Five
Bane’s fingers twitched as Malik tantalizingly held up the new mask. Sunlight flashed against the smooth indigo surface of the side moldings as he turned it this way and that, proudly pointing and explaining the virtues of the design.
“Though it’s more substantial than your older mask,” Malik said, handing it to Bane at last, “the titanium makes it lighter…and stronger. The material of the headpiece as well as there at the rear is much more breathable than the leather of your old mask, and it will better conform to the shape of your head, similar to a wetsuit. The two canisters are more streamlined as well but are capable of containing a twenty-four-hour supply of your crystals. And if you look inside the mouthpiece, you will see a tiny microphone and microchip that will not only amplify your voice but will clarify some of the…distortion created by your injuries.”
“I like the color,” Barsad said with trenchant wit, grinning from where he stood leaning on the balcony’s railing. Bane gave him a sharp glance, then realized Barsad was simply bullshitting him as was his wont. Early on in their fledgling relationship, Bane had discovered Barsad had a dry sense of humor. The American seemed to enjoy Bane’s oft bemused looks in response to something said in jest. Sometimes the teasing reminded Bane of his former relationship with Temujin. The Mongol had always pushed the envelope, unafraid of tweaking his student where others would not dare. “You are too serious for your own good, my young bull,” Temujin had often scolded.
This new mask was indeed more formidable, more functional, and—as he had requested—a bit intimidating to look upon. Like the previous mask, the drug was administered through tubing that connected two rear canisters with the front of the mask—two lines running on either side of the headpiece that bisected his shaved skull and two others, one a side, running along the bottom of the mask. The front of the mask put Bane in mind of a large spider, for eight silver, jointed tubes distributing the drug fed from top and bottom—four apiece—into the center of the mouthpiece like an arachnid’s legs. Two longer tubes on either side also distributed the drug from the headpiece feeds, while on either side of his chin shorter titanium fixtures flooded the mask from below.
“With the increase in the number of connections,” Malik continued, touching each of the silver pieces at the front of the mask, “you will have an increase in the flow of the drug. It will utilize the crystals much more efficiently.” He paused and frowned. “I’m afraid I could not improve your ability to hear through the mask, though. To improve upon that would have compromised the strength of the side pieces, and I knew that was more important to you.”
Bane nodded.
“Having the lifecast to work with should have greatly increased the efficiency of the seals,” Malik said. “I could make exact calculations. You will, of course, find it tight, much tighter in some respects because of that.”
Bane scowled at the memory of the lifecast—the lengthy time spent in the chair, sitting as immobile as he possibly could as Malik applied the material, conforming it exactly to every nuance of his head. A claustrophobic feeling, reminding Bane of the very first time he had donned a mask, the panic that had ensued, the fears that he could neither live with or without the cursed thing. How differently he viewed the mask now. A part of him. A frightful weapon. Something that set him apart from any other human being. That, added to his formidable height and weight, made him something to be reckoned with physically. Even his gait had conformed to this persona—lumbering, heavy, made so by his bulk as well as by the extensive injuries he had suffered to his back from his fall in the prison shaft.
Bane handed the mask to Malik and proceeded to remove the old apparatus. As usual, Malik did not flinch at the heinous ruin of Bane’s face, nor did Barsad who watched closely as the inventor carefully fitted the new mask. As soon as it was in place, Malik activated the canisters, and the mask breathed a gentle sigh as the drug began to circulate. Bane inhaled deeply, too deeply; he began to choke and cough.
“Breathe normally,” Malik admonished. “As I said, this mask delivers more of the drug than the other, so you can breathe more easily and still achieve the same results.”
Malik went over the mask thoroughly to make sure it clutched Bane’s head completely. It was indeed vice-like, more so than the previous. He could already feel a headache coming on.
“The material on the underside, against your cheeks and alongside your head will not breakdown from perspiration.” Malik glanced at Barsad. “Though it sounds like where you are going perspiration won’t be a concern anyway. Of course you must still clean and disinfect it regularly. Now speak so we can test the microphone.”
His words did indeed sound clearer and stronger, so strong in fact that he had to modulate his volume, having become so accustomed to speaking loudly in order to be heard through the old mask. He looked to Barsad for his reaction. The American raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded favorably.
“Definite improvement,” he said. “No more Mr. Mumbles.” Barsad’s deadpan expression gave way to a quick grin.
Bane scowled slightly, caught Malik’s quick effort to douse his own amusement. Thinking of his nemesis in the League of Shadows—a man named Damien Chase—Bane grumbled, “Are all Americans such cheeky bastards?”
Barsad only chuckled.
“Give your head a vigorous shake, my friend,” Malik directed. “Let us make sure there is no slippage.”
Bane could not see how the mask would move a hair’s breadth, considering how tightly it clung to him, like some metallic leach. But he tested it thoroughly and was satisfied. In fact, he felt an immediate surge of confidence.
“It will withstand extremes of both heat and cold with no significant expansion or contraction,” Malik assured.
“But will it withstand hand to hand combat?” Bane asked.
“That was one of your stipulations, was it not?” Malik chided.
Unconvinced, Bane turned to Barsad. “Hit me.”
Now all frivolity vanished from Barsad, and he straightened from the railing. “Hit you? And break my hand on that thing?”
“Put gloves on.”
Barsad eyed him. “And who’s to say you won’t rip my arms out of their sockets once I piss you off?”
“You’ll piss me off sooner if you don’t hit me.”
Barsad exchanged an uneasy glance with Malik who was obviously not about to offer to take Barsad’s place.
“Let us go inside where there’s more room,” Bane invited, leading the way. The others, however, he found anchored still to the balcony when he turned around. “Come on then. The sooner we test this thing, the sooner we can leave.”
Reluctant, Barsad shuffled inside, followed by Malik, who lingered slightly behind the American as if to hide.
“Tape your knuckles if you must, but let’s get on with it,” Bane growled.
Seeing that Bane would not relent, Barsad swallowed and shrugged, some of his typical looseness returning. “As you wish. Mal, you got any tape?”
Malik sidled past him and went to the bathroom, returning shortly with white bandaging tape and scissors. As Malik wrapped Barsad’s hands, Barsad sardonically asked, “Now you’ll step in if it gets out of hand, right?” Then he grinned at Malik’s blank look.
Once wrapped, Barsad went to his pack to retrieve his cold weather gloves. All the while Bane stood in the middle of the living room, waiting.
When he came to stand in front of Bane, Barsad asked, “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. Best to test it now instead of finding out it’s lacking in the field. Don’t you agree?”
“Sure, but I’d rather it was some Indian jawan punching you than me.”
Revealing his own capacity for wit, Bane twitched a questioning eyebrow at Malik who instantly raised his hands and backed away from the two. “I bust these hands on you, who is going to repair your mask if need be?”
“So that leaves you, Barsad.” Bane squared his shoulders, feet planted solidly. “And don’t hold back. Show me what you’ve got.”
Barsad was not a big man—he stood only five feet ten—but he was built solidly, lean and muscular. Even during their two weeks of leisure here, he ran daily and worked out. Now he faced Bane, suddenly serious, the paleness of his blue eyes deepening with concentration as he brought his guard up.
A lightning fast right jab took Bane by surprise, struck the mask straight on, knocking him a half step backward before he caught himself. The blow stung Bane slightly and summoned a hint of moisture to his eyes. Instinctively his hands balled into fists, and he started to raise his guard, a scowl wrinkling his brow beneath the headpiece. Barsad hesitated until Bane caught himself and lowered his hands back to his sides.
“Again,” Bane’s amplified voice echoed in the room.
Barsad frowned, gathering himself. Two more jabs, right then left. Bane absorbed them, did not move or flinch, forced his mind to override the discomfort as well as his instinct to strike back.
“Harder. From the side,” Bane said methodically.
A left hook, powerful enough to snap Bane’s head to the right, followed by an upper cut, the gloves making a dull sound against the mask. Stinging, nothing more. Bane detected no shifting in the mask’s fit.
Barsad hesitated hopefully. “Enough?”
Bane grunted. “Yes, I think that is sufficient.”
Barsad stepped back to allow Malik to check the mask.
The Indian smiled with broad satisfaction. “Excellent. It hasn’t moved at all. It would seem that it will take a superhero to disturb it.”
“A superhero?” Bane said.
“Yeah,” Barsad said, removing his gloves. “You know, like in comic books. Superman and all that.”
“There was a definite lack of comic books in prison,” Bane said wryly. “While you were wasting time reading such things during your American childhood, I was reading Dickens and Shakespeare.”
Barsad gave him a cocked smile as he unwound the tape from his left hand. “Is that so? Well, no wonder you’re so full of laughs.”
Malik could not contain his bark of laughter before realizing how dangerously close he was to Bane should the joke not be taken in the spirited intended. But Bane allowed himself to absorb Barsad’s jab, knowing that he was, in truth, too often overly serious. Talia and Temujin had both teased him similarly and with regularity, and he had certainly not held it against them. In fact, he appreciated the outside sources of balance. Even in prison he had benefitted from it at the hands of two inmates whom he called friends. The only two. Hans and Abrams. He often wondered what had become of them after they had escaped with him. Now without someone like them or Temujin, Bane realized that perhaps in Barsad he had stumbled upon someone with their value. After all, any man who would unflinchingly punch him in the face had some serious stones.
Last edited by
Baniac on March 6th, 2014, 11:30 am, edited 1 time in total.
I was talking to another reader (over at FF) who's read several stories with Barsad in them, and she said they always have Barsad being subordinate and saved by Bane from the very beginning. Personally, in TDKR, I got a stronger vibe from Barsad than that. While he seemed to have certain concerns about Bane in TDKR (which I will be exploring in ITF), he struck me as very self-confident in his own right.
