Over the following weeks, others joined their informal gatherings. Trogg, a former revolutionary who had fought alongside Bane's mother in the early days of the uprising, offered historical context and connections to the old guard of political prisoners. Each man brought different expertise, different perspectives, different pieces of the puzzle Bane was slowly assembling.
The prison administration watched these developments with growing concern. Bane had not become the cautionary example they had hoped for. Instead, he was evolving into something far more dangerous – a leader who commanded loyalty through respect rather than fear, who unified disparate elements of the prison population not through violence but through shared purpose.
Guards reported strange phenomena in the north wing. Violent incidents decreased dramatically. Inmates who had been considered incorrigible began attending educational programs. The library saw record attendance. Even the most hardened killers seemed to moderate their behavior in Bane's presence, as if recognizing something in him that transcended the usual prison hierarchies.
On his eighteenth birthday, Bane received an unexpected summons. The guard who delivered it seemed more nervous than usual, his hand trembling slightly as he unlocked the cell door.
"Medical wing," he said tersely. "Dr. Herrera wants to see you. Now."
Bane set aside the book he'd been reading – a treatise on chemical warfare – and rose smoothly to his feet. He had been expecting this summons, though not necessarily on this particular day. The bat-demon had been whispering in his dreams for weeks, showing him visions of transformation, of power beyond mortal comprehension.
The walk to the medical wing took them through the heart of Peña Duro. Inmates pressed against their cell bars to watch him pass, their whispers following in his wake like autumn leaves. Since the Valdez incident two years ago, Bane had become something of a legend within the prison walls – the pit monster who had brought order to chaos, who spoke like a philosopher and fought like a demon.
Dr. Herrera waited in his office, surrounded by towers of files and medical equipment. The scientist had aged noticeably during Bane's years in the general population, his hair now more gray than black, deep lines etched around his eyes from countless hours studying data that challenged everything he thought he knew about human potential.
"Ah, Bane," Herrera said, not looking up from the file he was reviewing. "Please, sit."
Bane remained standing. "You summoned me, Doctor. I assume not for a routine examination."
Herrera finally looked up, his eyes reflecting a mixture of scientific excitement and something that might have been fear. "No, not routine at all. You've exceeded every parameter we established." He gestured to the open file. "Physical strength – 347% above baseline. Cognitive adaptation – unprecedented. Psychological resilience – off our charts entirely. We believe you're ready for the next phase."
"Which is?" Bane asked, though he suspected he already knew. The bat-demon had whispered of this moment in his recent dreams, its voice echoing with anticipation.
Herrera stood and moved to a locked cabinet, extracting a sealed case with reverent care. Inside, nestled in foam padding, lay several vials of luminescent green fluid that seemed to pulse with its own inner light.
"We've developed a compound – we call it Venom. It's designed to enhance human capabilities beyond natural limits." He paused, his expression growing somber. "The previous formulations were... problematic. Fatal in most cases. Seventeen test subjects before you. None survived more than four hours after injection."
"Yet you believe I will succeed where they failed."
"Your time in the pit changed you at a fundamental level," Herrera explained, returning to his desk. "The environmental factors, the isolation, the constant adaptation required for survival – all of it has created a unique physiology. You're not entirely human anymore, Bane. You're something... more."
Bane considered the offer carefully, his pale eyes studying the doctor's face for signs of deception. "And if I refuse?"
Herrera's expression hardened slightly, the mask of scientific enthusiasm slipping to reveal the bureaucrat beneath. "The warden is growing concerned about your influence among the general population. Participating in this trial might... alleviate some of his concerns about your continued presence here."
The threat was clear – submit to the experiment or face renewed isolation, possibly permanent return to the pit. Bane had anticipated this moment; the prison administration could not allow his growing power to continue unchecked.
"I accept," he said simply.
Herrera's relief was palpable. "Excellent. We'll need a week to prepare. The procedure is... extensive. Your body will need to be in optimal condition."
The intervening week passed with the weight of destiny pressing down upon the prison. Bane used the time methodically, setting his affairs in order with the precision of a general preparing for a campaign where victory was far from certain.
He met privately with Bird in the library, their conversation hidden beneath the pretense of a chess game.
"If I don't survive," Bane said, moving his knight into a defensive position, "you are to maintain the stability we've established. The gangs will attempt to fill the power vacuum. Don't let them."
Bird studied the board, his military mind already calculating contingencies. "And if you do survive but are... changed?"
"Then adapt accordingly," Bane replied. "Power takes many forms. What matters is how it's wielded."
Similar conversations followed with Zombie and Trogg, each receiving specific instructions, each understanding that they might be speaking with Bane for the last time. The prison itself seemed to hold its breath, inmates and guards alike sensing that something momentous was approaching.
On the appointed day, a full security detail arrived at Bane's cell before dawn. Six guards in riot gear, their faces hidden behind visored helmets, their movements betraying the nervousness they tried to conceal.
"Time to go," the lead guard announced, his voice muffled by his protective mask.
The walk to the medical wing was different this time. The corridors had been cleared, all inmates locked in their cells by special order. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the measured tread of boots on concrete and the distant drip of water from ancient pipes.
The medical wing had been transformed. Where once there had been simple examination rooms and basic surgical facilities, now stood a chamber that resembled something from a science fiction nightmare. Reinforced glass walls surrounded a central platform where a medical chair waited like a technological throne. Banks of monitoring equipment lined the walls, their screens casting an eerie blue glow across gleaming steel surfaces.
"Strip," Dr. Herrera ordered from behind the safety of the observation booth. His team of assistants – faces Bane had never seen before – bustled around with clipboards and instruments, their white coats a stark contrast to the industrial grimness of the chamber.
Bane complied without hesitation, removing his prison uniform to reveal the body that seven years in the pit had forged. Scars crisscrossed his torso like a roadmap of survival – some from the creatures that dwelt in the depths, others from the various "experiments" conducted during his surface intervals. Muscles developed beyond normal human parameters rippled beneath skin that had grown pale from years away from natural sunlight.
"Remarkable," one of the assistants murmured, making notes on his clipboard. "The baseline readings alone are extraordinary."
They secured him to the chair with restraints designed to hold men three times his strength. Electrodes were attached to his chest, temples, and spine. IV lines snaked into both arms. A bite guard was offered and accepted – Bane had seen the teeth marks in the leather from previous subjects.
"We'll be monitoring everything," Herrera's voice came through speakers embedded in the ceiling. "Heart rate, brain activity, cellular response. If at any point the readings indicate systemic failure, we have protocols in place."
"Protocols that failed seventeen times before," Bane observed, his voice calm despite the gravity of the moment.
"Yes, well... you're different. We're all counting on that difference today."
A mechanical arm descended from the ceiling, its articulated fingers holding a syringe filled with the luminescent green fluid. The Venom seemed almost alive, swirling within its glass prison with patterns that defied natural physics.
"Initial injection commencing," Herrera announced, his professional tone unable to completely mask his anxiety. "May God have mercy."
The needle penetrated Bane's left bicep, sliding between muscle fibers with surgical precision. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the plunger depressed, and liquid fire flooded his veins.
The pain was beyond anything he had experienced, even in the pit. It felt as though molten metal was being poured through his circulatory system, each heartbeat pushing the agony further through his body. His muscles convulsed violently, straining against the reinforced restraints with such force that the metal groaned in protest. Monitors screamed warnings as his vital signs spiked to impossible levels.
"Heart rate 210 and climbing! Blood pressure exceeding measurement parameters!"
"Neural activity off the charts – we're seeing activation in regions that should be dormant!"
"Temperature rising – 103... 104... 105 degrees!"
Bane's world dissolved into a maelstrom of agony. Every nerve ending felt like it was being simultaneously burned and frozen. His bones seemed to crack and reform, his muscles tearing themselves apart and rebuilding with each spasm. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, turning his vision red. He bit down on the guard so hard it split in two.
Through the torment, through the feeling that his very cells were being torn apart and reconstructed, Bane held onto consciousness by the thinnest of threads. And in that space between sanity and oblivion, the bat-demon appeared.
It was more vivid than ever before, its massive form seeming to merge with Bane's own convulsing body. Its wings spread wide enough to encompass the entire chamber, its eyes burning with approval.
"Yes," it hissed, its voice resonating through every fiber of Bane's being. "Embrace the transformation. Let the old flesh die so the new can be born. Become what you were meant to be."
"Subject entering critical phase," someone shouted in the observation room. "Cellular mutation rate increasing exponentially!"
"His body's not rejecting it," Dr. Herrera breathed in amazement. "It's... it's incorporating the Venom at the molecular level. Look at these readings – his DNA is actually rewriting itself!"
The pain reached a crescendo that should have shattered Bane's mind. His back arched so severely that the restraints creaked dangerously. His mouth opened in a silent scream as green-tinged foam frothed at the corners. Every muscle in his body stood out in sharp relief, individual fibers visible beneath skin that had taken on an almost translucent quality.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the acute phase ended. Bane collapsed back onto the chair, his body going limp. For several long moments, the only sound in the chamber was the steady beep of the heart monitor – rapid but regular.
"Is he...?" one of the assistants began.
Bane's eyes snapped open. But they were different now – the pale gray had been shot through with veins of green, giving them an almost luminescent quality in the dim light. When he spoke, his voice carried a new resonance, as if multiple harmonics were overlapping.
"I... understand... now..."
The initial trial lasted six hours. Wave after wave of agony crashed over Bane as his body struggled to adapt to the foreign compound. He experienced hallucinations that made his pit visions seem tame by comparison – landscapes of flesh and metal, oceans of green fire, cities built from screaming faces. Through it all, the bat-demon remained his constant companion, coaching him through each transformation.
"Your father fled from power," it whispered during a particularly brutal episode. "Your mother died for an ideal. But you... you will transcend both. You will become power incarnate."
When it was finally over, Bane hung limp in the restraints, his body drenched in sweat, blood trickling from his nose and ears. The monitoring equipment told a story of biological impossibility – heart rate stabilizing at levels that should have caused immediate cardiac arrest, muscle density increased by orders of magnitude, neural activity patterns completely outside established human parameters.
"Remarkable," Dr. Herrera breathed, reviewing the data with trembling hands. "He survived the full dose. His body is not just tolerating the Venom – it's adapting to it, integrating it at the cellular level. We've never seen anything like this."
The celebration was short-lived. As the Venom's initial effects faded, Bane experienced withdrawal symptoms that made his worst moments in the pit seem pleasant by comparison. His enhanced nervous system, now accustomed to the compound's stimulation, screamed for more. Every nerve ending felt like it was being scraped with broken glass. His muscles cramped so severely that his spine contorted into positions that would have snapped a normal man's back.
"Please," he gasped, the first time anyone had heard him beg since his childhood descent into the pit. "More..."
The scientists, fascinated by his reaction, worked frantically to develop a solution. The answer came in the form of a delivery system – a mask that would provide controlled doses directly to his bloodstream through a surgically implanted port at the base of his skull.
The mask itself was a work of brutal functionality. Black metal and reinforced polymers formed a framework that covered the lower half of Bane's face. Tubes ran from filtration units on either side to a central breathing apparatus, making each inhalation sound slightly mechanical. But it was the connections to his skull that marked the true purpose – direct lines feeding measured doses of Venom into his central nervous system.
"It's not perfect," Dr. Herrera admitted as they fitted the device. "You'll need regular doses to maintain functionality. Too little, and you'll experience withdrawal. Too much, and... well, we saw what happened to Subject Twelve."
Bane remembered Subject Twelve – or rather, what remained of him after his body had literally exploded from Venom overdose, painting the observation chamber in a red mist.
The mask became both salvation and slavery. With it, Bane could function, could access the superhuman strength the Venom provided. Without it, he faced agony that would drive most men mad. The scientists had given him power beyond imagination, but at the cost of permanent addiction to their creation.
When Bane was finally cleared to return to the general population two weeks after the initial trial, the transformation was immediately apparent to everyone who saw him. He had grown several inches in height, his muscle mass increased dramatically. The mask gave him an almost mechanical appearance, the sound of his breathing carrying a slight hiss with each exhalation. But it was his presence that had changed most dramatically – where before he had commanded attention through force of personality, now he radiated an almost palpable aura of power.
The guard escorting him back to his cell actually stepped backward when Bane rose from the medical bed. "Jesus Christ," the man whispered, hand instinctively moving to his sidearm.
"No need for that," Bane said, his voice now carrying the mechanical distortion of the mask's filters. "I remain who I was. Merely... more."
The journey back to the north wing was a procession of stunned silence. Inmates who had grown accustomed to Bane's presence now pressed themselves against the backs of their cells as he passed. Guards who had previously shown grudging respect now displayed open fear. The mask's rhythmic hissing seemed to echo off the walls like the breathing of some great predator.
When they reached the common area, all activity ceased. Card games froze mid-deal. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the most hardened killers found themselves unable to meet those green-veined eyes.
Bird was the first to approach, though even he moved with unusual caution. "So the rumors were true," he said, studying the changes with a strategist's calculating gaze. "They've made you into something new."
"Not made," Bane corrected, the mask giving his words an almost otherworldly quality. "Revealed. The pit began the transformation. The Venom merely completed it."
"Does it hurt?" Zombie asked, pushing forward with the reckless curiosity that had earned him his nickname. His eyes were fixed on the mask with professional fascination.
"Pain is constant," Bane admitted. "But pain is an old friend. We have... reached an understanding."
The other inmates gradually began to gather, forming a loose circle at a respectful distance. The prison hierarchy had always been fluid, but now it seemed to crystallize around this new reality. Even those who had previously challenged Bane's growing influence now showed open deference.
"What did they do to you in there?" someone called from the back of the crowd.
Bane turned toward the voice, the movement causing several men to flinch involuntarily. "They gave me a choice," he said simply. "Embrace evolution or face extinction. I chose evolution."
The crowd parted as he moved toward his cell, the rhythmic hiss of his breathing the only sound in the normally chaotic block. As he passed, men who had killed without hesitation found themselves averting their eyes. The transformation was more than physical – it was as if Bane had crossed some threshold from human to something else entirely.
In the days that followed, the prison's entire dynamic shifted. The mask became a symbol of Bane's transcendence, a visible reminder that he had survived what others could not. Even the guards began to treat him with deference, recognizing that this was no longer merely a strong prisoner but something altogether more dangerous.
"They've created a monster," one guard whispered to another during shift change, unaware that Bane could hear them from fifty feet away with his enhanced senses.
"No," his partner replied, watching as Bane calmly read in the library, surrounded by a respectful circle of empty space that other inmates instinctively maintained. "They've created a god."
Over the following months, Bane's influence grew exponentially. He no longer needed to demonstrate his power through violence; his mere presence was sufficient to command respect. The various gangs and factions within Peña Duro gradually aligned themselves under his unofficial leadership. Even hardened killers who had sworn allegiance to no one found themselves drawn to Bane's combination of strength, intelligence, and vision.
The prison yard became his court, where disputes were brought for his judgment. The library became his war room, where strategies were planned with his inner circle. The entire complex gradually reorganized itself around this young man who had risen from the pit to reshape Peña Duro's very culture.
It was during this period that the chanting began. At first, it was just a few voices during yard time – inmates murmuring his name as he passed. But it grew, spreading through the cell blocks like a virus, until hundreds of prisoners would take up the chant when he appeared:
"Bane... Bane... BANE... BANE... BANE!"
The sound echoed off the prison walls, a rhythmic declaration that power had shifted irrevocably. The guards could only watch helplessly as their carefully maintained system of control crumbled before this phenomenon they had unwittingly created.
The warden, alarmed by reports of Bane's growing cult of personality, attempted to reassert control through increasingly draconian measures. Privileges were revoked, yard time restricted, meal portions reduced. But each punitive action only reinforced Bane's position as the inmates' champion against oppressive authority.
The final confrontation became inevitable. It came during a staged "inspection" where the warden, flanked by a platoon of heavily armed guards, attempted to humiliate Bane before the assembled prison population.
"You are not a king here," the warden declared, his voice amplified by speakers across the yard. "You are a prisoner. A number. An experiment. Nothing more."
Bane stood motionless as the warden ranted, his pale eyes fixed on the man who had condemned an eight-year-old child to the pit. When the tirade finally ended, Bane spoke just four words:
"You are already dead."
The declaration rang with absolute certainty, as if fate itself had spoken through him. Several guards shifted nervously, hands moving to their weapons without conscious thought. The warden's face darkened with fury, veins standing out on his forehead.
"Solitary confinement!" he barked. "One month! Take this creature back to his cage!"
As four guards moved to seize Bane, Bird caught his eye from across the yard and gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was time.
The first guard to touch Bane died instantly, his neck snapping with an audible crack that echoed across the suddenly silent yard. The second managed to draw his weapon before Bane's hand closed around his throat, crushing his windpipe with mechanical precision. The third and fourth backed away, raising their rifles, but hesitated to fire with their commander so close.
That hesitation proved fatal. From the crowd of inmates, a sharpened piece of metal flew with deadly accuracy, embedding itself in the third guard's eye. Zombie had struck first, his chemical-enhanced reflexes making the throw perfect. The fourth guard spun toward this new threat, but Trogg was already there, his massive hands closing around the rifle and snapping it in half before driving the jagged end through the guard's chest.
"Code Red! Code Red!" the warden screamed into his radio as chaos erupted around him. "All units to the yard!"
But the riot didn't begin with mindless violence. It unfolded with the precision of a military operation, months of planning executed in seconds. At exactly the same moment, coordinated strikes occurred throughout the prison.
In the armory, two guards found themselves facing a dozen inmates who had somehow acquired keys. The guards reached for their weapons, but the prisoners moved with rehearsed efficiency, overwhelming them before a single shot could be fired. Within minutes, the arsenal was under rebel control.
In the control room, the chief communications officer stared in confusion as all external lines went dead simultaneously. Before he could investigate, the door burst open and three of Bane's most trusted lieutenants stormed in. They had memorized the layout, practiced their movements. The officer barely had time to scream before a makeshift blade found his heart.
Throughout the cell blocks, pre-positioned teams moved to secure critical junctions. Guards who had shown cruelty over the years found themselves surrounded by the very men they had tormented. Some died quickly. Others were not so fortunate, their screams echoing through the corridors as years of accumulated rage found outlet.
In the yard, the battle intensified. Reinforcements poured through the gates, riot shields and batons at the ready. But they encountered not a mob, but an army. Bane had spent months training his followers in coordinated tactics, teaching them to fight as units rather than individuals. They moved in formation, using improvised weapons with deadly efficiency.
"Fall back to defensive positions!" the guard captain shouted as his men were systematically overwhelmed. "Protect the warden!"
But Bane was already moving toward the warden with implacable purpose. Guards fired at him, but the bullets seemed to have minimal effect, his Venom-enhanced body absorbing impacts that would have dropped a normal man. His mask's rhythmic hissing grew louder, more mechanical, as if the violence had awakened something primal within the device.
"You made me what I am," Bane said as he approached, his voice carrying clearly despite the chaos around them. "Now witness your creation."
The warden drew his sidearm with trembling hands, firing wildly. Two shots went wide, the third grazed Bane's shoulder, drawing blood but barely slowing him. The fourth clicked on an empty chamber.
Bane's hand closed around the warden's throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. Around them, the battle raged, but a circle of space had formed, inmates and guards alike transfixed by this confrontation between creator and creation.
"Please," the warden gasped, his face purpling as Bane's grip tightened. "I was following orders... the government... they insisted..."
"I know," Bane replied, his pale eyes reflecting no mercy. "And now you will understand the true nature of what you served."
He carried the warden across the yard as if he weighed nothing, moving with terrible purpose toward a destination every inmate recognized. The pit. The hole that had swallowed countless souls, including an eight-year-old boy fifteen years earlier.
Guards tried to intervene, but Bane's followers formed a protective cordon around him. Bodies fell on both sides, blood mixing with the dirt of the yard, but nothing could stop Bane's inexorable advance.
They reached the edge of the pit, and Bane held the warden over the yawning darkness. The man's expensive shoes kicked uselessly at empty air, his hands clawing at Bane's iron grip.
"You gave me to the darkness when I was a child," Bane said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You made me what I am. It seems fitting that you should experience your creation firsthand."
"No... please... I have a family..." the warden whimpered.
"I had a mother," Bane replied. "You had her executed."
For a moment, he simply held the warden there, letting him stare into the abyss that had been Bane's childhood home. The sounds of battle faded as more inmates gathered to witness this moment of reckoning.
"Any last words?" Bane asked, almost conversationally.
The warden's mouth worked soundlessly, terror having robbed him of speech. Then, finding some final reserve of defiance, he spat in Bane's face.
The glob of saliva ran down Bane's mask, but his expression never changed. "A fitting epitaph," he said, and released his grip.
The warden's scream echoed off the stone walls as he plummeted into darkness. The sound seemed to go on forever, growing fainter but never quite ending, as if the pit itself was savoring the moment. Then came the impact - a wet, meaty sound that spoke of bones shattering against ancient stone.
But the scream didn't end there. From the depths came new sounds - scrabbling, chittering, the noise of things that had dwelt too long in darkness discovering fresh meat. The warden's screams changed pitch, rising to an inhuman shriek as the pit's inhabitants found him.
"The creatures remember their hunger," Bane observed to the assembled crowd. "They have waited a long time for such a feast."
The screaming continued for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes. When it finally cut off, the silence that followed was absolute. Even the ongoing battle throughout the prison seemed to pause, as if the very walls recognized that something fundamental had changed.
"The old order is dead," Bane declared, turning to face the mixture of inmates and captured guards. "Those who serve the new order will prosper. Those who resist will feed the pit."
As if his words were a signal, the chanting began:
"BANE! BANE! BANE! BANE!"
The sound rolled across the yard like thunder, picked up and amplified by inmates throughout the prison. Guards who were still fighting heard it and faltered, their morale breaking at the realization that their leader was gone, their fortress fallen.
Within hours, organized resistance collapsed completely. The remaining guards surrendered, some begging for mercy, others maintaining dignity in defeat. Bane had prepared for this too, establishing protocols for handling prisoners of war. Those who had shown basic humanity during their tenure were segregated from the truly cruel, their fates to be decided by tribunals of the inmates they had overseen.
By sunset, Peña Duro was under complete rebel control. Bane stood in the warden's office - his office now - surveying the administrative files that documented decades of cruelty. Photographs of political prisoners who had died under mysterious circumstances. Medical records detailing experiments on unwilling subjects. Financial documents showing the prison's profitability as a testing ground for everything from psychological manipulation to biological weapons.
"What are your orders?" Bird asked, standing at attention despite exhaustion from the day's fighting.
"Establish perimeter security," Bane replied, not looking up from the documents. "Inventory all resources - weapons, food, medical supplies. Prepare for potential government response."
"And the surviving guards?"
Bane considered this carefully. "The truly guilty will face justice - our justice. The rest... offer them a choice. Join us or take their chances in general population without protection."
Bird nodded, understanding the calculated nature of this decision. Some guards would prove useful, their knowledge of prison operations and external contacts valuable assets. Others would serve as examples.
"There's something else," Bird said, producing a satellite phone from his pocket. "Found this in the warden's safe. It has some interesting numbers programmed into it."
Bane examined the device, scrolling through the contacts. Government officials, military commanders, even some foreign intelligence agencies. The prison's true purpose became clearer - not just a place of punishment, but a nexus for various black operations.
"Monitor external communications," he ordered. "They'll try to retake the prison within days. We need to be ready."
Over the following weeks, Bane transformed Peña Duro from a hellhole of suffering into something resembling a functioning society. The old gang structures were dissolved, replaced by a merit-based hierarchy. Education programs were mandatory - Bane insisted that every man under his command learn to read and write. The prison's workshops, once used for meaningless labor, now produced useful goods and weapons.
The library became a center of learning, with Bane himself leading discussions on philosophy, strategy, and revolution. Men who had been written off as animals discovered they had minds capable of complex thought when given the opportunity to develop them.
The prison infirmary, once a place of neglect and experimentation, was reorganized under Zombie's supervision. Basic medical care became available to all, while the enhanced individuals created by years of chemical trials were studied to understand and potentially replicate their abilities.
But Bane's rule was not soft. Discipline was absolute. Those who disrupted the new order faced swift consequences. The pit remained a threat, though now it served a different purpose - not random cruelty, but calculated justice for those who betrayed the community.
Three months after the uprising, Peña Duro had become something unprecedented - a functioning micro-state within prison walls, led by a man who had transformed himself from victim to victor through sheer force of will.
The chanting continued, erupting spontaneously whenever Bane appeared in public spaces:
"BANE! BANE! BANE! BANE!"
But to Bane, the adulation meant less than the tangible progress he saw. Men learning to read their first words. Former enemies working together on common projects. A society built on strength and discipline rather than fear and corruption.
At night, alone in his commandeered office, Bane would study maps of the world beyond Peña Duro's walls. His education had been eclectic but thorough - revolutionary texts, military history, philosophical treatises. He understood that the prison was merely a beginning, a proof of concept.
The government would come eventually. With soldiers, with weapons, with all the power a nation could muster against a prison uprising. Bane welcomed the challenge. Every day his position grew stronger, his followers more disciplined, his reputation more fearsome.
Word of the uprising spread through the international criminal underground. Messages arrived through clandestine channels - offers of alliance, requests for assistance, proposals for various operations. Bane considered each carefully, building a network that would serve him well in the years to come.
Six months after taking control, Bane called his inner circle together for a strategic planning session.
"The government mobilizes," he reported, spreading intelligence documents across the table. "Satellite imagery shows military units gathering a hundred kilometers south. They plan a full assault within the month."
"We can hold them off," Trogg insisted. "The prison's defenses—"
"Are insufficient against modern military hardware," Bane interrupted. "They will use artillery, air strikes if necessary. Collateral damage to the surrounding area is acceptable to them if it means crushing our revolution."
"Then what do we do?" Bird asked.
Bane smiled behind his mask, the expression visible only in his eyes. "We leave. On our terms, at a time of our choosing. Let them retake an empty fortress."
The escape plan was audacious in its simplicity. Using the warden's contacts and the prison's accumulated resources, Bane arranged for a ship to anchor off the coast. On the appointed night, the entire population of Peña Duro - nearly eight hundred men - moved through drainage tunnels that had been secretly expanded over months of careful work.
By dawn, the prison stood empty except for a handful of volunteers who would maintain the illusion of occupation until the main force was safely away. When government troops finally breached the walls three days later, they found only abandoned cells and a message painted across the yard in letters ten feet high:
"THE BANE OF YOUR CORRUPTION HAS BEEN BORN. THE RECKONING FOLLOWS."
As the ship carried them toward new horizons, the men still chanted his name:
"BANE! BANE! BANE! BANE!"
But Bane was already looking forward, his mind calculating the next moves in a game that would eventually bring him to Gotham City. The pit had created him. The prison had forged him. Now the world would know his name.
Behind them, Peña Duro burned, a funeral pyre for the child who had entered the pit and a blazing announcement of the force that now moved into the wider world. The guards who survived would speak in whispers of that final night – of the systematic precision of the uprising, of the discipline of men who had been branded as animals, of the chanting that had shaken the very walls:
"BANE! BANE! BANE!"
A world that had no idea what had just been unleashed upon it.