Tim really enjoys talking to himself.

Chapter 6: Tim

Over the years, Tim had learned not to believe in luck. Probably because he'd always had the worst of it. Take now, for instance. At the very moment that he was completely finished bringing the Zeta tube back online, his whole world came crumbling down – literally – and now he had to maneuver his way through the inferno of an obstacle course to rescue a teammate, all while keeping fresh oxygen flowing in and out of his lungs.

He took a deep breath before removing a small gas mask from his utility belt and placing it over his nose and mouth. It was a real pain breathing through this thing, but anything was better than the smoke-filled air. Pressing a few buttons on his glove, he ordered the program to scan the building, locating Conner to have been on the upper level of the right side. Great. Tim was currently on the lower left side. Fantastic.

Tim sighed. More good luck.

Taking out his collapsible bow-staff, he expanded it, starting to make his way across the complex, vaulting over fallen debris and smashing any that dropped from above. It almost seemed as if it were an everyday routine, which with Tim, in some cases, it kind of was. He pretended that he was back at Mt. Justice, doing a simulated training exercise where he had to rescue habitants of a burning building. It helped him stay calm and focused.

However, when he was about halfway to Conner, an abnormally large piece of concrete plummeted from the ceiling. Tim was fast, but not fast enough. It came down, landing on his leg and crushing his ankle. He heard a loud crack, and he was pretty sure that it didn't come from the slab as he shrieked in pain, face flushing. His vision blurred, an explosion of colors dancing before his eyes as he dazedly tried to spin himself around. He had never before seen a piece of concrete that massive, and it was on top of him. His entire leg began to ache, and he grunted, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Exhaling, he jammed his staff down under the concrete. Pushing down, he yelled, trying to pry away the mass, but all that he managed to do was send more pins and needles shooting through his joint. He screamed once more.

Tim? Is everything okay? M'gann's voice gave him an unexplainable sense of comfort.

Okay is not the word I would use, he responded, trying to control his rapid breathing. I'm stuck.

Stuck? How much debris?

One piece. One really freaking huge piece that broke my ankle.

Oh God, Tim… There was a pause where Tim was really hoping that she would say something like "The Justice League is on their way" or "Back-up just arrived," but instead, her words proved to be a little more powerful than he'd been anticipating. Okay. Just stay calm.

Really trying to.

Just…listen. Think…think of something that will calm your thoughts. Anything, as long as it will motivate you and help you stay focused.

Panting heavily, he spoke to himself, "C'mon, D-Drake," he managed through gritted teeth, "Conner needs you. Besides…wh-what would Batman s-say if he saw you all w-weak like this?" He'd been in worse situations…okay, maybe not worse, but he'd definitely been through some pretty horrible stuff. Whining, he tried to think of anything at all that could calm his mind…

Tim breathed. He closed his eyes. And thought.

That's it. Got it.

Good. Now push.

He paused, grasping his staff as tightly as he could before forcing it down, crying out. Finally easing the rock up ever so slightly, he yanked out his foot, immediately releasing the pressure he was exerting on the staff and falling backwards. He grasped his leg, breathing like a rabid dog as he attempted to remain conscious. Blacking out now would be suicide.

Tim? Tim, what happened? Are you free?

Yeah, he managed.

Can you continue?...

He swallowed. No. Yes.

I…okay…I trust your judgment.

Please don't. He cursed at himself. Taking a few more deep, shaky breaths, he pushed himself upward, leaning on his bow-staff for support. A wave of nausea swept over him as he surveyed the damage, which looked as if there was most definitely a piece of his bone protruding from his leg, making a large lump very noticeable on the side of his boot. There was no time to look at it, no time to examine the injury, no time to diagnose the wound, but one thing he knew for sure was that it did not feel good. At all.

His weapon acted as a cane when he started walking again, getting closer and closer to his destination. Every step was agony, but he pressed on. He was not about to give up, let Conner die…fail Bruce. Mind over matter, he kept telling himself, mind over matter. Where was an adrenaline rush when he needed it?

Since there was no way that he would ever be able to take the elevator, Tim burst through the door leading to the stairs. He thanked God for grappling hooks as he pulled his off of his belt and aimed it at the roof. Pulling the trigger, it shot upward, imbedding itself in the ceiling as Tim zipped up in its tracks. Clearing the handrail, he retracted the grapple, being sure to land on his good ankle.

"Next time," he huffed, "I'm gonna keep a brace in this belt." Shoving the door open, he turned left, only to be confronted by a long hallway.

He froze.

Down at the very end of the corridor, thick metal bars barricaded a room overflowing with a green-colored gas, and just behind them, Tim could make out a figure sprawled out across the floor. Conner.

"Superboy!" Tim called. "Hang on!" He trudged as fast as he could, anxiety and relief flooding his brain. A moan escaped his lips as he quickened his pace in anticipation. Almost there…

He yelped and fell to the ground as a sharp pain suddenly shot through his…head? He lay there, scrunching his eyes shut to suppress the feel of the blow. Rolling on his back, he looked up at the ceiling. What even-

Tim gasped as he quickly dodged a dagger being thrust towards his face. As he made his way to a crouching position, he slid his leg, knocking the henchman down with a thud. Screaming from the unbearable contact, he got to his feet, slowly applying more and more pressure to his hurt ankle until his entire leg went numb.

"Dude!" Tim shouted in frustration, still trying to catch his breath. "Where did you even come from?!"

The stooge pushed himself up, yelling as he charged towards the caped teenager. Once he reached Tim, a fierce brawl of agility and hand-to-hand combat broke out between the two as they fought to overpower each other. Tim couldn't remember the last time that he'd taken that many punches in a row, but he was reminded how it was to feel like a tenderized steak. He could feel his knuckles bruising, his ribs slowly giving out with each dodge he failed to initiate, could taste the blood in his mouth with the accompaniment of his swollen jaw. It eventually reached a point where he thought that they would stay like this forever, but Tim was a detective, not a psychic.

"AH!" The gas mask flew off. Tim cupped his nose from the punch, anger filling his thoughts. Bringing his hand down to look at it, he saw that blood coated the palm of his glove. Growling, Tim clenched his fists and with one final blow, he struck the henchman who finally collapsed, unconscious.

Tim wailed.

Then he breathed. Everything hurt. A lot.

He wiped his nose with his sleeve, picking up his bow-staff and staring down at the masked thug in which he'd just beaten. Why had that been so hard for him? Staggering the remaining distance to the bars, he took note of the door's size. Sticking a few explosives on the hinges, he took a few steps back before blowing them clean off. The door fell, clanging against the hard floors, and he abruptly hobbled over them, making his way over to the fallen meta and leaning down next to him. Nervously, he took Conner's pulse, letting out a chuckle of relief once he felt his heartbeat. Still alive…for now. He slapped the super across the face in an attempt to wake him. The gas had stopped flowing, but he was still out cold. How much of that stuff had he breathed in?

"Conner," he tried, "Conner, wake up….Conner!"

Nothing.

Tim groaned, "C'mon, Conner. You have got to be kidding me!" He could feel the building getting hotter and hotter every second, the flames reaching an almost inextinguishable state. Realizing that there was still so much to do and so little time, Tim collapsed his staff and put it back on his belt. Flipping Conner onto his stomach, he turned around, pulling the half-Kryptonian's arms up and around his neck. "Okay, Tim," he breathed, "Here we go."

With one last inhale, he stood, bringing Conner up with him. The sheer torment that Tim was enduring was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. As he stumbled forward, dragging Conner along, he broke down. With each step he took, his sobbing grew louder and more intense, his body shaking, trembling. His entire body burned.

Just. Keep. Moving.

"Nngah!" Tim cried as a chunk of debris slammed into the super. WHY? Conner's arms slid out of his grasp and he fell to the ground, bringing Tim down with him.

The masked teenager was losing it. Losing his will…

No. Not like this. Screaming, he forced himself back up, hardly noticing the smoke in consideration of everything else, and he pulled Conner's arms back up around his neck. The pain is a simulation, he told himself, None of this is real.

He began again, every movement causing his ankle to throb. Eyes watering, he clenched his teeth. "Just." Step. "Keep." Step. "Moving." Step.

He'd made it halfway down the corridor, continuing ever forward until finally reaching the end. There was absolutely no way he was ever going to be able to get back down those stairs with a broken ankle and a one-hundred-eighty pound powerhouse on his back, so he had to make a choice: wall or window? Deciding to choose the latter, he thought about the best way that he could approach this and heaved Conner around to where he was in front of him. He didn't know if he could survive the fall from a two-story window…but a Superboy surely could.

Gripping the meta's shirt as tightly as he could, Tim gritted his teeth as he sprinted forward, crashing through the window and sending them both hurdling towards the ground below. He braced himself for impact as he held on to the clone for dear life.

SLAM. BOOM. Just as the heroes hit the ground, another explosion went off, causing the entire complex to come crumbling down.

Good thing I didn't take the stairs.

Tim coughed as he rolled off of the unconscious Conner. He did it. He actually did it. He made it out. Alive. In one piece. With Conner. Huh. It all seemed so surreal…except for the fact that he couldn't move. He'd lost all feeling in his ankle and had most definitely broken at least three of his ribs. His lungs were on fire, his mouth tasted of copper and soot, and every time he attempted to open his mouth, his jaw protested with the one of the most excruciating aches he'd ever experienced. He felt like he was bleeding out…somewhere, and if he didn't get medical attention soon…

"Robin!"

Tim could just barely make out the faint sound of someone calling his name. Was back-up finally here?

"Robin!"

There it was again. Who was that? Why were they shouting at him?

"Tim! Oh my God, Tim! Can you hear me?!...Tim?"

He couldn't…couldn't see anything. Just hear. Barely. And the pain… How could he even…what?... Was the whole team here? The Justice League? Who did M'gann call? Was Conner okay? Why was his chest so cold?

"It's okay, Timmy. Everything's going to be okay…"

Timmy? He…he called him Timmy? Only…only…

"D-Dick?"

"Oh, thank Christ! Timmy? Yes, it's me, Dick." He felt a gloved hand stroke through his hair. "You're going to be okay."