The scratchy surface of a burlap sack running against his face awoke Brody Richards. He found himself in a dark, cold room. As he blinked, the memories started to come back to him.

The head CIA prick of their joint black operation talking to a local tribal leader, seconds before the parked hummers on either end of the convoy getting blasted to shards. The tribal leader's little daughter screaming. The plain-clothed CIA agents yelling and firing in all directions while running toward a nearby stone wall. The two Army augmentees falling to the ground one after the other as sniper bullets sang through their foreheads. Richards grabbing Technical Sergeant Cindy Ericks, his fellow air advisor, and ducking below the windows of their hummer, before another explosion closer by, and then nothing.

The first thing he became conscious of was how cold it felt. The sound of faint dripping told him it was likely a bunker or a cave. The next thing was a bright light aimed directly in his face. Faint silhouettes, some with local traditional garb, made it clear he was outnumbered. Overtaking all of that immediately, however, was a deep, muffled voice speaking from behind a mask. The speaker gave a quiet order in what sounded like Farsi, though the strange accent made Richards think he was not a native.

He felt the blade of a knife snake down behind his back, between his arms, and sever the plastic zip tie binding his hands. He naturally rubbed his raw wrists while blinking in the light. Richards was unaware what to expect, but this move would not have been on the top of the list. Playing good cop, bad cop?

It was at this moment that Richards became aware of something else, something that puzzled him. He still had on his tactical vest, as well as his sidearm. Why would these guys neglect these details? Sloppy? Overconfident? Rushed? Maybe it was intentional, but either way, he had an opening, and he would take it.

The underling who had released Richards was now standing to his left side. Richards utilized the element of surprise and grabbed the man with his left hand while unholstering his sidearm with his right hand. Richards wrapped his arm around the man's neck while pressing the pistol muzzle against his temple. And then…he suddenly felt very uneasy.

Richards expected yelling, guns out, maybe even shooting. He expected the other figures in the room to rush him. But nobody did anything. Even the man whose life he was threatening had no reaction. The physical demeanor of his hostage was not one of overconfidence or mocking but of calm, of acceptance. Almost as if he were meditating.

The masked speaker reasserted his position, by directly addressing Richards. "Why are you here?" He had a deep voice. His accent sounded British. His cadence was slow but measured.

Richards was even more confused than before. "We were on a peace-keeping mission.."

The speaker issued what sounded like a mix between a sigh and a chuckle from his mask. "Please do not insult my intelligence. CIA operations lack such nobility. No, I mean, why are you here, Captain Richards?"

Richards's face slanted into puzzlement. "I…I don't know what you mean."

The anonymous masked man sighed and shuffled for something out of sight. "Here. Read this." He tossed what looked like a folder that landed at Richards's feet. Then, as if anticipating the tactical monkey wrench he had tossed into the mix, the masked man waved a hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, you can let go of your captive. No one here is going to hurt you."

Richards contemplated it, then slowly released the tension in his arm and removed his hold on the guard. The guard slowly stepped to the side, as though nothing significant had happened. Richards then slowly crouched and picked up the brown folder.

"Go to the second page. You will see what I mean."

Richards raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get this?"

"I relieved it from Special Agent Franks. He had no further need of it."

Trying to ignore the disturbing implications behind this, Richards followed the instruction and went to the second page anchored to the folder. On the bottom, under the heading "Remarks", what he read almost made him forget his current situation. He felt his stomach sink.

"You see, Captain, your government has already decided that Kurmenistan is a lost cause, yet they refuse to withdraw you. You and your people are just lambs sent to slaughter, like Vietnam."

As Richards tried to process this, another thought rose up in his mind, almost as a distraction from the emotional and mental chaos. "Where's my companion?"

The masked stranger released a sound of subdued regret. "I am afraid Sergeant Ericks did not survive. I apologize, Captain. She was an unnecessary casualty."

A storm of anger, confusion, and anguish whirled in Richards's mind. It was too much to process. "'Unnecessary casualty'? She was a wife and mom. What did she die for? What about those soldiers, or the locals you slaughtered? What is this even about? Why am I here?" As his questions spiraled further, tears began to blur his vision while his breathing hovered close to hyperventilation. He sank back down onto the chair to which he was previously confined. Richards realized he had made himself extremely vulnerable emotionally, a major tactical error in a hostile environment, but right now, he did not care.

This elicited an unexpected reaction. The masked man, who up to this point had been a mere shadow, made his way over, from behind the lamp, to just a few feet away from Richards, then crouched to rest eye level with the officer. He laid a heavy, powerful hand on Richards's shoulder, causing him to look up and get a good look at the stranger.

Strange was quite the accurate word. He clearly had a solid, muscled frame, evident from his hand, and evident even under his enormous jacket. His face was the most unique, however. An apparatus, an apparent improvised gas mask, sloped down from the top and center of his head, and met with the mouth covering, which branched across both cheeks. The mouth covering consisted of numerous thin pipes, which almost looked like long narrow teeth. The only exposed part of his natural face were his shaved head and eyes.

Those eyes stared straight into Richards's eyes. They revealed so much of their bearer. Righteous indignation, confidence, and strength, but more than that. There was also empathy, hinting at a shared pain and hopelessness. Who was the man behind this mask?

The masked man stared silently at Richards for a moment, then softly spoke, with the tone of a reassuring father. "I understand how you feel, Brody. The people that we trust to lead and care for us end up letting us down, especially when we need them the most. But that does not mean all hope is lost. Sometimes it comes from places you least expect. Now, answer me again. Why are you here?"

Richards wiped his eyes and summoned up whatever strength he could muster. "I came here to make a difference, to try to make this place better."

The tired folds under the masked man's eyes lifted, indicating a wide smile under his mask. "So have I, Brody."

Richards sniffed and tilted his head slightly. "Why do you wear that mask?"

The masked man gave a tired sigh. "Some men walk with a cane. You wear your Wayne Tech color correction glasses. All of us need a tool to carry us through the pain." He then looked down, as though to recalibrate the conversation, and looked back up at Richards. "I am looking for a few good men willing to do what is necessary to restore balance to the world."

"Us?"

"We are an ancient order, hidden from the distracted eyes of society. We are known as the League of Shadows."

That name actually did sound faintly familiar to Richards, but he looked past this with a blossoming curiosity. "Who are you?"

"I have no other name, but that given by my enemies: Bane."