Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of DC Comics, Christopher Nolan, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: After Hugo Strange uses him as a test subject for an experiment in the Narrows, John Blake ends up owing his life to Bane and relying on him to survive. Several years post-TDKR. AU.

Author's Notes: Wow! The number of people who added the story to their favourites and started to follow for this chapter was incredible. It was the highlight of my week to log on and see a whole bunch of new names. Thank you! I'm happy you're enjoying the fic, and I hope you continue to do so.

I also have to thank the reviewers. Your comments were much appreciated.

Chapter Seven

"You told me that Strange's experiments died."

Bane stared at still locked door in silence, lost in thought. For a man of such physicality, he seemed to spend an awful lot of time thinking, Blake noticed. "I said many of Strange's experiments died," Bane turned away and regarded the window with the same scrutiny. "Evidently some survived the fire in the laboratory."

Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. Whether it was Strange's serum or the emergence of a newer, bigger threat, he wasn't sure, but he felt the makings of a migraine stirring in his skull. They weren't equipped to deal with this. Not now. "How many are there?" he asked.

"Strange affixed seven of us with the pumps initially," Bane began to pace the length of the room. He occasionally stopped and inspected the tile. "Four died: two from exposure to Venom."

"And what about the other two?"

"I killed them."

"Oh," Blake wondered why he hadn't expected that answer. "So there are two more of those monsters wandering around Old Arkham. Great. Are there any other experiments I should know about?"

"Just yourself."

"And what did Strange do to me? You said he injected me with a serum derived from Venom. Why hasn't it killed me yet?"

"Strange's earlier test subjects died because their bodies could not support the rapid growth caused by the Venom. With you, he tempered the formula with a growth hormone so that your musculature will develop naturally to support the Venom modifications."

"So what I'm feeling right now is my pituitary gland going into overdrive, bulking me up? Like steroids?"

"Your body perceives it as an infection," Bane said it so casually, they might as well have been talking about the weather instead of Blake's life. "In time, your physiology will adjust to the changes."

"And then what happens?"

"You will become like him," Bane pointed towards the empty window. "A mindless shell of a being. Larger, I suspect, and more ill-tempered. Strange considered the serum his greatest achievement. You were to be his perfect weapon."

"I can barely walk."

"Strange was likely counting on the regenerative properties of the Venom to amend the damage to your spine."

Blake waited for some kind of reassurance to follow, for Bane to reiterate his promise about providing Blake with the cure, but none was forthcoming. Bane had settled back into his thoughtful silence, pondering the room.

The bullet weighed down on his nerve endings like a cannon ball, but there were too many things to worry about beyond his own physical well being that Blake was utterly overwhelmed. He was turning into a zombie on steroids, some kind of enraged killing machine, and there was no telling whether Bane was going to help him or not. There were two Venom monsters prowling Old Arkham, who could reap all kinds of havoc on the Narrows and the city if they found a way out.

Strange's men were still looking for them.

The GCPD didn't come to the Narrows anymore.

The family had no way of tracking him.

Blake ran a shaking hand over his face. Strange's serum or stress, his head was killing him, pounding with uncertainty and confusion about what problem was more deserving of his attention. Bane's pump would need to be adjusted in another couple of hours; he would need a sound mind and body to do that. Unfortunately, that kind of waiting gave Strange's men time to find them, and it gave the Venom experiments time to find their way out of Arkham.

"We have to stop those experiments," Blake decided at long last.

Bane almost laughed. Almost. "There's is no 'we', little bird."

"Those things will tear the city apart."

For a man whose face was half obscured by a mask, Bane's smile was still visible in his dark eyes. "A death too late to be considered merciful, but justified nonetheless."

"There are good people in Gotham."

"If they are worthy, they will survive the storm Strange has promised to the city."

"I can't let that happen," Blake pressed his hands so hard against the wall the knuckles went white and his fingers were sore. He pried himself into a weak standing position, wrecked with tremors and in agonizing pain the whole way. "I need to get a message to my people. They have to know what's going on here."

"I will not let you invite your hoard of birds and bats here," Bane replied.

"I'll keep up my end of the deal, alright? But I can't let those monsters get out of Old Arkham and into Gotham."

"And what will your cavalry do with me when they arrive? You will not pry the name of Strange's cure from me when I am being transported to maximum security at New Arkham."

Blake brought his head to rest against the wall, his neck screaming, his shoulders stiffened and throbbing. He felt hot all over again, like he had in the exam room, but this kind of fever burned him all the way to his soul. "You are going to New Arkham either way," he told the ceiling in a quiet voice, bracing himself for the attack that followed.

Bane had broken him quite sufficiently though and didn't see the need to maim Blake any further. "The Narrows is a prison for me already, little bird."
The walls of the room felt like they were closing in on him, and Blake was overwhelmed with the desire to be home. In the cave. At his crummy apartment. Somewhere familiar. He wanted this to be a terrible dream or a half-forgotten memory, not a confusing, awful reality where there was no escape. Blake had debilitating back pain, a paralyzed leg, and a spiking temperature. He was no match for anyone, even himself.

Except...

Blake tried to stop himself, but the idea was already forming. He wasn`t going to be physically helpless for much longer. Strange's serum was going to give him the physicality he needed to stand up to Bane and stop the Venom experiments, or at least contact the family for back-up. "How long do I have?" he asked. "Before I lose my mind?"

"Strange was unclear. Within twenty-four hours at any rate. You have approximately eighteen hours left before the changes are complete."

"I'm going to need most of that to detox you from Venom anyways," Blake hugged himself to keep from buckling under his shivers. "I might still have a chance."

"Not a chance I'm willing to take," Bane said, advancing on Blake. He withdrew a folded leather pouch from his pocket and held it up to the younger man like a lure. "I cannot allow you to lose your mental faculties when you still have surgery to conduct on my spine."

"I thought you didn't care whether you lived or died?"

"I told you I do not welcome death," Bane reminded him, "and I have already invested so much in your survival, it would be a waste to see you die now."

"I won't let those things leave Arkham," Blake promised him. "You'll have to kill me right now to keep me from trying. And even if you were willing to help, that guy looked like he had about a hundred pounds of solid, Venom-infused muscle on you."

Blake stopped Bane before he could speak again, something he would likely pay for later but he no longer cared about whether he did or not. "Look, you've got the antidote. You can stop me at any time, I get that. But if I can't let those things take the city. All you have to do is let these changes happen. By the time I'm physically ready to take on Strange's monsters, I'll have honoured our little arrangement."

Bane was silent as the grave. Even his respirator seemed to have stopped hissing. Blake glanced between the mercenary's face and the pouch, trying not to show the fear in his face that Bane would cure him before he had a fighting chance. As appealing as it would be to go back to his horrendous, painful normal, Blake had a duty to fulfill to Gotham, and Strange had given him the opportunity to do it.

The pouch disappeared again into Bane's pocket. Blake searched the mercenary's dark gaze for what that meant, but Bane's gaze was impassive, unreadable. Threatening in its blankness. Blake found himself actually hoping that however Bane chose to assault him, he would get knocked unconscious again. His headache had reached a splitting pitch.

Bane leaned his head towards Blake and, in a conspiratorial hiss, said, "I have a much better idea, little bird."

Blake closed his eyes, partly from defeat but mostly from exhaustion. "You usually do."

He didn't even try to fight when Bane took hold of him again and dragged him out of the room.

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