Title: On the Brink of Revolution

Rating: M

Pairing: Bane/OC

Summary: There are steps to create a revolution, whether they're original or unplanned. Bane seeks more than a takeover of Gotham, and when an unexpected kidnapping alters his plan, he realises that conforming another mind to his whim will take a bit of extra work. [Bane x OC]

Warnings: Graphic violence, sexual themes, rape, drug abuse and/or references, strong language, and spoilers of Dark Knight Rises. Read at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: Original concept, storyline, characters, and places are owned and created by DC Comics and its affiliates. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter One: Paranoia's Victory

Forfeiting sons to a war—that was a draft she thought to have passed long ago. Not because the world was in the prime era of the 21st century, but Gotham City had cleared its battlefields eight years ago; there was no need to cower, no need to bury frightened bodies beneath the coffee table in a hidden outlet, and no need to fear someone's knock on the front door. A smile from a stranger in a coffee shop didn't offer a hidden promise to follow you home, but was just a suggestion of contentment between two beings. The city had reached a peak of peace, a transition of comfort and safety from its previous plateau of hell.

However, Gisel "Meg" Willard was a paranoid person of sorts. Despite her pristine record throughout high school and life, she was always expecting the world to crack at her toes and cast her into the anxious dwellings of hell. The unforeseen death of her parents in the middle of her university career didn't numb her discontentedness, and instead she opted to take on a strict parenting roll for her 14-year-old brother. For the sake of his education, she returned to Gotham City—the violent abode she'd forsaken since she graduated—so as not to interrupt his balance of a social life. After all, the boy needed some semblance of stability, and she transferred to the prestigious faculty of Gotham U.

German roots were something her parents had stressed in her upbringing, and when she vowed to learn the language, it hadn't been with the ease her grandmother assured her would be so natural. She'd completed several college exchanges during her bachelor degree, and immersed herself with German immigrants in the hopes of gaining more thorough knowledge. Her success in the language prompted her for several options, but only one she ended up pursuing: teaching.

"The rest of mom and dad's savings on your lousy teaching degree," Paxton pointed out on the evening before the first day of school. "You're going to be fried in two weeks—tops."

"F-fried?" she asked, unfamiliar with the colloquial use of the word. The kitchen knife she clenched in her hand minced at the green onion beneath it, and once she noted the fineness of its texture, she discarded it into a frying pan. "I'm sure it won't be too bad."

Paxton snorted and pulled out his phone. He pressed one of the many apps filling up his screen and started playing a game. "I have no idea how you got through high school the first time."

"Oh! Mom and dad had me go to a private school. It was quite nice! The other girls and I became quite close!"

"Dyke. Knew it."

She frowned. "That's an incredibly foul pejorative, Pax."

"Pejora— What?"

"Pe… pejorative," she repeated weakly and felt her stomach clench as she watched him grin. "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

"Sure thing, brainiac. And get used to hearing "pejoratives"; teens are full of 'em," he warned. Glancing at his sister, he noticed her frown, and sat up on the kitchen seat. "Well, they are. Not all kids swear at teachers or anything, but a few of them are pretty crazy. Just don't tell them how to speak."

"As a teacher, I can only hope to educate them, and I'm afraid if they're foolishly adhering to society's ridiculous intent of conformity and prejudices, then I can only hope my influence will inspire them!"

Paxton stared at her hopeful face before finally pushing out the laugh that had paused at his throat. It emerged in short chokes before the fullness of his stomach gushed it out into boisterous heaves. "You're… so… dead."

"Don't say that!" It alarmed her how amusing he interpreted her words, but he had turned his back to her and switched on his phone again. She was unaware that he was documenting her previous conversation to his closest of friends, and so continued preparing supper with troubled thoughts revolving around death. Everything would be fine—at least, that's what an optimist would declare. She hadn't spent the past six years in over-priced tuition to fail as a teacher, but students were people, and people were corrupt. The German language was her ally and history; her cautious enthusiasm could appeal to her students, but if everyone dropped her class and she was fired, she'd have to accept that resolution, too.

She simply didn't take into account that reality is a beast inspired by temptation.


By the time lunch rolled around the next day, marking the finale of the first day of school, Meg was clenching the edge of her desk as she fought back tears. The day hadn't just "gone bad"—it marked one of the worst. She'd spent two years earning a degree in education, and despite all of this, she'd never encountered such frightful human beings. If they could even define themselves in such a way—she wouldn't be surprised if they were agents of the Devil, sent on a quest to purge her soul.

She paid little attention to the students filing through the halls outside of her classroom door. She'd pulled the curtain down so none of them could see her cry. Instead, she moved herself back into the rolling chair and finally gave permission for the tears to fall. Even if it was only for a minute, she couldn't resist the hopelessness that gnawed through the security she had wrapped around her shoulders that morning. Paxton may have been sarcastic, but he was always receptive to her! His peers, though… he had been right. Teens were not who she had been when she was their age, or even her friends; teens of this time were merciless.

"They can't even say 'how are you' in German!" she sobbed into her hands. Indeed, everything seemed bleak.

"Wie geht es Ihnen?"

She glanced up from her seat and raised her hand to conceal her face.

"Oh! Uh, es geht mir gut," she replied. She laughed as she tried to remove the traces of tears on her cheeks.

"You don't appear fine," the accented man noted. She retracted her hand to glimpse at him and frowned as she noticed his attire. It wasn't the most appropriate clothing for a teacher, not that she assumed he was one as she hadn't seen him during the staff meeting. If he was a parent, he definitely wasn't the sorts working in an office—his ripped jeans, rumpled jacket spotted with dirt, and mangy brown hair provided her notion that he was a construction worker—or a street urchin.

"I'm sorry, just… chalk dust in my eyes!" she lied. The man frowned as he moved up to her desk.

"But that board… it is white. You use markers."

Her eyes widened as she turned around. It was a whiteboard.

"Oh, I meant fumes! Yes, the fumes of the markers can be quite… smoldering." Her voice appeared to drop with each word as the man approached her. He didn't overwhelm her nose with any repugnant stenches, but her heart seemed to pace faster against her chest with every step that brought him closer.

"You're not very good at lying," he chuckled. His voice was more clear now, his accent almost masked with his clear knowledge of her native language. Slowly, she reached for a tissue perched on the edge of her desk.

"It's just been… a hard day," she admitted.

"Your first day as a teacher?"

"Yes."

He nodded his head, but the increasing pounding of her heart caused her to retreat back until her chair greeted the whiteboard behind her. "Do I… teach a child of yours?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," he told her. "However, I am looking for one of your students. Little, ah, German boy. Fluent, so he may not talk much. Max Schulze."

She recognized the name on her attendance list, but her head was already shaking. "Sorry, I don't recall."

"Yeah?"

She swallowed. "Are you sure this is even the right school? Perhaps you should try—"

"You're clearly stupid, and I'll forgive you for that, because I know how frightful women can be, but I know he's in this school and I need him now."

"…Why don't you check with the office," she suggested as her hands clenched onto one another. "They could probably help you—"

The man sighed and began to unclip the buttons of his jacket. "It must always come down to this."

Her intuition hadn't been false—the paranoia her family had teased was cheering in celebration as her mind grasped onto the danger she was sitting in. It was through unconscious force that she found herself on her feet, and by then, he had pulled out a gun from the restraints of his clothing.

"I can shoot you much faster than you can run."

"Oh, god," she whispered.

"He can't help you right now. But I can—I just want you to find out this boy's address for me. He had to register with one when he enrolled in school. Bring that to me, and I won't come back here." His index finger curved along the sleek metal of the trigger and he flashed a brief smile.

"I'm sure I don't have to explain what I will do to you if you don't."

Her parted lips engulfed dry air as her heart continued to beat in its vigorous fashion. She couldn't even recall the face of the boy, but every conceivable thought in her head told her that it was against all moral code to sacrifice his well-being for her own.

"I've… never been shot before," she thought aloud. The gunman frowned.

"And you choose this of all days to happen? You really are—"

"What do you want with the boy?"

He was surprised by her abrupt question, but he shook off the concern. "That information doesn't concern you."

"Then why is it the only thing I can seem to think of right now?" Her breathing was starting to lace with cries and the whimpering crawling up from her throat only seemed to agitate her assailant.

"Get his address for me, and you'll never have to see me again."

"Or I get it for you, and then I come back and then you decide to shoot me in the ribcage!" Her eyes left the gun as she once again fought at the tears. "I'm dead! Paxton was right—I really am dead!"

"I don't know who Paxton is, but don't think I won't find him if you don't cooperate," he warned. That seemed to halt her distress and her high heels gripped against the linoleum as she processed what he said.

"I can't help you," she whispered. The face of her brother taunted at her thoughts, but she couldn't force her legs to move. She wouldn't retrieve the address of one of her student's for a gunman; she only prayed that, at the very least, the student wasn't one of the monsters that had tormented her earlier.

The man sighed and reached into his pocket. An old flip phone was clutched in his grip as he pulled it out, and after he used his hip to open it, he muttered out the numbers he was dialing—foolishly, he did it German, and she made mental note of it, should she survive her imminent bullet wound.

"She won't tell us—do you just want me to kill her?"

She watched him as he spoke on the phone, and his eyes appeared to be watching out of her second story window. Carefully, she took one step to her right, but immediately, the gun had turned and he was focused on her again.

"Y-Yes, I understand. Sorry for interrupting," he murmured before shutting his phone. "Let's go."

"Go… where?"

"To the office—you're going to find that address for me, or I'm going to kill you and everyone in there."

"Oh, please!" she cried.

But the gunman ignored her as he gripped onto her arm and shoved her in front of him. He placed his gun back in its hidden restraints before leading her before him. There was a smile on his face as he replaced his grip on her wrist to wrap his arm around her waist.

"This can all go smoothly," he assured her. "Just cooperate."

She couldn't see where she was going—the rush of her thoughts enclosed her other senses, and she was unable to feel her legs as they were forced into movement. Max Schulze; what kind of trouble could that boy be in? She couldn't believe this was an ugly custody battle—but Gotham was supposed to have cleared up all of its mobs and most of its gangs. Why was this boy involved with anyone like this?

She felt the handle of the office door before she made the connection she was standing in front of it, and with the urging from the gunman, she opened it and lead him inside. Three secretaries sat behind desks: one on a phone call, another helping a student, and another just going through the computer. She moved over to the youngest—the computer user—and was relieved to note that the man didn't follow her.

"E-Excuse me," she called softly as she moved to her desk. The secretary glanced up at her, and Meg saw her bored expression.

"Yes?"

"I need the physical address of one of my students. Max Schulze."

"Yeah. One minute."

She glanced at her with a raised eyebrow before turning her gaze to the screen. The teacher frowned; she didn't understand her look, but within a minute, she'd found it and written it on a sheet of paper.

"It's only the first day of school—don't go too crazy on the students."

"Thank you." Meg took the sheet and chose to ignore her words; regardless of the situation she was in, it wasn't her business what she required from her students. Still, the tightness in her gut made it difficult to walk as she ventured over to the gunman. He sent her another smile before nodding towards the exit. The two of them were in the hall before he took the piece of paper from her clenched fist.

"That wasn't very difficult, you see," he pointed out to her.

"Why… are you doing this?"

"Because it's just a small step to something greater."

She frowned, but the gunman continued shoving at her lower back.

"I thought… you were going to let me go?"

"You made things complicated. But I can't kill you here."

Her eyelids expanded and the breathlessness seemed to return. She was going to die—he was going to kill her in the back of an alley and probably do the same to the young boy whose life she'd just handed to him on a scrap piece of paper! Perhaps now was the time to run, but as she extended her leg, a violent force collided with the back of her skull, and she couldn't believe the ease that spilled over her body as she flattened over the ground. She could faintly see the gunman's face, heard his muttering as he collected her into his arms, but then there was nothing as she slipped into blackness.