Batman (Nolan) fic: All Flesh Is Grass
Title: All Flesh Is Grass
Fandom: Batman (Nolan) - The Dark Knight Rises
Pairing/characters: Talia Al Ghul/Bane
Rating: R
Words: 1,387
Summary: The Mercenary, the masked man, he kills for money and she kills with him.
Warnings: Violence
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine
The voice said, “Cry!”
And he said, “What shall I cry?”
“All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field.”
Isaiah 40:6
They come at night as all sinister things do, evolving out of the mist like beings from another world. The fortified village looms before them, wooden houses hiding behind brick walls with machine guns like hedgehog bristles. Talia smiles up at him, her skin glowing ethereal in the dull moon light. Omen of death, she’s nothing but beautiful to him.
Their commander slips up beside them. They’re given men for every job they do, help rarely need. Only twice have they ever kept them, Barsad and one other. Bane forgets the other’s name but it matters little. So long as they are paid, they’ll be loyal to Talia and her protector.
She tells them where they must go, Bane and the unit of men they have been given. She has a map in her head that Bane can’t understand, knows every bump and swerve. They follow her instructions and she disappears, tiny body scaling the wall, flipping over barbed wire. He waits and knows she’ll return as the men behind him breathe nervously. Metal jangles quietly and she’s there, deft fingers opening the compound’s gate. Scourge of a god, they flood the village
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Inside their fort with an army sleeping at their command, they talk about the mercenary, the masked man. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Their skulls become power, their insides slop. Bane kills them all, his femme fatale beside him. They die, they all die, but the myth is wildfire spreading among those who wish to own the world.
The masked man always has a job to do. He’s a spider spinning a web around the world but everything hangs on her. Talia, the invisible puppet-master. It’s she who controls the criminal underground through her protector. It’s she who chooses the jobs they take, who chooses where they’ll go next. In the League they laughed at him; muzzled man, obedient to a girl barely more than a child.
They never learn. She says the word one day and Bane picks it out of the conversation, rolls it around inside his head. Symbiotic. One cannot survive without the other, she explains. Bane cannot survive without Talia and Talia, little body dwarfed beside his; Bane likes to think she cannot survive without him.
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Guards walk in night-time routine. Bane gives them no last words, catching voices with his hand. She’s ahead of him, too fast for any to keep up. Lost among the shadows, she’s a shade, nothing more than a lighter hue of grey. Behind them their army steps silently, taught by knife how to be ghosts in the night.
The last guards fall beneath their steel and flesh. All consuming beings, they crash upon the warped wood doors. He kills one, she the other. Self-made coffins, they all die in the homes built to protect.
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In a small village lost amongst the jungles of Argentina, a warlord hides in a building with a cross. Sanctuary, they call it a sanctuary and Bane doesn’t understand. Talia explains; she reads enough to understand all the ways of the world above ground.
There are religions in the world, beliefs held by those people who have fallen to fear. God, deities, people think that they have made the world. Bane knows this, has seen men clutches tokens of faith in the Pit. He thinks their beliefs strange. No one made the world. Like all other things, it simply is.
Talia tells him of Christianity and its churches, places of worship for its one true deity. Constructed ideals, a framework of belief to ward off fear. The church’s sanctuary, a place for those who have no protector to hide behind. Governments can’t touch them beyond the arms of religion.
Bane’s not afraid of death, never has been since the pit with high walls and frightened faces. When you wear a mask instead of a face, there’s nothing left to kill. Still, he thinks he understands these people who worship. Hands clasped and raised, they yearn for nothing more than salvation. All they wish for is someone to save them.
A fire rises behind the church; not destruction, just smoke to fill lungs. They won’t burn this sanctuary, they'll leave it for those who’ve yet to be saved. The fire rises and they smoke out the rabbits. Bane lets Talia kill the warlord. She moves slick and sweet, a silhouette against the smog. The warlord chokes on his own tongue and Bane thinks he understands ideas of deities that rule the world.
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Somewhere in the village Talia’s laying waste to humanity. In the confusion of death and collision of matter, Bane lost sight of her. Now he stalks from room to room, Barsad seconds behind. Dutiful dog. Bane could like him if she didn’t fill the world.
Shoulder down, the door splinters beneath Bane’s body. There’s a man in the room, pale face, gun in hand. He doesn’t bother to shoot. You can’t win against shadows. This is the man they were sent to kill, Bane remembers him from photographs. Barsad slips past into the adjoining room, rifle raised.
“Why are you doing this?” The voice is thin, empty, filled only with the knowledge of death. Bane takes the gun from shaking hands and doesn’t bother to answer. It’s a question he’s been asked many times. Babbling brooks, they don’t bother to think about their famous last words.
“Why do you kill people?” Bane turns sharply, narrows his eyes at the man before him. This is different. This is interesting.
“Killing is my job.” Shivers run across the man’s face as Bane moves closer, predator stalking prey. “Tell me, why do you kill people?”
“Money, power, women.” False bravado forces a smile. There’s a scream and rifle-fire from the adjacent room. Still the smile holds, sanity lost in the face of inevitability. “But you - you kill everyone even if you won’t be paid for their lives. Why?”
False bravado, adrenaline confusing all the chemicals of the human body. The weapons dealer smiles as Bane snaps his neck. Bones crack, vibrations running through his arms. Empty corpse, forsaken to gravity, it slumps on the ground. Barsad appears at the door, flecks of blood polka-dotted against his black boots.
“Time to find her.” The door creaks beneath their feet, wooden bones broken. Why kill everyone? He walks back down the corridor, leaves the building. She’s here somewhere, among buildings that’ll burn, self-made pyres for a Viking funeral.
His name floats through the air. Pixie, spirit, siren, she calls to him and he’ll always answer. Bane turns towards the voice and begins to run. Those who don’t move, die. His name comes again, her accent thick and smooth. He wonders what happened to his own accent. Put on a mask and every part of you changes.
She stands beside barrels of oil, a bomb waiting for permission. Shark-teeth smiles, her excitement shines through the darkness. Bane turns to him and Barsad nods. Get the men out unless they wish to burn. Shadows that bite, they prepare a fuse and watch fire burn the compound.
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Chemicals soothe the pain, sandpaper the edge so he can almost imagine there’s nothing wrong. Dead man walking, remove the mask and it’ll be extremely painful. Hands trace the straps that cut into his skin. Her face hangs inches from his, bright eyes filled by the moon. Little one, miles from the Pit he’ll always think her small. Hair cascading, longer than ever, brushes against his collar. He wonders if they’ll ever breathe the same air.
Why kill everyone? Talia pushes close, as though she’s trying to climb into Bane’s skin, and explains with words whispered against skin. Cut off the head of a worm and it will die. Cut the head off a human and another will take its place. The League lines up all the scum of the world and heads roll until there are none left to take their place.
He tangles a hand in her hair and pulls her close. By night he sees the Pit scarred on his eyelids. Hell on Earth. He wonders where Heaven is.
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