Chapter Text
The men were staring up at him. Bane was sure they thought of him as the devil. How else, they must whisper, how else could he endure such a heat without breaking sweat, without drinking even a sip of water in their presence? Bane only let the rumors grow. Fear was a powerful motivator, and they would not be with this militia long enough for it to turn against them. They did not need to know that the answers to their question were much simpler. This desert was nothing compared to the stifling, still air of the pit, and there he had gone days without more than a sip of water.
Let them believe what they would. He fed a letter of communication into the fire after reading its careful conscription. Their target was more clever than first thought. The men he had used to infiltrate the opposing forces were under suspicion, any move from them might be traced which could not be allowed for this task. They would need to make a move from the outside and let the information they had just received be their guide. He turned towards the leader of the militia they had joined with a temporary truce. The man looked like nothing, old and weathered, but Bane could begrudgingly admit that he had proven more intelligent than most.
"I need from you a sniper," he spoke to him calmly, then paused. "No, not simply a sniper. I will need the best you have. If you have none that you can trust to hit even the most remote target on every shot, then you will need to find one."
The captain listened carefully. He wasn't one to simply boast that his men were the best one could have. It led Bane to put a small measure of faith into the man. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked up at the sky.
"Not here," he finally barked out with a thick accent. He held up two thick fingers. "Two days. I will have him."
Hector—Bane found himself bothering to learn the man's name finally—had proven to be a man of his word. In two days’ span, the pair of men that had been sent out from their base of operations had returned. When their jeep rumbled up into the camp, Bane looked out from the canopy and could see a slighter man settled into the backseat, his arm wrapped casually around his rifle as he turned his head to survey the area.
Bane walked out to meet them, his boots sinking into the hot sand as the men piled out of the car. On closer inspection, the man was slender, his fierce blue eyes flicking from person to person to inspect them in turn. Those eyes froze when they reached him, eyebrows arched in curiosity. Bane waited for him to question it.
He was confused when no words were forthcoming. Instead, he saw him lift his hands and begin to move his long, slender fingers gracefully. It was unlike anything he had seen before; the fluid, precise movements were a dance. He had of course seen and used hand signals during a siege or battle, but this was something else entirely.
The man paused when it was clear he was not being understood. His eyes flickered with a deep annoyance.
"You have no interpreter?" The words were bit out roughly, the tone to them different from what Bane had heard before. It helped him finally realize what was occurring.
Hector shook his head. "I understood you had one with you."
The man watched Hector closely, surprising Bane when he then gave a shake of his head. His fingers still moved when he talked, as though he could not still them. "I was told be alone."
The captain gave a sharp look to the two flanking the man. One gave a hapless shrug.
"We were told to bring only him, sir."
"You were also expected to use common sense," Hector snapped sharply.
"I need no interpreter. Tell me where to shoot. I shoot." The man finally said, clearly tense over the situation and the attention aimed towards himself.
There was arguing, then, between the captain and the two men he had sent, both of whom were highly defensive as the man walked back to the jeep and pulled a worn canvas bag from it, slinging it over his shoulder.
Bane approached him, reached past him to pick up another rucksack.
"Come with me."
The man thumbed his finger against his mouth thoughtfully. "I can see your throat move, but without a set of these, friend, I cannot understand."
Bane understood then. He had been lip reading. His new 'friend' was quite versatile. He gestured with his hand to follow and was met with a curt nod. Together, they left behind the pointless bickering and Bane entered his tent, flanked by the man whose eyes flick around the small, makeshift piece of solitude Bane had made himself.
It was sparse—only a cot, his books and crates of supplies. The man took it all in and settled himself on a crate of ammunition, balancing his rifle over his lap. The realization that this was the first person to enter this private dwelling Bane had created was a strange one, but it was needed; the fewer who knew of this plan, the better. He was reluctant to put trust into a stranger, but it was needed.
He sifted through a crate of supplies, searching for pen, paper, something to communicate with. He was met with an impatient clearing of the other man's throat. His hands moved.
"It will take forever. Sit. I have an idea."
Pushy. Bane could admit that he was curious, though. He abandoned his search to sit across from the man, his body sinking down onto another crate, making its boards creak quietly under his mass. They stared quietly a moment before the man spoke.
"I'm going to touch you."
It was the only warning he was given before there were hands suddenly brushing against his throat. Without it, the man would likely have been on the floor of his tent then with a snapped neck. As it was, Bane barely refrained. He was not touched, and no one was bold enough to take such a liberty as to put their hands on his throat, vulnerable enough on its own but also so close to his mask.
The man said nothing, his heavy eyes only lidding further in amusement, seeming to find whatever he saw written on Bane's face to be amusing. Then they closed in concentration. His hands shifted.
"This is how I learned to speak," he explained quietly, and it was only that admission that kept Bane still as fingers tapped then rested over the grate of his mask. Others tucked under his jaw, still others remained at his throat. "I felt people lips, their jaw, the vibrations in their throat, and I learned to mimic it like a bird. It is not quite the same without your mouth, but perhaps if I can feel your breath, we will manage. Speak to me."
Curiosity had always been Bane's undoing.
"What is your name?" he spoke out, feeling how Barsad's fingers studied him. There was a sudden quirk to his lips.
"Forgive me. I am Barsad. I suppose you are Bane. The men whisper of you," he smirked slightly, "but whispers mean nothing when I can still see their lips move. Are you the devil, friend? They seem to think it."
Barsad did not need his skills to discern the low chuckle that left him.
"I am what I am needed to be."
Barsad's head tilted, curious. "I suppose I am, as well. And now you need me for something skilled. I suppose you wish me to prove my worth?"
The shake of his head seemed to surprise Barsad. "Who would bring the devil a deaf sniper when he asks for the best were it not true?"
A low raspy noise leaves Barsad's throat, barely more than an exhale of breath. "Only a fool. The general is not the best of men, but he is no fool." His hands left Bane's throat a moment and they brushed over the muzzle of his rifle. "I am more than used to having to prove my worth. Your wisdom in the matter is refreshing. I will show you, anyway. Later. I enjoy showing off."
Bane's brow quirked in amusement at his honesty. His hands returned to his mask and throat, but this time he expected them.
"Tell me your plan. I will follow your lead."
Bane told him of where they would stake out, the timing, the obstacles. He attempted to speak slowly until Barsad's eyes flickered in annoyance.
"I am deaf. Not slow."
Bane shot him a look and Barsad only looked unrepentant until he spoke again.
"It will be only us. We cannot risk more."
"It should only be me, then."
Bane shook his head. "Only I know the true identity of this man, and only my firsthand view of his death will be accepted."
"I am to be trusted with my rifle. If I say a man has been killed with it, it has been done."
"My trust in you means nothing. They will trust only my eyes. It will be both of us."
Barsad looked disgruntled for only a moment. It cleared then, and his lips twisted into a smirk. "I suppose we will be getting very close to one another."
Bane's hand shot out to tightly grasp his wrist when his fingertips stroked over his throat in a way that had nothing to do with reading his words. Barsad did not startle, if anything, his eyes lidded further, calm until Bane flung his hand down sharply and left his own tent, the air suddenly stifling inside.
He did not see him again until the sun had set and the cold bite of the desert night had sent everyone to their own tents.
Almost everyone.