Disclaimer: This is all for fun. I do not own any recognizable property of the marvelous (puny) DC.
Chapter Playlist:
The Wolf - Siames
Come Together - Gary Clark Jr. and Junkie XL
Chapter One: Pacifist with a Stick
"It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
A gunshot.
Yelling.
Someone hurt, probably still in danger.
Someone doing the hurting, probably armed.
Just another day in Bane's Gotham.
Piper looked down the street, hoping for a friendly face, or even a vaguely interested bystander. But all the shouting from the next block had driven the locals inside. People hid behind locked doors, quiet as mice. There wasn't even a single scavenger shuffling along with shopping bags full of loot.
Looked like it was up to her. Again
Atrocious timing, though. She'd found all kinds of good things during the day's hunting: food, infant formula, and even a few cans of top shelf dog food. But she couldn't get into a fight with the heavy pack weighing her down. And if she dumped it, it probably wouldn't be there when she came back.
It was times like this she regretted leaving Nana at home.
Christine's voice whispered words of caution in the back of her head, scolding her for an action she hadn't even taken yet.
It doesn't always have to be you. We need you more than a stranger on the street. Violence only begets violence.
There really was no one else to help, though. It was just her, the strangers fighting in the alley ahead, and her loaded backpack. Her head told her to drag the goods home and come back later, but her heart insisted there would no longer be a man to save. Of course, her intuition screamed louder than either of them, demanding that she go. Now.
She tapped her shillelagh against her calf, the heavy, knobbed stick beating a small bruise into her leg as she weighed the pros and cons of a decision she'd already made.
Christine was going to be very disappointed.
Oh well.
"Fuck it."
The pack dropped, the shillelagh fell into a battle grip, and Piper strode into the alley where some poor idiot had met the business end of a gun.
She turned the corner and found one man looming over another. The man on the ground clutched his side, and the red seeping between his fingers stood in lurid contrast to the dingy grey concrete surrounding him. He was still conscious, though, and his legs looked fine. All good things.
Even better, whoever fired the gun was not the current threat. This guy had a big old hunting knife. Piper preferred punks with knives. Using a knife took effort and intention. A gun just needed a twitch to take a life. Knives took more time, and that gave her a window of opportunity. Unfortunately, the assailant wore a noxiously lime green scarf, the latest gang branding for the Jokerz. Gangs moved in groups, so even though Knife Bro didn't have any friends in the alley, they must be close by. Her window of opportunity would be small.
She tapped her staff on the concrete, jarring the attacker's focus.
"Dude," she called, "back down."
He stopped, looked at her, and laughed. The half-delirious victim on the ground didn't seem terribly thrilled by her intervention, either. Piper wasn't offended. She knew what she looked like – a little girl with a big walking stick. Despite her piercings and tattoos, her dark clothes, she was small, and big men rarely respected small women. Hell, even small men rarely respected small women.
Really, men had trouble respecting women in general.
The thug pointed his knife her way. "Or what?"
"Or I will hit you. With my stick." She spoke patiently, slowly, ensuring the man knew his options, but she already knew which one he would take.
Still laughing, Knife Bro came at her. He moved like the untrained, cocky bastard he clearly was. He brought the knife down in a wide arc that he forecasted so well even Gotham's shitty meteorologists could've seen it coming. Piper snapped the knobby end of her fighting stick up to meet his wrist. Then Knife Bro was just Bro.
"Bitch!" he screamed, swinging his left fist at her face.
She blocked him effortlessly, brought the shillelagh around, and sent him down with a clip to his jaw. He did not get back up, and she took a moment to ensure he still had a pulse before she turned her attention to the other guy.
He watched her with sharp eyes veiled by heavy lids. It made him look bored. In any other circumstance, Piper might've bought it, but no one was really bored during a near death experience. No matter how badass. And, judging by the fact that this guy wore the red scarf and military fatigues of Bane's formal army, she assumed he really was quite the badass.
Keeping out of arm's reach, just in case he wasn't feeling friendly, she smiled and rested her weapon against her shoulder, crouching down to discuss the situation on his level.
"Hi."
She leaned to see his wound, but his hand obscured most of her view. "Can you walk?"
"With assistance."
She blinked, surprised to find his cold, focused gaze meeting hers. He seemed like the strong, silent type. Honestly, she hadn't even been sure Bane's soldiers spoke English. Sometimes she really enjoyed being wrong. This would make things much easier.
"Well," she said, reaching out, "I'm happy to assist."
He smacked her palm away with a pained grunt, and Piper rolled her eyes.
"Let's cut the crap. What will it take for you to let me help you out of here? I mean, I'd invite you to search me, but you can't even stand right now, so…" She left her hand hanging between them, an open invitation of support and aid. "Besides." She grinned. "You've already seen my stick."
The mercenary glared at her even as he grudgingly let her pull his arm around her shoulders. "Why are you helping me?"
Feet pounded down the road behind them, back the way Piper came from, and angry voices sparked all around like firecrackers. They weren't safe, and they didn't have time for twenty questions. She pulled the guy to his feet and started forward.
Worried, distracted, Piper fell into old habits and buried her anxieties in snark.
"Because you just got shot."
He stopped then, forcing her to halt with the arm that had now twined threateningly around her neck. "Answer the question."
She grunted as the arm drew tighter and made a little show of slapping his hand, but he clearly wasn't moving without that answer, so she bit the bullet and snapped, "I don't leave people to bleed out on the streets."
The arm loosened – a little – and they continued on. Piper felt the man's hot blood soaking into her shirt. What an asshole.
"You support Gotham's liberation?"
She snorted. "Not in the way your boss wants, no."
His eyes pierced her. She could feel his gaze trying to burn away her skin, blast through her skull, and dig straight into her brain.
"Then why?"
"You could just make up a reason," she grunted, peeping over her shoulder to make sure Knife Bro was still unconscious. "It's not like we'll be seeing each other again soon."
"I would not assume such things so hastily," the mercenary cautioned. His tone was anything but friendly, but Piper was used to that.
Men didn't like help they couldn't explain. They really didn't like help at all, especially when they made a career out of being big, bad, and scary. Casual threats were just part of the wounded machismo leaking out.
But she couldn't have him following her home. That would put the kids in danger. So she told him the truth. "I'm a pacifist. I conscientiously object to watching people cradle their own intestines."
The man actually threw his head back and laughed. Piper took her turn to glower at him.
Rude.
At least he hadn't spit on her.
"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Chuckles."
She could feel him looking at her again as they struggled forward.
"You just beat a man unconscious."
If it weren't for his big arm restricting her shoulders, she might've shrugged. "I'm a pacifist with a stick."
"You are a fool."
"And you are heavy. Please tell me you have friends nearby who can pick you up?"
He nodded, once. "They should be very near."
"Good." She shifted his arm on her shoulders and tried to quicken the pace. "I don't think our friend came to this party alone, either."
After several long, agonizing minutes of gimping and dragging, they finally made their sweaty, sticky way around the corner.
A face-full of guns greeted them.
Fortunately, the scarves behind the muzzles were all red.
Two men immediately swooped in to relieve her of her burden, and three more kept rifles trained on her head. She lifted her hands, keeping them visible on either side of her head. Her chosen burden grew much happier back in the company of his fellows, and he actually wore an almost mischievous frown as he turned back to Piper.
"Name?"
She adopted a casual stance, propping a hand on her hip and maintaining her easy smile. No threat. Only a mild annoyance. Besides, what was in a name?
"Piper."
He raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for the family name, and one of his men took the initiative to nudge her with his gun. The guy was a little aggressive about it, and she flinched. She told herself it was more out of irritation than pain.
"Bachman. Piper Bachman. Please get your gun out of my kidney."
He accepted her answer with a nod and signaled his troops. They all stepped away, moving in a coordinated flock of red scarves and dark fatigues towards a nearby SUV. None of them looked back at her, and she couldn't help wondering why they wanted her fucking family name so badly when they obviously didn't perceive her as any kind of threat. Piper waited until they were all loaded up and down the street before she allowed herself to deflate.
Her fingernails skimmed along her scalp as she took a deep, desperate breath.
Had she just made a terrible mistake?
She retraced her steps through the alley cautiously, wary of the distant hoots and hollers of the Jokerz. The dirty pavement sported no dead bodies, and Knifeless Bro was nowhere in sight. Good. She hadn't hit him too hard. Still, the last thing she needed was to place herself on his gang's hit list. This was the first she'd heard of a turf war in the area. She'd need to pass on the word before someone else found themselves in the crossfire.
When she reached the place she'd left her pack, she found spent bullet casings, a Jokerz tag, and an empty energy bar wrapper from the food she'd planned to drag home.
"Fuck it all."
Piper liked books.
Fortunately, their new dictator had an apparent fondness for the printed word as well, and he decreed that at least one library should remain open for public use. Well. He suggested it. The same way he suggested the "people" storm Blackgate.
Unfortunately, the library that stayed open was the downtown branch. The one half a block from the courthouse. It was the throbbing heart of Bane's little empire, full of the ugliest, angriest people in Gotham.
Two weeks into the occupation, however, and even the frenzied mob at the heart of the city had taken at least half a chill pill. Nowhere was safe at night, but the territory most heavily populated by the mercenaries was at least vaguely orderly. Very vaguely. But it was enough of an excuse for Piper to go after some books.
No one knew how long this little nightmare would last, and they had an obligation to the kids.
To do right by their adopted horde, Piper and Christine needed to limit the damage this invasion would do to their futures. That included their future education. And though both women were affirmed bibliophiles, they simply did not have the books to replace a K-12 schooling. Not that any of thechildren who landed in their care were in high school. Thank stars. Piper had enough drama in her life without teenage hormones running amuck in her space.
She waited until her primary contact, George, gave her the all clear. Then she grabbed three backpacks and the two oldest squatters – Tom and Aesha, twelve and nine respectively – to address the education conundrum. It was a slight risk, but at this point even standing still and facing the wall in a locked basement was a risk in Gotham. And George wouldn't give her the all clear unless it really, truly was.
It was dangerous. But they couldn't keep the kids – especially the older ones – locked up forever. Better they go out with Piper and drain some of their cabin fever than have them sneaking out at night.
Chrstine wasn't happy.
That was okay.
Piper would calm her down with a good smutty novel. Everyone had their weaknesses. Piper knew her cousin's well.
Aesha started complaining about the walk after the first five minutes. By the time they reached Bane's territory proper, she was practically keening her woes.
"Keeping whining and I'll make you do fucking laps around the house before breakfast every day," Piper said.
Aesha gasped loudly – for purely dramatic effect. They both knew Piper would never send her out alone. "I'm gonna tell Christine you swore in front of us again."
"Like she doesn't know."
In truth, the idea of Christine's rage wasn't all that fun.
"If you don't tell her, you can pick out some DVDs."
Tom perked up. "No shit?"
"No shit."
She didn't have to tell the kids to hush as they approached the first line of men in paramilitary garb. Kids were scared of glowering men with guns. Go figure. Piper carried her shillelagh like a walking stick, carefully keeping her eyes up but away from the guards. She was not a threat, and she wasn't prey, either. Blending in with the kids wasn't an option. They were too noticeable. Too weak. Still, walking with purpose and confidence dissuaded a surprising number of potential assailants, and if she didn't give Bane's mercs an excuse to fuck with her, they'd generally leave her be. She looked enough like the angry mob they stoked that they usually just assumed she was one of them.
At least they didn't have to pass directly in front of the courthouse.
The asshole who bled on her shirt was probably in there somewhere. Cold-eyed bastard.
When they passed through the front doors of the library, she didn't bother hiding her sigh of relief – or her deep sniff. Oh, she loved the smell of books. Familiar and warm. Just like home.
A voice echoed through the empty lobby to greet them.
"Oh, good! I was hoping you'd come today!"
Piper followed the voice to the main desk, where a charming woman with half-grayed hair stood primly, smiling past Piper at the children.
"Hello, Helen." She dropped her empty bag on the table and groaned. "That really is a long-ass walk."
"Swearing in front of the kids again, you little shit?"
Piper grinned as Helen frowned at the big – thoroughly gray – man lounging in a desk chair behind her.
"George," Helen breathlessly chastised.
George just smiled, stood, and swaggered up to the desk to give his wife a peck on the cheek. "Helen."
Aesha gagged. As the girl complained, Piper got down to business.
"I believe you have some books for us?"
Helen's eyes lit up. "Yes!"
George ducked and reappeared with a massive crate in his arms. The thud as it landed on the desk actually echoed. Piper gawped.
"Dear. God."
"I'm not sure you need all of them," Helen said apologetically, "but Christine's note was a little vague on the ages, and I thought you could just look through and take what you need…?"
Piper nodded slowly, her back unkinking from the imaginary weight it expected to bear. "Sure. Yeah. Do you have time to maybe give some advice?"
Tom cleared his throat, and Piper rolled her eyes. "Georgie Porgie Puddin' Pie, would you please escort these hooligans to the DVDs while we do this? I might have bribed them into silence."
"Sure." George planted a hand on each kid's shoulder and steered them away. "Tom, right? You're almost a grown-up. Seen Pulp Fiction yet?"
Piper took a deep breath, counting down from ten, and assuring herself that George just wanted to wind her up. If Tom really did come back with an R rated film, she believed Helen would forgive the sudden and brutal murder of her husband.
It didn't take them much time to sort through Helen's selections, and Piper was thrilled to find that several of the larger textbooks did double-duty for the younger children. It would be a relatively light load between the three of them. Bringing the pack mules really had been a good idea.
She had space for some fun reading.
Assured that the children were safe with George, Piper left the stack of educational materials with Helen to roam the shelves on her own. First, she fulfilled her silent promise to provide smut for Chris. She already had all the Outlander books – of course – so she picked a few thicker bodice rippers from the romance section at random. Then she went to sate her own needs. Although the fantasy novels called to her, she had all the necessities at home. Better to get something fresh. Things she'd been meaning to read but had never found the time for. Black Elk Speaks made the cut along with A Tale of Two Cities, a collection of Greek tragedies, and a copy of Dune – a book she'd been promising to read for nearly a decade.
Nothing like the end of the world to motivate her to finish up that reading list.
George and the kids were waiting for her at the main desk. He cut a strange figure next to the two kids in his bright orange prison jumpsuit. But Piper knew that eye-sore of an outfit did more to protect the library and the people in it than any words of Bane's.
Seeing her approach, George stepped away from the desk, gesturing for her to follow him. She followed. Once they were hidden by the stairs, he brought his big, tattooed hands down on her shoulders and gave her a painfully serious look.
"You holding together, you little shit?"
She took a breath deep enough to physically lift his hands and forced a lopsided smile. "Sure. The city's on fire, we're running low on everything, and we have fourteen kids to look after. All day. Every day. And most of those days I still have to go out and scavenge. Or meet up with one of the community leaders to talk resources. Or chase off one of the pedos who like to lurk around the windows at night. So, yeah, Georgie, I'm perfectly fine."
"I can't do much about any of that," the man said, "but I could ask some of the others to patrol the area at night. Scare off the lurkers?"
"That would be great, actually." Piper's smile grew a little stronger. "The Cat stays on the prowl, but she has a big territory to patrol, and the daily stuff is really up to me. The creeps are learning to fear the Stupid Stick, but I'm already so fucking tired, and that's only gonna get worse."
George nodded, true understanding in his eyes. "Is Christine having mood swings?"
She pulled a straight face for comic effect. "Yeah. And cravings. She's either crying or wondering how to cook lo mien with spaghetti and canned chicken. It's sad, really."
"And it's only going to get worse."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"You're welcome."
With her side of the pleasantries and reassurances out of the way, it was her turn to lance to boil of George's worst fears.
"How are you and Helen? Being this close to Bane can't be easy." She softened as she spoke, letting her fingers brush his elbow to emphasize her proximity and support. Even if he'd had to do bad things to keep Helen safe, she'd understand. The fact that it was his wife of all people running the library suggested a long and complicated story. She doubted he'd share it, but she could always make the offer to listen.
He took a stuttering breath, almost unconsciously glancing in the direction of City Hall.
"We're surviving. That's more than a lot of people can say, isn't it?"
Piper acknowledged his choice to bear his own burdens and withdrew a fraction of an inch. Still close. Still within reach. But far enough to keep them both comfortable.
"If any of the other Blackgate men give you problems, will you let me know?"
"You don't need to do that, Piper." He sounded exasperated, but also tired, and desperation clung to her name. Desperate to keep her out of harm's way. Desperate to save his own family. He understood her influence – she had it with him, after all – but he didn't want to use her as a shield.
Unfortunately this was one thing she wouldn't back down on. Mental health would be screwed across the board after this adventure, but she would protect as many physical lives as she could. Just telling him that wouldn't get her what she wanted, though.
"Consider it a family tradition," she said, a teasing smile cutting back over her face.
Forget the kid, she thought. Remember the punk.
Slowly, acceptance filled his eyes. She would be involved with the other cons whether or not he told her about developing problems. This was best for both of them. Maybe he could warn her. Maybe she could keep Helen safe.
"Just don't do anything stupid."
That was more like it.
"Oh, I never make promises I can't keep."
He turned back towards the front desk, and once again, Piper trailed after him.
"By the way," he said, tone suspiciously lighthearted, "Pastor Jeff wants to see you. Something about resource management and kids' clothes."
"Fuck me."
"I'm married, you little shit. And I've known you since your mom washed your mouth out with soap for that kind of language."
"Are you kidding? Mom high-fived me when I learned to swear. That was dad with the soap."
George grunted. "Right. Anabaptist."
"Yup."
"Glad you took after your mom."
"Shut up, you old fuck."
"There, you see? Just like her."
Helen and the kids were looking at the door as Piper and George returned, and Piper glanced out to see what had their attention. There were certainly more people on the street than there had been when they arrived. But that could mean anything.
The passing bodies cast long shadows over the lobby.
"Helen?"
"It's getting loud," she said, a strained smile betraying her fear. "You all best be heading home."
"Okay."
Piper allotted the books and movies to the three packs, carefully noting the titles and barcodes for Helen's hand-written records. She moved quickly, efficiently, and the kids picked up on the mood. Tom's dad was a cop. Aesha didn't talk about her family, but she clearly wasn't expecting anyone to come find her, which Piper assumed meant she came from a foster or group home. She hadn't just picked them because they were the oldest. They also had a better understanding of how the world worked. When Piper said jump, they would. They also had long legs suitable for running.
Helen hugged them all, and George escorted them out to the street.
The roar of angry voices, heaving bodies, and stamping feet hit them like a wall.
"I'll walk you down the block," he said, eyeing the burgeoning mob.
Glass shattered. Someone laughed. Someone screamed. A guard – probably – fired a warning shot – probably.
Piper tightened her grip on her shillelagh and nodded. "Thanks."
Bane took a long breath, admiring the chaos spreading at his feet with satisfaction. In a few hours, the Scarecrow would reign over the courtroom again, and already Gotham's citizens foamed at the mouth, ready to feed on another damn soul's fear and death to block out their own dread. He admired their enthusiasm, and he appreciated their caution. His men stood above the fray, armed and untouched.
Thus far, the majority of the city's more active inhabitants seemed perfectly happy to rip the heads off their own people, rather than turning on the men with the bomb.
He hoped the media would collect vivid images of the day's expected slaughter for the broken man in the Pit.
"Sir."
With his nod, Barsad stepped up to his side. Gesturing with the butt of his gun, his second indicated a group exiting the library.
"The pacifist."
Bane narrowed his eyes, picking the fool out of the gathering crowd. She was small, as Barsad had said, and if it weren't for the heavy knot of brown curls at the back of her head, she would've been almost androgynous. She carried her apparent weapon of choice, a long, knobbed stick, over her shoulder.
But she wasn't alone. A man from Blackgate walked beside her, and two children pressed close to her sides.
The little troop walked, unhurriedly, along the far sidewalk, stopping to speak with several other men in orange.
What was strange was that these armed, angry men didn't turn to their fellow in orange. They greeted the girl. Even a few of the mobbing citizens approached her. There were no catcalls. No leers. Only a few distant predators eyeing the children. His wild band of revolutionaries, even those explicitly sworn to his side, responded to this strange little thing as one of their own.
No.
More than that.
They almost treated her with respect.
And all she had was that crooked stick.
Bane was very curious to know how she had earned herself such recognition.
Barsad had told him the full story – an incompetent spotter and a shot in the back – and while he'd shared his second's amusement at the little pacifist and her stick, he hadn't seen a need to seek her out. He assumed her own people would tear her apart soon enough.
He was beginning to rethink that assessment.
She clearly wielded some form of authority, and muted as it was, she could make his work more complicated if she used that power against his cause.
Clearly, she had no problem interfering.
The group reached the end of the block, and the man in orange broke away, heading back towards the library as the woman and children continued on. Bane nodded towards the man, lifting one hand to grasp his collar.
"Bring him to me."
As his second trotted off to fulfill his order, Bane strode back between the grand columns and into the echoing chambers of Gotham's hall of justice. It made, he found, a powerful symbol, especially in the eyes of those he liberated from behind bars.
Crane's towering seat also reminded all those beneath of the consequences of failure, cowardice, and refusal.
Bane rested against the wall, lurking at the edge of the crowd's noise and confusion, and pulled a twist of paracord from his pocket. The loops and knots narrowed his focus, gave his busy fingers something to do besides hang at his sides. His mind picked apart problems as the knots soothed away the irritation of inaction. It was an old habit, a simple one, and perhaps that was why he had carried it with him through hell and halfway around the globe.
The mob continued to swarm about, kept in their place by his mercenaries' silent threat, and Barsad appeared, leading the man who seemed so close to the rogue pacifist.
Bane didn't look up from his work. He left the man standing there as he continued his pointless task. It was a message.
This man's life was not important.
The lives of those around him were not important.
They all rested in his palm.
Only after completing his knot, unwinding it again, and snapping the cord taut did he speak. But his eyes stayed on his own hands as the next knot began to take shape.
"Tell me about the pacifist."
The convict stiffened. His posture betrayed an urge to flee. Perhaps to warn the girl. However they were connected, he was loyal. The connection was personal, not merely professional. He may even care for her.
"She's a good girl. She won't cause trouble."
Bane lifted his eyes languidly, pinning the man's gaze mercilessly.
"So you believe she is capable of… causing trouble?"
Blanching, the convict jerked back. "No! No, she isn't. She couldn't cause any trouble."
His eyes wandered back down to his hands, and he left the silence hanging before he delivered his verdict.
"Really?"
The man talked fast, trying to walk the conversation back. "Like you said, she's a pacifist. She doesn't do violence."
Waving towards Barsad, he said, "My second saw her beat a man unconscious."
"Self defense?" the man asked, almost comically hopeful.
Bane didn't laugh.
"No."
He tied off his knot and tucked away the paracord, giving the subject of his inquiry his full and undivided attention. The man did not bear it well.
"How do you know her?"
The man shifted from foot to foot, clearly trying to decide how much he ought to reveal.
Bane sighed.
"Your wife is the brave volunteer who runs the people's library, is she not?"
The shifting stopped.
In a light, curious voice, Bane mused, "Perhaps she would enjoy a closer view of today's trial?"
"No – no, that won't be necessary." Eyes shining, the convict folded his fingernails into his palms. Clearly, he no longer suffered the delusion that he had any choice here.
"I met her ages ago. During my first prison sentence. Her mother was very involved in advocacy and reintegration for prisoners. She brought the kid sometimes, to open visiting days, to remind us what was waiting on the outside."
Something deep and cold stilled inside Bane. He nodded, slowly, bringing his arms up to cross over his chest.
The convict continued, a wealth of knowledge now that he understood the stakes. "Not everybody had a family that wanted to visit. We played card games with her. She drew pictures. Made penpals. That kind of thing."
"I see how a child in a prison would be memorable. But how do the others," he waved in a general manner, taking in all the orange jumpsuits in the area, "recognize a girl who used to visit a few men with her mother."
"She stayed involved," the convict admitted. An awkward rhythm danced over his painfully drawn words. Betrayal was new to him, a language with which he was painfully unfamiliar. "I guess you could call her an advocate. She protested the Dent Act, did everything she could for inmates who were willing to accept her help once she was old enough. Reconnected families. Tried to arrange protection for some of the more vulnerable inmates. Brought care packages every few weeks."
A begrudging smile at the warm memory sank into a frown as the man remembered he was betraying the same woman he described. "I know she landed in jail a few times during protests, but she hasn't gotten in trouble with anybody since she came back –"
"Back?" Bane asked lazily. "She left?"
Something hard flickered over the man's face. "Trouble with a gang."
Bane hummed low in his throat. It wasn't a terribly descriptive explanation, but he didn't particularly need or care to know the full story. He had enough now to confirm his suspicion that she could be trouble.
But he could also use her connection to the men of Blackgate to his benefit. A pacifist should make a rather well-behaved pawn. And she'd already gone out of her way to make his job a little easier by interceding for Barsad. Certainly he owed her a visit for her efforts?
He straightened from the wall, rising gradually to tower over the prisoner who had betrayed the light of his darkest days to the hands of a monster.
"Thank you." He dismissed the man, both from the conversation and his consideration. "Give Barsad your friend's address. And please give my regards to your brave wife."
The address Barsad forced from the Judas in orange led them to a modest family home in the East End. Clean, but not particularly well-maintained. Paint faded with age, drooping gutters, and shuttered windows. Like most of the other abodes on the block, nothing special. Nothing to indicate what a spectacular kind of idiot slept within.
Bane left his escort to stand guard on the street, only taking Barsad with him to the door.
He didn't even have to knock.
The blue door swung inward to reveal a young woman holding a dog's leash. Mid-sized, brown haired. As ordinary as her home. She wasn't the young woman who'd left the library earlier that day, but there might be a family resemblance.
Occupied with her gigantic mastiff, she didn't immediately notice the men on her doorstep.
The dog did.
She didn't openly snarl, but a low growl rumbled through her burly chest as Barsad lifted his rifle. Bane signaled for his man to stand down, confident that the woman wouldn't loose her pet. That would be a very strange sort of pacifist indeed. Besides, he had never relied on guns to instill fear, and he'd hate to teach this new asset to worry over bullets more than his wrath.
Finally, the woman looked up.
She gasped, her eyes widening with instant recognition and dread as her hand dropped to cover her lower stomach. The gesture drew Bane's eye, and through her fitted sweater he could just see her gut pressing out against the cloth. The protective motion told him more than the bump itself that she was certainly with child.
He smiled down at her, entirely aware of her rising fear, and grasped the lapels of his coat. Tilting his head down, he indicated the clear bump defended by her palm.
"I see congratulations are in order!"
"What – I…?"
The dog curled its lip, and the expecting mother grabbed the leash with both hands, pulling the beast back.
"Nana, down!"
As she hauled the wary mastiff back into the house, Bane stepped in to fill the empty space. He let her lead them more or less into her home, and as foolish as she may be, she didn't try to stop him. The small entry space was littered with photos, dog toys, and children's shoes. Many, many little shoes. But the only item of significance was the familiar, knobby stick resting by the door. He only spared it a cursory glance, confirming that the librarian's husband hadn't lied to him. The woman wouldn't escape his scrutiny so easily. He wanted answers, and this woman would point him to the little idiot who could give them to him.
The woman was still wrestling with the dog, which seemed determined to put itself between its mistress and the invader, and she clearly didn't have the strength to handle her guard and her unwelcome guest at the same time.
Bane watched with detached interest, letting the tension build as the woman's fear and panic boiled over. Barsad stepped up behind him, closing the door with a very final thud.
"Christine? Why is Nana –"
The adults turned as one to see a little girl with an even smaller child holding her hand. She'd frozen as she turned the corner at the end of the hall, like a little fawn in headlights, eyes locked on the men towering over her – mother? Guardian? Sister? The child caught her breath, and the little one she held yowled as her escort's grip tightened.
"Aesha," the woman said, the child's fear granting her control of her own, "take Nana. Go back to the kitchen, okay?"
Still, the child could not stop staring. Horrified. Captivated.
Bane smiled.
"Aesha!"
With a jolt, the girl jumped back to life, dropping the toddler's hand in exchange for the dog's leash. Murmuring to the beast, the girl – Aesha – pulled it away and out of sight. The toddler, on the other hand, didn't seem at all interested in leaving the adult, and she glommed onto her leg with a stubborn kind of love.
Like the older child, she stared fixedly at Bane. He met her gaze evenly. Few things could riddle out secrets and pierce the soul like a child's naked curiosity.
The woman chose to break the silence. "What do you want?" Throughout the exchange, the young mother stayed between the men and the children, as protective as her dog. She was very aware of her weakness, but the urge to shield the weaker creatures in her care overrode the instinct for her own self-preservation.
Mothers were ever the same.
"I am looking for someone." He kept his voice bright, enjoying the illusionary choices this little family did not have. "A young woman. She assisted my second the other day." He indicated Barsad. "I saw her… weapon by the door."
The woman knew exactly who he was talking about. He could see it in her eyes. But he also saw reluctance and the fear that came from loyalty and care.
He hoped, for her sake and the sake of the child she carried, that she would cooperate.
Just then, quiet giggles, like little bells, peeled down the stairs, and the woman stiffened so swiftly she actually jerked. Bane's attention followed the sound, and he canted his head to better hear through the straps of his mask. As he listened, he found more evidence of little ones on the floor above. Although no creaking floor or pattering steps betrayed active play, children were never truly still. Rustles carried, and the childish anticipation (for what?) brightened the air.
If he had to hazard a guess, the little idiot of Barsad's acquaintance must be upstairs with the rest of the brood.
Judging by the abject horror on the little mother's face, he had guessed correctly.
"I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it's very difficult to find anyone."
Piper didn't have the best voice for a wizard, but the children didn't seem to mind.
As she narrated Gandalf's introduction to Bilbo, all the little eyes in the room remained fixed on her. The book sat propped open in her lap – a gorgeous, illustrated edition her father gave her for her eighth birthday – but she knew these scenes so well, she could almost quote them by heart. That boosted her recital finesse significantly. Not only could she do the voices (badly), but she'd grabbed a few bits from around the room to use as props. Her acting skills wouldn't land her on Broadway, but they dazzled the little ones.
Good thing Aesha stayed downstairs to help with Allie. God knew she'd roll her eyes so hard at Piper's performance they'd fall out of her head.
She transformed quickly into Bilbo, grabbing a vaguely pipe-shaped bubble wand to smoke as she spluttered in indignation.
"I should think so — in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!"
The children tittered. Even Tom smiled a little. He thought he was so grown up – much too mature for fairytales. He wasn't old enough yet to understand that only adults could really understand such little fantasies, but he was still young enough to enjoy them, no matter what he thought. Piper was glad. The kid could use more smiles in his life.
The stairs creaked. Must be bedtime. Christine was a good mom. Nice and punctual. Not even story time was allowed to interfere with their tiny squatters' beauty sleep. Better finish the scene quickly, or the kids might revolt.
"Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not Today. Good morning! But please come to tea -any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Good bye!"
She snapped the book shut and smiled at her groaning audience.
"Auntie Piper," Beth said, peering up with her big doe eyes. "Just one more page? Please?"
"Don't look at me like that," Piper begged. "You know I'd read the whole book tonight, but your mother would strangle me and I really enjoy breathing."
Her niece sighed and flopped so her head rested on Piper's knee. She stroked the curly mop, careful to keep her fingers out of the loops so she wouldn't pull. It was family hair. A distinctive trait of the Bachmann family lineage. Poor thing would be fighting it for the rest of her natural life.
Launching a sigh of her own, Piper looked towards the stairs, expecting to see her cousin's own mess of curls at the top step as the dozen children in the room began to stretch and grumble.
Instead her hand stilled on Beth's head, and her blood froze.
A nightmare stood there, eating all the light in the room save for the shards glinting off his horrible, fanged mask. And his eyes. They devoured the warm scene laid out before him with violent delight. So man little bodies for him to break. Piper was moving before she even realized she'd moved Beth off her lap.
And then she was standing in front of him. Gotham's liberator. A warlord who had no problem snapping a man's neck on national television and sending entire families tumbling into shallow graves.
His hands gripped the broad collar of his sheerling coat, emphasizing his bulk as he looked down at her with an arcane twinkle in his eyes.
She took a breath.
What did you say to an armed terrorist standing in your home?
Piper smiled up at him, looking past the mask and directly into his eyes.
"Failtè."
A/N: So, this is something I've been working on for months. I actually have a full outline for this whopper of a project, and I'd be happy to continue if there is interest. Otherwise I may just putter around with it in my spare time. Readers of other fics - don't worry, they are still in progress. At least one will get an update tomorrow.
There's a lot of personal background buried in this fic, and while Piper is pretty damn far from a self-insert, a lot of her story is loosely inspired by my own experiences, particularly with pacifism, Northern Ireland, and some other things we'll get into later. Now, before anyone starts throwing stones, Piper is a type of pacifist, and she's in extraordinary circumstances. Not all pacifists believe limited violence in defense against an immediate threat is completely off the table. They do, however, see it as a shameful last resort. Piper is also involved in "active" pacifism, which will be explored later. Feel free to ask questions, and I'll do my best to answer or point you to resources that would do a better job.
This story is gonna be fucking intense, so if you're interested in seeing more on here, please drop a review and feed the starving writer! I will need the support. It's gonna be a challenge, but I want to push myself as a writer and thinker.
Translation:
Failtè = welcome