No one cared who I was until I put on the mask. Because when I put on the mask, for the first time in years I was whole again, and out of that deep, dark pit in hell, I found myself. And when I found myself, I found my purpose.

Hidden behind this mask is a face that few alive have seen, and even fewer remember. A face once handsome and proud, smashed and battered, split and shattered. Down in that hell, I had forgotten all but survival and a few precious memories that I clung to like precious jewels, refusing to let those images of sunshine and laughter slip from between my fingers, because with it would slip my sanity.

Many have met me and have declared me psychotic, but insane is a word that cannot be stamped on my file. For who have met one insane as a jack in the box, yet with a mind and a will that has disassembled governments, dragged whole nations through the mud and left them there to rot. No psychopath would ever have made it beyond the first red light, and they would have been dragged, laughing manically through the prison halls, always wanting an end with no purpose, always yearning for the most theatrical means. Not I. I have an agenda which I will see fulfilled, one that cannot merely be labelled a madman's whim.

Before I put on the mask I was strong. I was a survivor. Born into a shattered dark, I was thrown into the pit a young boy with my family, barely an infant. The legend of the pit is that my parents were mobbed and swallowed by an angry mob, but someone saved me. A tall, old yet strong doctor grabbed me and ran with me in his arms to a cell high above the crowds, where he looked after me until I could walk, talk and steal food when needed. The old mans apprentice watched with wary eyes until I was a young boy.

Then she came along, one of the few who saw my face, and she remembers it, the way it was before the mask. I looked after her, became her loyal friend and protector, and in turn she gifted me with hope.

No one cared who we were, we were only another set of quick hands and hungry mouths, but I always made sure she ate first, and ate well before I ate mine. I don't know what prompted me to save her that day we met face to face for the first time, but maybe the day when I was cast into hell, the doctor who had saved me still remained seared into my memory, and I swore to protect her, always.

I told her to rise, to rise and to flee, to leave me. And I said it with joy in my heart, knowing she would be safe. I took the beatings, took the broken body with a cracked soul and dragged it into the light and to the old doctor to heal. He did the best he could, but there was still pain. Too much to bear, everyday I died and every night I rose again, a cruel curse of Prometheus on earth.

She came back, and the light in her eyes, joy to find me here, alive, mixed with the horror and sorrow of seeing the wreckage that had been my body, the shattered bones and flesh that had been my face, splashed onto her face to create the most beautiful work of art I could ever had imagined, a masterpiece, dedicated from her to me.

They put me back together, reassembled me bit by bit, and finally as the mask came on, and her blessing with it, I found myself again.

I trained her, and she trained me, and then I left, a mercenary, mass murderer for hire. I was good, terrifyingly good at what I did, and my name drew fear from the eyes of the leaders of thugs and warlords. I had left the young man in hell, left him there as a soul now shed, and here now stands a monster. One feared by most, hated by many, loved by few. Those few who remember. Her. All for her. Because with her, in the months that followed, once I put on the mask she built me up, the broken man. I had been demolished for her at the hands of her tormenters and now she built up a new man, a stronger one. Gone was the youthful, rugged face of old, now replaced by a fearsome war machine, driven by his own will, stopped by nothing, fearing nothing, gaining all.

I would stop at nothing. The work of Ra's al Ghul must be completed, for the league, for vengeance, for her and for me.

So now I listen in interest as part one of this plan rolls into action. No, you cannot call me insane. Not after you see my face for the first time, my new face, the mask, see the eyes, all that's left of me, blaze with fire, resolved and rational, no laughing, crazed spark but a passion and such knowledge, always one step ahead. No, you cannot call me insane. Do you not hear my voice, resonating with authority, no cackling glee at the anarchy that springs from collapsed governments. Governments like Gotham which I am here to end. No, you cannot call me insane. Instead, now on this plane as the plan slots into place, I would call you insane.

"Perhaps he's wondering why someone would shoot them before throwing them out of an plane?"

Now he whoosh of speeding air is cut off, and I can hear the grin in your voice.

"Well at least you can talk. Who are you?"

I can't help but smile behind the mask.

It doesn't matter who we are, what matters is our plan."

A plan which you will not live to watch unfold, sadly. For you.

Hesitance as you pull off the hood, scared of what you might find. You find the new man, the monster I have become acquainted with in the mirror. You don't recognise my face? Bane, the monster you have heard rumours, legends of, yet you have never seen my face? I have been well trained, I disappear like smoke, catch me if you can, but you won't succeed, not unless it aids the plan. I used to be no one, anonymous, no name to my face, the only enemies were the demons who fought to snatch my bread and the small angel in my arms.

But with the mask she helped me find myself, and with this new identity I became Bane, a name that rumbles through the underworld and beyond to the heads of state, making presidents and prime ministers alike quake with fear in their plush office chairs when they hear the rumours that I'm near. The bag is pulled slowly from my head, and I look up at him, telling him the story of my life in one simple sentence.

"No one cared who I was until I put on the mask."

Let phase two commence. Three. Two. One. Go.

Please, please review!

Anyway, I thought I'd take a look into Bane's point of view, his idealism, his identity, his past and what he knew others saw of him. Anyway, let me know, and please, please, review, I've been out of the writing game for a while so please let me know and help me get back on track.

Much appreciated.