side in the center of the room. "I know you left with eleven men, not ten – Tea?"

Bane nods once and sits down on one of the boxes. "Unfortunately, the CIA were told there would be one of my men on board. So when we crashed the plane someone had to go down with it."

There is a kettle on the cabinet top behind Feo and she flicks the switch, grabbing two mugs and teabags from the cupboard below. She keeps quiet about Jared's sacrifice. All the men under Bane's command are ready and willing to lay down their lives for his cause, she knows this. But that still means they are one man down from yesterday.

"There was an attack just after you left," Feo begins, tracing the lip of her mug with a dirty finger. "I went out with a team to Babakalan for supplies, but ever since the screw up there last time," she fights not to swallow, "the CIA has been watching that place like hawks."

Bane doesn't blink, just stares at the small table in front of him while the kettle boils.

"We were ambushed, and Kamil was cut off from us and trapped. He shot himself in the head."

There is a small silence, broken when the kettle's switch flicks back. Feo turns to pour the tea.

"And how do you know this?" he asks, though he has a good idea.

"I was there."

Bane chuckles; a rather rare sound for any of the mercenaries inhabiting the hideout, but to Feo, it is something she has missed. "Your talent for invisibility is fast becoming famous."

Pride swells in her chest as she adds sugar and passes Bane his steaming mug.

"They're on to us," Feo says, taking a seat on the opposite crate and cradling her drink, "I doubt we have long before they find out about this place. And I'm wary of another of our supply squads going into Babakalan again – the CIA are still snooping around, and they're watching the roads."

"Mm." Bane doesn't seem worried. "No matter, we have objectives elsewhere." He reaches up to remove his mask.

Feo's gaze focuses on the tea in her hands as she blows on it. Three seconds, then she cannot help but peek. She already knows the light scar striking across the top of his upper lip. It is something she has felt beneath her own lips before. Nothing unsightly, but it is the knowledge of how he received it that troubles her. At least he is able to remove the mask temporarily in order to eat and drink, but he cannot do so for long.

"Is this to do with that Daggett guy?" she asks, "What does he want, more diamonds?"

"Not quite." His voice, now free from the confinement of his mask, is clear and rich and deep. "Inform Barsad we're leaving and to have the men ready to move by the end of the week."

Feo frowns and her head comes up. "Where to?"

"Gotham city."

.Ѻ.

She didn't see much. Last thing she knew she had hit a wall and was slumped on the ground with a throbbing headache, head bleeding and arm twisted. She didn't see much of anything.

But she remembered a man as big as a bull. Thick combat boots, bald head… and a mask.

Then another, a lean brute with tattoos swirling along his arms. Wife beater and dirty sports cap. He smelt of cigarettes and sweat. She remembered him grabbing her, his grip strong and hard. His eyes were a steely grey as he'd spat words at her, accusations of thievery.

It was raining too, wasn't it? She thought she blinked, but she couldn't be sure.

'Would he really have missed a loaf of bread that much?' she wondered, her thoughts echoing through her head as the pain slowly ebbed along with her awareness. Then there was a faint fizzle of confusion. 'Where did the bread go?'

The distinct shift of gravity almost pulled her back to clarity, but she gave up trying to reawaken, preferring the numb darkness to light and pain.

...

"You count the seconds between the lightening and the thunder, Feore. If the seconds are getting fewer, the storm is getting closer. If the seconds are increasing, the storm is getting further away. You understand?"

"I understand."

Lightning struck the landscape far behind the buildings to their left.

A giddy squeal and a round, child's smile. "One… two… three… fo–"

...

She flinched awake to the smell of wood smoke.

It was cold, but a globe of warmth could be felt from the left. Fire.

Opening her eyes, she found herself flat on her back, staring up at a map of stars. Her head hurt, like something was pounding against the inside wall of her skull, and the backs of her eyes throbbed in time with it. She blinked a few times, then registered what could only be a large stone uncomfortably pressing into her right butt cheek. She frowned and fidgeted.

"Awake already?" The words were English, while the voice was like melodious thunder and irrefutably male. Immediately her grey eyes found him, the huge man from before sat to her left, close to the fire. An old coat was wrapped around his wide shoulders, thick, versatile trousers with knee pads covered his legs and that thing on his face, that mask, which had caught her attention the first time, looked like a large spider clinging to his jaw. "Move your left arm."

Confused and still a little disorientated, she did as was asked.

"Good. Now lift your legs."

She did and he nodded, leaning forwards over her and grasping her left hand in his huge palm. His fingers found her pulse and they felt like ovals of sandpaper against the thin flesh of her wrist.

"Do you have any difficulty breathing?" he asked. She noticed he had a casual kind of concern, as though, even though he was going through all this, he wouldn't really care if she just snuffed it right then and there.

Unable to find her voice, she simply shook her head. He nodded once, then abandoned her hand to place the underside of his wrist on her forehead. He kept it there for a few seconds and made a throaty sound, before removing it and sitting up straight again.

"How many fingers?" he asked and lifted his hand.

The girl tried to speak, but she squeaked and croaked instead. The man waited patiently as she cleared the bogs in her throat and tried again. "Three."

He nodded, seemingly deeming her coherent, before turning back to the fire beside him.

She blinked and swallowed, finding her throat dry and scratchy. "What happened?"

He looked back at her and paused for a few seconds, his eyes never leaving hers. "I saved you."

She didn't know what to say to that, apart from: "Thank you."

"You understand me well."

She nodded. "My… father was from Germany, he knew English. He taught me some, and German." She swallowed, "You… you speak Georgian?"

"Enough to understand you." He continued to gaze at her for a few seconds, then took a breath, "You have a break in your right ulna, and a compound linear fracture at the back of your skull. I have done what I can, but they will need time to heal."

It was only at his words that she noticed her condition. Her right forearm was bound in torn up cloth and held in a makeshift sling, while another set of 'bandages' was wrapped tightly around her head (these bandages having been made from ripped bits of her own clothing, she dully noted). And, typically, as soon as she acknowledged she was hurt, the pain reared its ugly head. She hadn't quite understood what he'd said, but now she had an idea. In a nutshell, she was broken and he'd fixed her, just as Hans had taught her how to fix electrical things. She groaned and her muscles tensed and stretched, trying to get away from the agony that burned in her arm and skull like white hot nails pushed through the skin and into the bone. She felt like crying, and wasn't surprised when fat, salty beads were squeezed from her eyes.

"Here," the man held a white pill to her lips, "for the pain."

She thought nothing of it as she swallowed the tablet, putting all trust in this man she didn't know. She stilled a few seconds, then began to writhe again. As panic pumped into her brain she couldn't think straight. "It's- It's not working!"

He didn't seem worried as he turned back to the fire. "Give it time."

Trying to control her breathing, the girl closed her eyes and imagined herself slowly drifting away from the pain, as though it were a physical object. It seemed to work and busied her mind. After a while she found she could concentrate better as her aches lessened bit by bit. But they refused to go away completely.

She swallowed and took the time to glance around. The man had set up camp about a mile off the outskirts of the town she'd been living in, a place called Kaspi, Georgia. She could smell the scent of night and feel the hard packed earth beneath her body. There were a few trees dotted around and close by was the Mtkvari River. She could hear it babbling over the cobbles and silt on the bank.

She looked back at the masked man, sat staring into the fire and cleared her throat. "Why… did you save… me?" She hadn't practiced speaking in English for a while; her words came out disjointed with a heady accent.

He stared at her for the longest moment, as though deciding what to tell her, while she tried to discern what colour his eyes were. "I saved you on a whim," he said, and turned his head away. "But… there is no balance in this place."

She frowned. 'Balance? What does that have to do with anything?'

He looked back at her, and this time, she noted his eyes were amazingly expressive. "You are the direct result of greed and corruption, the minority, scrambling and clinging to life while everyone else bathes in their riches. For justice to be realised… balance must be restored." He nodded as he said it, his gaze drifting off to look past her, lost in whirlwind thoughts.

"You want to restore balance?" she asked.

He stayed silent for a second, thinking about it. "No…" He still wasn't looking at her; he seemed lost in his thoughts. Then he turned his head away, muttering something she didn't quite catch. The only word she thought she heard was 'yet'.

The girl swallowed as an idea formed in her mind. "I was always taught… to repay my debts," she said, "You saved my life. It is only fitting I save yours."

He looked at her, something akin to amusement in his eyes. "And what makes you think I need saving?"

His words made her hesitate. "Nothing… but there may come a day you need help," she paused, "I figure, the least I can do, is be there when you need it."

His words were slow, almost disbelieving. "You wish to serve me?"

"… Yes."

"And do what?"

"Anything you ask of me," she said, "I can cook… kind of, uh…" she swallowed again. The man's gaze was making her uncomfortable, and she couldn't for the life of her think of her strengths as words stuck in her throat like gum. "I am good with electrics and… and maps."

He watched her for a long moment, and the girl had a sinking feeling he would refuse her. Then, slowly, he bowed his head. "… Alright." He reached down to grasp something from by the fire. "Here."

She pushed herself up with her left hand and took the hot, metal mug of tea, blowing at it.

"What is your name?" he asked, picking up a mug of his own and she watched as he dropped in three sugar cubes. He then moved to take off his mask, and the girl thought she saw the pale white tissue of a scar crossing his top lip before her view was obscured by his cup.

She licked her lips a moment. "Feo… and yours?"

"Bane."

A/N: I'll admit that this is an indulgent story; just recently I've been on a Bane Binge (watching the TDKR every night) and I need to write something about him. This is the outcome.

Please review with your thoughts and criticisms!