Chapter Five: Blinding
Despite the man that Doctor Steele was, who he was composed of at his core, he truly didn't care that none of the pistol packing officers of the law and would-be mayor, gave a good fuck if he was still alive, let alone in the same room as he bent his head over his list.
He never looked up, even as the room cleared one by one, by the time he was done with his list, his bladder was full, the coffee in the dull silver carafe was cold, and the maple bars were stale.
Dr. Steele had retreated to the safety within his own white matter to work on reversing Bane and Talia's steady coma cocktail. He knew he had to find medications that would obey their chemical parents, something that would be easy to titrate.
He decided on a special blend, naloxone the dominate flavor, because of how much the drug enjoyed a deliciously rapid onset and could be chemically controlled if things went awry.
Doctor Steele looked around the empty room as he gathered up his stack of papers covered from margin to margin with complete treatment plans for Bane and Talia. He was going to exceed Gordon's directive of two months before he was expected to toss them into the arena like Christians to the hungry Gotham Lions.
He left the light on when he left the conference room, he'd spied the cleaning crew down the hall.
The obnoxious sound of their vacuum carried throughout the top floor.
Dr. Steele took the stairs back to his corner office, turning on his electric tea kettle before settling at his desk, opening up his calendar on the computer and beginning an email to his assistant. He needed to change a lot of appointments in order to begin dedicating his nights to Bane and Talia.
He told his assistant it was for personal reasons and began drafting a second email to his superiors stating the need for the change in the schedule was for familial reasons, the medical institution was funded by a staunch religious group who put the family first and he knew they'd empathize and approve any schedule changes he chose to make.
His third email was to Allan Crowley, as thoroughly directed by the hospital administration, his cheeks hurt from his tight smile as he typed out a very polished and professional message summarizing how he would he was going to spend more time and dedicate himself to ensuring the city healed.
He knew how much Allan Crowley would love being sucked up to as he thanked him for his continuing support of the hospital, referring to all of the donated money, money, money, of course.
Roderick Steele got through a backlog of messages before preparing a cup of lemon ginger tea, the gilded clock on his desk indicated it was close to a shift change, he slipped back into his crisp white jacket before locking his office door, his name in slate grey letters on the frosted glass.
As Doctor Roderick Steele took the stairs down to the secure Critical Care Unit where Bane and Talia were being attended to, in each of their rooms, the day had been progressing according to the treatment plan.
Theresa Berezini had hit the ground running; several sick calls made her wish she actually was wearing her roller skates that day with having to absorb the additional workload.
It had been a bed bath day for both Bane and Talia after the first set of morning rounds and sets of vitals taken and recorded.
Theresa was a fan of bed bath days, some moments in the workday that were less hectic, crowded and loud. She moved through her set-up routine, first in Talia's room, gathering a set of varying sized towels, a square washcloth before filling a salmon pink plastic basin with warm water.
Theresa murmured aloud to herself as she moved about the room, clearing the rolling bedside tray and setting out a couple plain bottles of a scentless body wash, lotion and other grooming implements.
The nondescript labels of the bottles were in a uniform solid black font.
Theresa adjusted Talia's hair that had been gathered up into a high bun on top of her head, the dark strands looked dull under the Critical Care room's lowered lights.
Talia's hair up and out of the way allowed access to her neck and face when it came time to adjust IV lines, oxygen tubing in addition to the frequent exams.
Theresa began by saturating the white, square washcloth in the warm water and adding some of the scent-free body wash. She agitated the cloth until bubbles spewed forth from between her strong fingers. She gently, but efficiently, moved the cloth along Talia's eyebrow ridge, drawing the damp cloth in a circle around the dark mole in the center of her forehead.
Theresa hummed lowly to herself as she continued moving the cloth along Talia's high cheekbones and down the line of her jaw.
Theresa repeated soaking and wringing out several cloths as she moved to Talia's upper body, smoothing the cloth over the rounded caps of her shoulder and over her chest, moving the damp cloth around Talia's breasts, her nipples hardening from the towel's touch and stimulation before dragging the moist fibers down the length of Talia's lithe arms, carefully cleaning each nail bed before turning her attention to her flat abdomen.
Theresa refolded a towel several times as she smoothed it down Talia's lower body, sliding the cloth down the crease of her inner thighs until she reached her feet, slowing her movements when she touched Talia's left foot, carefully examining the bandage that was covering the incision of where her baby toe had been amputated.
Theresa removed the gauze, part of her daily directive of monitoring Talia's progress. The incision had knitted back together well, the skin returning to a smooth state, a dark pink line on the spot where her little toe used to be, almost looked like she had stepped on a red marker that someone had forgotten to put the cap back onto.
"You're doing just fine," Theresa murmured to Talia as she followed a similar routine with applying the thick, odorless cream, keeping her skin supple, followed by a fresh gown, carefully adjusting the snaps and ties with the protruding tubes and wires.
"I'll see you later," Theresa added as she stared down at Talia's slack face before she adjusted the head of the bed, pulled the lavender privacy curtains shut and left Talia to her continued comatose solitude.
Theresa washed her hands before crossing the hall to where Bane was being kept under constant watch by any number of law-enforcement officers throughout the day and wee hours of the night.
"Excuse me," she murmured to a group of officers that were blocking the doorway, standing around measuring their dicks and guns while swigging shitty hospital coffee.
Theresa had to clear her throat and repeat herself twice more before the officers all turned to her and gave her jovial smiles and "how do you do ma'ams," as she struggled to not roll her eyes.
"Why do you bother doing it?"
"Bother doing what officer?" Theresa asked as he nodded his chin in Bane's unconscious direction.
"Take care of that piece of shit," he plainly stated.
"What would you have done?"
The officer adjusted his great, big, heavy gun belt, "I'd put one between the fuckers's eyes, save the city some money, due fucking process."
"A noble sentiment from one of Gotham's finest," Theresa smirked before pushing past him into Bane's room.
Theresa was sturdy, healthy, her forward momentum wasn't stopped.
"How are you?" Theresa asked a comatose Bane.
She continued to chat softly to him as she bustled around the room gathering her needed supplies, nearly identical to the manner in which she prepped Talia's earlier bed bath.
The water in his room took longer to warm and also had the linen basket with the cracked lid.
Theresa removed Bane's gown, keeping towels draped over the bare skin she wasn't actively addressing.
She was careful as she ran the damp cloth on his face, skirting the tubing that protruded from one of his nostrils.
During one of Bane's multiple surgeries, a maxillofacial surgeon had consulted with an ear, nose and throat specialist, together they'd come up with a surgical treatment plan to rebuild Bane's nasal cavity, repairing the shoddy work the surgeon in The Pit had performed.
The surgical team had spent eight hours eliminating the need for Bane's breathing apparatus, he had been moved to just supplemental oxygen and was breathing on his own.
Theresa moved the damp towel along Bane's cheekbones, wiping the cloth along the line of his jaw.
Later, Theresa would apply a thick, clear lubricant on Bane's scarred lips, keeping the skin moist.
Bane was oblivious to Theresa, her touch and anything happening as Theresa massaged his dense musculature with her strong hands, kneading the large muscles of his body, keeping his body limber, his joints free from stiffness in conjunction with the frequent physical therapy.
Bane was never aware of Theresa's firm touch as she rubbed the pads of her thumbs on his bare skin.
Never felt her manipulate the cloth to clean in between each toe, the webbing of each finger or brush of the damp towel over his chest, his heart beating steadily under the dense musculature.
"You're healing nicely," Theresa commented as she traced her fingertips over the surgical incisions that were lightening in color, their texture softening.
Bane didn't react to the touch of the warm, soapy cloth on his skin, sliding across his cheekbones, down his nose and around his scarred lips.
Theresa was mindful for the plastic tubing, cords and wires that were monitoring Bane's every organ system.
He wasn't aware of Theresa's strong hands massaging the scent-free cream into his skin, might've enjoyed her fingertips kneading the large muscles on the back of his thighs as she used a portable lift in order to check his skin's integrity.
Theresa kept the one-sided conversation easy, casual as she moved her hands over the scarred topography of his skin, almost like reading braille from the varying textures under her fingertips.
"What brought you to this place?" Theresa whispered as she plucked a fallen eyelash from the sharpest point of Bane's cheekbone.
She paused as though he'd answered before she fell into humming a gentle melody as she smeared a petroleum-based jelly on his lips.
As Theresa moved through the rest of Bane's care routine, Doctor Roderick Steele approached, taking the stairs, the longer hallways, no short cuts, his body trembling with anticipation of bringing consciousness back to Bane and Talia.
Dr. Steele's fingertips tingled as he reached his left hand into his pristine, white doctor's coat to close around the cool to the touch vials nestled next to a few Luer-Lok syringes.
Dr. Steele slid his keycard into the thin slot under an electronic keypad in order to gain entry to the Critical Care Unit.
He nodded to several people as he approached the nurse's station, murmuring greetings and salutations as he approached the wall of patient charts.
He reached out a hand, pausing, torn, at the fork in the road as of whose chart to grab first.
Bane and Talia al Ghul's printed names on the spines and belabored on the front of their charts had assigned medical record numbers and elemental names.
Dr. Steele's outstretched right hand remained suspended in the air, caught between the spines of the two teal-blue charts, the identifying names in blocky, rich black letters.
Janice Doe.
Buck Dixon.
Dr. Steele traced the smooth pad of his fingertip down the spine of the chart that boasted Talia's assigned elemental name, but he closed his hand around Bane's chart instead, his calculations were above reproach on paper, his hypothesized outcomes unshakeable but when it came down to the fallibility of working with blood cells and neural activity, Dr. Steele didn't want to risk killing Talia if his medical prowess had a fatal flaw for which he hadn't considered.
A framed cross-stitch of a plump, white goose watched Dr. Steele step down the hall towards Bane's room.
A symphony of sounds accompanied each of his footfalls.
Snatches of conversations spilled from doorways, some dire and others sprinkled with hope.
"Where the fuck are those goddamn ghouls?" a nurse barked into a phone, his voice dying in his throat when he met Doctor Steele's hawkish gaze.
"Excuse me doctor," the nurse whispered before bustling away, speaking again to the person on the other end of the call in a more professional, appropriate manner. "What is the expected ETA of the organ procurement team?"
There was a percussion of chimes, bells and whistles from monitors of every kind.
A flat line rang out, followed by the squeaking wheels of the crash cart, the oxygen tank giving off metallic chimes as it was jostled in its cylindrical holder.
"Stack the shots," the conductor of the crash team yelled out to a tech as the paddles charged with a high whine.
The aroma of singed chest hair spilled from the doorway from the patient's poorly shaved chest.
Codes of varying colors could be heard.
Dr. Steele wrinkled his nose at the Code-Brown as he passed a C-difficile positive room.
Doctor Steele paused in front of a single green chemotherapy glove that had been dropped by a sloppy tech.
The fingers of the used glove were curled as though it was suffering from rigor mortis, becoming a bright green stain on the pale, buttercream yellow linoleum.
He snapped his fingers at a tech mopping an empty room, the most recent occupant now slept in the morgue awaiting transfer to The Morning Star Crematorium owned by three generations of the Geranie family.
Dr. Steele pointed at the offending glove once he had the tech's attention.
See something, say something.
The patient room right next to Bane's, held a man who reeked of sickly sweat, was nearly yellow from liver failure and vomited green bile into salmon-pink kidney basins several times a day.
Dr. Steele glanced from room to room as he drew closer to Bane, Talia just a stone's throw further, he was a witness to those that were closer to living than dying and those on the verge of falling into the arms of death, an end to the fight, pain, blood loss and eventual organ failure.
Dr. Steele paused in front of Bane's room, his elemental name emblazoned on any identifying information, Buck Dixon, as Theresa Berezini exited with an armful of soiled linen.
"Good afternoon Dr. Steele," she said as she deposited the dirty linen in the designated blue bin.
He nodded and offered what was close to a smile, "have you completed the daily care for this room and 409?"
Talia al Ghul was behind the green door of room 409.
"Yes doctor," Theresa answered before she summarized what she'd performed and observed no change in their condition.
Dr. Steele nodded thoughtfully, "bring the portable EEG from storage."
"For him?" Theresa asked.
"Yes," Dr. Steele answered, feeling himself bristle at the slightest questions towards him, "I'm running a few neural diagnostic tests."
Theresa blinked once before nodding and walking away to fetch the EEG machine, Dr. Steele's tone didn't invent further discussion.
In the space of time that Theresa was on her medical equipment errand, Dr. Steele stood at the end of Bane's bed, stared down at the man some considered a hero and others a villain.
Was Bane a sinner or a saint as he laid still, unconscious?
The hospital gown stretched taut over his broad chest, his scarred hands and thick fingers rested flaccidly on the top of the periwinkle blue blanket that every room in the Critical Care Unit was provided.
"I've waited," Dr. Steele started before his words died abruptly in his affluent throat and he fell silent, flicking his eyes to the partially open door before shutting it, securing the lock and yanking the privacy curtain closed behind him before turning back to where Bane laid, still comatose and unaware of the man who was now sharing his breathing space.
"I've waited for you for a long time, the failure was not on your part, but the interloping superheroes that run amok in the city. I'm going to bring you back, install you to your rightful place as the liberator of this city."
"I'm going to personally ensure that you and Talia are not stopped this time."
Dr. Steele continued his diatribe as he pulled the syringes from his deep, white coat pocket, aligning them on a tray as he gathered up sterile, individually wrapped alcohol swabs, and a few syringes of normal saline to flush his IV lines before he picked away at Bane's unconscious state.
Dr. Steele was blinded by his own ego and narcissism, he didn't know the man he was talking to.
"There were others," Dr. Steele murmured as he lined up his syringes, little sterile soldiers.
"They didn't live through this. They're not like you, they don't understand what is required here," Dr. Steele murmured, becoming the architect of the new order.
Dr. Steele wanted to build a new Reich in respect and homage to those that had fallen before him, he wanted to avenge the man taken from South America and put through a kangaroo court before being hung from the neck until he ceased to live.
Dr. Steele was going to plant his name in the annals of history and start a new society with Bane and Talia at the helm as his mouth pieces, he'd install them as rulers, people would bend the knee but he would always feel he had the upper pristine white hand with his intimate knowledge of anatomy and chemical control, how terribly easy it was to simply turn a human being off.
Dr. Steele straightened out one of Bane's partially bent arms, dragged his smooth fingertips down the inside of his arm, palpated the skin to see how well the IVs were replaced, that there was no presence of abnormality in the skin. He narrowed his eyes at the variety of bags of fluid that were dripping into Bane's body at varying rates.
Dr. Steele looked back briefly at the closed privacy curtain and the door he knew was locked before he cleaned the IV port and slid the needle in, penetrated the normal saline with his pharmaceutical comatose reversal cocktail.
Inside Bane's cranium, his comatose brain felt the start of stimulation as the medication passed the blood brain barrier and made activity start behind his closed eyes.
Inside his skull, Bane opened his eyes, he was at the bottom of a seemingly endless abyss, he tried to rub his eyes and found he couldn't clear anything from his distorted sight. He heard screaming, but not his.
Bane was wet, covered in viscous fluids, his mouth full of metallic slickness. Another scream split the darkness at the bottom of the abyss as he felt hands, roughly, pulling at his body and found he was a child again.
Bane was born in The Pit.
He was silent as his mother screamed her last.
The doctor wasn't able to stop the hemorrhaging that occurred as she birthed Bane into the darkness on a paltry bedding composed of hay and torn shreds of paper.
Bane was born in The Pit, his first and last sight of his mother was her dead, lifeless, her dress pushed up to her waist, thighs slicked with blood and other thicker bits that she lost as her body succumbed to complete exsanguination.
Bane didn't recall blinking, but as the chemical cocktail that Dr. Steele pushed, adjusting the flow rate continued to infiltrate his gray and white matter, Bane found himself staring up from the bottom of The Pit, recognizing Pena Duro, not knowing how he was back there, everything intimately familiar.
The medication protocol that had been keeping Bane in a coma was also a gatekeeper for his pain, once the new drugs that Dr. Steele introduced further infiltrated, the gatekeeper dropped their guard, a veritable Kraken arose.
A very small sound fell from between Bane's scarred lips, his body stiffening. Dr. Steele stared down at him impassively.
Behind his closed eyes, Bane watched Talia make her climb to the top, watching, praying that she wouldn't fall.
Hope that she would live.
Bane felt the crowd surging around him, hungry for the little girl crawling up the wall, but more hunger for the man that protected her. Bane could feel their hands beginning to pull at his body the further she ascended.
Inside his skull, Talia falls to the unforgiving ground.
The crowd pounced.
Bane was unable to catch her, help her, offer her anything.
Bane was forced to hear the primal cries as Talia was ripped apart by animals on the stone, dirty, filthy floor of The Pit.
A frown pulled between Dr. Steele's eyebrows as he watched Bane's body contort, no further sounds emerged, except for a low groan.
Dr. Steele patted the top of Bane's hand, almost compelled to let his touch linger, forcing the optics of comfort, but quickly drew his hand back as though he had been burned.
He pushed another syringe into a second IV bag, the drugs glommed onto Bane's immobility and being landlocked in between conscious and unconscious.
Inside Bane's skull, the crowd fell away, Talia was no longer in pieces.
She was still climbing, ascending, growing higher.
Bane's heart was full as he watched her reach the top of The Pit, holding eye contact with Talia until the very end when the crowd engulfed him.
Dr. Steele lowered the overhead bed lights as he pried open each of Bane's eyelids, shining his pen light at the pupils, testing reactivity and dilation rate.
Inside his turbulent cranium, Bane was alone on the decrepit earth of The Pit.
Bane was alone.
Bane was naked, covered with afterbirth, the tendrils of conception products clinging to his bare skin.
His throat was filled, choking on hot afterbirth as he stared upwards to the circular light at the top of The Pit.
The illuminated circle of light become brighter.
The light grew hotter, closer.
It became blinding.
Bane opened his eyes.