Deep inside the damp sewers of Gotham City, a massive male figure sat bare-chested at a makeshift camp site beneath two criss-crossing, rusted walkways. He was surrounded by the loud, persistent sounds of drilling and rushing water. Yet, in spite of the noise he had thrived there.

Bane had everything he needed: A narrow bunk covered by a colourful, hand-crafted blanket, which he ritually made up each morning as he had been trained to do. He had sophisticated technology, city plans and maps, and crates full of firearms, ammunition and explosives.

He had IV equipment for when he removed his mask at meal times, and always a fire ready for brewing tea.

And books. He had books. They and Talia had been the only constants in his life.

When he closed his eyes he imagined himself as Jason, the leader of the Argonauts on a quest for the Golden Fleece. Or he could be Odysseus, enduring a long, strange journey home from the Trojan War. He greatly admired the vengeful Edmond Dantès, and self sacrificing Sydney Carton. He lived vicariously through Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightly and Mr. Rochester, because he knew there would be no happy ending for him.

He had lived in the sewers for months, preparing for the time when he would take centre stage as Gotham's reckoning.

The hit on the Stock Exchange had been successful, effectively bankrupting Bruce Wayne. That wasn't good enough for John Daggett, because Miranda Tate had somehow managed to take control of the Wayne board, a position that Daggett had so desperately wanted for himself.

He blamed Bane, which the mercenary found faintly amusing. Now that Bane had Daggett's financing firmly in place, he had no further use for him. The John Daggetts of the world were part of the problem in Gotham, and Bane's dark eyes had burned with the thrill of the kill as he broke the slimy businessman's neck.

After his assault on the Stock Exchange he was feeling restless, which was often the case with him following a major operation. He dressed, pulled a balaclava over his mask and left the sewers for the bright lights of Gotham's theatre district, which was a huge, multi-block public square.

It was the perfect place to contemplate the state of Gotham's corruption and cultural decline, for it was where great books came to be routinely bastardized and disrespected.

There, a beloved Dickens novel was cheapened on stage by song and dance, a Shakespearean play transformed into domestic fluff, and a Gaston Leroux classic reduced to ludicrous melodrama.

Bane believed these shows were the opiates of the masses, and the dumbing down of art and culture. The rent might be due, and the cupboards bare, but a decent theatre seat simply must be had for the princely sum of six hundred dollars.

He shook his head in disgust, casting his eyes upward as he gripped the lapels of his jacket. He was surrounded on all sides by brightly lit signage that stood multiple stories high. They advertised everything from electronics and liquor, to television and the latest blockbuster films.

The combination of flashing lights and bright colours was a heady experience for visiting spectators, even more so in the presence of a heavy snowfall.

No matter, in a few days the lights would all go out, and stay that way.

Returning his gaze to street level, his probing eyes came to rest on one particular advertisement. Facing him was the image of a vibrant black-haired woman, dressed in a light blue uniform that suggested she was employed in the food service industry. Her hands offered up a cherry pie, and her photoshopped face wore a secret smile.

"Kitty Nash is Jenna," the headline read.

Bane's mask hummed with curiosity. Here was something different than watered-down Dickens and Shakespeare. It promised something original, something modest.

Impulsively, he left the square and headed for West 47th Street. It didn't take him long to find the theatre. He could see the familiar signage all over the 1920s era, Spanish-style building.

As he walked past the entrance he noted that the interior lobby looked eerily quiet, as though the theatre were empty inside. He soon found the place where fans waited for their favourite performers to leave at night — a fortified door in a dimly lit alley.

The alley was blocked by metal barricades, the kind intended to encourage queues, control traffic and keep the performers safe. Bane looked east and west before tossing them aside and clearing the area, only to be met by a short, husky security guard who came out of nowhere.

"You're trespassing, sir! Please don't touch the barricades! Understand?"

Bane answered by crushing the man's windpipe, tossing him into a snow bank at the far end of the alley.

His fingers twitched as he listened at the heavy door. He could feel the vibrations of distant music, and singing.

Without reservation he pounded several times, until the door was opened by an angry young man.

"Shhhh!" He hissed. "There's a performance in progress. You can't come in this way. It's an exit door only!"

Behind the balaclava and the mask, Bane smirked.

"Really," he asked in his ominous, robotic voice. "Not any more, I fear."

The young man collapsed as Bane violently wrenched his head sideways. He dragged the body inside and stuffed it into a corner as if it were nothing more than a sleeping bag.

The stage door was locked of course, but that was of no concern. Bane scaled a wrought-iron set of winding stairs which, under his weight, wobbled like a hemp ladder.

As the building rang with music and voices, Bane found where he wanted to be — an upstage platform high up that ran from stage left to right.

He took down a stage technician on the platform, crushing the man's windpipe and climbing over his body.

From his position he could see downstage left and right, whereas he was shielded from the audience by the curtain valance. It was a perfect vantage point.

The scene below him depicted an American diner situated on a lonesome highway. From the dialogue he determined that it was populated with local characters, diner employees, as well as the lead — the black-haired woman he'd seen on the electronic signage. He immediately spotted her in her blue uniform, singing at her co-workers.

The plot was paper-thin, something about a pregnant waitress who, having made mistakes in life, now wanted to make something of herself by entering a pie-making contest.

Bane sneered at the absurdity of it all, but since he had come so far, he decided to stay for a few moments.

The scene moved forward by several months, depicting marital discord between the waitress and her husband. Harsh words were spoken, doors slammed.

As he continued to observe the scene from above, he wondered what madness had come over him that he should be lurking in a theatre when a critical operation involving the occupation of the city was days away from being realized.

Downstage, the spotlight fell on the waitress, who had been abandoned by her husband in a dark, shabby room. She was dressed in a yellow flower print dress that barely contained her pregnant belly and her black hair was tied in an untidy knot.

A mournful piano sounded, and Bane was about to receive an answer to his question as the bird began to sing...

It's not simple to say

Most days I don't recognize me

These shoes and this apron

This place and its patrons

Have taken more than I gave them

It's not easy to know

I'm not anything that I used to be

Although it's true

I was never attention sweet center

I still remember that girl

Bane determined that the song was about mourning one's lost self, a subject that resonated deeply with him.

His brow furrowed and he closed his eyes as she continued her quiet musical reverie. He remembered his own lost self — the young man who sacrificed himself to save a child. Overnight he became like Frankenstein's monster, a disfigured and crudely re-assembled creature.

A vision of Talia rising above him just before he was swallowed up by vengeful pit prisoners caused him to grip the railing of the platform for support.

She is broken but won't ask for help

Again Bane was assaulted by a vision. This time he was seated, incapacitated by severe pain, his once pleasing features permanently damaged and wrapped in bloody gauze.

She is gone but she used to be mine

The lyrics further alluded to the unhappy marriage and unwanted child, and then her voice — which was soft, hesitant and vulnerable — began to build and grow stronger…

'T'il it finally reminds her

To fight just a little

To bring back the fire in her eyes

That's been gone, but used to be mine

Used to be mine

She held on to the powerful climactic refrain and sent it soaring all the way to the back wall of the second balcony, an emotional crescendo that shook Bane to the bone.

The portion of the audience he could see was on its feet, offering up a standing ovation that lasted several minutes.

Beneath his heavy clothing Bane could feel the hair on his arms stand on end. It was an unfamiliar sensation that disturbed him greatly.

At that moment, he knew it was time to leave.

Once outside the theatre, Bane paused in the shadows of the alley with his back against the wall, wheezing as if he'd just run a marathon.

His sense of calm eventually returned, and he navigated the heavy snowfall back to the square.

There he returned to the image of the waitress and her cherry pie — she who stopped the show and held the audience in the palm of her hand night after night.

Bane headed for the nearest entrance to the sewers, determined to locate Barsad.

It had suddenly occurred to him that there might be something in Gotham worth saving after all.


The shiny, sterile penthouse once owned by the late John Daggett was now in the hands of Bane, who stood at its wide windows, monitoring the city he was about to occupy.

His second-in-command had called to declare his mission accomplished, and now Bane waited patiently for him to arrive with the hostage.

"Where do you want her," Barsad called from the penthouse's foyer. He carried an unconscious woman over his right shoulder.

"Thank you, brother!" Bane greeted him. "This way, please."

Barsad followed him into the guest suite on the main floor, and laid her down on the king-sized bed. Noticing her torn dress, he pulled a blanket out of the closet and threw it over her while Bane examined her face carefully.

"It is she. I feared you might take the wrong woman, brother."

"I'm too good at what I do. As a matter of fact, this was the easiest job I've done in a long time. Both her bodyguard and driver were, shall we say, very cooperative. And we got lucky. The bodyguard said she was late for an appearance at a fundraiser so she couldn't stop to do the selfie thing with her fans. He rushed her into the waiting car, where I administered the sedative."

"Loyalty seems to be held so cheaply these days," Bane smiled.

"Especially when bricks of cash are involved," Barsad agreed, winking at Bane.

"How long until she awakens?" Bane rumbled, his simmering lust threatening to overcome the gentlemanly intentions he felt such a woman deserved.

"Keep your shirt on, boss. She'll come around soon."


"Normally I wouldn't approve of you taking spoils so close to our occupying the city. Especially one that was clearly taken on impulse rather than carefully planned. It could lead to complications we can't undo."

Talia al Ghul arrived not long after Barsad, intending to admonish Bane for his actions. She had joined Bane in the great room of the penthouse, having already looked in on his sleeping celebrity hostage.

"But, I cannot deny you this woman. I admit it will be interesting to see how this particular hostage-taking plays out, and how the media will respond. I must remind you that Dr. Pavel is your primary hostage. Do not allow this shiny bauble to distract you until the good doctor has served his purpose."

"Thank you, my dear," Bane nodded. "You needn't worry. I am in complete control."

"I'm really rather envious, my friend," she smiled slyly. "Are you sure I can't join you tonight?"

"Some other time, little one. Tonight I fly solo."

"You say that every time," Talia sighed, slightly irritated. "Don't be so uptight, my prudish friend. You need to spice up your life. Hold your nose, take the plunge and I promise you'll never look back."

"Indulge me this one time, my dear," Bane insisted. "I have a hunch our guest must be handled with the utmost delicacy. I do not wish to frighten her off."

"Fine," Talia agreed. She rose on Miranda Tate's heels and kissed Bane lightly on his exposed cheek. "But, I insist on a rain check, Bane. Now I must run. In a few days I catch Bruce in my spider's web. Enjoy yourself tonight, my darling."

Bane watched her go, beaming with admiration for her good sportsmanship. He then returned to the suite that had once been reserved for John Daggett's latest girl.

His prisoner lay on the bed, sprawled on her back, facing the window. Bane watched her silently until she stirred and turned her head to look at him.

She observed him without fear for about 30 seconds. Then, a faint smile tugged at her mouth as she rose on one elbow.

A waterfall of ebony hair fell forward over one shoulder as her sapphire eyes boldly swept Bane up and down, leaving him feeling as objectified as a medium rare filet mignon.

"Well, hello gorgeous," she greeted him in throaty tones. She tossed off the blanket, swung her legs over the bed and one by one planted her bare feet on the floor. "You're the man who shot up the Stock Exchange. I saw the security video of you murdering that poor young trader."

Without an ounce of reluctance, she sauntered towards him.

She wore a white, knee-length evening dress that was stained with dirt and blood. One spaghetti strap had ripped away from her bustier, threatening to expose her breast. Her left elbow and right knee had been badly scraped during her struggle with Barsad.

Bane recognized immediately that she wasn't the woman he expected. Foolishly, he had anticipated Kitty Nash to be exactly like her stage persona — vulnerable, soulful, submissive.

The woman standing before him could hardly be described as such.

"Let me see if I read this situation correctly, seeing as I'm feeling a little foggy after been drugged," she observed as she briefly examined her bloody elbow and returned her gaze to his. "I left the theatre tonight and was rushed to my car. I was pushed inside by a bearded man who held me down and stabbed me with a needle. Is that how it went down?"

"Yes," Bane warbled, finally finding his voice. "According to him."

"I just woke up. I don't know where I am or why I'm here." She paused for dramatic effect, looking around the spacious suite. "So, why don't you tell me what the hell you want with me!"

The mercenary cleared his gravelly throat.

"Let us say you are an experiment," he replied in ominous tones, remembering the observation Talia had made about the media's reaction to a celebrity kidnapping.

"Oh no! No, no, no, no," she insisted, emphatically shaking her head. "That's not going to happen. You see, I'm used to getting my own way. Don't you know who I am?"

Bane hovered over her, cracking his knuckles.

"I never saw you before today, Miss Nash," he rumbled darkly as his fingers dropped to his sides and twitched. "Your sense of entitlement makes me wish I never had. You have no privilege here, and you most definitely will not get your own way."

He didn't know who he was more angry with — her for not being who he expected her to be, or himself for being foolish enough to be taken in by her the person she was on stage.

It was clear that the evening wasn't going to proceed as expected. The behaviour he'd seen from her was likely the tip of the iceberg, and she was going to be a handful. Bane disliked difficult women, and he had clearly made a grave error in judgment in taking her hostage.

He debated killing her, yet he felt enormously challenged. Here was a woman who was begging to be humbled. He had the will, the means and the time to break her. Kitty Nash might just be the antidote to his boredom in Gotham. It would please him greatly to bend her to his will.

His coarse fists clenched in anticipation.

"Why don't we just cut to the chase?" She moved so close to him that he could feel her breath filter through his mask and caress his lips. "We both know how this works, don't we?"

"Do we, Miss Nash?" Bane demanded, filled with a ferocious resolve that was usually reserved for his work.

With preternatural skill she lightly brushed the back of her fingers against Bane's bare bicep, her eyes never leaving his. For the second time that day the hair stood on Bane's arms.

"We do, Mr. Big, Bald and Beautiful," she whispered. "Now, who do I have to fuck to get out of here?"


Author's Note: I've cheated a bit in the timeline, giving Bane and Talia a couple of extra days between the Stock Exchange and taking Bruce down. Also, the musical 'Waitress' didn't exist until 2016, a few years after TDKR's release.