Bane

October 2, 1993

9:00 PM

Bane watched from the shadows, the women getting into their cars. They smelled like fear, and death, but the fear and death of others. There were no escorts walking the women to their cars. They wore no cowls, or cloaks, but they felt the same as those he fought before.

There were too many for him to take here, alone. He could fell them all, no doubt of it... but it would be a painful, and costly battle. The kind that took days - maybe even weeks - in recovery. No. He could wait.

Bane stared, keeping his tattered and stitched leather duster pulled over him enough so that he could blend into the dark, and still see out. They weren't going to take well to the missing guards at the gate, and when they found the bodies it could very well be a blood hunt for him.

It did not matter.

Every last cowl wearing witch hunter of the modern inquisition would fall. Then, and only then could he surely be rid of that nagging conscience that once was Jonathan Walker.

One at a time, their machines came to life. In a long row, they began leaving, one after the next.

When the last of the lights behind their rolling machines (Cars. They're called cars.) were out of sight, Bane was on his feet, running for the entry. The door was wooden, and heavy looking. He pressed against it, and it bowed.

Veneer. Decoration. Vanity.

He drew his leg up and thrust the heel of his boot through the door in a single motion, pushing his shoulder into the flimsy door. It splintered around him, and he crashed into the concrete wall across from it.

He was inside, and inside there were lights on.

There was another guard. Bane reached for his guns, but this time the guard was faster, throwing a long bladed dagger. Bane held his arm up, and winced when the blade cut through it. He felt the sharp metal between the two bones in his forearm (your radius, your ulna...). The guard sounded an alarm, and fled immediately, retreating into the main room of the heavy building.

Bane followed immediately, ignoring the dagger stuck through his forearm, the blade scraping against bone, cutting thick muscle, and severing veins. As he hurried into the main room, the largest of them (...it looks like a cafeteria...), he saw them all. They were waiting for him. Ten of them.

Ten.

There were only eight leaving.

(...the word you're looking for is shit...)

Most were wearing their cowls, but the one who caught his attention immediately was older. Old. By mortal standards. The steel gray hair did not disguise who he was to Bane (Who he is...).

Who he was. Be silent.

Bane narrowed his eyes, even as the older man stared into them.

"Leave us." The old man said. The hunters around him hesitated. "Leave us! Gerald, take these whelps, and leave me to this cuss."

"Bart..."

"Get out, or I'll have you stripped of your dynasty. I'll put your boy on the street."

Gerald hesitated a moment longer. "There's only one way out."

"We'll need to work on that, but later."

Bane drew his pistols and began firing on Bartholomew Walker. Bart dodged, left, and right, all the while rushing Bane.