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: I cannot thank the people who follow this story and added it to their favourites enough. Reviewers, I owe you my gratitude as well. I like writing, but it is comforting to know that there is an audience out there who enjoys reading my work. Thank you for your support!
I am almost at the scene that inspired this whole story and will explain a lot of the context. Enjoy this installment in the mean time!
Chapter Eight
The idea seemed to come from nowhere, but Blake's reaction was the same: he needed to get out.
Out of this room.
Out of his skin.
Too small...too small...he pounded his aching back against the wall to create more space, but he couldn't break through. The room just throbbed right back at him under his shoulder blades, cushioned by white, pillowy fabric that closed in around him from all sides.
He needed an opening. The pressure in his shoulders and neck was too much. A little cut would be enough to relieve it. Just a split, right along the spine, let the fluid and the heat pour out of him. That would make him all better; that would give his body the room it needed to grow. Blake fumbled to reach his back, shoulders stiff and arms limp, desperately trying to relieve the pressure before it crushed the life out of him. He pulled his skin and pounded his back against the wall, praying something would snap. A little cut. A little tear. He needed a way out.
Blake dropped to the floor, face dripping with sweat and tears, fighting to hold himself together against the overwhelming urge to rip himself apart. He told himself the usual: that the pain was a symptom, that it would pass, that he just needed to ride out the next couple of hours; that Bane had to come back for him eventually, that the mercenary would not leave him to die a monster in a padded cell at Old Arkham. The aggression, the self-destructive urges: they were all symptoms of Strange's serum. Blake just had to fight it for a little while longer, until he could remove the pump from Bane and take care of the other experiments.
How long that might be though, Blake had no idea. He could only measure time in events. Being dragged down a flight of stairs to a deserted area in minimum security. Being tossed into a padded cell and left alone. Blake had shouted at Bane, searched for the door but couldn't find it, and then settled into a corner to wait. At some point, he had removed his t-shirt, because his back had swelled up to the point where it no longer fit. After that, his moments of lucidity became short and fragmented. He spent most of his time and remaining energy throwing himself against the walls in some mad attempt to break out of his own, all-too-small body and this all-too-small room.
Groan. Gasp. His arms jerked back from the strain. Muscles bulged against the flesh of his back. He kicked again with his working leg despite himself, hoping that this time it would work. This time the skin would break. The padded wall dulled the impact to the point where he could barely feel it though. Nothing but the relentless ache left by Strange's serum. Blake punched the floor. He should just rest. Just go to sleep. Bane would wake him up when it was time to decrease the dosage on the pump again. Blake could pretend he was still his normal...
He kicked his back into the wall again.
"DAMN IT," Blake cursed. Christ, all he wanted was to tear this room apart. Rip the padding off the walls, kick the door from its hinges, tackle the concrete and sheet metal all the way to the insulation and then keep going. The fact that he couldn't just made the urge stronger, along with the thought that soon he might be big enough to give it a fair try.
"Bane's coming back," Blake reminded himself. Yet another mistake, since he was very quickly filled with thoughts of ripping the mercenary to pieces. Breaking his spine and leaving him for dead. Tears open that scar and seeing what was underneath. Blake could put a smile on that lizard face. Slide his hands through Bane's lips and pull till the mercenary's head was inside out.
"STOP."
Blake thought about his first moment in the cave. He remembered the thrill of wind and water rushing against his face, the flurry of bats, the podium rising under his feet drawing him up to his new destiny. He catalogued all the little details: what the suit felt like, the gadgets he used, the smells and sounds of the cave. Learning to drive the bike for the first time. Flying over rooftops in the city. The codes for the computer. "That's who I am," Blake reminded himself. A protector. A dark knight. Not some mindless, killing machine. Some mad scientist's experiment. He was stronger than Venom. He would resist it. When Bane came back into the room, Blake wouldn't ask for the antidote. He would see this crazy, stupid, reckless plan through to fruition.
Even if it tore him apart to do it.
The old locks squeaked, and the sound nearly snapped Blake back into his claustrophobic frenzy. He sobered slightly when Bane slipped in from behind the padded door. The mercenary hadn't forgotten him then, which meant there was hope to his foolish plan yet...if Blake could keep his head on straight for a little longer.
His eyes were fixed on the door though, and Blake couldn't pull them away. Out. He needed to get out.
"It appears as if the good doctor's serum has already influencing your cognition," Bane noted, prodding an area of the padded wall to Blake's right. The former detective glanced over to where Bane was standing, eyeing the torn fabric with only mild interest before looking back at the door.
The room was too small for the both of them, and at this distance, Blake stood a good chance to making it before Bane caught him.
"John."
The sound of his name slashed through his consciousness, clearing his mind at long last. Blake could still feel his new urges nagging, vying for supremacy, but they were secondary to his own thought process, to his own self-awareness. The pain would pass if he rode it out long enough. Bane hadn't left him to do. He could do this: he could still save Gotham.
He let out a pained cry and reached for his spine again, trying to tear. "I just...need..." his skin was stretched to its limit. The muscles started to bombard his chest from behind, crushing the air from his lungs. Ride it out, ride it out...like he had at the hospital after the shooting, when the nerve damage was at its worst. Blake just kept breathing through it raggedly. "Whatever you do," he growled at Bane, voice strangled from the pressure in his neck, "whatever I say, don't give me the antidote."
The mercenary sank to his knees next to Blake, silent as usual. He placed a very large hand on the smaller man's brow. Blake basked in the coolness of Bane's palm, remembering and then promptly not caring that every time he found himself in the mercenary's hands, only pain seemed to result. Nothing Bane could do to him now – not folding him or dragging him or tossing him or anything – could hurt more than what his body was going through.
"It is a wonder how this city can seduce so many capable men to protect her at their own expense," Bane lamented. He withdrew his hand, leaving Blake to roast inside of his own body again.
"Almost sounds like you're worried about me," Blake found himself staring at the door again. He could make a run for it. Push Bane out of the way. Dismantle the whole building.
Focus, John.
"Your well-being is of interest to me. It has been three hours since you decreased the dosage."
"Right," the walls were closing in on him. Focus. Focus. "I can take care of it."
He pulled his eyes from the door. Bane was still kneeling nearby, inert but not intimidating, not to Blake at least. He could take Bane. Make him pay. Tear him up.
Blake's heart pounded in his chest. No more focusing. He wasn't Nightwing anymore.
He hopped up onto his only working leg.
Bane's forearm slammed into his chest and drove him back into the wall.
"I need out!"
"I told you I had my own idea," Bane said.
A needle. Blake saw it in Bane's hands. Now he was focused. "NO! No, please. I can survive this."
"Yes," Bane agreed, "And you will, with your cognitive faculties intact."
"I HATE YOU!" Blake shoved a hand against Bane's mask. His rage had him nearly foaming at the mouth. "I WILL BREAK YOU! I WILL TEAR YOU TO PIECES!"
He thought he heard Bane laughing. "You can certainly try, little bird."
Needle stick. Into his good thigh.
Bane wanted him to feel it.
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