Chapter Four: Exit Stage Right
Talia slowly came into view, clapping slowly, "bravo."
Bane continued to watch from the shadows as Talia's full lips, shiny from a rich burgundy gloss under the bright lights, pulled into a smirk.
"That was impressive Miss Mourn, I shouldn't be surprised though with your father and his close ties with the Benevolent Rifle Association."
"Who are you?" Gwendolyn managed, unsure of where to put her hands.
"Sit," Talia stated coldly, any trace of amusement instantly evaporated.
Gwendolyn sat heavily in her familiar and comfortable chair.
Talia remained standing before she began to pace, explaining what Gwendolyn was going to do.
From the rear of the room, Bane watched Gwendolyn's face as Talia paced and spoke.
His chestnut brown eyes, touched with a buttery caramel swirl around the gently pulsing pupil, found her bright blue orbs wide and unblinking, fringed with inky black lashes.
Each of Talia's words was delivered with an assertive step as she paced the length of the long anchor desk.
"I'm not going to silence your influential voice, there are people in this city that would tithe to you if they could. I'm now going to write the words that you'll read off the screen. You will condemn those that I condemn. You will praise those that I praise," Talia practically snarled as she paused to look at Gwendolyn who had grown a shade paler with each second that Talia spoke.
Talia spoke rapidly in a dead language to one of the armed men securing the people on set.
The man immediately stopped what he was doing and jogged to an oblong table with a fabric tablecloth and sturdy utensils, fetching a blueberry pastry, bottle of water and a cheery green apple with a thumbprint-sized bruise.
Gwendolyn's eyes tracked the man's movements from the moment Talia directed her words at him.
She nodded her thanks to the large man with a nose that was crooked from being broken half a dozen times. Besides knowing how to assemble a rifle blindfolded, courtesy was demanded under the roof of her family home.
"Thank you," Gwendolyn whispered as she tore open the cellophane wrapper surrounding the muffin and took a big bite, washing down the stale pastry with a large swallow of the tepid water as Talia continued.
"You will spread laurels, bow, and scrape where I do. You will compel every Gothamite to follow suit."
Gwendolyn shook her head, "who are you? What is this?"
Talia turned her head and looked over her shoulder, "my friend?"
Bane pushed away from the wall and walked towards the well-lit stage.
Gwendolyn's already wide eyes, widened further as Bane stopped next to Talia, holding the lapels of his fur-lined coat, his large fingers digging into the wool.
"My friend is going to escort you to a more secure location. Don't be foolish and test his patience. I'll see you again soon," Talia murmured before she walked away.
Exit stage right.
Gwendolyn stared at Bane as he stood on the other side of the news desk, trying to remain upright in her swiveling chair. She thought of all the footage she'd seen of the masked man who now stood in front of her. She felt a well of bitter stomach acid crawl up her throat as she thought of everything she'd spoken to the camera about him, wondering how much of her show he'd seen.
Bane wordlessly gestured to one of the exit's off the stage.
Gwendolyn gripped the arms of her leather chair as she shook her head.
Bane never blinked or took his eyes from hers as he moved with ferocity and reached for the closest hostage.
Gwendolyn watched him yank the hooded hostage to their knees, wrists bound behind the natural curve of their lower back with heavy nylon zip-ties.
She couldn't keep a gasp from spilling between her lips as the masked man tugged the hood from the hostage's head to reveal Vincent, a fat strip of silver tape over his mouth. Blood oozed from a cut above his left eyebrow.
"You don't have a weapon to bolster your refusal Miss Mourn," Bane rasped melodically as he picked up the empty revolver from the polished surface of the desk.
Gwendolyn returned her hands to grip the handles of the chair until her knuckles turned white as Bane spoke in the same dead language to a nearby militant member of the armed entourage.
Her eyes tracked the masked man being handed a single bullet. She heard the sounds of the barrel being spun before the masked man pushed the titanium barrel into Vincent's temple, resting his scarred fingertip on the trigger.
"Stop, let him go, please," Gwendolyn shouted as she leapt to her feet.
Bane kept the revolver pressed into Vincent's flesh and extended his other arm, wordlessly pointing to the exit.
Gwendolyn broke her eyes from his and found Vincent's panicked, rapidly blinking eyes.
Vincent shook his head and shouted behind the strip of tape, his words muffled and indecipherable.
"Will you let him live?"
Bane nodded, "yes, Miss Mourn," he murmured in a solemn melody.
Gwendolyn blinked slowly, thinking about the recent episodes that had just aired where she ranted her ugly characterizations about Bane to her millions of loyal, devout viewers. She swallowed hard as she thought about the "expert" earlier in the week who insinuated that Bane was a scared little boy on the inside and this was all an explosive misdirection of lacking a father figure.
Vincent shook his head harder, his muffled screams growing louder behind the strong tape as Gwendolyn walked weakly on her stiff legs to the exit where the masked man pointed.
Behind his mask, Bane's lips twitched as he pulled the trigger, Vincent's skull blew apart at its visceral seams. White and grey matter spattered the newsroom floor as Gwendolyn spun around on her five-inch heels.
"You said you wouldn't kill him," she shouted, remaining rooted to the spot as she continued to hurl accusations.
Gwendolyn couldn't miss the amusement in the masked man's voice when he finally spoke.
"Come now Miss Mourn, you know that everything said in the newsroom is not true."