Tra la la, wHoOps. This chapter got out of hand because it started off as a much different outline and ended up being a billion pages so I needs to readjust etc, etc. Anyways -in theory- that means I should have another one up and ready in a much shorter period of time, but please feel free to bug me.

I have huge big enormous emotions about linguistics which is another reason this got halted; if you are interested in the headcanon and research/reasoning behind any of this please let me know! I've considering posting a companion piece with all of my appendices (because idk that's who I am) because ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR IT.

Your views, kudos and reviews are much beloved!

The little form raged and twisted and spat like a beast when he swept it up. They moved through the bodies like water, far from the screaming that had drawn him as it drew the others swarming to commotion and the promise of blood. He had settled heavily in a darkened corner and tucked it close, the little thing that vibrated and was still all at once. It was strange to be so close to the oddity that had come to be in this dark place, that had stretched and grown and become the shape of a small child. When it first filled the Pit with its wails the others had turned to him wickedly.

"Do you hear that, Boy?" had called the one with blue-black beard, "That name is yours no longer! This new one must have it now, for he is a prince and has earned it with his stature!"

That had filled the Pit with roars of laughter. Boy had not replied; in his endless days he had grown large and they had grown wary, but not so much that they would not fight back. He'd tucked deeper into the shadows and twisted his strings. What had once been cloth were now nothing more than threadbare strips, but the feeling of their length along his callouses brought a calm. Spurred on by the response, the bearded one had pointed and bellowed an alternative name, a short harsh word in his own language. The laughter below him paused; they'd scratched their whiskers and shrugged their shoulders. What does it mean? they had asked, the ones who spoke only the western dialects. The bearded one had scowled and spat his irritation and called it once more in words that all could understand.

Weaver!

Their howls had echoed cruelly off of the stone walls.

Weaver! Weaver with his rags!

The prince who was now Boy spoke to him, the little voice harsh and soft and he did not understand. The words were in the high language, the nobles dialect. Weaver shook his head. Boy spoke again more firmly, but slower. Some of the sounds were similar to the ones he knew but pressed into strange shapes.

Who calls of you?

Weaver felt he understood the question- who are you? what are you called?- but he paused. He had been Boy once- but now, of course, the prince was Boy- and after that he had only been Weaver. Weaver with his rags. He said it, the coarse word that was the only name he had, and Boy only stared back. He reached into his covering and held out his worn strings for the prince to see.

Weaver.

He said it again, slowly and clear. Boy had taken the strings, studied them, then repeated the word clumsily over the planes of his noble accent, speaking it like a strange new taste.

"Be-oohn."

A new wave of horrible sounds roared out of the cell that Boy had shared with his mother and the prince shook and buried into Weaver's body. It was an unknown strangeness to be so close to another, to be touched without fists or kicks or spite. A feeling like the opposite of loneliness if such a thing could exist: warm and sharp like sadness. A feeling that made him want to wrap his largeness around the little creature like a shield. He did so stumblingly, curling around Boy's trembling shoulders as gently as he could. The prince touched Weaver's chest with tiny fingers that still held the strings.

"Be-hn."

The word was spoken more fluidly this time. Weaver blinked and nodded. The fingers had moved away and came to stillness on Boy's own chest.

"Talia."

The feeling that was like sharp sadness flared once more, though it was different now and also bitter like fear. Talia. It was a name for a girl child. Weaver looked down and marvelled as the little thing nestled further into him; it was not a little prince at all, but a little princess. The sharpness lost all of its warmth but continued to burn cooly and unhappily. He wrapped himself more tightly around her smallness. This was not a place for girls, not a place where girl children would blossom. Would survive.

Weaver looked up, up at the hole far away in the darkness that was all he knew of The World. The princess must not stay here. And it was then that he knew his purpose, understood why he had come to exist as a shadow in this place. He would show her. She must be fearless, but he would show her. She must rise.

"No thanks."

Barsad didn't move, holding out another small white tablet unwaveringly. Mel stubbornly pressed her spine into the couch.

"They make me see things."

The hand didn't falter. She looked into his face pitifully, trying to elicit something besides boredom from his glacial eyes. Mentally she dug through her toolbox but the days of uncertainty and isolation had left her clumsy.

"They make me hallucinate arguments with my mother."

Mel grimaced and tucked her hair behind an ear.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

It was a little heavy handed; a little too jokey, a little too damsel in distress, and also a little too truthful for her taste. Barsad blinked heavily and she wasn't vain enough to read anything other than irritation in the movement. He dropped the pill onto the desk and rummaged in the med kit. Mel sat and worked to remain silent as he snipped and tugged at her stitches; the wound was healing but it still hurt. One hand held the scissors and the other held her head firmly in place. His thumb pressed her chin upwards to achieve a better angle and Mel's mind swam with memories of huge warm hands and the stab of green eyes.

Then we must unshackle you.

Those words had haunted her in the days- how many had it been? There was no way to tell in the dim little office -since she'd arrived. She lay in the dark tormented by what her presence could mean. Where her necessity existed in Bane's grand new world. What it meant to be unshackled. When the door had opened after the first terrifying night she had been a wreck, sure she was about to be thrown to the grim and grimy masses to be misused and torn apart. It had been Barsad; he had handed her a white pill, placed some sliced bread and beans on the desk, swiped over her stitches with a cloth that stung, and then closed the door curtly as he left. Every time afterwards had been the same: always Barsad, always with food and medicine, always curt and efficient. Time had passed this way, days and days she guessed. Enough time for her wounds to begin to heal, for her body to stiffen from disuse, and her brain to become foggy from the pills.

"Is it healed?"

Barsad turned her chin once more, studying her cheek. He did not respond. He almost never did. To Mel it was beginning to feel like a game or some kind of twisted compulsion, trying to think of something to say so that might drag out a response. Politeness, pity, jokes, and medical questions had all failed today. Feeling reckless and strange she tried a fifth time.

"Where's Bane?"

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a frown, nothing. He gathered the kit and Mel sagged into the couch and watched blearily. Suddenly he turned and gestured towards the desk with his chin.

"Eat. Your work begins tomorrow."

It took her a couple of slow seconds to process his words; she looked dumbly at the plate then back at Barsad.

"Work?"

He said nothing as he walked towards the door. She tried to stand but her legs protested woodenly and in the end she just teetered forward in her seat.

"What work?"

The door would snap closed behind him in a matter of seconds.

"If I'm going to be working I need a shower!"

Mel colored a bit at the volume and shrillness of her words but forgot her embarrassment when Barsad turned and stared back at her blankly. She took in his familiar form: the combat boots, the medkit, the shadowy beard. She'd done it. She had his attention. In the fleeting moment of human interaction she tried to remember what it felt like to be a person, but his eyes hardened before she had a chance. She gestured vaguely to her sweaty bloody clothing.

"This smells the way it looks."

He gave her a disinterested lookover then turned and left. She watched the door close behind him for what seemed like the thousandth time. Dragging her stiff body towards the desk Mel ignored the pill and grabbed the dish- rice and beans this time. She took a bite. Whatever it was it was always hot and filling and well spiced. This once was warm in a peppery way and without the effects of the pill in her veins the taste exploded across her tongue. She took a second bite and, as she chewed, eyeballed the little tablet and then swiped it roughly with her free hand. It clattered away and disappeared into the shadows of the bookshelves. Her fingers grazed the rough skin on her forehead where the cut was healing as she considered Barsad's words.

Your work begins tomorrow.

If things were changing then she couldn't be numb anymore. From now on she would be vigilant. She was calm, she was...she couldn't quite bring herself to finish the thought. Time would tell what she was.

Mel wilted to the floor and shoveled another forkful into her mouth. She missed her plants.

The door swung open again a while later and Mel nearly jumped out of her skin. Barsad tossed a duffel bag towards her and it landed with a soft thud at her feet. She looked between it and the man in the doorway; when, unsurprisingly, he said nothing she unzipped it and peered inside carefully. Her head swung up.

"Is this my stuff?"

All hesitation forgotten, she pawed through the jumble of familiar clothing.

"Was someone in my apartment?"

He shifted his weight ever so slightly, his face bored.

"Were you in my apartment?"

"If you want a shower get what you need now."

What-

Her body left her brain, still shaking off its previous fogginess, behind, grabbing a random handful of clothing and hurrying stiffly after Barsad as he marched from the dark office into the hallway. Mel's eyes darted around quickly as she followed, taking in the neutral walls, the dated carpet, the intricate wooden moldings.

Labor Standards, read one door about twenty feet from her office.

Economic Development.

Construction and Inspections.

Definitely a government building but she couldn't be sure which. Several armed men milled about on the second floor as they passed on the way down the large staircase; Mel let her matted hair shield her face and stayed close to Barsad's back. As they crossed the wide marble lobby Mel looked up and saw the words Gotham City Hall etched overhead in gold; she struggled to notice the grandeur of the space, thinking only that it was the place where she'd thought she would die, where her fate had been sealed, where she'd heard the sounds of two men being ripped apart. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly and she gritted her teeth until her head throbbed. As they went down another staircase towards the basement the clenching turned into a soft burning. Keep your wits about you, it said. Think.

Barsad stopped in front of a door with an uninteresting acrylic placard at the end of the hall.

Delousing Shower.

Gross.

Mel flipped on the fluorescent lights. The room looked like no one had been inside in twenty years; it had also clearly doubled as a custodial closet. An old dried out string mop and some faded bottles of cleaner sat huddled in a corner against the tiles that lined the walls and floor. In the opposite corner a showerhead protruded from the wall. At some point someone had hung an aggressively cheery shower curtain covered in a nautical print, but it too had faded and begun to peel. She looked over her shoulder when the door swung closed behind her. Barsad had not followed her inside; the door, however, remained open an inch and she heard his armor thunk heavily against the wall outside.

The water sputtered and rattled at first but eventually came out hot and Mel stood in the stream as it spattered against her. The effects of the pills continued to leave her system and for a while all she could do was stand rigidly as the unfamiliar sensations coursed through her. After a time she raised a hand experimentally and scrubbed at her skin and watched the drain swirl with old blood and dirt and stink and fear, watched it run dark at first and then gradually become clear. She did it again and again, an arm, a leg, her shoulders, the back of her neck. Her skin ached and tingled but it felt amazing to feel once again. It overwhelmed her and shakily she sat on the old tile floor. The water thundered down on her skull and ran in thick hot rivers off of her ears, her nose, and down her cheeks; almost like tears, she mused. She had said that she would never cry again and she meant what she had said, but it was freeing to feel the shower crying for her while she sat.

Think.

With the roar of the water like white noise in her ears, Mel brain's swam with images of office doors and second floor landings and guns and tshirts she'd thought she'd never hold again. Think. What did she know? What could she use? She stared at her feet. Her toenails still had polish on them and she puzzled over this remnant from another world for a moment to allow her brain to untangle.

She was a prisoner. She was alive. She was a fool. She was a scientist.

Think.

The door creaked as it opened another inch.

"You're clean. Finish up."

Mel peered around the edge of the curtain at the door but it had been returned to its original position and Barsad was nowhere in sight. The corner of her mouth twitched with something like the ghost of a smile. She was a scientist. Observation, Induction, Deduction, Testing, Evaluation.

Observations:

1. She had asked for a shower

2. She had gotten what she'd asked for

3. A duffel bag of her clothing sat upstairs

Inductions:

1. Above observations represented a potential (influence, escape, etc)

Deductions:

1. Tbd

Testing:

1. Tbd

Evaluation:

1. Tbd

She wrung the water out of her hair and pulled on the clothes, black denim and a sweater; she had not worn either since the year before but they were still her clothes. Hers. The dichotomy was strange, to be wrapped in her own things and feel like a completely different person, like the time in the dingy little room had been time in a cocoon. Like Mel had walked in and Pamela had come out. She clung to the feeling as she followed Barsad back the way they'd come. This time she was hyperaware, careful, intentional when they climbed the grand staircase. She took in the scene on the second floor: the cots, the array of technology, the guns, the men. Some wore red scarves and others did not. She noted it. A couple looked up when she came into view, taking in her wet hair and bare feet with greedy eyes. She watched the beginnings of action; a mouth almost opening to call out, a foot almost lifting to step towards her- she watched the actions evaporate at the whisper of a mechanical hiss.

Bane moved heavily down the stairs between the third and second floors towards the landing, hands clutching the straps of an armored vest as he joined two red scarved men who waited for him by the bannister. Mel and Barsad passed the behemoth silently. She could feel the heat and power rolling off of his bare arms, could feel the change in the room as he entered. Not a single pair of eyes remained on her as she moved off of the landing towards the office at the end of the third floor hallway. Behind her the red scarved men spoke in low voices to their commander and she turned her head carefully to look. They gestured to a large piece of paper- a blue print? a map?- and Bane's fingers flexed against the fabric as he listened. In the space between the mask and his vest she could see the jagged lines of a massive scar, branched and twisted like roots down his back. The voices of the mercenaries with the map halted and Mel's breath died in her throat as Bane turned to meet her gaze over his shoulder.

"How are your shadows today, Pamela?"

Ever the gentleman, he inclined his head as his words rasped through the metal though he never looked away. The mask, as always, hid his expression, leaving his green eyes to bore cryptically into her.

Think.

She acknowledged her heartbeat rattling in her ribcage but refused to be cowed. The others could be cowed, would halt in their tracks at the power, at the danger, at the mountainous hugeness of this man. Mel had something that they did not; locked away in the shadowy pit, ignorant and chained at the neck she had still been right about him. Even though she had nothing else besides a disparity in red scarves and a weapons set up she did not understand, it was valuable. It was something. Whatever game was at foot had a leader and, though a commander he might be, he was still a puppet like her. A fellow pawn could be maneuvered. Mel filled her lungs with air and blinked, weaving an illusion of calm she did not entirely feel.

"The same."

Again there was that feeling, that wash of something that emitted from him and into the air around her. This time he did not come towards her, did not react beyond the familiar dark, curious glint in his eyes. The playing field shifted, tilting first one way and then the other. He could not change these shadows. Barsad led her away to her office. Around his neck was a red scarf. She noted it. She tried to remember if Grim or Grimy had worn them as well, whether Bane himself wore one. Impulsively, turned back to look once more. Bane was engrossed with the map as the red scarved men gestured across its front, the muscles in his neck massive and visible and uncovered. His fingers swiped up and down at the straps on his vest; as they moved she could make out a flash of color against the armor and mesh. The smallest hint of red.

She was smart as hell and would unshackle herself.

xo, trppnwtz