Bane was a man who thrived on challenge. Whether it was the cruel games of criminals in Peña Duro, the intellectual process of planning a strategy, or a debate on philosophy, he never flinched in the face of difficulty.
Bane seized challenges and overcame them with nothing but his own hands and his wits.
Gotham, however, was proving to be a challenge of a different sort.
He had come to the city to break the Bat. Where the rest had failed, Bane would make his name resound across the world!
This vaunted figure, this steadfast heroic pillar against crime, would fall by his own hands.
From the ashes of that victory, Bane intended to claim Gotham and rule its underworld with an iron fist. The city was a perfect location to traffic drugs and weapons from Santa Prisca. From there, he would dominate the underworld.
Still, Bane was no arrogant fool who believed the world bent to his whims. Power and wit were required to make it so.
He had spent months taking careful steps to eliminate any interference with his plan.
He had believed it would be enough. Yet, as the saying goes, man plans and God laughs.
His finger tapped slowly against the metal table as he sat on a simple stool inside the quiet warehouse he had established as a safehouse. The sound echoed through the space, broken only by the soft movements of the few men working nearby.
Spread across the table was a map of Gotham's gangs and criminal organizations, their territories carefully marked and layered with notes. It was something he had meticulously crafted, his men spending weeks verifying the accuracy of the information.
Yet in the span of mere days, it had become absolutely useless.
His master plan to trigger an Arkham breakout had been stolen from him.
Bane did not know who had orchestrated the escape.
Still…
His hand tightened, bending the corner of the metal table.
The gall of this opponent, to humiliate him and then teleport him into the sewer just as he planned to free the prisoners himself, still burned in his mind.
Yet Bane would not allow anger to consume him. Every attempt to trace the culprit had led nowhere. The inmates and prisoners he had interrogated had all said the same thing.
None knew who had done it.
So Bane could do little but ignore this mysterious player for now. More pressing matters demanded his attention.
The sudden spread of madmen and criminals randomly scattered across the city had obvious effects on Gotham's underworld.
Unlike his original plan, where he intended for most of the escapees to become trapped in the initial bottleneck near the asylum, the current situation had unfolded very differently.
Under his design, the Bat would have exhausted himself capturing dozens of inmates who had nothing but the clothes on their backs.
Teleporting them randomly across the city had given many inmates the time and distance needed to remain free. Even with the extra hands provided by the Bat's little niños and niñas, many still prowled the streets.
What remained was wanton chaos.
Bane, if nothing else, was adaptable. He pivoted quickly, and his own men moved to claim territory just as fast. The pitiful patsies of the cartel already knew to fear Bane, so they had fallen in line with little resistance.
A few crushed heads here and there had allowed him to swiftly take control of the Triads and the Russian mob as well.
Yet in retrospect, this had been a mistake.
The second wrench thrown into his plans had made that painfully clear.
"Goonion," Bane growled.
It was a ridiculous name, yet the organization itself posed a genuine threat to his goals. In the past few days, it had swelled in size, absorbing many of the smaller gangs scattered throughout Gotham. Individually, none of those groups could have matched the more established criminal organizations. However, a war between criminal empires was never as simple as comparing numbers.
This Jean Valjean was a native Gothamite who had cemented his reputation through triumph after triumph over the city's many madmen.
By contrast, Bane had quietly taken control of two major organizations while remaining a foreigner in this city. His discreet takeover had earned him little reputation among Gotham's criminals.
If the two factions came to blows, there was little doubt about whom the underworld would support.
It was a masterstroke of a plan, strikingly similar to the one Bane himself had envisioned had he been the one to triumph over the Bat. This Jean Valjean must have had meticulous preparations and powerful connections to assemble such an organization so quickly.
Many men had underestimated Bane in the past and paid dearly for the mistake.
Despite the rival crime boss's youth, Bane would not repeat that error. A master player could recognize another when he saw one. Bane would give the young man his due respect.
Then he would crush him with all his might.
If Bane could not claim victory through his own forces alone, then he would simply acquire the tools needed to secure it.
A knocking sound echoed against the warehouse door. Bane gave a small nod to one of his men.
Slowly, the door opened, revealing his guests.
Several figures in black robes entered, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. They trailed behind two figures who walked at the front of the group. One was a man with a rough face and thick mustache, dressed in a simple suit. The other was an elderly woman wearing a nun's habit adorned with symbols of skulls and knives.
"Greetings, Mother Superior and Mr. Manheim. I am grateful that the Religion of Crime and Intergang replied so quickly." Bane inclined his head toward them both.
"Thank you for the invitation, Señor Bane. It is an honor to finally meet you." Bruno Mannheim offered a small smile. "I have heard much about your victories on Santa Prisca."
Mother Superior simply clicked her tongue in irritation.
"Let us not dawdle. We all know why we are here. You require our help slaying the heretic who claims to be the son of crime. Speak your terms so we may move to end this disgusting Union."
Bane had to restrain a chuckle at the cultist's delusion. She spoke as though the young man had not already poached dozens of their followers for his cause. Her teetering little cult was a sinking ship in Bane's eyes.
Still, it was best to let her keep that illusion. Fools were always useful.
"Of course, madam," Bane replied. "Unfortunately, not all of our guests have arrived yet."
"You invited someone else?" The head of Intergang frowned at him. "I mean no disrespect, Señor, but adding third-rate criminals to our plan will only…"
Bane merely chuckled as he felt his phone vibrate twice in his pocket, the signal that his guests of honor had arrived. Luck may have been against him lately, but opportunity could always be found for those willing to seize it.
Without these circumstances, he might never have discovered such a valuable secret.
"Honored friends, why don't you introduce yourselves?" Bane spoke calmly to the empty air.
Both of his guests looked at him in confusion.
Then came the scrape of steel and the whistle of air cutting through the warehouse.
Three figures dropped from above, landing lightly on the concrete floor. Owl-shaped masks hid their faces, while form-fitting black leather battle suits clung tightly to their bodies, every inch of it decorated with blades and knives.
Mannheim simply frowned.
The elderly crone recoiled as if she had been stung.
"Talons…!?"
"Of course," Bane replied simply.
He ignored the scathing looks the elderly woman and the black-robed cultists were directing toward the newcomers. How fortunate it was to find two factions with such bitter blood between them. Manipulating them would be effortless.
"Shall we begin?"
He may have lost once.
But Bane always came back.
—
Bruce had been through a great deal during his tenure as Batman. Aliens, demons, criminals of every imaginable stripe—there was little he hadn't endured or fought through.
And yet it seems the one opponent he could never truly defeat… was his own damn kids.
"Look at his face!" Jason held up a picture and exaggerated his own expression to match.
The Batcomputer was filled with multiple replays of Bruce's recent… victory. His shocked and confused face had been zoomed in so far that it nearly filled the entire display.
"Hahahaha…"
Dick and Tim were practically rolling on the floor, clutching their stomachs as they laughed for what had to be the twentieth time. The moment they had seen the video, the two of them had immediately collapsed into hysterics while pointing at the screen.
Bruce had hoped it might stop eventually.
It had not.
Damian stood by the console, calmly replaying the throw again and again.
"Truly a phenomenal throw, Father. It is exactly as you always say—practice makes perfect. A clean severance." Damian tilted his head thoughtfully. "Why, I believe that might be the finest batarang throw you have ever performed."
"It was a mistake, Damian," Bruce tried to defend himself weakly. "I had not intended to hit that area at all. It was a slip-up."
He did not feel guilty about what had happened to the Joker.
Still, the fact that the entire situation had come from a misthrown batarang embarrassed him. Bruce had long believed he had mastered the weapon completely. He hadn't made a mistake like that in years.
"Why, I must disagree, Father." Damian crossed his arms with absolute seriousness. "You have successfully disabled him in a nonlethal fashion. If anything, this proves a valuable tactical application. One might even say you have… removed the punchline."
Jason wheezed from across the room.
Damian nodded once, clearly satisfied with his analysis, before strolling away toward his brothers.
Bruce sighed heavily and covered his face with his hand.
He looked toward Barbara in silent hope.
Barbara was currently editing the footage, zooming in on the Joker's tear-streaked face while adding captions and effects. Several editing templates were already open across her screen.
She wore a raucous grin as she turned the Joker into a meme on the screen.
Bruce decided it was wiser to remain silent.
He turned in search of someone—anyone—who might defend him.
Instead, Stephanie and Duke were reenacting the moment in the center of the room. Stephanie clutched her knees and fake-wailed like the Joker while Duke mimed Bruce's stunned expression with exaggerated seriousness.
Bruce felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.
He turned to see Cassandra smiling softly at him.
Bruce didn't play favorites.
But perhaps, just this once—
Cassandra pulled a notepad from behind her back and flipped it around proudly.
The page showed a cartoonish caricature of Bruce mid-throw while the Joker lay on the ground crying in full Looney Tunes fashion, stars and birds circling his head.
Goddamn it…
Cassandra snickered and darted away.
"Quite the day, isn't it, sir?" Alfred approached with a warm smile, carrying a covered platter. "Why, it has been ages since the cave has been filled with such laughter."
"Alfred, you have to say something…" Bruce said weakly.
"Of course, Master Bruce."
Alfred stepped calmly into the center of the still-laughing room.
"Hear, hear!"
The family slowly quieted as they turned toward him. Bruce felt a swell of hope rise in his chest.
Finally.
His dignity!
"We cannot simply laugh," Alfred declared solemnly. "We must celebrate!"
Bruce blinked.
"Let us celebrate Master Bruce's Ballshot!"
Alfred lifted the cover with theatrical flair, revealing a tray filled with champagne flutes and colorful mocktails for the younger members of the family.
The room erupted in cheers as everyone rushed forward to grab a glass.
Bruce stared in disbelief.
"Cheers!" Alfred raised his glass.
The rest of the family followed immediately.
"Et tu, Alfred…"
***
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I have advanced chapters on my Pa tre on/daisyberry if you wanna read ahead.