John likes telling the St. Swithin's kids stories. Growing up an unwanted orphan, where he'd imagined himself swooping from building to building while holding criminals by the scruff of the neck, had taught him that stories give one hope. Later, John told the kids Batman stories, embellishing the urban tales with his own fantasies. When he'd joined the police academy, he'd added stories of car chases and elaborate detective work to his repertoire. As far as a role model went, at least he hadn't been accused of killing a whole bunch of people before disappearing into the night.
As time passed, John had begun to realize that he wasn't cut out to be a good police officer. It was strenuous, having to get the approval of layer after layer of supervisors before he could pursue the smallest lead, and the events that had led to the Occupation had only confirmed this. That didn't mean he didn't make a good detective, though, and Gordon knew this.
That said, there are some stories he doesn't tell Gordon. Doesn't tell anyone, really.
"We've got the drug lord in custody now," Gordon says one day. They're up on the GCPD rooftop, a safe place to exchange information away from the public eye. "They say you single-handedly fought five of them."
"The wonders of technology," John shrugs, trying to sound modest instead of evasive. He doesn't want Gordon to think too much about where his improved fighting skills might have come from.
They cooperated well: John was free to pursue the nocturnal schedule of a vigilante, and Gordon benefited from John's less-than-above-the-board intelligence.
Well, with one exception.
"Bane has been abnormally quiet of late." Gordon comments, the edge of his moustache twitching. "The word is that after losing to Batman, he fears his successor."
"Yeah, I could bruise his knuckles as he rams me into the afterlife." John forces a grin, glad that his mask obscures the telltale facial expressions on his face. Gordon wasn't the police commissioner for nothing; John fears that he will discover the truth someday. "You should see the rumors on the net- apparently, I've been keeping him off the streets with hot steamy sex."
John almost wishes that were the case; he figures that a sufficiently sympathetic storyteller would still be able to paint him in a vaguely heroic light. You know, John sacrificing himself to save his beloved city from impending doom and all that. The reality is something he hasn't quite begun to figure out.
#
Once upon a time, as the classics begin, John Blake was standing guard at Gotham's finest charity ball. He catalogued the sights- the flash of the cameras, the scent of fine perfume, the gowns that trailed across the floor- knowing that the kids at Swithin's would be waiting to hear every detail. John knew from bitter experience how they thirsted for inspiration. He'd seen the faces of the little kids crumble when Batman was revealed as Dent's murderer, heard the despondent tones of the kids as the Wayne Foundation money dried up- as Bruce Wayne forsook them. He knew it would be scant consolation, but the least he could do was to give them the stories of John Blake, ex-Swithiner turned cop.
John had been a cop for a while- long enough to know the importance of being alert, but not so long that his nerves didn't thrum with excitement as he stood guard. His eyes dutifully roamed over the bright lights and the dark shadows alike, but his gaze darted a little too often towards the gates, watching for the first glimpse of the dignitaries as their cars pulled up at the entrance.
John Daggett stood out, his swagger unmistakably that of an arrogant businessman. A striking lady in a velvet gown strode down the carpet. "Miranda Tate," John recalled with a surge of respect. One of the most powerful women in Gotham, rumor had it that her renewable energy business model would put Shell out of business in ten years. However, there was no sign of Bruce Wayne.
As Tate walked past, she came within a few feet of John. Amidst the white bursts of photography flashlights, John could see her up-close for the first time: straight-backed, chin raised high. The graceful smile on her lips was suddenly replaced by shock, John's first clue that something was off.
John gave an involuntary cry of surprise and lunged forward, pushing Tate to the ground. The bullet whizzed past, too close for comfort.
Later, when the gunman had been removed and they had ascertained that no serious harm had been done, Tate had requested a meeting. John smoothed his shirt down awkwardly in the waiting area, feeling sloppy and under dressed.
"John Blake, Gotham's young hero," Miranda smiled as he entered, extending a hand in greeting. Off the red carpet, her dress seemed less flashy, but she was no less commanding. Even the blood-red stone around her neck seemed to glow with fire. The stone was one of many- John could spot the telltale flashes of color from a carved box on her table. Other than that, the room was simply decorated. Nevertheless, John was awed by its elegance. Much like its owner, he supposed.
"Gotham hasn't had a hero in a long while," John said. It was meant to be self-effacing, but he hadn't been able to keep the bitterness from seeping into his tone.
"Who is this hero you have in mind?" Miranda asked, curious. "Harvey Dent?"
"The Batman," John admitted.
It would have been easy to nod. However, John had never been totally convinced that Dent had been free of blame, because that meant dropping his belief in the Batman. Besides, while Miranda's presence was commanding, John felt that she would be gracious enough to respect his opinion, naive though it might sound.
"The Batman murdered Harvey Dent, did he not?" Miranda asked, raising an eyebrow.
"And just vanished? Not exactly the MO of your typical criminal." John countered.
"You think someone else killed Dent," Miranda clarified.
"I think that Gotham has been too quick to turn its back on the person it owes so much to," John corrected.
Miranda's gaze turned piercing, but John met her gaze steadily. He was not ashamed of what he had said. A warm feeling blazed in his heart as a smile slowly spread across Miranda's face, like she'd found something John hadn't knew he possessed.
"You are an honorable man, John," Miranda said. "It's a pity that Gotham doesn't have more people like you."
Miranda gestured for him to come forward. John moved toward the carved box on the table, until he could see the crystals laid out in the various colors of the rainbow.
"A very dear friend of mine brought this over from North Africa," Miranda said. John suddenly had a vivid mental image of a Bruce Wayne-lookalike in a black suit, honeyed words dripping from his lips as he presented her with these priceless jewels.
"In their culture, these crystals have an affinity with those who possess a pure aura. You must think this superstition, I'm sure," Miranda smiled, studying him closely.
"I can see why they would say that- the crystals are beautiful," John said, with genuine feeling, unable to find a flaw in any of the facets.
"You reminded me of this," Miranda continued, picking a yellow stone tinged with orange from the box, a fine silver chain trailing from it. She placed it in his palm, and folded his fingers around it. The metal was cool on the back of his hand, but the crystal was warm to the touch. John had the strange feeling that he was holding a mini-sun, radiating light fiercely into every corner of the room.
"That's very kind of you, Ms. Tate, but I really can't accept such an expensive-"
"You are the first person in Gotham I've met who reminded me of these crystals." Miranda interrupted. "Please accept it as a token of my regard."
John made no further protest as she unclasped the chain and put the pendant around his neck.
He wore it there after that, tucked safely next to his skin. John never removed it, not even to show it to the kids, although it would have made a wonderful prop, evidence of what was almost a modern-day fairy tale. Perhaps it was the look of disapproval John imagined on Father Reilly's face- to him, it was a thin line between dreaming big and becoming immorally materialistic- or perhaps, more simply, the gem had never been meant as a reward.
"A symbol of my regard," Miranda had said. Something for John to call his own, a token of respect for who he truly was.
#
It turned out that John didn't have to do much storytelling of his own. The media did much of the job for him by painting him as the knight who came to Miranda's aid. It had actually been quite annoying. John could not help but bristle in indignation whenever Miranda- whom he genuinely respected- was depicted as a helpless damsel. More worryingly, some of the kids had come to the conclusion that recklessness was the path to glory.
John knows he's the pot calling the kettle black here. Given the mess this landed him in, though, he thinks he's justified.
A month after his encounter with Miranda, John found himself carefully edging into one of the seedier alleys of Gotham. Mark had been missing for two days. He was ten, possibly the worst age for a kid to go missing- smart enough to go far, not smart enough to keep himself out of danger.
A child's panicked scream tore into the air. John ran towards the source.
John quickly cataloged the situation. Mark was there, cowering in a corner. There were three others, waving knives that flashed orange under the light of the street lamps. Their movements were swift, but undirected. The tallest among them slurred something about "teachin' this busybody kid"- drunk, likely doped. They were violent, potentially irrational, and outnumbered them. John was going to give Mark the talking-to of his life, later, but he had to get them out of this first.
"Run!" John yelled, as his shoulder slammed into the nearest thug, taking him by surprise. Mark scrambled to his feet. John prepared to bolt, but the advantage of surprise he'd gained had run out. A knife came straight at him.
John grabbed the wrist below the knife, gave it a sharp twist, and the knife dropped. Too late, John saw the flash of the second knife as he angled his head, only to hear a howl of rage as Mark grabbed the thug's arm and bit down, hard. There was a loud sound of a fist hitting soft flesh, and the thump as Mark's unconscious body hit the floor.
"Damned kid!" the thug spat, his forearm shiny with blood. "I'll show you what a wound is, you bloody-"
John jumped, pushing Mark's body out of the way, hoping that the knife wouldn't harm him too badly. To John's surprise, the stab never came. Instead, there was a loud crack as bones broke behind him, and a 'whomp' as a body hit the wall. Unsure what this meant, John scrambled over to Mark. When he looked up, the three men were twitching helplessly on the floor in front of a large figure clad in black. John realized that this mysterious newcomer meant him no harm- he would have been unconscious on the floor if he had.
'Batman?' John thought, before he dismissed the irrational notion. Instead of the cape and cowl of the Batman, his mysterious helper blended into the shadows with black riding leathers and a helmet. A normal person's eyes would have just slipped over him without a second look, but searching for things to remember was a specialty of John's. The stranger's face was covered by the helmet, but John could see the gleam of gray eyes under the glass.
"Uh, thanks," John began, picking himself up. His collar had been ripped open in the scuffle- he would have some ugly bruises on his neck the next day- but no lasting harm had been done.
John's impression of what to expect when a mysterious stranger saved one's butt had been formed by reading years of police archives on Batman encounters. Strong and silent entry, check. Identity-obscuring headgear, check. John expected the witty one-liner to follow.
Instead, the stranger fixed John with a piercing look. John had been the recipient of enough similar looks to be able to catch the pattern. 'You fool,' he was probably saying, 'Charging in like that without backup.'
The stranger broke the silence. "You once protected someone I hold dear."
His voice was muffled by the helmet, but every word was clear and unhurried. John saw a gleam in his eye as his gaze flicked towards Mark. 'You have an injured child to take care of,' the look seemed to say.
He definitely had the superhero exit down pat, though. By the time John thought to look back, he had vanished without a trace.
While John waited for Mark at the hospital, he turned to the back of the notebook he kept in his pocket. He captured the tall, broad frame in a few quick strokes. Only the eyes gave him trouble. The stranger had the frame of a thug, but his eyes shone with intelligence, a commanding presence, and an extra something that John couldn't quite place. John put it out of his mind, though, when the nurse told him that Mark was free to go.
"You foolish kid, you should have run when you could," John chastised, once the doctor had assured him that Mark would be fine.
"You saved me," Mark pointed out, touching the bandage over his chin lightly. Mark's wince of pain as he attempted to grin was reflected in the polished steel of the elevator doors. "How could I leave you behind?"
John could not help but grin at the warm fondness that grew in his chest. He caught sight of his own reflection and saw the gleam that he had been trying to capture in his sketch. When he returned home, John reopened his notebook, making sure he got the expression just right.
#
John brought bad news the next time he spoke with Mark. Mark greeted the news of his brother's death in the sewers with forced nonchalance, but John could not help but contrast his expression with the cheeky grin he'd sported the other night.
It made John uneasy. Later that night, when he snuck silently onto the roof, Mark was on the ledge, heels hitting the concrete with small thuds. His eyes were expressionless. John sat with him for the rest of the night- not knowing what to say, but not daring to leave the boy alone.
It was the memory of Mark's smile that cemented John's decision to confront Bruce Wayne.
"No guns, no killing," John mused, as he sped towards the Narrows, towards Bruce's destination, towards Selina Kyle. After Bruce Wayne had agreed to help, both with Swithin's and with Bane, a lift was the least John could give him. "I've never really understood why you would make your own life so difficult."
"It's drawing a line," Bruce replied, the dark look in his eyes contrasting oddly with his playboy billionaire getup. "It's what separates us from them."
John grinned, a glow flaring in his heart at the casual use of 'us'. It felt good to be placed together with the Batman.
"I'd prefer to avoid the separation of my head from my body, though," John quipped.
That had been his last vivid memory of Batman before the Occupation. The day following that had been a blur.
John had shot Bane's construction worker. Killed another man. But there was no time for him to dwell on it. The events took precedence: the frantic call to Foley, the ring of explosions, Bane coolly snapping the neck of the nuclear scientist, chaos descending upon Gotham.
The nightmares came later, the vivid memories and confused thoughts flashing in his mind.
The roar of the gun in the enclosed space, the light fading from the man's eyes as blood gushed out.
John had acted in self-defense. That man was Bane's accomplice. John was a cop, and he still believed in what he stood for.
Bane, the terrifying invader, as he gave the neck of the nuclear scientist a sharp twist.
John pulled at his collar. Too tight, too hot...
Gordon, worn and fatigued. "A lie to keep Gotham from burning into the ground."
"You betrayed everything you stood for," John had replied, shocked.
John's hands brushed against the pendant, warm stone against cool steel. Miranda's words resounded in his head.
"You're an honorable man, John."
#
The sick feeling remained in some part of John, like a phantom gut ache. It lessened a little as he walked the streets, or scavenged items for the St Swithin's kids, but it would return to haunt his dreams. It remained even after the massive mushroom cloud and the aftershock blast convinced John's brain that the worst was over. They had come so close to death, and John had been unable to save them. It had taken Batman's sacrifice. He was gone.
Regular people did more predictable things with their grief. They cried, they hugged others, but John was a detective. He had to know what had happened, the events that had led up to the sacrifice of Gotham's dark knight. He jumped off as the bus zipped back to Swithin's and made straight for City Hall.
It was eerily deserted- the threat of a nuclear bomb no doubt had something to do with this- when John entered. The only sound was a hissing noise, like gas escaping from a pipe. As John moved warily towards it, it suddenly spiked into a gargling noise of someone choking.
John was halfway through cutting the straps that held the mask in place before his brain caught up and identified Bane, and he retreated a few steps. John surveyed the injuries. There were red burns all over his thighs, and his clothing had mostly charred, leaving singed body armor beneath. The terrorist was not going to go anywhere with those injuries. John might not have felt vengeful enough to kill a defenseless man, but he was hardly obliged to save him.
It would happen soon, John thought numbly, after noticing the heavy bleeding near the shoulder. Bane's lips were twisting into a smile, the vivid blue eyes focused on an imaginary focal point -a sure sign that he was slipping away- and then John took a closer look at those eyes.
He had to be mistaken. That could hardly be...
Gordon's words resounded in his mind.
Maybe one day you'll have such a moment of crisis...
John never forgot details, especially not those he had spent an hour capturing on paper.
I hope you'll have a friend like I did...
"A line that separates us," Bruce had said. The memory cut through him like a beam of light.
To plunge his hands into the filth...
John didn't want to be responsible for any more deaths.
"You saved me," John recalled Mark saying, as if from far away. "How could I leave you behind?"
"Oh, fuck," John swore, as he began to apply pressure onto the wound. At least it was his hands that were getting filthy.
#
For the next couple of nights, John's repertoire of nightmares expanded to feature himself sitting at the prisoner's end of the questioning table, Gordon peering disappointedly at him. In the morning, though, common sense would reassert itself. His coat had been buttoned to the collar that day, covering up his dress blues. Besides, all the other cops had been out fighting in the streets. It wasn't as if he'd brought Bane back to his apartment and nursed him back to health.
John's role in saving Bane had been short. Using the signals he'd picked up during the five months, John managed to convince Barsad- Bane's second-in-command- that he was an underground operative. He'd then managed to sneak away as more people arrived.
John had more or less convinced himself that there would be no repercussions, but he still couldn't stomach the idea of rejoining the force. He'd told Gordon as much when they'd next met a week later, side by side in front of Bruce Wayne's grave.
"What you said about structures. About shackles." John said. 'You were right.' John wanted to add, as he bowed his head. The chain of the crystal pendant dug into his skin. He'd come to empathize with Gordon much more ever since that day of reckoning. But John could not reconcile his actions with that of a cop's, regardless of the camaraderie he felt with Gordon. John kept the pendant around his neck as a reminder of that: where he had drawn his own line, whom he had chosen to be, despite what it entailed.
To his surprise, Bruce's will provided the perfect solution: Batman's supercomputer and fancy technology made it easy for John to track down criminals. While John was still sure that he would disgrace the Batsuit were he to put it on, the name of Nightwing- the alter ego jointly created by Lucius Fox and himself- had already begun to make waves in the underworld. John was no match for the mob in terms of brute force. However, John made their illegal trades much more difficult; he knew Nightwing made the underworld jumpy, every member looking an additional time over their shoulder when working on a job.
John took pride in that feeling as he watched a runner twitch and stare into the shadows, as if in fear of Nightwing. As the runner edged through the alley, crowded in on two sides with low-rise buildings, John snuck behind him. The runner could yield something of the mob's plans.
The runner started to speed up, as if he knew that John was right on his tail. John sprinted silently as the runner took sharp turns, disappearing into the array of alleys. John knew the risk of going too deep into enemy territory. He made sure to look up, preparing an escape route. There was the sound of someone shuffling cards on a table. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air. People. A meeting. John suspected that he had hit onto something.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a wiry figure dart out of the shadows. John's spine prickled- even his infra-red enhanced vision had not noticed anything all this while. Only Bane's men fought with such stealth. There could be any number of them. However, this realization came too late. John whirled around and realized that he had been outnumbered, and it was all he could do to throw a couple of punches before a powerful blow connected and he was out cold.
John awoke to the splash of cold water on his mask and the burn of the rope as someone tugged him upright from behind. As John's eyes refocused, Bane ripped the mask off his face in a fluid motion, before his eyes widened with recognition. Bane waved his hand and the force on the rope disappeared as the room emptied.
"Our paths cross again, John Blake." Bane remarked. John felt encouraged at that acknowledgment. Surely saving his life had to count for something. Perhaps he would even be able to escape in one piece.
Bane turned the mask over thoughtfully, as if he recognized Lucius Fox's handiwork. "I am not surprised that Bruce Wayne chose you as his successor."
"It's not the Batman suit. You can't destroy Batman by destroying me." John willed his voice to stay steady as his previous optimism vanished. If Bane was going to transfer his grudge with Batman onto him, he had no hope of surviving. John's only consolation was that his death would not disgrace the name of Batman.
"Such loyalty," Bane said, with a slight smile. "But you are weak," he continued, throwing the mask to the ground.
"If you want to kill me, make it quick." John snapped, and braced himself. He did not want to go out with cowering words of fear.
"Kill you?" Bane echoed. "Death would be a mercy for you, John Blake. While you are alive, you will fight, and you will hope, until Nightwing inevitably falls, Gotham's symbol of hope is crushed, and Batman's legacy is shattered."
"What do you want, then?" John asked, trying to ignore the chill in his heart.
"You saved my life; I do not wish you harm. You do not have to hold on to Bruce Wayne's mistakes. I could train you," Bane offered, his arm spread wide, palm open in a welcoming gesture. "You could be one of us, one of the League of Shadows."
"If you think I'd join a bunch of crazy, murderous terrorists, you've got another think coming," John snapped as he jerked ineffectually at his bonds.
"Gotham was rotting from the inside. For the sake of the body, some good flesh must be cut away with the bad," Bane replied calmly. His thumbs were hooked into the collar of his vest now. It struck John that this was Bane's stage pose, a display of coiled strength that added a vein of horror into his quiet pronouncements.
John opened his mouth to deny that, but he thought of Harvey Dent and John Daggett, and revised his words. "That's no reason to burn a city into the ground."
Bane looked at John quizzically. "You were not cloistered in luxury like Bruce Wayne was. You have seen the poisoned underbelly of Gotham. You have seen the worst of its citizens under military rule. And you still believe that Gotham deserves another chance?"
"Yes, I believe." John said firmly, eyes blazing with conviction. Bane's eyes unfocused for a second, as if he was looking through John at something else. John flinched as Bane's fingers brushed against his neck, expecting violence, but Bane simply felt along the slender chain and pulled out the yellow crystal that hung there.
"Yellow." Bane said thoughtfully, like he was addressing the crystal, or a distant memory. "The color of the young sun. I thought Talia was playing a joke, at first, but I see it now."
Bane's hand rose toward his vest again. Instead of slotting his thumb into the vest, Bane opened an inner pocket and withdrew another crystal. It was John's crystal's twin in size and shape, but different in color. It was a blazing flame and a crimson rose captured in a jewel. John knew without a doubt that it was the jewel Miranda Tate had once owned.
"Perhaps this is how she wished things to play out," Bane said. "I will give you a chance to prove your view of Gotham. I will train you, and if you can take this pendant from me, I will leave Gotham alone."
John wasted no time, striking the moment the sentence had registered in his head. This was a golden opportunity, while the pendant lay vulnerable in Bane's hands. While John would not last more than a minute in a head-on fight with Bane, John could be surprisingly fast- much faster than Bane, he was sure.
John's fingers closed on thin air. Bane had angled his body aside so his hands were away from John. Bane swung an elbow at John, who involuntarily ducked, shifting his center of balance forward. Bane gave his leg a swift kick, sending John sprawling on the floor.
"If you want to catch your opponent unawares, you'll have to be quicker than that." Bane commented, coolly fastening the pendant around his neck. He repeated John's lunge and grab, but he was swifter, with no false moves.
John's fist clenched automatically when Bane grabbed his wrist. He'd seen police officers whose bones had been pulverized for merely being in Bane's way. The reflexive gesture of resistance did not disturb Bane in the slightest. Bane pressed, hard, on the inside of John's wrist. John's fist flew open as he yelped in pain, expecting the worst as Bane's hand moved to his fingers.
Bane prodded the last three fingers of John's hand down with his thumb, so John's hand vaguely resembled an eagle's talon.
"We begin with drills," he said, matter-of-fact.
#
After that first encounter, John was sure that with a little more experience, he would be able to take full advantage of Bane's naive promise. Besides, the lessons hardly hurt. Bane was a harsh teacher- as the bruises on John's body could attest to- but he knew what he was doing. After John had mastered the basic drills, Bane had started sparring with him. Not just physically, either; Bane seemed genuinely curious to understand John's devotion to what he saw as a meaningless crusade.
John's curiosity soon outweighed the lingering memories of fear. He could see that Bane was devoted to the task, as if he did it in Miranda's- no, Talia's- memory. John had the feeling everything went back to her.
"Prison, years ago." Bane replied simply when John asked how they had met. Before he realized that Bane's public persona was a carefully crafted facade, John feared getting torn from limb to limb in some burst of feral rage. In fact, while Bane was violent, he acted with a sense of calculated purpose.
"They threw a girl into the Pit?" John gaped, horrified. He knew that the Pit housed the worst kinds of criminal- murderers and rapists- and left them free to roam within its confines.
"Her mother," Bane clarified. "Ra's al Ghul's wife sent herself down in his place, not knowing that she was pregnant. I watched Talia grow up in the prison."
Bane's eyes softened as he spoke the last sentence, a rare display of emotion. John had a sudden flash of empathy: Talia had lit up Bane's life the same way the St Swithin kids had cut through his youthful cynicism. He tried to imagine all the St Swithin's kids combined into one, the only sparks of innocence in a dark, musty pit, and it no longer surprised him that Bane would risk his life for her. "So you took her with you when you climbed out of the Pit?"
"Your Batman thought the same," Bane said, sounding slightly amused. "I did not make the climb. She did."
"She didn't help pull you out after she escaped?" John asked. He figured that it would have been simple for her to throw the rope down.
"She made the climb without the rope," Bane replied.
John's mind reeled. The only time he had been desperate enough to walk towards a very likely threat of death when there had been the even greater threat of the nuclear bomb behind him. That meant that her only other option was to be raped to death by the mob. He saw it in a flash of intuition- Bane fending off a wave of attackers as she scaled the wall.
It had all been for Talia, John realized. She had taken on her father's mission as revenge; Bane was taking it on out of devotion.
#
John would have felt the same awe for Bane's spy network, if he hadn't known that Bane was simply monitoring Bruce Wayne's tracker. That explained how, three times a week, John only managed to think "there we go again" before one of Bane's men slipped a cloth bag over his head. They would drag him to Bane's makeshift training room down in the sewers, complete with harsh fluorescent lighting.
John had thought that one of the few perks about being part-time freelancer and part-time vigilante would be the freedom. He'd been wrong.
Six months into this arrangement, though, instead of being bundled away without resistance, John instinctively whirled around and delivered a punch right to the face before recognizing Bane's man. His police academy training and experience on the streets seemed to have come together, as if Bane's training had been integrating what he already knew on some level.
John shielded himself reflexively as his opponent raised his arm high. It took a moment for John to register the open palm and grasp it- the macho version of a high-five used by Bane's men.
The base was abuzz with amused guffaws as they saw the man's bruises. John was surprised to receive a couple of pats on the back, like he'd been accepted into the fold for being able to put up this amount of resistance. Bane entered silently, amusement in his eyes.
Encouraged by this success, John made a rapid series of jabs against Bane's mask with greater vigor.
"Too obvious," Bane said dismissively, his hands rising effortlessly to brush his fists aside. "This naiveté will be your downfall, as it was Bruce Wayne's."
Bane often goaded him in this manner, but this time, John remained silent. John had been confident that he would catch Bane unawares after some training. However, at this moment, the gulf between their skill levels struck him like a blow. John was a frozen frame fighting someone on fast forward.
John realized that Bane must have known this all along. His proposal had been a ruse from the beginning, to trick him into what remained of the League of Shadows. It galled John that Bane had not even bothered to make this a secret, so confident was he in his assumption that John would one day see the error of his ways and join the fold. It was sheer arrogance, but the worst thing was that John wasn't sure that it was totally unjustified. For every reason John gave to believe in Gotham, Bane would throw back examples of the rich and mighty of Gotham who only concerned themselves with bucks, booze, and babes.
"I know one rich Gothamite who wasn't like that," John spoke out, heart thumping above the roar of the sewer waters. John was reminded of the feeling he'd had when he'd seen the first bodies in the sewers- the feeling that something hidden, something important, lay deep within.
"Must your cause always rest on the works of a sole martyr?" Bane mocked.
"Miranda Tate." John replied. Bane flinched, and John knew that he was treading on dangerous ground, but plunged forward anyway. "She could have used her influence to revolutionize clean technologies. She could have taken Bruce Wayne's generator and used it to power all of Gotham. She could have been the kind of person we are all looking for, but instead she chose to throw it all away on her crusade to end Gotham- which, by the way, didn't work."
For the longest time, John's common sense had told him to avoid these two things: insulting Talia, and rubbing Batman's victory into Bane' face. But the brief bout of optimism, coupled with the despairing realization of his inadequacy, had lit a strange urge in him: to give Bane a taste of some of his own medicine, to see what would happen if he lost control for once, consequences be damned.
"How dare you?" Bane snarled furiously. He grabbed John by the arm, not caring about the awkward angle, and jerked it, hard, so John was inches from his face. "After all the faith she placed in you, after she gave her life to burn the filth from this city..."
"Perhaps you've destroyed enough." John retorted, above the stabbing pain. "Perhaps you should give the rest of Gotham the chance Batman earned by his sacrifice."
Bane closed his other hand around John's neck, his wrist pressing John's pendant against his breastbone. 'Perhaps I should kill you where you stand,' he seemed to say.
John remained very still, watching Bane's face carefully. Bane would now show if his so-called code of honor outweighed his loyalty towards Talia. John would have preferred to pay a smaller price for the answer, but it was too late for that now.
John fell onto the floor with a howl of pain. His wrist was now pointing at an unnatural angle, whether from Bane's flinging him down, or his graceless fall to the ground. Bane stormed out of the room, snapping a command for someone to deal with John.
When Barsad held up John's hand, it took John a few seconds to realize that he was being treated, not being checked to see if there were a more innovative way he might fit into a body bag.
"You won't be able to fight for a month or so," Barsad said, a strange note in his voice as he had fitted a splint on John's wrist. It took John a moment to identify the tone as surprise, that Barsad had actually meant "only a month or so".
"Doesn't care much for alternative points of view, does he?" John shrugged, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"Bane is our leader," Barsad said seriously. "His judgment is law to us."
Despite the lack of sympathy, John felt strangely encouraged by his comment. The fire of Bane's men came from their belief in Bane's ideology, and John had the feeling that he had chipped the tiniest bit off it.
#
After his injury removed the physically demanding aspects of his routine, John found himself spending a lot more time at St Swithin's. Although he couldn't be a part of the games, watching the kids play ball or run around took his mind off his sore arm and itching splint.
"I'm Batman this time!" Mark called out, his hands outstretched like wings as he jumped around. Mark's smile gave John a sense of hope- while Mark still grieved for his lost brother, he didn't seem as bitter as before. Perhaps their priorities had all changed after the siege of Gotham. Batman had turned from a pariah in the kids' make-believe stories to the flavor of the month. That cheered John, although he also felt a certain disappointment that he was unable to match up to their expectations of Batman.
"You're too late, Batman! The bomb is going to blow up the entire city, but if you run now, you might be able to save your own pathetic ass!"
John grinned as Jake held out a tennis ball as the bomb, pulling a comic grimace. Jake was one of the elder kids, one of those who'd already begun to look out for the younger ones, who wasn't afraid of playing the bad guy if it helped the kids overcome the irrational fears they'd endured in the past. John scratched the splint on his wrist idly and wondered if he would put himself in the same category.
Mark darted forward and shadow-punched Jake in the stomach, grabbing the lemon-yellow ball when the latter pretended to double over in pain. Mark threw the ball, and it arced high into the air.
"Nooo! How could you have defeated me?" Jake roared, melodramatically.
"You thought I'd run away, but I'd give anything for my city." Mark declared triumphantly, as they watched the tennis ball fall perfectly into the net, "Because I'm Batman!"
It was a kitschy mess; Jake smirked and winked at John when Mark ran to pick the ball. John grinned back.
For a split second, the challenge Bane had set him didn't seem that insurmountable.
#
Once John had recovered, Bane started to pull him in according to their old schedule, even though John had seen no sign of his henchmen during his recovery.
"All Talia had was the hammer of destruction, so Gotham had to look like a nail to her. Why should we continue that?" John asked, twisting away before Bane could put a slash through his forearm.
"Throughout history, people have required widespread destruction to throw off the shackles of oppression." Bane's blade fell from the sky as he spoke; John pulled his blade across his forehead in the standard defensive move, resulting in the clang of metal.
"History moves in patterns, but most are too blind or too afraid to seize their moment in it. Will you persist in being one of them?" Bane peered into John's eyes, as if summoning the defeat that had been brewing under John's skin for a long time.
The futility of it all swept through John. Bane's message was clear- that his freedom was illusory, that Bane would slowly wear away at him until he, one day, succumbed to Bane's ideals. John could last for a year, or two, but what about five? Or ten? It had to end quickly.
"I'm not afraid, nor am I blind," John said slowly, mentally formulating his next few moves.
John's hand snaked beneath Bane's blade and clamped down on his right forearm. Anticipating a knife attack, Bane's left hand darted into the space between them.
"But I would die for Gotham," John hissed. Instead of thrusting the knife forward, he retracted his arm, so the blade was speeding towards his own throat. One way or another, John would end this.
Bane automatically lunged forward, raising his left hand to knock the blade away from John's throat. Seizing his chance, John's left hand slapped Bane's other arm down and flew to his throat, snatching the red pendant away.
Bane's hand raced back, knife held up high in a threatening manner. For that moment, John was sure that he would renege on his agreement, that he would simply cut John's arm off and stop playing nice. But the expression on Bane's face as he stared at John was simply shock, not deceit.
"Gotham has people like you who break the pattern," Bane said after a moment's silence. He let the knife clatter to the floor as he raised his hand high: a mark of respect and also, John knew, a farewell.
John raised his own hand to meet Bane's, grasping it firmly.
That's how it began, the orange fluorescent lights that shone through their interlaced fingers a low-budget cinematic sunset. It isn't what he tells Gordon, it isn't what he tells the kids. It isn't even close to what John had been expecting when he first dreamt about becoming a hero, but it isn't that bad, all things considered.