The Shakespearian Devil
The world has plunged into war. Destruction. Fear. Death. The synonyms of mass destruction, the signal of humanity's downfall. Justice is dead. There are no saviors, only false prophets. There are no angels, only demons. There is no light, there is no hope. The sins of the world have emerged...this is the death of all, the beginning of nothing, the absolute end.
Gotham was Rome. Bruce Wayne, ironically, was Nero, and he was playing the most beautiful fiddle in the world. Walking slowly down the street, like a king emerging from his palace, the patron of justice, the last beacon of hope, stood among the ash and soot. Bane stood on the stairs, the world at his shoulders, man at his feet. "Who are you?" He asked. Bruce turned, "I," he said, "am the man who can stop you."
"Really?" Bane said with a laugh, "You can stop me! Look around you," he walked down the stairs, militantly, sophisticated, purposeful. "the city is in ashes Bruce, all because you decided to wear a mask and cape."
"You think you are any better?" Bruce said, taking a step in defense. "I don't know what's in that mask of yours, but I do know that it's poison that is creeping out slowly into the world, and I personally don't like it."
"You never like anything, maybe that's why Rachel is dead. Maybe you got in the way, have you ever thought of that?" Bane asked. Bruce stared at him, his fists clenched up, his eyes turned malevolent, his heart hardened. The world disappeared, the only thing he knew existed was Bane, who was standing there, with all the pride in the world. "Don't you ever talk about her again do you understand!" Bruce shouted, grabbing Bane's large, thick, lean neck. Bane turned his head, like a wise owl, "I understand completely Bruce." He paused, grabbing Bruce's neck with his right hand. "I understand that you, the patron of the people, the voice of justice, have dug Gotham's grave. You just had to let The Joker live didn't you? You just had to let all this, this beautiful display take place. Now, I may admit that I have, devilish tendencies, but you," he laughed, "let's just say that if I am a devil, then I guess that makes you, well, do I really need to say it Bruce?"
"How do you know my name?" Bruce asked.
Bane sneered at him, lifting Bruce up off the ground, slowly squeezing his neck. "You're not that hard to read Master Bruce."
"Only Alfred calls me-"
Bane nodded. "Yes, yes he does doesn't he?" He cocked his head to the side again. "You bastard!" Bruce screamed, "I'll kill you, do you understand, I'll kill you!" Bane squeezed Bruce's neck, as hard as humanly possible without killing him. Bruce struggled to breath, looking at Bane with eyes of forgiveness, pleading for air. "What makes you think I will let you live?" Bane said. "I believe I will let you die, and I believe that you shall die slowly." He let go of Bruce's neck and walked back up the stairs, retaining the same walk as before. "Why not just kill me now?" Bruce said. "Because Mr. Wayne," Bane said, turning his head slightly, "devils deserve to suffer. Devils like you."
"You're the one with the detonator, and I'm the devil?" Bruce asked.
"Yes," Bane replied, walking back down the stairs. "your fatal flaw Mr. Wayne, is your inconsistencies. You are inconsistent with your morals. You claim to be for justice but you let the Joker live. You claim to love Rachel, but you save Mr. Dent? You took the fall for a false prophet. You wanted to give hope a face. Congratulations on deceiving the public into thinking that Harvey Dent was a savior when he was a snake in the grass. Giving me the chance to do all this." Bane laughed, and helped Bruce up. He placed his hand on his neck, a pressure point, the brachial plexus origin at the base of the neck. Bruce looked at him, "Before you do that," he said, "I did what I had to do to protect the people of Gotham." Bane nodded, "Glad that's working out for you." He pushed on the pressure point, and snapped Bruce's neck, leaving no time for a scream or pain. Bane just finished the job. For extra measure, Bane pulled a pistol, checked the ammunition, and fired into Bruce's head. He sheathed his weapon, walked up the stairs, and quoted Shakespeare. "Nothing in his life became like the leaving it. He died as one that had been studied in his death to throw away the dearest thing he owed, as it were a careless trifle." He paused and entered the building, straightening his jacket. "Macbeth, Act One, Scene Four, Line Seven, by William Shakespeare."
"Sir?" A henchman asked, who heard him cite. "Why were you quoting Shakespeare?"
Bane looked at him, "I was quoting Shakespeare because the Macbeth of this play is dead."
"What does that make you sir?" The henchman said, as Bane continued walking.
"Why," Bane answered, "that makes me Malcolm of course!"