Chapter Text
"I have to shoot you."
It wasn't John's best line, but in his defense, he was excited.
Still, if he'd had time to think it over, he might've concluded that it wasn't the smartest thing to say to a complete stranger. Particularly if the complete stranger had just stepped off the stage of a powerlifting competition after deadlifting several times John's body weight.
Bane "The Shadow" Dorrance looked down at John with a scowl as deep as the Mariana Trench. John turned up the heat on his most dimple-laden smile. The scowl remained unchanged. John wondered if the guy ate photographers for breakfast, for the extra protein.
In John's experience most powerlifters were cheerful and outgoing types, probably because they could peacefully chill out at the top of the food chain. Dorrance had lifted a new personal best on stage five minutes ago, and now he looked about as jolly as a medieval executioner facing the post-beheading clean up.
“We don’t talk to the press.” The man who stepped in between John and Bane sounded more amused than annoyed. His coach, John figured, glancing at his chalky hands and the large gym bag he was schlepping. He was a wiry-looking guy with a ragged beard and arched eyebrows.
“I’m not press. I mean, I do some freelance for news outlets, but this is for a personal project. On modern-day strongmen. You know, like in the circus?”
Bane spoke for the first time. “Circuses are exactly what we’re avoiding. Excuse us.”
The coach half-smiled at John as he guided Bane away. There was something protective in the gesture, John noticed. Interesting.
Too interesting to give up entirely. He called out in their wake. “The name’s John Blake. Nightwing Photography - look me up."
= = =
There was feeling, like an itch, that John sometimes felt at the back of his skull, that told him he needed to get his camera ready right now. He couldn't explain it logically, it was as if one of his senses had to trick him into getting his attention. The shape of a face, a body in motion, the way the light was falling on a building - all he had to do was lift his eye to the aperture and take a shot. It always happened too quickly for him to think much about composition, exposure, or any of other technical aspects that he was usually reviewing in his head.
That was how some of his best work had emerged. From a pull from within that came before his consciousness had begun to register a potential subject. John had learned that when that itch hit, he just had to be ready for it.
But not every subject was ready for him.
He was at the Gotham PowerMAX Champs doing a little work at the promo stand of a wearable tech company. In between taking pictures of competitors and fans, he tried to get into as many of the contest rounds as he could. The company's gadget was an armband thing that John had wasted an hour of his life trying to sync to his phone before a sales rep let him into the secret that it didn't really do what it claimed ("It’s still in beta mode"), but he'd worked for them before and it was a steady, if unspectacular, paying gig. The best part was checking out the events in person.
The final contest of the day was the men’s deadlift finals. John had squeezed into the back to get a view, thinking about how tiny the crowd had been at women’s bench that morning. The audience's loss - that had been fantastically exciting to watch and shoot. Harley had set a new state record, and John knew his picture of her doing celebratory cartwheel was a money shot. Should get her some more well-deserved fan interest. Powerlifting was beginning to take off in Gotham, and the women's field was particularly good.
Bane had been the fifth contestant in the deadlift. As soon as he walked out of stage, John's itch hit hard. He was transfixed by Bane's bowlegged swagger, his defensive stance, the striking architecture of his bald head and broad shoulders. All the contestants in this weight class looked extraordinary in some way, assorted behemoths who stood astride the stage like the Colossus of Rhodes. But Bane wore a distinctive look of calm, concentrated focus that seemed to reach down far into his bones.
John felt like he embodied the peacefulness of a monk transposed into the body of a gridiron player.
In one fluid move he reached for the prone weight. And let it go instantly.
A pass. John was still startled by how quickly competitors decided not lift. Harley had explained it to him that morning, how it was a matter of strategy and conserving energy. Her words stuck in his head as he watched Bane move back to the end of the line. “It’s more of a chess game than anyone gives lifters credit for. We're not all meatheads. I mean, I am, of course!"
Over the entire round, Bane passed on every lift except for the final one. 760 lbs were on the rack. The previous contestant, Preston Payne, had already lifted it, but John was impatient for Bane to return, watching him get his hands freshly chalked before moving into place as he had three time already that day.
Same smooth bend down to reach the bar. Then the lift came; John wasn't the only one to gasp. The announcer bounded on stage to announce that Dorrance had lifted a new personal best and that he was an exciting new talent that Gotham needed to watch out for. John wholeheartedly agreed with him that Bane was built for watching.
Bane looked over at the scoreboard and nodded once. John had thought up until then that he didn't have a sense of the audience, but at that gesture he revised his opinion. There was something in the movement that demonstrated a profound understanding of the theatrical. Bane carried himself like he knew he was being closely observed and that he wanted to intimidate every eyeball in the room.
After the final scores had been settled on the leaderboard, John spotted Bane strolling towards the door. His solidity made the posters and cardboard cut-outs littering the walls almost flinch in comparison. John made a beeline for him, driven by his gut more than his brain, getting in his path. Up close he saw how piercing Bane's eyes were. Then he'd blurted his line out and been summarily shot down.
Walking back to the booth, John figured he'd given it his best try. It had been a bonus just to see him lift. And if Bane was on the power lifting circuit, they might even run into each other again. With time, Bane might even take his terror-levels down a couple hundred notches.
"Blake! How's it going?"
Waylon "Killer Croc" Jones slapped John on the arm with a hearty thwack. John managed to keep standing despite the impact and give him a bro-hug back. Built like a brick shithouse, Croc had got his nickname from the psoriasis scars on his face. Like John, he had grown up in foster care, and as he'd said in his cover interview for Gotham Muscle & Health Magazine, if it hadn't been for the confidence he'd discovered through weightlifting he'd "have like, lived in a sewer or something, I hated myself so much as a teen. Seeing Pumping Iron on TV changed everything for me."
John had shot the photos that accompanied the article. He always enjoyed working with Croc, who had briefly been a pro wrestler before launching his own range of protein shakes.
"Hey, what do you know about that Bane guy?"
Croc sucked his teeth. "That dude, we call him The Shadow. Ya know why? Comes out of nowhere. Lifts like a goddamn machine. Bench is outta this world. His technique is something else, East-European or Russian I'd say, but no one I know from the European circuit has ever heard of him."
"He got a sponsor yet?"
"Nup. Not looking for one neither. I heard he turned down VitaPro-Z and SquatWat. If he doesn't need the cash that's fine by me, more for the rest of us." Croc shrugged. "He's definitely here to compete, not to make friends."
"His coach is on the defensive side."
"Name is Barsad. Got an accent, like Dorrance, but not I'm sure where from. Someone said he works at a shooting gallery. You know, guns, not cameras."
"Yeah, I've heard about those things."
Croc patted him on the back. "Smart young man. Catholic education done right by you."
"I kinda got the feeling that he's protecting the rest of us from Bane."
"Speak for yourself, boy wonder. Do I look like I need protection?"
"Do you? How did you bust up that arm, after all?"
Croc had dropped out of several recent contests after a mysterious wrist fracture. He did not look pleased at the reminder and patted John's back with a little more force. "I'm not the one who should watch out. Don't get up in Bane's business, that's all I'll say. You don't need that kind of trouble."
John didn't agree. Getting in other people's business happened to be one of his specialties.
= = =
Another John Blake specialty, though not as much fun as his skill at digging up trouble, was his gift for calming down wedding parties. He could soothe exhausted brides, nervous grooms, and vexed parents, for at least long enough to get them through to the end of the big day. He was able to charm most bridesmaids and groomsmen into sticking out a tough group shots - though he wasn't great at dealing with them when they hit the "drunk and flirting with the hot photographer" stage of the evening.
It was an exhausting job, and every few months he would swear that photographing weddings was taking years off his life. But his rep in the matrimonial bliss market had grown to the point where he could charge a decent rate. Not every wedding was stressful, some were fun, and though he would die happy if he never framed a shot of a pug wearing a floral headdress ever again, he went full capacity that Summer, culminating in a week in August where he'd booked four ceremonies back-to-back.
Part of his survival technique was watching videos of Bane. He couldn’t find many of them, just a couple from PowerMAX and training clips that had been uploaded to Instagram. Barsad really needed to learn to turn his phone sideways when he filmed, but John was grateful for what he could get.
At the end of the week John was on the train back to Gotham, returning from his last wedding of the month. It had been held on remote apple farm upstate and rain had hit in the middle of the outdoor ceremony. John had thought the mother of the groom would self-immolate with righteous fury. Not for the first time, the riot training he'd gotten at the Police Academy proved to be useful.
He was bone tired and thankful to be returning to the city. Like any true Gothamite, leaving the boundaries of the sprawling, notorious, pollution-filled urban jungle for a quiet rural landscape made him uncomfortable. John liked his trees in parks, his mud trapped under concrete, and his apples in pie form, preferably served on a soggy paper plate by a hostile deli worker in a downtown hole in the wall. He also liked having cell coverage, which had been as rare as hen's teeth at the farm, so seeing his signal sign come back to life was almost as relaxing as the thought of the cold beers he had waiting at home.
John had 57 unread messages. Par for the course for a freelancer, but only one of them made his heart do an embarrassing little flip in his chest.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Photography consultation
Dear Mr. Blake,I have surveyed your online portfolio. Your work is interesting and you are clearly very competent. It has been suggested that I should have some pictures taken for use in future event promotion. As you appear to have a background in sports photography I thought you would be a suitable choice.
Please pass on your day rates. I assume a studio hire will be needed, so add that to your estimations.
John immediately Googled the domain Bane's email belonged to, and discovered that The Reckoning, Inc. was a logistics consultancy firm owned and operated by one B. Dorrance. It had been based in Gotham for just under two years.
Dear Mr. Dorrance,
Thanks for getting in touch. I was blown away by your performance at PowerMax
John deleted 'blown away'.
Thanks for getting in touch. You're a very impressive competitor to watch in action.
He hit delete again. Way too thirsty for a professional message. And if Bane had seen his website, he'd more than likely seen a selection of John's LGBT portraits done in celebration of Gotham's marriage equality law passing. John had worked with a few athletes who'd been initially uncomfortable at the prospect of having a gay photographer, and it generally took a lot of John's diplomacy to get them to relax in his presence.
Dear Mr. Dorrance,
It was great to hear from you. I've attached my price list and a guide to my availability over the next month. I have a studio in East Gotham that I generally work out of, on Rosemont Ave.
Once the message was sent, John opened up a message to Selina and sent her a series of dancing girl emojis.
Either you got paid or laid. Which 1 was it boy wonder?
John rolled his eyes at the eggplant icon she followed up her message with.
Nah I just survived Wedding-pocalypse and booked a new job s'all
She sent over a selfie of herself making a very skeptical face. John was outraged enough to invite her around to drink his beers with him. Selina Kyle was cunning, low-minded, and endlessly cynical, which was why she was his BFF, and also why he often told her that he would never do her wedding photography.
= = =
When Bane walked into Blake's studio, John immediately noticed that he didn't have quite the same swagger. John was used to working with elite athletes, and they didn't always have an off switch. Some were always jockeying for the number one position in any situation, radiating challenge through their body language . But Bane kept his head slightly bowed, his arms close to the side of his body, and hung near the perimeter of the room's walls, which were mostly flimsy dividers that chopped up the shared working space between John and his fellow freelancers. The only other one present then was Cassandra, who was drawing at her desk with her earbuds crammed into her skull as far as she could get them. John knew that a bomb could go off and Cass would remain oblivious to everything but her Warcom tablet and music.
"Coffee, tea, or water?" John threw the question over his shoulder to Bane, who was carefully leafing through one of his portfolios. They had a couple of hours to work, and he wanted Bane to feel as comfortable as possible. "No, thank you," Bane began, his elegant skull dipped down, eyes focused on the open portfolio in his hands. "Or - perhaps some hot water. I bring my my own tea with me. If you do not mind?"
He looked up, his sharp eyes emerging under a furrowed brow. John couldn't wait to photograph him and make a claim on some of those angles his bone structure presented.
"Sure, give me a sec."
Bane's tea smelt mossy and dense, making a dark brew that was presumably bursting at the seams with antioxidants. He asked John if he'd like to try some. John, who was still in the throes of breaking his soda addiction, took one sniff and dreamed of aspartame and artificial colors.
"It smells great, but I'm fine, thanks."
With the fat blue Ikea mug of tea steaming in his hands, Bane looked like the world's most ripped philosophy professor. Wearing head-to-toe black clothing added to the effect, and it made his skin look extra pale, like he'd not had his fair share of summers. John wondered if he'd served time. He'd known plenty of ex-cons, and some of them shared that same sense of impenetrable inner defense.
Over a series of emails they'd decided on three sets of images. Standard headshots, some full-length portraits, and typical lifting pose pictures. Bane had brought a backpack with him that he'd confirmed had his costume.
"Let's start with the pose shots first. You can get changed in there - " John indicated where the bathroom was, but even as he said it Bane had placed his mug down and reached to pull off his t-shirt.
"Ok, just go ahead then. I'll just," John waved his hands around to indicate busyness. Bane continued to strip down dispassionately, clearly not in possession of a single fuck. John still turned to check on his key lights, practiced at staying professional among subjects. He'd been only plenty of shoots with nudity. It was tacky to gawk, and could diminish the relationship between the subject and the photographer.
"Hey, would you like some music?" Bane tilted his head, and John was instantly reminded of a large bulldog making the same quizzical expression. It was a little too adorable a look for a man built to lift up giant weights.
"I do not mind. Please put on whatever you'd enjoy." John's phone had a bunch of carefully created playlists for different moods. He knew exactly which one he wanted, and scrolled down to find it. The opening notes stirred as Bane took his place on the drop cloth.
"We'll start with some standing poses. Arms down, shoulders down. Chin up slightly."
Bane's eyes narrowed for a moment. "Mahler?"
"Yes. Anyone who got banned by Hitler had to have something going for them, right? The Fifth Symphony always gives me chills."
Nodding, Bane unrolled his fists and let his hands hang by his side. The camera's clicks broke into the silence between Bane's movements, the rhythm of shoot settling into place like a subway train rattling over the tracks.