DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Dark Knight Rises.

VERSUS

CHAPTER 1

Detective John Blake had never been so tired. Both his body and his mind ached after long days spent fighting Bane's pack of criminals and long nights spent tossing in wretched insomnia. He knew he couldn't solve Gotham's problems single-handedly, but the knowledge didn't stop him from trying.

He wanted to return to the police hideout and rest—but then he rounded a corner and saw two bodies slumped in the snow.

The dark, deserted streets of Gotham smelled of death. Sometimes Bane's men had orders to kill; sometimes the citizens turned on each other. Either way, there were still bodies to clean up, and Blake would serve his city in any way he could.

Before him lay a large man with a bloody hole through his chest and a young woman with blue lips, a small black gun between them. Blake couldn't see any wounds on the woman, but she looked dead all the same. Some lunatic had probably shot the both of them.

The man might present some difficulty, but Blake could definitely carry the woman to one of the mass graves that had been set up. As he knelt to pick the her up, she suddenly gasped, her eyes opening wide. Blake dropped his hands and sat back in the snow, his heart beating rapidly.

The woman sat up. She looked young, pale, somewhat fragile. A purple knit hat enveloped most of her head, but he could still see hollow cheeks that spoke of hunger and dark bags beneath her eyes.

"Who are you?" she said. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

"Detective John Blake, ma'am. I'm here to help."

"I don't need your help." She pulled off her hat to reveal a dark pixie cut sticky with fresh blood. Her eyes blinked rapidly, a sign that she was trying not to cry.

"With all respect, ma'am," said Blake, "I think you do. Let me take you to a doctor to get that cut looked at." He stood up and held out a hand to her.

"Doctor?" she snorted. "As if I should be so lucky. I'll just wrap it up. I'll be fine in the morning." She lurched to her feet and steadied herself against a streetlight, ignoring Blake's hand.

"Really, I know a doctor," he said. "If you don't want to see her, at least let me walk you home. You shouldn't be out this late."

She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Let me tell you why I'm here, detective," she said. "I was hungry. I stole some food." She gestured to the dead man beside them. "When this man tried to steal from me in turn, I shot him. Do you still want to walk me home like I'm some frightened schoolgirl out past her curfew?"

The hard glint in her eyes dared him to say yes, and he took the bait. "Where do you live?" he asked.

"But I killed this man!"

"What would you like me to do, ma'am? Arrest you?"

A tear trickled down the young woman's cheek, but she didn't move to wipe it away. As Blake watched, more tears followed and they dripped off her face and into the snow. "I killed him over a mouthful of food," she said at last, her voice wavering.

He couldn't arrest her, because there weren't any prisons left, but even if he could, he didn't think he would want to. "Nothing is black and white anymore," he said softly. "I've killed people too." An image of two dead construction workers and a smoking gun sprang to his mind, and he tried to push it back.

"How do you live with yourself?" she asked. When she looked up at him now, her eyes held no trace of mockery.

"You did what you had to," he said, "and you can only try to atone for it." He reached out a comforting hand, but she launched herself into his arms and sobbed into his shoulder. When her sniffles subsided, he asked, "Are you still hungry?"

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. "Yes," she said, "if you can believe it."

"Then let's go," he said.

He led her to a restaurant downtown. It had been one of Gotham's finest, but now it looked like every other restaurant in the city: tables empty, chairs stolen, windows smashed.

The young woman shot a confused look at Blake. "I know what you're thinking," he said, "but don't worry. We're not there yet."

They passed through the doors to the kitchen and then down the stairs to the basement. Lit by a fire crackling in a wood-burning stove and hundreds of flickering candles, the room didn't resemble a storage area so much as a temple. Tables and chairs looted from various restaurants and houses dotted the cement floor. By the wall nearest the stairs rose shelves packed with food items and a table piled with utensils and chipped tableware.

And here, at last, were people. They lined up in front of the shelves, sat at the tables, chatted with their friends, savored their food. Blake smiled. He hadn't been down here in over a week, and he had forgotten how refreshing it was to hear laughter.

The young woman's eyes widened as she understood what was happening. "It's a soup kitchen," she said. "Or something like it."

"Exactly," said Blake. "At first, the people who set this up took all the food from the restaurants, but now they rely on donations. It's amazing, isn't it?"

She nodded and walked to the end of the line, and he followed. The woman that seemed to be in charge handed them bowls of microwaved macaroni and cheese and sent them off to a table for two in the corner.

Blake watched the young woman's eyes light up as she took her first bite. Her face lost its pinched look—and she actually smiled at him. They fell into an easy conversation. Her name was Stella Ford, and she had been a philosophy student in her senior year at Gotham University until Bane "returned" the city to its people. Blake was surprised to hear that she was a dedicated anarchist, though not a follower of Bane.

"And you?" she said, cocking an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be underground with the rest of the police force?"

"I was instructed to follow other leads," he said, and again his mind showed him pictures of the men he'd killed. "But I almost ended up underground anyway. The explosions nearly blew up my car."

"They took out my residence hall," she said. "My roommate and I have been living in an abandoned warehouse, but food's been scarce. This is the first real meal I've had in weeks."

"And you still think that anarchy is the solution to Gotham's problems?" Blake asked. "If you really believe in the power of the people, why were you so quick to do away with democracy?"

Stella shrugged. "Because in the system we had, the power wasn't in the hands of the people. It was controlled by corrupt officials like Jim Gordon and wealthy overlords like Bruce Wayne. We'll have to establish rules eventually, of course, but we needed this revolution so we could start over again."

It was amazing how quickly a scoop of cold pasta changed her attitude from one of self-disgust to one of self-importance. She didn't know anything about Gordon or Wayne.

But she has a point, said the voice in the back of his mind. Gordon lied about Dent for eight years to make himself look better. And Wayne…well, perhaps you brought Wayne to his downfall. You convinced him to put the cape back on, and he may be dead.

"It's more complicated than that," he said at last. "Especially with the two of them." He frowned into his half-full bowl. He didn't really feel like eating.

"Are you going to finish that?" Stella asked. He shook his head and slid the bowl to her. "This isn't exactly the Gotham I dreamed about, but, like I said, it's a start. We'll build ourselves back up. We just need time."

"We don't have time," he said.

"Of course we do," she replied. "I know that as a police officer, you must be uncomfortable in a revolutionary state, but this is our life now. This is our time to rise as a common people and take control of our lives." Her voice rose in excitement with a hint of condescension, and Blake didn't want to listen to it anymore.

"No, we really don't have time," he said. Should he tell her the secret? If word got out, it would cause mass panic—but the situation couldn't really get any worse than it already was. He decided to take the chance. "We found out something about the core of Bane's nuclear bomb," he said. "When they took it out of the reactor, it started to decay. It will explode this month if we can't figure out how to stop it."

And now it was Stella's turn to stop. "You can't be serious," she said. A thin line appeared between her eyebrows.

"We were told by the people who made the bomb."

"And who would that be?"

Blake shook his head. "That one isn't my secret to tell. You'll just have to trust me when I say that they know what they're talking about."

Another change came over her face. When she had been crying in the street, she looked as though she was melting, but now she looked as though she was made of stone. In the flickering candlelight, her features appeared more severe and the crust of now-dry blood on the left side of her head darker. And her eyes looked deader, somehow, deader than when she had first woken up.

"They're just going to sit back while the core makes a crater where our city used to be?" she said. "They should have blown us up from the start."

"I'm sorry I told you," said Blake. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, I'm glad you did," said Stella. "I'm glad I know."

But she didn't look glad. She looked as though the world had dropped out from under her feet.

Are you happy now? asked the voice in the back of his mind. Your heroes failed you, but you didn't have to disillusion her. Not like that.

Stella broke the silence. "You're sure it will go off?" she asked. Blake nodded. "Do you know of a way to stop it from detonating?"

"Maybe," said Blake. "We're doing everything we can, but most of our people are trapped in the tunnels or dead."

"People are everywhere," Stella said. "They don't have to be police to want to live."

Blake shook his head. "It's a delicate situation. My orders are to only deal with our own men and the government representatives that manage to sneak in."

"But you told me about it."

"I made a mistake," he said with a sigh. "I'm too tired for this."

"You still don't get it, do you?" Stella asked. "Your attitude is exactly what we're—I'm—fighting. You all stick together and follow your orders, and you think you're protecting the people when you're actually repressing them. Just look around!" She gestured to the tables buzzing with conversation around them. "Look at what the people of Gotham have done. We have done awful things to each other, but we are capable of great things as well. We can handle the truth."

"It didn't look like you could handle the truth," said Blake, his voice growing louder. The people around them were casting curious glances their way, but he didn't care.

"Shut up," she said, eyes flashing back to life.

Blake immediately regretted snapping at her. "I'm sorry. My superiors always call me a hothead. I've gotten too used to it being a compliment."

They stared at each other across the table, both thinking hard. "What do we have left?" Stella asked. The edge was gone from her voice now; her anger had passed as quickly as it had come. "If we stop the bomb, what will happen to us?"

"I don't know," said Blake. "But I'll admit that you're right: the city needed to change. It can't go back to the way it used to be."

"People will try to make it go back," she replied.

"Perhaps," he said. "And you can stop them if they do. But right now, my priority is ensuring that the city is still around for that to happen, and I need to work with my fellow officers and the federal government for that to happen."

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her gloved hand. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe because I can't tell anyone else. Or maybe because you remind me of myself." The words fell out of his mouth before he really thought about them, but he realized that they were true.

Their eyes met across the table, but in an understanding look this time. In that moment, Blake felt more connected to her than he had felt to anyone since this whole mess began.

And the conversation shifted from the political arena towards less heated topics. Stella told him about her life on the streets of Bane's Gotham—looting houses for warm clothes, boiling snow in rusting pots to brew tea with, physically fighting off a pack of prostitutes that tried to use her warehouse as a brothel. They laughed together at that one, but her hardships didn't escape his notice. She had endured much, much more than he had imagined.

And he related stories about life on the force—both the funniest cases he had been in involved in and the most serious, the police trapped in the sewers, the pursuit of the Batman.

He enjoyed talking to her, and he wanted to continue. After all, who knew when he would see her again? But the woman in charge of the kitchen seemed to be cleaning up, and it seemed to be time to leave.

"Thank you for dinner," Stella said. "And thank you for telling me the truth." The corners of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. She was an odd sort of beautiful, Blake thought.

"So, can I walk you home?" he asked. He didn't want to leave her yet.

"I'd like you to," she said. "But you look tired. You should get some sleep."

"I can't sleep anymore," he said.

"Neither can I."

So they thanked the woman in charge and walked uptown to the warehouse Stella called home. Her roommate was out and everything was quiet, and if they had been in any other city, they might have called it peaceful. They built a fire with rotting newspapers and spread blankets on the floor, and Blake gazed in wonder at the teetering piles of books that took up much of the available space. He liked the warehouse more in the few minutes he'd been there than he had ever liked his shoebox apartment downtown.

But what was he doing there? He hadn't done anything even remotely resembling a date in a long time, and all of a sudden he was saving some misguided idealist and taking her to dinner and going home with her. What had happened to him?

As Stella wrapped another blanket around her shoulders and sat down next to him, he realized that disparagement and loneliness had happened to him. His friends were all stuck underground, and he was left with only coworkers and superiors and enemies. He didn't have anyone near him that he connected with the way he connected with Stella.

They talked of more mundane things then—their childhoods in Gotham, experiences at the university, Stella's vast collection of stolen books. Blake couldn't remember the last time he had felt that relaxed, and from Stella's outbursts earlier in the evening, he suspected that she couldn't either.

"This isn't the way I imagined spending my night," she said after a lull in the conversation.

"Well," he said, "how did you imagine it?"

She shifted positions, bringing her knees under her chin. "I didn't imagine that I'd have a night to spend at all. I hated myself and I sat in the snow with every intention of dying, and I hated you for not letting me. But," she said, her voice catching in her throat, "I'm happy I'm here now. I don't hate myself. I don't hate you."

And with that, she tilted her head and gently kissed his lips. "Good night, John Blake," she whispered.

He kissed her back, just once, and said, "Good night, Stella Ford." And they lay down next to each other on the floor, cocooned in their blankets, and slept dreamlessly.

And when Blake awoke shivering the next morning, the fire was a mere pile of ashes and Stella was gone.

Later that day, Blake knelt in the snow, dropping a pack of playing cards tied to a fishing line into one of the sewer grates on Main Street. His friends trapped down there always complained about their boredom, and as one of the few cops still aboveground, it was the least Blake could do to help.

He couldn't stop thinking about Stella Ford. Even though their ideologies clashed, they had the same sense of justice and love of Gotham. Perhaps they could have found a way to balance each other and rebuild the city without making the same mistakes as before.

And beyond the professional level, Stella was passionate and intelligent and attractive and challenging. Judging from the previous night, she thought the same about him.

So why did she leave without a word?

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't even hear the footsteps behind him. As he rolled up the empty fishing line, a strong hand grabbed him and yanked him upright. Blake found himself looking into the hard eyes of one of Bane's men. Something cold touched his temple—the metallic kiss of a gun.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now," the man hissed.

And in that fateful moment, Blake couldn't think of a single one.

"Nothing?" the man said. "Well, officer, it's a good thing I don't have orders to shoot you. No, you're to be sentenced in Crane's court." He removed the gun from Blake's head and set to securing his prisoner's hands behind his back.

Blake could kick backwards and knock him down, but the thug would probably just shoot him anyway. He heard that Crane gave a choice between death and exile. If he chose exile, he might have a chance of making it back to the city.

As he looked up, he saw a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. A purple hat emerged from behind a corner, and below the hat a pale face set with large brown eyes.

Stella Ford had returned.

Blake tried to motion with his head that Stella should attack the lieutenant from behind, but she didn't understand. And before he could try any other forms of charades, the man, alerted by Blake's movement, looked up as well.

"Got a friend, have you?" he asked. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and held it to Blake's head again. "Take one step closer, and he dies."

He took a deep breath. Perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about the bomb exploding.

"DUCK!" Stella shouted, and Blake obeyed. She raised her hand and hurled a baseball-sized rock directly into the man's face. A gunshot echoed through the street, and Blake cried out as a warm sort of pain blazed in his arm.

When he stood up, the thug lay unconscious, his broken nose staining the snow scarlet, and Stella was running over. "He got you?" she asked, breathless. She examined Blake's arm, her long fingers coming away sticky with blood.

"I thought you left," he said.

She unwound the striped scarf from her neck and wrapped it around his wound. "Nothing like a 'thank you,'" she said. "I had some business to take care of."

Between the lack of sleep and the pain clouding his mind, all he could do was ask, "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm reevaluating myself. You gave me a lot to think about," she said, looking up into his eyes. "Is that doctor you mentioned yesterday close to here?"

"A few blocks away," he said. "But you're coming with me. Your face is still bloody."

She took his other hand, and he could feel her warmth even through her gloves. "I suppose," she said. "But don't think I'm going to agree with you all the time."

"Never," he said with a smile. "Where would the excitement be in that?"