“That’s enough for today,” his caretaker said anxiously. He came forward to offer assistance. “You should rest.”

Bruce shook his head. He had rested enough already. Gotham needed him.

He took a step forward.

And another.

Days passed as Bruce rebuilt his body. His caretaker watched in wonder as Bruce did pushups against the floor of his cell, working until sweat dripped from his pale, unshaven face. Breathing hard, he pushed himself to his limits—and beyond. His back still ached, but it was bearable now, and getting better over time. Or so he wanted to think.

He paused for a moment before trying for another fifty reps.

The European sat on a bench a few feet away. He watched Bruce with a puzzled expression. “Why build yourself?”

Bruce pushed himself up off the floor again.

“I’m not meant to die here.”

The decrepit television set played in the background. A caption running beneath the latest news coverage read, “SIEGE OF GOTHAM: DAY 84.”

“Here? There?” The older prisoner indicated the TV screen. “What’s the difference?”

Bruce ignored the man’s fatalistic attitude. That was the pit talking. He couldn’t afford to let his spirit weaken, even for a moment. He had work to do.

So he pushed himself ever harder.

One…two…three…

Finally, it was time to climb for the sun.

Bruce emerged from his cell and walked out to the base of the colossal shaft that led to the surface. Glancing down, he saw that a large pool of stagnant green water waited at the bottom of the pit. Greasy scum floated on top of the pool. Inmates waded through the water, which did not appear nearly deep enough to cushion a fall, at least not from a great height.

He lifted his gaze. He intended to go up, not down.

The tattooed prisoner wrapped the safety rope around Bruce’s chest, as he had for that other climber, months earlier. A crowd of curious prisoners gathered to watch, the European among them. Money changed hands as the inmates wagered on how high Bruce might get. He stared up at the distant sunlight, hundreds of feet above his head. Then he approached the wall.

If Bane can do it, so can I.

He found the first handhold and began his ascent. Rock-climbing was nothing new to him, although he found himself wishing for high-quality crampons or even the sturdy bronze spikes on Batman’s gauntlets. He climbed slowly, conserving his strength for the more arduous challenges he would encounter further up. Excited voices rose from below as the crowd observed his progress.

The chanting began anew.

I wonder how the betting is going.

The climb grew steadily more difficult as the bulges became less frequent and the gaps between the crumbling ledges grew wider. A throbbing pain pulsed along his spine, but Bruce pushed it aside. Pain he could deal with. All that mattered was getting out of this pit—and back to Gotham.

At last, he came to the precipice that had defeated the strong man. He stood on the brink of the ledge, gazing up at the next stone shelf, which was at least twelve feet away. Back in Gotham, he would have used his gas-powered grappling gun, but that was hardly an option here. He would have to make the jump the old-fashioned way, the way Bane had.