Furious, he hurled a rock at the screen. It exploded in an eruption of sparks and broken plastic.

What is Bane doing to my city?

The knowledge that such atrocities were transforming Gotham drove Bruce to accelerate his already-brutal exercise regime. Endless pushups, squats, and stretches filled his every waking hour until he barely remembered to eat or sleep. It was as if the League of Shadows was training him, all over again. One cell over, the blind doctor listened to Bruce’s exertions. He spoke out in his obscure dialect.

“He says the leap to freedom is not about strength,” the European translated.

Bruce disagreed. He shadow-boxed inside his cell, throwing punches and kicks at the empty air.

“My body makes the jump.”

“Survival is the spirit,” the blind man said, surprising Bruce by speaking in broken English. His accent was thick, but his meaning came through, more or less. “The soul.”

“My soul’s as ready to escape as my body,” Bruce insisted. Maybe more so.

The blind man shook his head.

“Fear is why you fail.”

“I’m not afraid,” Bruce countered. “I’m angry.” He punched the air, imagining Bane’s ugly face before him. He visualized that grotesque black mask cracking beneath his knuckles, the same way Bane had cracked Batman’s cowl. He couldn’t wait to get even.

Soon, he promised himself.

Finally, he was ready to attempt the wall again.

The rope knotted around him once more, the thick coils chafing against his bruised ribs, he began to climb. A much smaller crowd gathered this time. Most of the prisoners had already seen this show; they had little interest in an encore. Only a handful of inmates watched with vague interest.

That was fine with Bruce. He wasn’t doing this for an audience.

Angrily, letting his fury drive him, he scaled the wall again, seeking out remembered handholds and crevices. Despite his familiarity with the cliff face, the climb wasn’t any easier. Breathing hard, he fought the wall as if it was yet another enemy, keeping him away from Gotham. He thought about Gordon, lying in that hospital bed.

About the attack on the football stadium.

About those bodies, hanging from the bridge…

I’m coming for you, Bane.

A loose piece of rock came away in his hand. Losing his grip on the wall, he fell once more. The rope yanked taut, digging into his chest and armpits, and he swung into the wall again. If anything, the collision felt more brutal than before. The pain of yet another failure battered his soul even as the unforgiving stone punished his body. He dangled upside-down, high above the scummy green pool at the bottom of the pit.

A distant glimpse of sunlight taunted him.

Down below, the blind man shook his head, while the European played cards with a skinny, underfed inmate, who glanced up at Bruce hanging helplessly overhead. A drop of sweat fell onto the card table.

“Shouldn’t you get him down?” the bony prisoner asked.

The European shrugged and played another card.