Chapter Two: A Violation of Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~16 Weeks Later ~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bright and early on the morning of April 20th, the first radio transmission of the day that flew underneath the FCC's radar was broadcast by Gotham Net.
Goth Net to the media.
The core of the group was a gaggle of disillusioned youth who'd been too much for Antifa and other assorted alternate organizations.
Goth Net's merry band of disinformed, easily manipulated idiots, albeit dangerous, started early on the air waves and spoke until the moon rose high overhead Gotham City.
"It's been four Gotham …. four months that two heroes are being detained by the corrupt governing body in this great city," Captain Chaos began.
If there was a leader of the pack, it was certainly Captain Chaos.
No one used their real names when on air and wore knit masks when they were actively pushing their hostile rhetoric.
No one had known who they wore until they put on the fabric masks and committed sedition the first week of January.
They were on par with those prideful vermin chaps traveling cross-country, only boys.
They weren't as ridiculous as their sovereign brethren that were actually court jesters in disguise or maybe a naked emperor dancing in the street with a skinny southern Duke in his grand, red finery.
Gotham Net's name was clear enough, not like all those other convoluted, fucking gumbo of letters strung together that all ended up spelling ignorance across the flag that was planted in their shallow brain pans.
Also on Goth Net was Dry Umbrella, he hosted a thrice-weekly rant, during the build-up of Bane's perceived reign in Gotham, Dry Umbrella was on every day of the week, twice on Sunday, talking about nuclear fallout and that vaccines are bad.
Goth Net was discordant but not as nasty as that sweaty fuck Al Jones who was on the hook for his vile forked tongue, better he be to spend the rest of his life on his soft belly, forever afraid of having his skull crushed by a heel.
The Truth had a regular show, truly possessing a face for radio, The Truth, with all his repugnant qualities, would never be as slimy as that dead, bloated blimp Rush and his unrepentance to the cancerous, bitter end.
That unseasonably warm morning, the three of them sat around discussing Bane and Talia.
The trending headlines were all about the sixteen-week anniversary since The Batman had foiled Talia and Bane's plans, the public were kept out of the loop, every law enforcement agency, even Interpol on the periphery had clammed up.
Captain Chaos led the live on-air discussion about his very subjective and misguided opinion on Bane and Talia.
The trio were land-locked in a veritable circle jerk as they threw charged words and easily remembered, repeatable phrases into the ether.
"Bureaucrats without faces."
"Spiraling into death."
"Corruption."
"Government central planning," Captain Chaos shouted, the arteries corded as they stood out on his neck. "What have they done with the political prisoners?" he beseeched of the zealous listeners, the devout flock.
At that very moment, Bane and Talia were still deeply slumbering, their IV bags full of liquid, prescribed chemical restraint.
Every day since their arrival at the sprawling medical center was eerily similar to the day and week before.
All branches of law enforcement had at least one representative on site at all times.
Bane and Talia had been eventually moved to the same wing, many of the officers on site launched a protest but the hospital board won, as they couldn't have medical care impeded.
They would not fly directly in the face of the Hippocratic Oath.
The direct care team for Talia and Bane was kept small and tight, the circle of communications was tighter, hermetically sealed in terms of access, staunching any leak the moment it was detected.
All members in the direct care team signed airtight NDA's.
Contrary to the wild speculation in the news and intrusion from the warped, disillusioned and willfully naïve folks that utilized social media, Bane and Talia received the utmost medical care, as any other patient would despite their celebrity and/or criminal status.
Bane and Talia were tended to around the clock.
A patient in a coma cannot express their needs and wants.
The unconscious Talia and Bane could not compel their care team to know how they were feeling inside.
The small care team had been chosen with careful consideration.
Every day, at regularly scheduled times, both Bane and Talia experienced similar therapies under different, nitrile-gloved hands.
Their reflexes were monitored, a bright light shined in their pupils to measure reaction after their eyelids were carefully spread apart.
Bane and Talia's breathing rate was measured, supplemental oxygen administered when their saturation percentages diminished.
They were touched frequently, similar to infants or kittens.
Their skin closely scrutinized, the recent surgical incisions which were healing on the proper timeline, muscle fibers knitted back together, nerve beds calmed down after the brutal, frenetic injury.
Talia and Bane's skin was routinely massaged with an unscented lotion, retaining suppleness amidst the topographical landscape of scar tissue.
Gloved hands massaged and moved around their limbs, trying to ward off unnecessary atrophy.
Both had their blood checked often, their glucose values closely monitored.
The doctor that was heading up both of their treatment plans had a complete blood count, as well as their thyroid, kidney and liver values always up to the cellular minute.
Scans were ordered, x-rays to look deep inside Bane and Talia's bodies, to suss out any injury that might've gotten overlooked within the blood-soaked operating room suites.
Their bodies were inundated with powerful magnetic waves, MRI's painted a detailed picture of their brains. It was believed there would be no neurological damage sustained after they'd underwent multiple EEG's.
The electrical activity in Talia's brain was scrutinized a little closer after she'd sustained a series of small seizures immediately in the post-operative suite.
She had the constant presence of small metal electrodes attached to her scalp to monitor her in an instant. They both had CT scans, the doctors almost relished the opportunity to flex the unlimited budget he was given for the unconscious celebrity duo.
Many law-enforcement agencies were grappling for the opportunity to be the arresting party.
Commissioner Gordon, actively campaigning to be Mayor James 'The Peacekeeper' Gordon, had declared a temporary state of martial law in the immediate aftermath of detaining Bane and Talia.
Gordon had been able to link arms with the Governor and some other powerful players in Gotham City to keep Talia and Bane under Gotham City's jurisdiction, it was highly irregular with the lengthy, thick criminal résumé between them both.
The small care team regularly bathed Bane and Talia in their beds, rolled them side-to-side to replace their soiled linen and used warm washcloths saturated with an unscented cleanser to clean around there indwelling catheters, parting Talia's labial folds to clean her intimate center.
Gloved hands cleaned Bane's flaccid length, mindful of the red tubing protruding from the tip of his penis as it drained his urine into a clear collection bag with marked gradients to input the urinary output information in his highly restricted medical chart.
The much-needed neurological quiet time allowed for Talia and Bane's bodies to heal, the medically induced unconsciousness allowed for cessation of intercranial pressure and reduced the risk of a stroke.
The anesthesiologist who had induced the comatose states, made frequent visits to both Bane and Talia's bedside.
Doctor Roderick Steele was the father of four daughters, aged ten months to ten-years-old.
His wife, Laura-Leigh Stanton-Steele, was a recovery room nurse who also worked at the Gotham Medical Center.
The dynamic, ultra-attractive couple worked opposite shifts in order to spend quality time with their children and took two vacations a year.
Dr. Steele drove the clichéd Italian sports car painted candy apple red.
He was a dedicated listener to the Goth Net, but didn't openly share that with anyone using his own name.
Instead, he posted under cowardly anonymity, a regular contributor to a hateful site that openly spouted a hemorrhagic snail trail of fascism.
Dr. Steele composed his hate speech under the handle, Doctor Feel Good.
Doctor Steele very much felt privileged amongst all others that he was the one that got to participate in the care of Talia and Bane.
He was a consummate actor, his façade was seamless, he would kiss his children goodbye in the morning while visions of a despotic monarchy future, under an orange king, danced in his head.
He'd get up early and lose critical sleep in order to make his oldest daughter's lunch, using a heart-shaped cookie cutter for her peanut butter, only smooth, and strawberry jam sandwiches. Doctor Roderick Steele would then drive to the Gotham Medical Center, park in his assigned spot, number one, grab his usual quadruple espresso from the coffee cart outside the cafeteria before settling in the doctor's lounge.
He reviewed his surgical caseload, before he mentally put together his day.
Before and after he did his rounds, Doctor Steele would use his second cell phone to check the deviant site's inbox and post one of his reptilian thoughts for the day,usually about enforced euthanasia for people who didn't contribute to society, putting those that only consumed and contributed nothing in return to a permanent sleep.
He preached an end to those that only ate, that they were otherwise useless.
Doctor Steele had been invigorated when he had caught Captain Chaos's early morning broadcast as he'd headed into work.
He had pounded the steering wheel of his six-figure car on the way to the medical center in supportive percussion of each of Captain Chaos's disgusting claims and ignorant questions.
He was more and more certain that he'd been assigned to this care team for what had to be a greater purpose in saving Gotham City before turning his attention to the rest of the world.
When Doctor Roderick Steele had first laid eyes upon Talia al Ghul in the sterile operating room suite, she'd taken his breath away.
Even with the bruising stippling her flesh, she was ethereal in her stillness.
He had acted without thinking, on impulse, he'd stroked a couple fingers along her sharp cheekbone and down the line of her jaw, tracing the smooth pad of his thumb around her swollen lips. He'd caught himself fast, furiously looking around.
In the excitement of the bustling surgical suite, no one saw his forbidden touch.
Despite his dark pixels of anonymity amidst the world wide web, Dr. Roderick Steele viewed Talia and Bane as veritable saviors who had walked upon the soil of Gotham City.
He didn't know who Talia al Ghul actually was, who the unconscious woman he kept alive believed herself to be, completely unaware that she had at one point, been walking alongside Anubis.
He didn't know who Bane was either, what they had endured.
The suffering in utero that carried over into the sickly, wet afterbirth.
The torment that persisted in The Pit.
Dr. Steele thought Talia and Bane were here to topple the corrupt Gotham Government; he thought they were here to absolve the treasonous citizens from their actions in the first week of January.
He staunchly believed they were here to establish a New World order, the beginning of a ten times one-hundred-year upheaval and reinvention of the face of man.
He was certain they would revive their nuclear plans, that they would find an atomic mind on their side, who would perform the live birth of the progeny between the Mother and Father of All Bombs.
The new bomb would eclipse the combined weight of its Mother and Father, the blast radius would fracture the Earth's very mantle.
Consequences be goddamned.
Dr. Steele knew nothing.
He was born to an upper-class family, suckling at the tit of entitlement, nepotism paving the way.
He skipped along to attend an Ivy with a silver spoon firmly up his tightly clenched rectum.
Dr. Steele pledged his father's fraternity, a wing of the Ivy he attended had a library dedicated to his great-grandfather.
A vast symphony hall, adorned with scarlet drapery, was dedicated to his father and just the previous year, a new set of classrooms, a phallic ten-story column, was erected in honor of Doctor Roderick James Steele.
He had to increase his attention to his carefully constructed perfect life. He had to make sure he still took the time to cut his daughter's sandwiches into heart shapes with the cookie cutter as well as change diapers in the morning so his wife could sleep in a bit.
The drive to the hospital for him left him sweating, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest as he couldn't wait to visit Talia.
Dr. Steele always pulled the curtain and demanded as much privacy as allowed, unfortunately, there were always several people on the other side of the lilac curtain, but he was thankful for any time he had with Talia.
After he finished his rounds, saving Talia for last, he picked up a ginger-green tea and pulled the curtain closed behind him, separating himself and Talia for just a small moment in time.
"Good afternoon," he murmured as he took a sip of his piping, hot tea, burning his lips as he gave the smallest hiss. He set the too hot to drink tea aside and went about looking over Talia's recent vitals, finding his eyes wandering from the earlier charted oxygen values to settle on her exquisite face, her features softened from the pharmaceutical cocktail keeping her still.
His eyes slowly made their way down the front of her throat to settle on the rise and fall of her full breasts under the pink gingham hospital gown.
He kept his eyes on her breasts, her nipples hard under the thin fabric from the chilly room.
Doctor Steele adjusted the drip rate on her IV. "It won't be long now," he whispered as he leaned closer, adding as he traced his fingertips along the top of her still hand. "You'll soon be back amongst us in your rightful place, leading us all to redemption, to liberate us from the corrupt filth of the governing body of this great city."