A/N:
After rewatching TDKR, I realized that Bane's "room" is actually just a slightly partitioned area in the sewers in the same room where Bane and Batman fight. There isn't an actual door or an actual wall. So the description of where Paige is will change a bit between this chapter and the last, just fyi! Eventually I will go back and edit chapter two to be more accurate.
Paige awoke to the feeling of soft warmth and the sound of jackhammers. She was grateful that her mind played no tricks on her—there was no false second of peace, no momentary belief that the nightmare events of yesterday had been just a dream. She could barely remember being laid down on the bed, a sudden enfolding of warmth, and then sleep.
Opening her eyes, she stared up at a beige plastic tarp, tied off at two corners to immense steel girders, the rest of it draped over a wall of large plastic crates. She sat up, and found herself swamped by a large shearling coat. It smelled odd—like a strange, chemical perfume. A moment later, she realized it was the same smell she had caught coming from the big man's mask, the night in the alleyway. She pushed the coat away and turned on the cot to take in her surroundings.
Beyond the partition created by the tarp and crates, she saw a broad walkway of concrete, curving around an immense open area to her right. More of the steel girders, as well as concrete pillars, lined the space, making it feel almost like a kind of ancient tomb. The place was lit by floodlights, washing some areas in white and leaving others in dusky shadow. There were more than a dozen men in her line of sight, and the sounds of more echoed through the space: drilling, clanging, calling to one another. Beneath those noises was the roar of water, and the air was cold and clammy with moisture. Paige thought she must be at the bottom of some enormous storm drain, or a nexus of storm drains—the whirlpool at the bottom of the world. The men were mostly dressed like the woman from the night before: military-style gear, bulletproof vests, red scarves. Some carried rifles, and all had handguns holstered at their sides. The rest of the men looked more like homeless or street toughs, and the rifle-holding men supervised them as they worked to clear away blasted bits of concrete or pour new.
What are they doing down here? Paige thought. Who robs a stock exchange, then comes down to do… sewer maintenance? And who has this kind of fire power?
One of the men, standing by another line of crates and apparently taking inventory, looked over at her and noticed she was awake. Setting down a clipboard, he walked towards her.
Paige found her feet in a moment, sidling away from the man and towards the edge of the walkway. A spout of water gushed from a pipe above her and fell in a torrent some two dozen feet below. She eyed it, wondering if she should try to jump—but even if she survived the fall, she'd never been a very good swimmer. Her odds were probably better up here.
The man called out to her, and she turned back to look at him. "It's alright, Ms. Carter!" he said. He held up his hands placatingly, and even smiled. "You're in no danger."
Crossing her arms tightly, Paige eyed him. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, with a couple days of scruff. She would have called him handsome under different circumstances. Behind him, none of the other men even paused to glance her way. Was kidnapping just a matter of course to them? She supposed it must be. Or worse things.
"My name is Barsad," the man continued. He had an accent; British, maybe, and he had to project to be heard over the water and the work. "And I mean it, really—we are under the strictest orders to protect you. You have nothing to fear." He stopped just under the edge of the tarp, not crowding her too much.
Paige had to send the message to unclench her jaw a couple of times before replying, "If I had nothing to fear, I'd be able to walk out of here and go home, Mr. Barsad. Can I do that? Can I walk out of here?"
Barsad smiled faintly. "Well, no," he said. "I would have to stop you. I understand your distress, Miss Carter. I simply want you to realize that we will not harm you in any way. Even if you attempt to leave, I will only restrain you; however, it will be more pleasant for all of us if you sit quietly and avoid becoming…" He searched for a word for a moment, his hand waving vaguely. "Hysterical," he finished.
Paige gave him a flat look. "Do I look hysterical, Mr. Barsad?"
"No," he said, "you are taking this remarkably well. I'd be quite hysterical in your shoes." He smiled again, like he could joke with her, and make all of this seem normal.
"Why am I here?" she asked. "And where is—" she attempted to say something that sounded calm and professional, like, "your leader," or, "your boss," but what came out instead in a rather choked voice was, "he?"
Barsad's expression sobered a little. "He is away," he said. "As to why… don't you know?"
Paige's mouth twisted. "The alleyway?" she guessed.
Barsad nodded. "An odd thing for a young woman to do," he said.
"And apparently deserving of abduction in response," she returned. "What do—what does he intend to do with me? Do you even know?"
"Not precisely," Barsad said. His eyes wandered away from hers to scan the open area behind her. "But he isn't one to return a favor with violence. Generally."
"Generally," Paige snorted. "Thank you, Mr. Barsad, I feel so relieved."
Barsad shrugged. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you more," he said. "There's food and water if you want any. I have other matters to attend to; one of the others will be with you while I'm gone. Just don't try to leave this area, please. If you do, we'll have to handcuff you to the wall." He gestured towards a length of chain wrapped around one of the pillars, apparently just for that purpose.
Such civilized kidnapping, she thought, shaking her head. Please don't leave, or we'll have to chain you up like an animal. Really, it's all on you if it happens. We did say please. "When can I go home, Mr. Barsad?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. Her lower lip tried to tremble, and she had to roll it between her teeth to stop it.
Barsad eyed her for a moment. "I would try not to think about it, Miss Carter," he said at last. And then he turned away. He gave a short whistle, catching the attention of one of the other red-scarf men, who jogged over. They exchanged a few sentences, too low for Paige to make out, and then Barsad slapped the new man on the shoulder and continued past him. The new man approached, eyeing her without any emotion in his dark eyes. He was tall, with short black hair and a tan complexion. He held his rifle in front of him, finger off the trigger but quite close to it, as if he expected he would have to fire at any moment. He didn't say anything.
"And what's your name?" she asked after the silence stretched a few moments.
"Arnaud," the man said. He had a French accent, Paige thought.
"Arnaud," she said, testing the name. "Well, Mr. Arnaud, I don't suppose you could tell me what exactly is going on down here?" She gestured towards the men down the walkway dangling from security harnesses as they drilled into the concrete. Sure hope that won't collapse.
"No questions," he said. "Be quiet. You will see soon enough." With that, he turned away, keeping her in his field of vision but clearly trying to ignore her.
Well. That was a bit rude. And ominous. Without anything else to do, Paige went back to the cot and sat down, eyeing the activity around her and trying to parse what on earth was happening. As she sat, other concerns crept in on her thoughts. For one thing, her feet ached. Her shoes had worn blisters into her heels and toes, then worn through the blisters, leaving her skin raw and bloody. She didn't have anything to clean them with. Her black heels, she discovered, had been removed and set under the cot, and there wasn't much left of them. They were sorry-looking things, waterlogged and covered in mud, the soles beginning to peel.
My favorite pair of shoes, she thought, and had to laugh at herself for even thinking of it. She supposed it was good that she could think about such things. She had never been in a situation like this before—had anyone been in a situation quite like this?—and she thought she was handling herself fairly well, all things considering. Then again, no one had actually seriously threatened her yet. Maybe her outlook would change then.
The next thing that intruded on her thoughts was how cold it was. Her clothes were still a little damp, not to mention muddy, from the walk the night before, and the chill, clammy air soon had her shivering. She thought about pulling the coat over her again, but decided against it. Knowing it was the masked man's made her skin crawl. Besides, though he must have put it on her to begin with, he might not be happy if she rubbed mud into it.
And that thought brought her to the topic she most wanted to avoid dwelling on: the masked man, and the events of yesterday. The sounds of gunfire, screams. Steven's lifeless body…
She found herself rubbing her wrists where the zip ties had made red rings. At least they'd had the decency to take those off of her. To distract herself, she looked a little more closely at the "room" created by the tarp and crates. There were a couple monitors—tough little suitcase affairs, like you saw in military movies, screens dark. Against the farther wall was a line of crates set up to make a kind of long desk, with papers scattered over them in overlapping layers. A single chair sat before it. She couldn't make anything out at this distance, and doubted she would be able to get close enough to do so without alerting her guard.
What on earth is going on down here? she thought again. Organized crime like this was supposed to be gone, eradicated by the Dent Act. And in any case, she couldn't tell what, exactly, the crime in question was. Unpermitted sewer maintenance? Squatting? Who needed machine guns to squat in the tunnels? What was the point of being down here and doing this work, and how had the masked man gotten enough money to fund what practically seemed a paramilitary group, if their first hit was on a stock exchange the day before?
Something wasn't adding up, and as Paige watched the men in their tactical gear, wielding power tools and overseeing others, she had the terrifying feeling of being very out of her depth.
Her thoughts chased themselves in circles for some time after that, but she came to no conclusions. She was missing a vital piece of information, or several vital pieces, she was sure. And whatever was going on here, it was bigger than her, even bigger than just the hit on the exchange. Paige had been a college student when the Joker had fought his brutal campaign of terror, and she had a pool of dread growing in her stomach that told her Gotham was about to be hit by something just as bad. Maybe even worse.
It was several hours before something in the sewer changed. During that time, Paige requested and received food, water, and a visit to a "bathroom," very loosely defined. Her clothes dried enough that she wasn't constantly shivering, but the moisture in the air had gotten into her curls, making them frizz out into an uncontrollable corona. By luck, she had a couple bobby pins in her blazer pocket, and had pinned the worst of it out of her eyes. She was sure she looked ridiculous, but there wasn't much to be done.
She was sitting on the cot, one leg jiggling restlessly as she recited what scraps of the Psalms she could remember to stave off boredom, when she noticed a stir in the men. Sounds of work stilled, workers paused and looked up, and, most tellingly, the red scarves saluted. Paige slipped her feet back into her sad shoes and stood, her nerves ratcheting up several notches. Finally, from around the bend, she saw him. The masked man.
He radiated an air of both danger and command as he walked, nodding to the red scarves, his footsteps somehow echoing over the sound of the waterfall. He had traded his motorcycle jacket for a leather overcoat, which dripped water from either his trip through the tunnels, or from rain up above. As he approached, Paige felt like a steel cable on a pulley being drawn tighter and tighter, click by click, step by step. He paused to exchange a few rumbling words with Arnaud, who saluted and then walked away, leaving Paige largely alone. She hadn't thought she could miss Arnaud's surly face, but as the masked man fixed his eyes on her, she suddenly missed him very much indeed.
"Ms. Carter," he said. She would have called it a pleasant tone of voice in anyone else. Coming in under the tarp, and far closer than she liked, he asked, "How are you enjoying the accommodations?"
"I—they're—" she broke off, swallowed, then began again. "I haven't been mistreated. Thank you for the coat." Politeness never hurt, especially when one was at a killer's mercy.
"You're welcome." The amusement was unmistakable.
Paige looked down to find that she had clasped her hands unconsciously. Her knuckles were white. Meeting his eyes again, she relaxed her grip. "Who are you?" she asked. "And why am I here?"
The masked man hooked his hands into his coat, near the collar—an easy gesture that emphasized the width of his arms. "You are here because I want you here," he said.
"And why is that?"
"What is the American phrase…" the man mused. "'One good turn deserves another.' And as for who I am: I am Bane."
Paige sucked in a breath. Talk about nominative determinism. "Well, Mr. Bane, if it's all the same to you, I would take it as much more of a good turn if you let me go home now. Please."
There was an odd, staticky coughing sound. It took Paige a moment to recognize it as a chuckle. "So polite," he said. "Do you always speak so softly?"
The question took her off guard. "Yes," she said. "I suppose so."
"How charming," he said, and she was fairly certain he was mocking her. He went on, "You will be home soon enough, Ms. Carter, though you may find it has changed in your absence."
That was very ominous. Eyebrows drawing together, Paige asked, "Meaning what, exactly?"
"You will see," Bane said, and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes again. Then, as if she weren't there at all, he pulled out the lone chair in front of the line of crates and sat, looking through the papers spread out before him.
Paige slumped, feeling vaguely sick. What was she supposed to do? Would he become angry if she kept talking? He didn't seem angry—but he hadn't seemed particularly angry with Steven, before he'd bashed his head into a desk. She watched in silence for several moments as he picked up one page, then another, until she decided she had to dare one more question.
"What are you going to do with me?"
He looked over his shoulder at her. "For now," he said, "nothing." And he turned back to his pages.
She stood watching him, feeling helpless, until she finally gave it up and sat on the cot again. She pressed her face into her hands, felt tears burning behind her eyes, and tried her best not to cry. She failed; but she did try.
Some time later—perhaps an hour, perhaps several hours, perhaps minutes, she couldn't tell—Arnaud came jogging up to Bane. He spoke too quietly for Paige to hear, but Bane turned to look at her as he responded, and his words were quite audible. "Good. Secure her above, but make sure she can still see. We wouldn't want our guest to become distracted."
Arnaud nodded, and turned towards her. Paige lurched to her feet with a jolt of adrenaline. She did not like the word "secure," not at all. Letting his rifle hang from its strap, Arnaud grabbed her arm and hauled her out from under the tarp, walking more quickly than her injured feet liked. Stumbling, she asked, "Where are we going? What's happening?"
"Quiet," was all he said, and continued on.
He lead her up several flights of concrete steps, and as they went, Paige realized the workmen and red scarves were rapidly thinning, disappearing into side tunnels. Only a few soldiers remained, guns at the ready, patrolling the perimeter with steely eyes. Arnaud took them up another three levels, to the very top of the enormous room, and then pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"Sit," he said, pointing at a spot next to a vertical iron girder, right on the edge of the walkway.
Paige swallowed. "Is there anywhere else—"
"Sit," Arnaud repeated, and his tone and expression (and submachine gun) brooked no argument.
Paige sat and scooted herself towards the edge of the walkway until she could press her back against the girder. She had never been very afraid of heights, but she had a healthy respect for a drop of seventy feet into raging stormwaters, if you were lucky, and directly onto concrete, if you were not.
Arnaud grabbed her hands and drew them behind her, around the girder. A moment later the cold handcuffs locked around her wrists. She supposed it was good they were there, considering the drop. She would probably wrench her arms out of their sockets at this angle, but it was better than dying.
Less welcome was the swatch of duct tape Arnaud pressed over her mouth before she could react. She jerked in surprise, then glared at him and began working her jaw to try to peel it off.
"Leave it," he commanded. He stepped back from her a few paces, likely to make sure she didn't try to hook a foot around his ankle, as she had already considered doing. "Even if you get it off, I have more." He brandished a roll of tape before slipping it into a pocket and assuming a ready stance with his gun.
Paige glared at him another moment for good measure, then turned her attention to the space below her. Metal catwalks criss-crossed the void, and she realized from this vantage that there were not one, but two waterfalls pouring down into the torrent on the floor. Mist rose from them to fog the air, and she could feel droplets on her skin, even this far away. This really is the mother of all storm drains, she thought.
She wondered why she had been brought up here. What did Bane expect her to see?
As if her thoughts had summoned him, Bane walked out onto one of the catwalks, and then, on the other end, appeared perhaps the last person Paige thought she would ever see again.
The imposing shape of Gotham's Dark Knight. The Batman.
Paige sat up, hope and trepidation mixing in her stomach as she leaned forward as far as she dared. Bane and the Batman were speaking, but the sound of the water garbled their words too much to understand. The Batman was a fugitive, a murderer, a menace. But he had also stopped the Scarecrow, and then the Joker, and if anyone could possibly rescue her from a nest of soldiers armed to the teeth, it was him. The Batman rushed forward over the catwalk and began raining down blows on Bane.
Blows that, even when they hit, seemed to do nothing at all.
Paige watched, her hope slowly fading into horror, as Bane took everything the Batman had to give and then dealt it all back, and more. The Batman tumbled over the side of the catwalk, managed to land well, somehow, and Bane followed hand-over-hand down a hanging chain. The fight continued, brutal and fast, but even when Batman was at his best, it was clear that Bane held the upper hand. Paige clenched her teeth tight together and began to pray.
The lights went out in a wave. Paige started and drew herself closer to the girder, conscious of being very close to the edge. A moment later the lights came back on, and she saw Bane had pinned Batman against the concrete wall that held back the torrent below. He was beating him mercilessly, most of the blows aimed at his head, and when at last he stood back, the Batman did not rise.
One of the red scarves—she thought it was Barsad—tossed Bane something from an upper level. Bane held it up, and—
Paige's senses came back a moment later. Her ears rang, she was coated in concrete dust, and her eyes danced with black spots. The ceiling of the space, not fifteen feet above her, was gone. She could see through it into what looked like a warehouse, filled with crates and pieces of equipment. And down on the floor of the sewer, amid the concrete—wasn't that one of the crazy tanks the Batman had once driven around, only painted with camo?
They found Batman's hideaway, she thought, horrified. All those tricks and gadgets he kept pulling out. The press had always speculated on what kind of funding the Batman must have had to have so many different weapons at his disposal; grappling guns, grenades, smoke bombs, armor. And, apparently, extra tanks.
The red scarves tossed up lines of rope and cable, and in moments they had scaled the walls and pulled themselves up into the warehouse. They roamed through the space with guns at the ready.
The Batman had always had one more trick up his sleeve, one more weapon in his arsenal than his opponents. All of that in the hands of Bane…
Something nudged her shoulder, and she jerked. Looking up, she saw Arnaud pointing down at the bottom of the sewer, an ugly smile on his face. Paige followed his finger down just in time to see Bane heave the Batman up over his head, hold him there for one moment like Atlas holding the world, and then, with a horrible motion, brought him crashing down onto his knee. The Batman fell to the floor, and did not rise.
Oh, Paige thought, staring in horror at the broken body of Gotham's vigilante. A numbness spread through her body, starting at her chest. Oh. This is bad. This is… this is very, very bad.
Something Bane had said during the hit on the stock exchange swam back into her mind. "He is the kind of person we have come to eradicate."
Eradicate.
Paige did not know what was happening, but she was very certain that, whatever happened next, Gotham was in terrible danger.