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A Word: Tumblr request for Tim digging his way out from under a large amount of dirt. Not the buried alive fic that's coming up, but something that's a bit more believable I think.
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Tim wakes with a jolt of fire. His eyes opening to utter blackness and his body screaming in pain. Actually screaming is impossible. His chest licking up and refusing to let him even breathe as he slowly rolls onto his back. Fist pounding on his chest until something loosens just enough for a trickle of air to force its way in. A trickle that turns into a whooping gasp.
Tim sucks in air in grateful gulps. Coughing and hacking in between. His entire body shaking with the force of it. White spots dancing across his vision. Exploding in bright supernovas that chase him back to unconsciousness.
The second time Tim wakes he can breathe. A persistent ache fills his whole body. Making him feel like a stranger in his own body. He lays perfectly still for several minutes taking stock. Chasing the worst and assessing the worst of the damage before he moves.
Nothing jumps out as fatal or very debilitating so he begins to move. Fingers and toes first. Feeling for any sensation or twinge to tell him something's horribly wrong. Feet and hands next, then elbows and knees. He twists his hips and back a little. Saving his head for last.
There's nothing sharp or overwhelming. Just a combination if minor bruises and scrapes as Tim rolls to sit up.
It's dark and still in a way that let's him know he's in an enclosed space. Tim finds his mini light by touch in its normal pouch. The beam slices through the dark and Tim takes his time looking around.
It is what he'd expect to see the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft to look like. A tunnel running off in the dark supported by rotting boards. Piles of dirt and rock testifying exactly how unstable the thing is. Behind him is a mess of debris he was lucky to roll clear of when he fell through the shaft. Tim pulls himself to his feet and shines the light straight up. Ten feet up it hits on a dangerous looking pile of dirt balanced in a cradle of beams.
Tim has a choice. None of the gear he has can get through at the depth he probably is at. He remembers falling for a while. He can push through the mine and hope for a second exit, or go up and hope the blockage isn't very deep.
The history of mines in the area is haphazard. There's unlikely to be a second exit and the stability of the walls is extremely iffy. Tim honestly likes his chances of digging his way out better.
The wall crumbles under his hand a little before he finds solid enough earth to support his weight. Tim clips the light to the belts crossing over his shoulder. He adjusts it until it's pointing mostly upward. A rolled up respirator comes out of another pouch and goes over his lower face. Sliding into place with his cowl to leave his face fully enclosed. More than adequate to filter out any dirt as he climbs.
His back protests as he starts. The muscles stuff and warming slowly as he slips and slides. Making a foot of headway for every two foot slide back down. Dust fills the air. Motes obscuring the light as he reaches the blockage.
The lower beams are steady and support his weight when he tests it. Groaning as he slides onto it but holding. Up close he can see how loosely packed it all is. Poking at it makes a rain of dirt and rock fall down revealing a small cavern and the bottom of another beam.
Tim licks his lips and settles himself more comfortably. It's doable but it's not going to be quick. Tim sets himself to work.
Five feet is what Tim estimates he's at when a clod of dirt above him gives and Tim has to curl up under a small avalanche of debris. Rocks and chunks of wood slam into his back for endless seconds. Tim grunts as something digs hard into his shoulder before shifting to the side. Tim's getting worried that he might get buried when it slows to a stop.
Tim peers out. The space immediately above him is clear. A good few feet of space with a promising looking board sticking out half way up. Below-
The hole Tim had squirmed through is gone. Filled with what fell from above. It's still loose and Tim could force his way through if he needs to, but he'll lose all progress doing it. Down is safe is safe in the short run, but up still leads him to a significantly higher life expectancy in the long run.
Tim pushes up.
His fingers feel bruised in his gauntlets. The walls are too unstable for him to risk using any tool. He has to be able to feel the way it all shifts to avoid any major collapses.
His shoulders ache from the strain if holding himself up and pushing through. Repetitive motions held for too long without break.
The tunnel he's building is close and dark. It collapses below him a few feet after he clears the area. Filling with just enough dirt to make going back as hard as going up.
He's lost all certainty of how far he's come up. He thinks it's ten feet but it could just as easily be eight or twelve. Time isn't something he's even trying to count. Concentrating on pulling down the next handful of dirt, work loose the next rock, uncover the next board. Not letting himself think about anything but getting free.
Tim stops.
The world tilts around him in ways that he can't ignore or blame on his situation. He sags back on the beam he's been resting on and closes his eyes. He can still see the beam of his light moving erratically and it makes his stomach recoil a little. He reaches up and switches it off by touch but it doesn't help much.
Minutes pass as Tim rests and slowly comes to the realization he needs more than just a breather. The sickness subsides and his stomach puts in a rumble of hunger. His throat is dry and scratchy. The straps of the respirator dig into his head uncomfortably. His lips are starting to burn a little from how dry they've gotten. His limbs feel heavy and ache in a way that promises to get worse with inactivity. The muscles in his arms already locking up a bit.
Tim stretches a bit. As much as he can in the small tunnel he's in. It helps a little.
He's doesn't like it but he's going to need to sleep. His body needs it desperately, and if he forces the issue he's liable to make a mistake. He's going to need to eat, and he's going to need to drink.
He can sleep where he is. Wedge his shoulders into the wall behind him and not move even as he drops off. A few hours should be enough for him to regain enough control over himself to continue. He has a few protein bars on him, and a few bags of distilled water that he usually uses for collecting dried evidence. It's not much but it will do until he's free. Dust particles still float thick through the air so he'll have to wait for after his nap to risk taking the respirator off.
Tim settles back. Ignoring the way the wall shifts with his weight, and slows his breathing. Concentrating on matching his heart rate to it. Putting himself under as quickly as possible.
He wakes in stages.
Awareness of his situation coming back first, soon followed by sensation. Knowing where he's at and why any sudden motion would be very bad is more important than the way his shoulders scream in pain. Tim sits up and rolls them with a wince. He fumbles for the light and blinks. Dust motes still fly through the beam but it's a lot better than before his nap.
Taking off the respirator is almost a religious experience in relief. Tim breathes deeply and realizes he hasn't even thought to clean out the filters once. Too used to the respirators they used to have with replaceable filters. The ones that had proven to be woefully inadequate for long term wear. He works the filters out as he breathes the stale air and knocks them against the beam. Swiping as much of the accumulated dirt out of them as he can without the proper equipment.
Satisfied with what he can manage, he pulls out a bar and one bag of water. He only has two water bags, and he wishes he had a way to store the water. The bags were only ever meant for single use though and don't have a way to reseal them. Tim sucks the bag dry with a single long swallow. His body cries out for more but this will have to do for the time being. The bar at least isn't the usual dry kind he prefers. It has swirls of chocolate on it that lets him know Dick's been messing with his gear again.
It's not much but it's enough to get him to pull the respirtor back on and get to work digging himself out again. The other two bars and single bag of water waiting for his next break.
Tim doesn't let himself think about what having to take a second break might mean, or what he'll do if he's still digging after it.
Time is meaningless and Tim's lost in the monotony of reaching up and pulling down. Kicking with his feet to shove dirt in the right direction. The beam of the light dances erratically as he moves. He goes from crouching on beams to holding onto broken boards to balancing precariously on dirt that crumbles under his feet.
He cleans the filters twice more. When he notices how hot and stale the air he's breathing is getting. The last time he cleans them he doesn't notice much of a difference. Tim has a small oxygen tank on him. Thirty minutes of air if he sits still and does nothing. Fifteen if he continues to dig.
There's not lightening of the dirt to give him any indication that he's getting somewhere. No sign that he's making any progress at all. That he's going to make it.
Thoughts and feelings skitter through his mind but he ignores them because they're impractical. Concentrating instead on the steady digging and climbing.
Broken boards and whole beams are becoming fewer. Tim's only come across rotten ones that disintegrate under his hands for a good long while now. It gave him a surge of hope at first. They were obviously exposed to the elements, he had to be nearing the top.
He dug faster, harder, and he paid for it.
A large rock had broken free and clipped the side of his head. Nearly knocking him down and burying him under the cascade if dirt that followed. Destroying the work he'd done.
Tim lays still. Panting and waiting for his vision to clear. His legs are nearly buried and he's panting from more than just the pain. More than the near brush of becoming stuck.
He fumbles, with fingers that shake too much, at the straps. There is no relief when he breaks the seal. His lungs still work hard to pull in air and Tim feels the cough building in his chest and that isn't something he can allow. There's a length of cloth he's used as a sling before. Long enough to wrap around his nose and mouth. It blocks most of the dirt and Tim swallows hard twice before the cough subsides.
He discards the respirator and pulls his legs out. It's not easy to breathe, but it's still doable. He can still push through for a little while longer.
Tim's mouth tastes like dirt and grit grinds between his teeth when he shifts his jaw. His chest hurts. A deep ache that eclipses the fire in his shoulders and fingers. Tim's vision swims and he stops. Fingers sinking into the dirt as he closes his eyes and waits for it to pass.
It doesn't.
He'd clipped the oxygen tank outside on his belt ages ago, and he doesn't have to fumble much to get it under the cloth and turned on. His vision still swims and he allows himself to breathe deep for a few seconds. Using up the oxygen to steady himself.
Once his vision clears he starts digging. A silent timer counting down in his head.
The dirt is looser. Tim has to move fast now just to keep from being buried, to keep on top of it. It almost feels like he's swimming. The ceiling collapses with just a push of his hand and he's not digging so much as pushing his way straight up.
His fingers break through another air pocket and Tim wonders if it'll be worth it to turn off the tank. Extend it by using whatever oxygen is in this pocket. So focused on the countdown that the cool brush against his cheek almost doesn't register.
Almost.
The dirt above him crumbles as Tim pushes up hard. More dirt taking the place of everything that falls below him. Tim scrambles. Reaching up and dragging himself up as much as his legs push him up.
Tim breaks through the top and doesn't let himself stop moving even as something in his is struck dumb by the light of the moon. The ground is crumbling under his knees. Shaking in a way that Tim remembers from before. Tim moves fast up the side of what must be a crater. Getting his hands on solid ground and grass and rolling away just as he hears the shifting groan of another collapse behind him. Rolls until hits a tree hard. Roots digging into his thighs and guaranteeing stability.
He needs to do another assessment of his physical condition. He needs to see if any of his communication gear is up. Needs to contact someone to come get him because he's going to need medical attention. He should be eating the last two bars he has, getting that last water into him. He should be-
Tim should be doing a lot of things. He does none of it.
Tim rips off the mask of the tank and his cowl. Rolling away from the tree until he's on his back blinking up into the beautiful night sky. Feeling the coolness of a breeze against the sweat on his face and in his hair. Sucking in deep breaths that doesn't smell overwhelmingly of dirt. Enthralled by the sweet undertones of flowers and pine needles. Focused on how easy it is to breathe now.
The sky blurs as he stares at it and finally lets himself think, feel.
Tim scrubs at the tears cutting through what must be an impressive amount of dirt caked on his lower face. Feeling the grit of it against his skin as he laughs shakily. He should be dead. Countless times over starting from the second the ground collapsed under his feet. He lets himself have it. Have this moment to just be. Giddy and almost delirious at just being alive. The aches and pains in his body something to celebrate instead of ignore. The tears don't slow for a long while.
Eventually, he has to put it all away again. Reign back the emotions and reach for the extra communicator in his belt. Thumbing it on and waiting for a familiar voice to answer his call for help. Counting the seconds between.
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