The Demon's Own

Rating: PG-13, some violence
Date: September-October 2005
Category: Batman Begins AU
Character: Bruce Wayne
Summary: Bruce didn't escape from the monastery.
Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own these characters.

Again my thanks to temve and murasaki99 for beta-reading and for pointing out where I went wrong with the then unfinished draft. My thanks also to the_little_owl who created that picture to feed the plotbunny. -- I'm glad that I could finish this fic right before NaNoWriMo '05 starts, after leaving the draft virtually untouched since mid-September. It is the longest story I have written to date, about 4,800 words.



Bruce considered it highly ironic - while the League saw it without doubt as poetic justice - that he now occupied the same cage that had held the peasant prisoner before.

It was far too small to allow him any comfortable position so he huddled down intent on preserving body heat. The shed they had placed the cage in offered only meagre protection against the elements. The open side allowed him an unhindered view of the row of fresh graves and the one corpse hung from a pole and left for the scavengers. The accusation of that burnt and broken body didn't lessen during his waking hours and followed him into his feverish dreams.

"Don't lie to yourself, Bruce. It was cowardice, not a moral high ground that kept you from meting out justice," Ducard had told him, his voice harsh and tight with anger and hurt. "Your peasant has escaped justice but not death. A beam shattered his legs and he died in the flames while trying to crawl to freedom. His death was slow and far more painful than if you had beheaded him. What would have been more merciful, Bruce?"

These had been the last words uttered to him so far, days ago when he regained consciousness.

He had lain on the floor of what he recognized as a storage cellar in the basement, stripped of armour, gauntlets, boots and even belt. Ducard had stood over him. His one attempt at rising was cut short by a kick.

Several times Ducard had started to speak only to press his lips together before a sound could escape and shake his head. The slow clenching and unclenching of his fist spoke volumes. With a sinking feeling Bruce had realized that he had screwed up big time. The silent fury in his usually stoic teacher had frightened him more than a vicious beating would have.

The few words Ducard had finally forced out left no doubt in Bruce that his little rebellion had gained him nothing but the loss of a friendship and probably the enmity of a man who was as important as a father to him. Silently, Ducard had left. Later some guards came and put Bruce into the cage.

Except for the delivery of a daily meal he was ignored and left alone with the graves and a rotting corpse as company.



So it came as a surprise when one day the cage door was thrown open and he was dragged out. Every muscle in Bruce's body screamed in protest after remaining so long in that cowered position. His guards showed no sign that they had even noticed his discomfort. His arms were wrenched behind his back and bound. Then Bruce was led around the shed to the open place that had once been a training ground.

Now it was covered with packed supplies and equipment. The League was ready to leave. Above the scene stood the burnt out ruin of the monastery. Bruce blinked in shock, he had difficulty connecting the extent of the destruction with the shortness of his mutiny. He had no time to contemplate this further. Black-clad ninjas milled around, trainees and initiates alike. They all turned at his approach. His guards propelled him forward into the crowd. They descended upon him.

Bruce remembered witnessing similar scenes in the prison. Men cursing and taunting while beating their victim to pulp. In contrast to those memories there were no sounds now except those of boots and fists hitting his flesh and his own groans of pain. With his hands bound behind his back he had no chance of protecting himself. He stumbled forward step by step. Whenever he fell hands dragged him up and the assault continued. At last he blacked out and this time they left him on the cold ground.

When he became aware of pain once again he heard gravel crunching beneath heavy boots, boots that stopped next to him. He looked up into Ducard's disgusted face. Ducard leaned down to pull him to his knees by his hair. The ninjas had backed off into a rough half-circle to one side.

Ducard turned his face to the graves. "You see here the consequences of your rash actions," he said gravely. "Did you believe that the lives of your brothers in arms are of less worth than that of a murderer?"

"No," Bruce whispered. Shame choked him. Half a dozen were dead because of him. For what? I didn't want this, a childish part of him wanted to cry. He locked his throat against those words. No excuses.

"We didn't hear you."

He worked his jaws to gather spit for his dry throat. He tried his best to make himself heard. "No, they are not." He blinked back the tears. That's it, Bruce thought. Maybe another initiate will prove himself worthy today with a quick sword stroke.

As if Ducard had read his thought, he gave him a rough shake. "There will be no easy way out for you, Bruce. Admitting your error is only the first step back onto the right path. You will earn our forgiveness, in time."



Forgiveness wasn't forthcoming. They had taken Bruce with them when they had abandoned the destroyed monastery. Apart from the fact that he was able to walk on his own he wasn't treated that differently from a sack of supplies. During the journey he had taken stock of his numerous bruises and pains. Any of his fellow Shadows could have killed him with a single punch or kick, he knew that too well. But everything he had suffered had obviously been designed to cause pain rather than to do lasting harm. There was no place on him that didn't hurt.

When they reached their destination at last Bruce felt as if he had stepped back into the time when he had just left Gotham. Their new base was a big cargo freighter.



He slept in a makeshift berth in a corner of a cargo hold. While the niche wasn't high enough for him to stand or even sit he had at least enough room to stretch out while lying down. It was a welcome change from the cage.

He hardly ever left the hold. From the moment he was woken - often enough with a kick when he didn't sense his trainers coming - they put him through the training exercises endlessly and in mind-numbing repetitiveness. The purpose was certainly as much punishment as returning him to and keeping him in prime condition. Rarely Ducard himself oversaw those sessions, and when he did so he was twice as demanding as before. He usually added a twist to a familiar lesson, increasing its difficulty from practiced to immensely hard. Bruce found himself struggling and falling short of Ducard's expectations. He felt as clumsy and blundering as he had during his first weeks in the monastery.

Bruce hungered for a nod of approval or a word of praise but all that appeared far out of reach for him. He knew that he was in disgrace, that he had to prove himself again. But this realization did nothing to combat the increasing frustration. He was stuck in limbo and he would do almost anything to get out before the uncertainty turned into a real fear of not-belonging. Bruce had considered himself past the stage of falling prey to his own fears and therefore he liked the current situation less every day.

Bruce knew that on some level he was experiencing a form of Stockholm syndrome, that his basic need for human contact was being used against him. But he couldn't bring himself to care about this. He wanted his fellow Shadows' forgiveness, he wanted the return of that closeness a shared purpose offered and he wanted Ducard's approval.

What else was there for him to attain? Even if there was an opportunity to leave, the memory of that row of graves barred his return to the normalcy of his former life as effectively as his cage had.

Bruce thought he might have been on the ship for a week when one day Ducard had called him into his cabin for his training session. While Ducard worked on his desk, browsing through files and papers Bruce was moving through his katas. He struggled to perform them in perfection. The swaying of the ship and the lack of space forced him to constantly adapt his movements, a shortening of a step here or an additional twist during a kick there, to avoid bumping into walls or furniture. Ducard seemed to be immersed into his research but he caught every stumble and mistake and commented on it with a sharp glance or even a biting remark.

There were no sounds other than the faint rustle of the papers and the thud of Bruce's bare feet on the carpet. Bruce's harsh breathing was far too loud in his own ears but surely Ducard would have reprimanded him if... A sharp rap on the door broke into his concentration.

Ducard gestured sharply and Bruce moved to one side and relaxed into alertness, eyes facing straight ahead to the desk and his teacher, away from the door. He heard approaching steps behind them and identified them automatically, three persons: one stepped lightly, another was far heavier, and the third hung back.



Ducard put the paperwork away and inclined his head but didn't stand. "Welcome, gentlemen. I trust the flight was pleasant enough?"

The polite reply of a soft-spoken voice was drowned beneath a loud, irritated one. One that grated on Bruce's nerves and caused instant, angry recognition. "Can we cut the small talk and move to business? It wasn't pleasant to be shoved into a chopper at short notice and then brought to this dirty pot. What was so important that you had to call us here, Mr. Allgool?"

Al Ghul? Falcone thinks that Ducard is al Ghul? And what is that slime doing here! Bruce's thoughts were in unrest but training and obedience kept him unmoving.

Ducard was unperturbed. "Reports of a growing dissatisfaction of yours with our arrangement have reached me, Mr. Falcone. I considered them important enough to deal with your concerns myself."

"Well, yeah." Falcone sounded mollified. "To make it short: I've been smuggling your stuff in for months, so whatever you've got planned - I want in, 'cause it's big."

"We paid you well, Mr.Falcone. You have no reason to complain."

"Why should I make do with scraps when I can have a share?"

A trace of threat entered Ducard's voice. "You are making a nuisance out of yourself, Mr. Falcone. You are not irreplaceable."

The answer was cocky. "You can't touch me and you need me. Gotham is my town. I own the muscle; I know the judges and the police look the other way when I do business. The rest fear me."

Ducard regarded him for a long moment. Then he commanded Bruce softly. "Turn!"

Bruce obeyed. Keeping his face expressionless was a challenge. He refused to look at Falcone, focused his eyes instead over the mob boss' shoulder at the other guest. The fairly young, soft looking man had backed off to the cabin wall and observed the word exchange with interest.

Falcone gaped some long moments before a big grin split his face. "Bruce Wayne. Now, that I call a catch." He snapped his fingers before Bruce's eyes. "Did you drug him? Is it this what our dear doctor here is experimenting with?" He faced Ducard again. "No matter. Even if you establish him as your puppet, you are wasting time before he has enough influence with the right people. And some connections a billionaire playboy like him simply can't forge. You still need me."

"Your influence doesn't appear as all-embracing as you would have us believe. I hear that someone from the DA's office is not afraid of you. Someone you cannot bribe."

"You mean the woman, Dawes. She won't be a problem any longer." He means Rachel! What does he...

"Oh?" Ducard's voice expressed mild disbelief.

"People get mugged in Gotham any day. Pity, sometimes it ends badly."

No! Hot anger flooded Bruce and despite his efforts to maintain passive awareness his muscles tensed. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that arrogant smirk off Falcone's face. He wanted to...

"Kill him!" Bruce couldn't say if it was command or leave. He just acted without thinking.

Falcone had worked his way up from the streets and was no stranger to violence. But he had no chance. Bruce batted his rising fists away and aimed a powerful jab against Falcone's thick throat. The next instant he spun around to face the third visitor, Falcone's henchman, who was just trying to draw his pistol. Both bodies dropped almost simultaneously.

When Bruce fell back into his readiness stance he saw that Falcone wasn't dead yet. Eyes wide open and rolling in terror, the mobster tried to draw breath through his crushed throat. Nobody moved while they watched him suffocating. The second visitor seemed to be especially fascinated. He studied every twitch and change in Falcone's facial expression with obvious fascination.

"It is curious, isn't it?" the young man commented. His voice cut through the silence. "Falcone thought he had nothing to fear but now he is reduced to the most primal of human fears."

Bruce shot him a glance. He didn't think that this man belonged to the League. He appeared almost obsessive in his intensity while he studied Falcone's last moments.

Ducard got up and moved around the desk. He leaned heavily on his cane while doing so, a deception, as Bruce knew.

"I apologize for subjecting you to this unpleasantness, Doctor. However, it was necessary to resolve this situation before Falcone thought of exploiting his perceived knowledge. We will dispose of the bodies." Ducard led the doctor who seemed reluctant to part from the sight, firmly out of the cabin. "All pieces are in position and we are ready to move now."

Bruce kept his eyes on the corpse, unmoving. The exhilaration of the short fight and the grim satisfaction at Falcone's demise had already faded. Ducard returned, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Well done!"

Bruce turned to face him and Ducard must have read in his face his growing confusion and doubt.

"He deserved death, many times over and over. Do not doubt yourself, Bruce, you did the right thing." Ducard regarded him for long moments before he asked with an odd trace of compassion in his voice. "It was the first time that you killed someone, wasn't it?"

Bruce didn't trust himself to speak, he simply nodded. His eyes were drawn to the two corpses again. A hand gripped his chin, forced him to look at Ducard.

"What gave you the strength to do it? Why today and not two weeks ago? What was different this time, Bruce?"

So it is to be a lesson again? Bruce gritted his teeth. I did it because you manipulated him and me, because you knew that if there was something I hated more than Joe Chill it was the rot that poisons Gotham and Falcone was its main source. Anger bubbled up and died down to a simmer. I let something free that should have been kept chained.

Ducard's grip tightened, demanding an answer. Bruce's right hand shot up and closed around the wrist. He glared at Ducard. It had no effect on his teacher. Ducard waited.

"Because it was personal," Bruce finally rasped. "Because I hated him."

"So, if the victim of your peasant had been someone you had known and cared for, would you have executed him?"

You already know the damn answer, Bruce wanted to scream. But the script would play out until the end. So that this lesson was never denied nor forgotten. "Yes."

"Is that justice, Bruce?" Ducard's voice was so soft and gentle. But there was steel behind the words.

"No." Words spoken years ago came back to haunt Bruce. "It was about making me feel better. It was revenge." Admitting this hurt. As Ducard had already told him, he could not claim moral superiority.

"Do you feel better now?"

"Not anymore."

"Revenge is often like ash in our mouths, after the deed is done." Ducard mused half to himself. "Maybe because we feel the hypocrisy in that particular motivation. To right the wrong in a lasting way we need something more impartial. Justice, Bruce, justice is balance."

It was frightening how closely his words matched Rachel's convictions. But Ducard's conclusions were different ones. I'm sorry, Rachel. But if after nearly seven years Falcone still walked free - and I know you would have done everything in your might - then your system of justice is truly broken. His might work.

Bruce locked eyes with Ducard. And admitted his defeat. "So it is."



Bruce was more than nervous, he was frightened. The enormity of the plan he was about to participate in chilled his veins and caused his breath to come in shallow gasps. He worked on calming his racing heart and consciously relaxing his muscles, on disassociating himself from the consequences of what was to come and focusing on the now.

The black of the SWAT uniform reminded him that this was not a training session. He could occasionally feel Ducard's eyes on him and the watchful scrutiny of his brethren.

He didn't know all the details, just his own duty. They would bring their weapon into the city and use it there. The how and when was purposefully kept from him. That he understood. This was his test of loyalty.

Seeing the microwave emitter was the first shock. He was fairly sure that Wayne Enterprises had never developed weapons during his father's time. Obviously some things had changed since then.

His unease grew while they drove through Gotham. He had never been overly familiar with some of the city's districts but he didn't remember so much neglect and disrepair even seven years ago. It became worse when they neared the Narrows. He had never been there before, and still the filth and the undisguised poverty disgusted him.

Dismay turned to anger when he first glimpsed the train station. This had been his father's gift to the city. Now its filthy shabbiness made it a desecration of his father's legacy. The years of the Depression were long over. Why did the rail look as if it could break down any time? Didn't anyone care?

He hadn't realized that he had muttered this question aloud, but the young man who had met them at the station answered. "No one cares, at least not the upper classes who could act. Most of those who use the rail are too poor and they are not a concern of the rich. "

Bruce nodded. With his parents and their example gone, indifference had set in.

The young man, Dr. Crane, stuck to his side while Bruce, together with two others, wrestled the bulky emitter into the train. Once started, Crane didn't seem able to stop speaking. "They never concern themselves with something that doesn't gain them more riches or threatens them. But this here, " he touched the machine almost reverently, "will make them fear. A short test run and they will have to face their worst fear - to lose everything they take for granted." He chuckled, a nervous sound. "And thus they will be willing to pay. Because we control their worst fear. We are the masters of their fear."

Pay? Bruce looked at Ducard who had followed the proceedings with a satisfied little smile. Now he dismissed the Shadows but a few, Bruce among them.

"Time to spread the word of this night, gentlemen," he said. "- terror."

He pushed a button and the emitter started humming. The effect was immediate. Below them manhole covers shot into the air and steam jets filled the street. People screamed in surprise and confusion and then their cries took on a more sinister note as they started to breathe in the fog.

"Yes," whispered Crane. "Watch! Doesn't the toxin work wonderfully?" He turned to Ducard. "Just as I promised you." Below them the people turned into a mob. Bruce shivered as he realized what this toxin had to be and turned away from the sight.

"So you did, Doctor." Ducard signalled one of the Shadows and the man moved to the front and started up the train engine.

The rumble pulled Crane from his rapture. "Shouldn't we wait until the police notices the turmoil? It can't take that long and then we demand ransom ...

"So you assumed, Doctor. But it is not money that we desire. Tonight Gotham dies." The train started to move. Ducard turned away from the suddenly slack-jawed Crane, dismissing him and his objections.

Bruce had kept his eyes on them both, anything to occupy his mind and avoid thinking of what was about to happen. As Crane straightened and made a step forward, apparently to further plead with Ducard Bruce saw the twitch of his hand, readying something in his sleeve. Without conscious thought he stepped between both men to intercept the attack. However there was neither knife nor pistol. Instead a cloud of smoke puffed into his face. Surprised, he breathed in while his backhanded slap sent Crane's glasses flying and threw the doctor back.

Bruce choked. Reality stretched and distorted. A part of him was aware of Ducard donning his mask and the other Shadows moving in. But most of him was caught in a nightmare.

The train picked up speed and screeched in its tracks.
      A swarm of bats came screeching from the shadows ...
Bruce tried to swat them away and stumbled to the side. He almost fell over a seat and grabbed the support bars to keep himself upright.
      Bars? Was he back in the cage?
A cackling laugh diverted his attention. The rushing lights cast a reddish sheen on Crane so that he looked ...
      ... like the burnt man. He turned his head to Bruce, and where his eyes should be there were only holes. His lips moved but Bruce didn't hear above the screeching of the bats that now turned into crows...

He flailed with his arms to keep them away. Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms to his body. Bruce twisted to free himself and clawed at the arms holding him, but they were like steel. He cut his hands on something sharp ...

     ... he scratched at scaly, ridged wrists, wrists that led to large claws ...

Someone spoke to him but he didn't understand. He doubled his efforts to free himself and turned to face his attacker.

      ... He saw the frightening visage of a demon, a demon god with blue glowing eyes. He knew him, had already met him. He fought to escape but could not get free and the bats and the crows and the burnt man were all around him...

      The demon growled into Bruce's ear and it drowned out the screeching. He commanded and dark shadows came forth and swallowed the burnt corpse.

Bruce ceased his futile struggle and forced himself to go limp. The fear still raced through his veins.

     The demon was stronger than the bats and the crows so Bruce submitted to that which was more powerful than everything else, his patron demon. The raspy voice continued to growl - threats and promises - and the screeching of bats and crows was only a weak echo now.

The train raced on.



Bruce woke with a start. He stared up at a stone ceiling and for a moment he believed himself back in the monastery basement. But then he felt the blanket tucked around him. A bed.

"Welcome back among the living."

Bruce turned his head. Ducard leaned against the wall of a small cell without a door. Light came from the hallway. The small room was bare of any furniture except for the bed and some IV equipment. He looked at his arm that still bore needle marks.

"You had us worried."

"How long..." Bruce almost didn't recognize the raspy whisper as his own voice. He rolled over and sat up. He felt dizzy and parched.

"A few days." Ducard offered him a bottle of water. Bruce emptied it greedily.

"I do remember the train and the gas." And Gotham, but he didn't say it aloud. "It was like the smoke from the Blue Poppy but far more intense."

A certain tension seemed to leave Ducard's face and he sat down beside Bruce. "It's the same base. And it was supposed to be a deadly dose. Crane was convinced you would not survive it, at least not with an intact mind. I am glad that you proved him wrong."

Bruce needed a few moments to stomach that fact. Before he could come up with a new question a man appeared in the doorway and bowed to Ducard. Ducard sighed.

"I have to go," he told Bruce. "Try to rest. There are still a few hours 'til dawn."

Bruce nodded and raised the empty bottle. Ducard took it and passed it over to the man. "Bring him more water and also something to eat." The man left immediately.

Ducard rose. "We will have time to speak later."



Despite dreaming of bats and crows and a blue-eyed demon, the short sleep had refreshed Bruce, enough to be able to walk and follow his escort through the temple. And a temple it was, old and probably abandoned until recently. By the design and the warm and humid air he guessed that this base was somewhere in South East Asia.

Ducard wasn't alone. Several dozen men were gathered in the main hall, all in their black armour. Bruce felt underdressed in the remnants of the SWAT uniform. His escort led him to the front of the crowd where Ducard greeted him with a nod. Then he faced the Shadows.

"You all know that our mission in Gotham was a resounding success," Ducard addressed his men. "Thanks to your efforts and diligence. All that is left to do is to tie up a loose thread." He looked at Bruce as he said those last words and at first Bruce tensed in surprised dread. But then a guard dragged in a dishevelled-looking Dr. Crane and forced him to his knees before Ducard.

"I thought you might like to witness this," Ducard murmured to Bruce and drew the sword. Bruce looked down into Crane's blue, slightly crazed eyes. You thought yourself the master of fear but you have mastered nothing, he thought. He expected to feel at least a touch of compassion, but all he found in himself was a vague feeling of pity mixed with contempt. The doctor tried to struggle but his guard subdued him easily.

As Ducard moved into position a thought entered Bruce's mind and he couldn't suppress a twitch, not knowing if he should speak out. Ducard gaze snapped sharply to him. "Yes?" There was a hint of threat but it didn't worry Bruce. He lowered his head in deference. "I'd like to do it... master." For once, it seemed, he had managed to surprise a smile out of Ducard.

Ducard stepped back and handed him the sword, hilt first. Bruce could feel the men at his back shift and tense, ready to take him down should he try something untoward. Nothing was further from his mind. He curled his finger around the familiar hilt and slashed down. His only worry had been that he might botch the job due to his lingering weakness but his aim was true and his strength sufficient. Because it was meant to be. As the guard presented the severed head to Ducard and the gathered Shadows, a single roar of triumph and approval rose from the men.

The shout roused bats from the depth of the temple. Bruce twitched once in surprise but the familiar twinge of fear was absent as they flew around the men before vanishing into the open. That is the gift that the League has given me: to move past my weaknesses and do what is necessary.

His eyes moved back to Ducard and the open smile of pride and approval sent warm shivers through his limbs. When his mentor called for the red-hot iron he didn't need a prompt to kneel and bare his chest. He knew that the willingness was plain on his face. Strong hands gripped his arms tightly from behind and Ducard pressed the iron to his chest.

The pain was searing, but together with the warmth already in his limbs, it swirled and grew into a hot rush.

It was a good pain. He did belong now.