For all of you glorious human beings who have stuck with me this far, I cannot express how thankful I am. YOU ARE MY BEACONS.

Day 11

Barsad waited to watch the door shut behind the doctor. There was no particular reason to assume her journey down the hallway would be interrupted, that either she or anyone else had ulterior plans. It was unwise, however, to be careless in these times. He swiped his thumb over a fold of the red shemegh at his throat. The rift between those who wore them and those who did not was ever widening in the vacuum of martial law. Those with a mission and those with a cause; these sorts of men were never meant to align, not for long. He suspected the secrecy and lack of exit strategy had to do with the woman called Miranda Tate. He suspected there was never meant to be an exit strategy. Barsad shook his head.

Idealists.

For a time he stood in the darkness and stared hard at the corner office. Dr. Pamela Isley was proving an obstruction, an unanticipated crease in the cloth. She sat in the center of the divide, feeding the chaos without precisely causing it. The Gotham rabble resented that two of their own had been annihilated, the league- esoteric by nature - frowned at the anomaly, all while the brotherhood's fingers twitched on triggers that anyone should dare cast doubt. And all had no choice but to fall into uncertain silence when she passed, swathed in mystery and the smell of freshly washed hair. At first Barsad had wondered at his instructions to escort her from place to place, but he had learned to understand with time as he felt the weight of their thoughts follow her. Emboldened by the effect that she had, she became cunning, petulant, subversive in a way he did not wish to understand. She was complicated; Barsad disliked her hugely for it and for that he respected her. He would need to be vigilant, as always.

The length of cord was back in Bane's hands when Barsad slipped back through the door, when he stood and gave his report. It was all standard. The Blackgate recruits had- for the most part -begun to fall in line, winter was edging closer with its weather and supply particularities, the projects at the lab were going as planned. Flames lapped around Bane's form as his colossal hands stilled. When he looked over his shoulder his eyes glinted, alive and deadly.

"Anything she requires, see that it is done."

The commander and the lieutenant stood in silence before a fire where two soldiers could also be two men. The larger regarded the smaller for a moment or two, then nodded deeply. It conveyed recognition, perhaps a new awareness of the insight offered in the summer. The smaller man nodded curtly in response and moved to leave.

Barsad was a simple man. He'd perceived a source of value in Dr. Isley and she had demonstrated it. Aim, shoot, move forward. That had been his mission for, unlike Bane, he had no cause. He had absolutely no interest in examining the complexities of her psyche. She was like Bane in her way and that, perhaps, was her curse. He closed the door behind him.

October 3rd, 3:17pm

Mel was surprised when she booted up her laptop to see how much time had passed. Thirty four days, just a little more than one month, since the meeting in the boardroom at Wayne Tower. Since the day that ought to have been hers. It seemed, somehow, an impossible task to imagine thirty five days ago, to imagine August, to think of anything besides the timeline she'd built for herself since she'd left City Hall and her work began. Today was Day 13. The idea was dreary and much more manageable.

She glanced up at the large Wayne Chemical logo that decorated the wall and her fingers stuttered to stillness on the keyboard. It held so much weight, so many memories. It felt stifling to sit here as it shone like a spotlight- like a motherfucking beacon -over her head. She didn't know this particular lab, it hadn't been one that she'd ever used during her time as a WE lackey, and that was one small relief. Mel rubbed her eyes; machines whirred softly around her and across the lab the bespectacled asshole tinkered silently as always. Resisting the urge to flip off the back of his head, she grabbed the print out analysis from the ICS-MP instrument. After nearly two weeks of synthesizing gas from the vials of liquid she was well aware that she was building an analgesic, a painkiller. Her fingers paused on the keys for half a second. Experimentally, she clicked open an internet browser; after a couple of tense seconds she was met with a 404 server error and she closed the window. A chemical database software was installed on all WE company computers and it opened without issue. She entered in the basic components of the mystery liquid then frowned at the screen. She entered the information a second time, taking extra care to make sure everything was correct, but the results remained the same. A conotoxin? She scrolled through the pages of diagrams. Specifically, it seemed, the venom of fucking sea snails. A grimace pulled at her face.

Working with pests is outside the scope of my studies.

That bit of snobbery made more sense now. Mel rummaged through the jumble of notebook paper in front of her. If she was going to accomplish anything she needed to type up and organize her notes, to bring some order to the mess that was her workbench. Her brain was in an emotional tangle- curiosity, disgust, a complicated sense of validation. She sighed heavily through her nose and snatched up a random sheet; at least her mind and her desk were in chaotic agreement. The processor that hummed at her side was synthesizing a fresh batch of little canisters, filling them with an aerosol she now had no doubt was the air Bane breathed. The twisted, rattling mask was not just to hide his face, to inspire fear and infamy: it was keeping him standing, keeping him upright in the face of some kind of massive pain. Mel tried to picture the details of the device, the scar on his back and on his hand and over his eyebrow. How precisely did the mask work? What was the exact nature of the pain? What had happened to him? She was neither a doctor nor a medical researcher and her history of languishing on pharmaceutical projects was only going to get her so far. She clicked back into the database and stared at the results once more, willing them to offer something she couldn't describe. I can do better. That's what she had said. Utilizing conotoxin was genius, innovative, and clumsy. An infuriating smattering of hexagons lumped together to slap a bandaid on a problem. Inelegant in every way but how the fuck was she supposed to do any better?

Suddenly, the unpleasant scientist was leaning against the desk directly beside her. Mel- who had been wondering when one's involvement made them accomplice to a war crime -nearly jumped.

"I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

Whose fucking fault it that you pompous sack of shit?

She deigned to glance in his general direction but did not meet his gaze.

"No," her fingers resumed their clacking on the keyboard, "introductions before acknowledgment rarely occur."

There was silence for a brief, hovering moment and then he chuckled and held out a hand.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane."

She let his offered hand hang between them as she finished typing her sentence. Something familiar tickled at the back of her brain but she didn't bother to examine it; being approached by an arrogant prick in a scientific setting was hardly new terrority. Finally she returned a lukewarm handshake.

"Dr. Pamela Isley."

"A pleasure."

The WE logo was reflected in the lens of his glasses.

"Uh huh." Mel turned back to her laptop, "What brings you to my side of the lab this morning, Dr. Crane?"

He chuckled once again, not responding but also not moving away. God, she loathed when men did that: smirked and lingered and made a point of enjoying her, all while slowly angling their groin in her direction. She flickered a glance and, sure enough, his hips were pressed ever so slightly more firmly against the workbench. Ugh. He ran his fingers over his greying stubble.

"I read your notes."

That was unexpected, enough so that Mel raised her eyebrows. She frowned at her screen.

"That was rude."

He brushed her comment aside and continued.

"It's good work. Chemists often lack creativity."

Mel's hands stiffened against the desk. Oh, golly, thanks Dr. Crane! I'm so honored, Dr. Crane! How kind of you to weasel through my stuff and give me feedback, Dr. Crane! The fact was that her fuse was simply shorter these days. Maybe it was the stress, the uncertainty, the boredom. Maybe it was a very, very long time coming.

"I'm a botanist."

For a third time he chuckled.

"Then why are you here?"

All of the sudden the familiar tickle clicked. She had, fortunately, had no reason to be in the Narrows all those years ago but she still remembered the name Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The Scarecrow.

He was standing very close to her, exuding the feeling of a man who had once tried to live his life precisely: the right clothes, the suitable shoe, expensive glasses. All were now slightly rumpled, as if the costume had fit poorly from the beginning. Tread carefully, she told herself. Think. The seat of her stool swiveled with her as she turned to face him straight on, arming herself with a pleasant voice and bored expression.

"I didn't let my doctorate limit my studies."

He was taller than she'd initially supposed; even on her high laboratory stool she needed to tip her chin to look into his eyes. She saw intelligence there but not an analytical, courteous intelligence, the kind she was rapidly becoming accustomed to seeing flashing down at her. His eyes were impossibly pale and as they scanned her in a calculated, precarious way. She knew this guy. He would never be an alpha predator no matter what he did, no matter how clever, kind, or violent he tried to be; no matter how many fear toxins he composed, no matter how many people he poisoned with them. There would always be an antidote, a Batman.

An idea blossomed in her mind; casually, experimentally, Mel flicked her hair over her shoulder. His eyes shifted to follow the movement. His fingers flexed unconsciously on the desk. Sometimes it took a small whisper of vulnerability to light that covetous beta predator fire-or, in this case, a little bit of soft, bared skin. She watched as he considered her, felt his attention on her newly visible throat, but his expression remained cold and unclear. He needed a little something more. Mel swiveled back towards the laptop. She focused on the screen and purposefully, perfectly, worried her bottom lip with teeth. She waited; once again, he shifted. There it was. She sighed and turned back to him.

"Do you have any tips, Dr. Crane?" she tucked a curl behind her ear, "I imagine that you would know quite a lot about converting compounds into aerosols."

His pupils dilated, dark against the icy blue, and though his smile was as cold as ever it spread wide across his face. Yeah, there it fucking was.

Two options lay before her now. The first to continue onwards, to build painkillers under the fluorescent lights, to maintain the notion that she could do better until she failed or perhaps her capturers lost patience. The second was to find a path to freedom, an avenue she had nearly given up on as every opening around her seemed to slam shut. But now, right in front of her, was something new and unexpected and laden with possibility: a narcissist. And not just any narcissist, but one with an emaciated superiority complex and a clear appreciation for feminine wiles. She was smart as hell...and he never arrived or left the lab with an escort. Mel tilted her head inquiringly and his dark pupils swept over her neck once more. She nearly smiled. He was no hero and there was no way he was entirely sane and she had him in the palm of her hand. All she needed to figure out what to do with him-

The mask hissed in the doorway and she froze. It was always Barsad who walked through that door, never anyone else. Never him. It couldn't be. Crane made an irritated sound in his throat and smoothed his unruly hair.

"It was not my understanding that my work in this lab would be undisturbed."

Slowly, Mel turned her head. His frame easily filled the entire doorway; his presence, woven through with the needle of his breath, seeped powerfully into the entire lab. Bane did not reply. His gaze slid thoughtfully over Crane then fell on Mel, and she realized that in turning her head she had also turned the slice of exposed neck. The stab of his green eyes blazed as it swept over her skin. He was all that Jonathan Crane wished to be: an absolute apex predator, no mere alpha, no mere lion or shark or raptor.

"Given the circumstances," Crane removed his glasses, placed his hands on his hips, made large gestures of agitation- tried to make himself bigger, angrier, and failed, "another lab must be made available."

The leather jacket whispered against his fatigues as Bane approached. For a wild moment she was sure he would grab her but his hand wove between them, forcing Crane to step back as he closed the laptop. He did not move away, did not speak, just stood over her blocking the sight of Crane, blocking the fluorescents, blocking out the entire world with the heft of his massive body. Mel swallowed and his eyes took another slow path up her throat before meeting hers lazily. They were deadly and chiding and swimming with something devilish.

"Rest is deserved after a day well-spent."

He knew. She couldn't be certain how much he'd heard- how much he'd possibly seen - but he definitely knew what she'd been attempting. He wouldn't hurt me, she thought, although she was not entirely sure what he would do. Mel quivered and swallowed again. She did not move to cover her throat.

The mask rattled and his hand, large as a bear paw, rose from the workbench. Bane pressed against the small of her back, guiding her off of the stool with his forearm. Mel felt the heat and power, felt that inexplicable something in the air that mirrored his thoughts, roll off of him. When she reached the floor she stumbled and fell against him. For a fleeting moment there was no air between them for that something to hover in and it twisted around her, soaked into her skeleton, and utterly overwhelmed her. His fingers curled around the side of her waist. Beneath the layers of clothing her skin jumped, her ribcage expanding into his hand as she sucked in a jagged breath. For a fraction of a second the heavy fingers held her there before they reanimated. Mel pushed shakily against his chest. His hold loosened as she found her feet, twisting in the straps of his vest as he led her away. Somewhere in the background Dr. Crane sputtered defiantly but he was ignored. It was his curse, surely, as clever as he was. He could capture the Narrows, Bane would seize all of Gotham. There would always be someone bigger.

The leather jacket rustled against her arm. The overwhelming sense of Bane's presence made the backseat feel tiny and unbearably warm. Mel felt hot; she itched. She felt like she was being pulled in twenty different directions and her brain flailed and tried to follow all of them. The truck went over an uneven patch of road and she jostled against his leg. He stared forward evenly.

Think think think think.

"How does it work?"

Bane looked down at her. Expecting him to be blank, calm, exceptionally empty as always, she was shocked to see that he was smiling. Not pleasantly, though, not the cunning crinkle at the corner of his eyes that she'd seen glimmering in the firelight. The expression in his eyes was vicious. Mel desperately wished she could see the rest of his face, wished he didn't have the power to leave her so lost.

"The mask," her heart hammered against her ribs, "How does the mask work?"

Bane said nothing. Possessed by some madness or another, she nearly raised a hand to touch to mesh. The truck took a sharp turn and she pressed heavily against him. She vibrated, felt a flare at her waist where his hand had held her so powerfully. Suddenly, from a lifetime ago, from beyond the grave, from another universe, a memory surfaced.

"We're talking shop in the study in five, grab a drink and bring your strategist's mind."

Ed's fingers slid over her waist, squeezing and brushing against her with his thumb.

"You must be my harbinger of good fortune."

The hole inside her sparked unhappily. Suddenly, Mel wanted to laugh- laugh and laugh and laugh until she crumbled into dust. She leaned as far away from him as she could, her jaw clenching painfully.

"It was an unexpected gift, right under my nose."

She knew he was listening. She felt it. She knew this guy.

"Before it was like being in stasis or, or, living in a fog. After all that time in the dark and then suddenly: fire. Someone who can actually hear me. Dr. Crane."

It was inelegant, petulant, and utterly untrue, and she didn't give a single fuck. She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Bane laughed. A barking, rasping, mechanical noise that rattled her to her core.

"I apologize, my beauty."

She rounded quickly and found his eyes heavy, sleepy, and venomous. He reached out a thumb and trailed it deliberately along her throat.

"It is troublesome, indeed, that you have felt unappreciated."

Mel remembered Stryver's dry fingers on her wrist and jamming his card down her neckline, remembered Daggett dissecting her form like she was a thing, remembered Dr. Crane's groin in her face, remembered every look and smirk and cloying empty remark from a million faceless men over the decades of her life. The truck engine shut off and the doors in the front opened and shut. Mel boiled, the hole inside of her a flaring, flaming, disaster. Bane, the behemoth who had beaten the life out of human beings, who had kidnapped her, enslaved her, conquered or murdered the entirety of Gotham City...he had never treated her like this. Never treated her with anything besides intellectual equality, with respect. The huge finger on her throat rolled slowly across her chin, just under her lip. Bane watched it's path with hard eyes. She felt the familiar heat of him and quaked. He'd made exceptions. She'd felt special, felt listened to. And she'd made exceptions for him, imagined that he was something else, but now she knew. She knew this guy. He was a terrorist and now she was an ornament, and it wasn't, wasn't, wasn't fair.

Unappreciated, unappreciated, unappreciated brainiac. Poor, pretty, little unappreciated brainiac.

"Bane?"

It felt odd to say his name, having never said it aloud to his face. To Mel it felt like crumbling bricks in the wall that made him mythical; he was only a titan so long as he held that stature, as long as she believed in him. Her breath grazed his thumb where it rested against her lip, and when she looked up she found him waiting. Mel leaned ever so slightly closer.

"You're fucking incapable of unshackling me."

As the words whispered across the skin of his hand Mel was turning, slamming the door behind her and storming into City Hall. Through the ringing in her ears she didn't hear Bane follow, didn't hear him on her heels, didn't even hear him exit the truck. Even so, as she crossed the lobby she broke into a run.

She was hurt. That was the worst part.

xo, trppnwtz