CHAPTER 41:
"Enter Bane"
Bane rammed a fist into Garfield Lyons' face.
The criminal known as Firefly was unmasked and had just delivered a status report on KGBeast's ongoings, after bringing back Red Robin to El Patio de los Demons, aka The Devil's Playground, in Hispanic Gotham, as restitution—KGBeast said—for failing to kill Nightwing as contracted. But Bane was not satisfied and he took out his frustration on Lyons.
"I paid that Russian a lot of dinero to kill the bluebird and I don't like to be swindled," Bane said, taking another swing at Lyons. Blood spattered on the floor from Lyons mouth. "Killing Nightwing was going to be my ultimate revenge against the Caped Crusader. Now, everything is ruined. They'll be on alert for another attack. Where is KGBeast?"
Lyons knelt on the floor in front of the Bane. He looked like a midget compared to Bane's massive size. He spit out blood, his face was all puffed up with bruises and one eye had already swollen shut. "I don't know," he managed to breath out through hurt lips. "I left him on the roadside. I was to bring Red Robin to you for him as an apology."
"Red Robin in exchange is no comparison to having Nightwing dead!" Bane bat Lyons again, this time with the back of his hand. He never held back. Every hit was full-force.
Lyons fell to his hands and knees, blood dripping from his face. The man reached out and begged for mercy, but Bane would have none of it. He then kicked Lyons in the stomach, virtually sending him flying across the room they occupied.
Lyons landed hard, and eventually gave up, collapsing. The place where Lyons felt was like where he would lie in his death bed. He was unconscious, on his side, one arm stretched out but limp. The man may have looked it, but Bane knew Lyons wasn't dead. He may had severely beat Lyons, but not enough to kill him. And that was by design.
Bane looked at Lyons laying defeated on the floor at the far end of the room, and snorted displeasure. He had been hitting him for a good fifteen minutes non-stop, and at no time, did the jet-powered villain offer any viable resistance. The man may have been smart, but in Bane's world, brute strength won the day.
Bane snapped his fingers, and two strong men, who looked like they could be powerhouse Luchadores—Mexican wrestlers—came into his private chambers, and took Lyons away, each grabbing an arm and dragging his feet behind. Droplets of blood fell with every inch Garfield Lyons was hauled as he was taken out and Bane ordered that someone come clean up the mess.
Lyons looked like deadweight. Bane's men knew where to deposit the man. He wasn't to be killed, he was to be placed elsewhere to be later spoken to again under lock and key. Bane still wanted to know where KGBeast was.
He had designed his hideout like a maze, something he learned in passing from Edward Nygma—the Riddler. Always keep your enemies guessing. There were a total of a dozen separate areas in his personally constructed complex and different areas served different functions. And his private chambers was built for functionality, not comfort. So, only the basic things were present.
He had bought a small rundown part of the city, a few city blocks, re-designed it, and then re-christened it: El Patio de los Demons, for his fellow hombres, because Gotham City had bit of a racial attitude to any one but their own standard city-dwellers. Immigrates were not exactly welcome, especially Spaniards. And he guessed that was partly his fault because of his criminal actions. They say one bad apple spoils the whole bunch, but that was the way of the world. It was guilt by association.
But it was others' prejudice, not his. He didn't give a damn about race. He enjoyed engaging with his fellow Spaniards because they spoke the same language and spoke of things back home in the main country. It was hard to live a life in another country, he didn't care about politics—humans were humans. So, having a little piece of home was like heaven.
The word "Race" was a just a buzz word. Cultural differences divided people, so if you disagreed with someone, they called you a racist. He laughed at that because humans were all one race. The many cultures were sub-groups within the world, so calling another human a racist was dumb. People were just uneducated in facts.
He created El Patio de los Demons as his own little pocket of Spain, and if people didn't like it, they didn't have to stay.
Gotham City had a small Hispanic community, but he knew people of the same race liked to congregate together because they felt safer with their own kind. Some people would dispute that as racist, but it was a fact. People of the same natural-born ethnicity felt safer as a group. So, he built this place. The name was just a means to an end to keep those people he didn't want here out.
He often thought about that, but not many of his people had the same opinion. So, he kept his political views to himself.
Bane sat down in his specially made chair due to his large size, and fumed.
On the far wall was a widescreen TV that was on mute, switched to Gotham City News, and it was profiling the recent capture of Dr. Jonathan Crane by some unknown vigilante. The bi-line said he was dropped off at a precinct. Crane was literally tossed out of a dark Sedan, then it sped away without a word. No one was taking credit for the capture.
"So, the scare of his Fear Germ is over," Bane mused. "Good, I never cared for his criminal methods anyway."
But he wondered who had gotten to Crane. Batman would never deliver a criminal to the police in such a manner.
Batman was a bit of a narcissist, he wanted people to know what he had done. It was a part of who the Dark Knight was. The more people knew he was protecting Gotham City, the more rumour got around, and the less crime happened.
Well, with Batman, he seemed to attract more colourful characters than he fended off. Gotham City was full of those types of people.
So, if Batman wanted to rid the city of the criminal element, his methods appeared to have the opposite effect—literally enticing criminals like Bane to challenge him.
Bane wondered, if Batman was too busy tracking down who attempted to murder Nightwing, then he didn't have time to deal with Jonathan Crane. He would then, supposedly, leave it to someone else. Maybe to the Red Hood? Once a criminal himself, but now aligned with Batman. Throwing someone out of car fit the gunslinger's methods. Crane was handcuffed, gagged and blindfolded.
When questioned, Crane said he couldn't remember what happened, or who had brought him in. And it wasn't an act. It was like his memory had been wiped. That would be consistent with a form of memory-erasure gas Batman used.
Bane also remembered seeing a short news clip about a man in Gotham General subjected to Crane's Fear Germ. The hospital had not been locked down, and was saved from such, in part, by a doctor who had discovered the cure to Crane's reign of terror. He announced it on all the news broadcasters and said the cure had something to do with the use of minute gold particles.
Regardless, both the man, and another patient in the hospital, who was suffered from the same symptoms, from a previous exposure, recovered. The other man exposed was not named, but there was talk from people whom he knew that it may have been Nightwing himself. Not only exposed to the Fear Germ, but also recovering from the assassination attempt on his life. He didn't have all the details, but it didn't matter anymore. Nightwing was alive and well.
The assassination he originally paid a lot of money for to happen failed.
"Good help is so hard to find," he said, referring to KGBeast.
In the past, he surrounded himself with his fellow Spaniard's believing nationality brought loyalty. Instead, everyone he put his trust in eventually betrayed him, and that included KGBeast. So, he got rid of them all, and brought in new people.
Due to his size, he needed a medical doctor, so he searched for one and found someone who was willing to work for him, and to take care of his medical needs. He also needed someone that could help him revamp the Venom Drug, to use it against Batman without the harm of its toxins. And he found a person with the skills he needed within the same individual.
He had used the Venom Drug in moderation a couple of times, but because his metabolism was already used to the counter-agents that protected him from its toxins, he couldn't use it for long. Prolonged use ran the risk of severe consequences of death.
The doctor he hired said that Bane was becoming immune to the counter-agents, so tests were run on subjects to develop a new counter-agent. To date, all the test-subjects had died. But he didn't blame the doctor. The subjects were in top physical form, but they did not have the proper physiology to stand the effects of the drugs or the trails.
Through chemical-and-DNA-analysis, the doctor determined that a subject needed to be an exact match, or very close, to Bane's metabolism to even have a chance for the new counter-agents to be effective against the Venom Drug.
But that was for the doctor to figure out.
The minute Lyons was removed, four Spanish female helpers—Quinceañera's—began beginning in bowls of food for Bane to eat.
They placed a variety of high-protein based meats on a table in the room, with red wine, the perfect compliment for such food. The meal was fit for a family of eight, but with Bane, and how much he needed to eat to keep his size and muscular form, he needed to partake in this much to give him the energy he needed for his high metabolism and to lift weights to keep his dynamic physique.
He dined alone, rising the lower part of his mask to eat. The Quinceañera's left quickly after they brought the food, although he did notice one of them was a lovely young dark-haired woman, whom he fancied. He fed his face without any regard for manners.
He wasn't big on history, and he would rather forget about his own childhood altogether—filled with torture and hurt—but he knew Spaniard's these days were derived into many sub-groups—both from Europe and America—but he didn't care. He knew history was to be forgotten. It was the present that drove him. And his hate of Batman was forefront in his plight for dominance.
Bane let out a large belch that echoed the room.
Harley Quinn, wearing her red and black pantomime jester costume, entered the room with her hands over her ears.
"Oh, gross, that could wake the dead," she said, and then wiggled her nose when the smell of his burp met her nose. She dropped her hands and then held her nose. "Phew! Let's hope it doesn't come out the other end or I'm walkin'."
Bane took another bite of a juicy piece of meat. "You can walk whenever you want," he said, with a mouth fill, juices dripping down from his lips. "If I wish to pass gas, then I will do so, whether alone or in your company. Why are you disturbing my meal?"
She glanced around at all the meat. "Ever heard of veggies? I don't eat animals." Bane gave her a hard look as if to say you were never invited to dine anyhow. "I was bored, so I decided to see you. There's very little to do here. Since Mr. J is still in the slammer, I need something to do. And since I'm expelled from most of the colleges in Gotham, I joined up with you for some entertainment."
"I am not here for your entertainment, Harley Quinn," Bane said. "And I agreed for you to join us because I know you will bring me some entertainment. And no, I didn't mean it like that."
"Better not, I'm not a hamlet!"
"That's harlot, the term is harlot."
"That, too!"
Harley turned to the TV and watched in silence for a little while as Bane ate. The remote was lost, and she didn't want to walk over and play with the sound, so she just read the headlights. "I wonder where Batman is these days? Haven't see him around much."
"That's because he's not in Gotham," came a rich sounding and educated voice. "He's not even on this continent." Both Bane and Harley turned to the voice. It came from a young looking man with brown hair, wearing octagonal glasses, a white medical lab coat, and the clothes of a properly dressed gentleman in the medical profession who prided himself on his appearance. "Rumour has it, he and others, flew off to Bermuda Triangle. Apparently Nightwing went with him and is fully recovered from his assassination coup."
Bane growled under his breath. The very mention of Nightwing made him angry. He had nothing truly personal against the young crimefighter, although he had interfered in his plans from time to time. But it was the fact that KGBeast had failed to do what he was paid to, and that was what made his blood boil with fury.
Harley breathed out a sign of relief. "Oh, thank god," she said, putting a hand to her chest. "I would've missed looking at that tight, little toshee on the news. He's a real hottee!" She acted infatuated. "He's mental image has warmed me on many a cold night." Bane gave her a harsh stare. "What? It's actually a good thing, Bane. There is no connection between you wanting to kill him. They think KGBeast did it, right? Or even someone else. If Batman knew who originally ordered the hit, he would be at your doorstep right now, no holds barred. Instead, he and his birdies are off crusading someone else's hideaway."
Bane looked at the man in the lab coat. He was the doctor he had hired to help him with both his problem regarding the Venom Drug and other medical issues as a result due to his large size. Big men had medical issues that average size people did not, issues that affected blood pressure and heart related problems, especially brought on with use of the Venom Drug. But that's what the doctor was working on: counter-agents that not only counteracted the toxins but also leveled off any medical complications as a result.
"She's right," the doctor agreed, adjusting his glasses. "Let Batman believe it was someone else. Nightwing lives. Let sleeping dogs lie. If he ever figures out the truth, we'll be prepared. Besides, now is not the best time for an encounter with your enemy."
Bane nodded. "Have you come here to give me good news, Doctor?" The man had a name, but Bane preferred to simply call him by his titled profession. The Doctor didn't seem to mine. In fact, he once said, the less use of his real name the better for reasons only known to a select few. "Have you solved the issue to our little problem?"
The Doctor ventured into Bane's personal domain. This was Bane's private chambers and where he spent most of his time.
He looked around at all the food and the bones on the floor. Puddles of red wine were also seen. "Unfortunately, no," he said, with a look of almost disgust by the sight of the room. Bane was a clean person, just not during meal time. "But I can give you some advise on healthy eating and cleanliness. All this meat is bad for your arteries and it pays to use cutlery." There was a smell the Doctor did not like and he waved his hand across his face. "The latest test subject died," he then informed. "The strain was too much for him."
Bane grumbled. He stopped eating and leaned back in his chair. "That makes twelve failures, Doctor. I don't like it."
"So do I," the Doctor replied, as if Bane's displeasure was akin to his own. "But I don't see it as twelve failures, I see them as twelve methods of approach to a positive outcome. We need to find someone who has a similar metabolism as yourself. Your metabolism was genetically modified for the Venom Drug and adapted to use the counter-agents that were provided to prevent its toxins from affecting you. Then you began to become immune to the counter-agents. With every test, I tweak the formula. This is also the reason why I insist on you taking a medicinal herbal drink I devised to eradicate the toxins that have already built up in your liver."
Bane nodded. "I appreciate your effects, Doctor. But I need a working Venom Drug to use against Batman with the counter-agents to combat its toxins. It's only a matter of time before Batman comes knocking on my door. I must be ready for him."
"And you'll have it. But I need a suitable test subject with the proper DNA markers for a working anti-toxic formula."
Bane eyed the physician, but he couldn't disagree.
Bane then grabbed a bottle of red wine, one of three brought for him to drink with his meat, and guzzled it down like it was water, drinking the whole bottle in one shot. Then he wiped his mouth with a bare arm and let out a huge belch that made Harley chuckle. He breathed out, seemingly refreshed. He was never one to get drunk, so he could drink all he wanted.
"How is our guest doing?" Bane then asked.
Harley cocked her head. She was looking at a juicy cooked piece of meat and wondered how it would taste. She was a self-imposed vegetarian, that's how she kept her lovely figure. In the past, she enjoyed a burger or two. But then turned off meat all together when she began to put on a few pounds.
Then what Bane said suddenly dawned on her. He looked up. "Guest? What guest? Where was I?"
"Resting comfortably and sedated," the Doctor said, ignoring Harley. "His wounds are patched up and his broken ankle and fingers have been reset. KGBeast was very harsh with him."
"Yes," Bane said gruffly. "No wonder KGBeast is avoiding me at the moment. He was smart to send Firefly in his place, and to receive the beating reserved for him for failing me. He brought me a broken toy. I can't torture Red Robin in his condition, I would prefer it if he was healthy and fully mobile. I enjoy an agile prey."
The Doctor smirked. "I have administered genetic modifiers to speed up the healing process," he said. "It won't happen as quickly like the snap of finger, but you won't have to wait long. Red Robin will make a full recovery, I guarantee it. Then you can play with him for as long as you want, and over and over again to your heart's content."
To be continued...
