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Compared to most of the assassins Tim has fought over the past few weeks, this clown is...well, mediocre. Does that say more about Tim’s skills or the League’s? Probably Tim’s.
Either he’s gotten so good that even professional assassins are child’s play at this point, or he’s so bad that they assumed a guy with a sword and some hipster neck tattoo would be enough.
After this fight Tim should send Ra’s an email with notes on the guy’s performance. Maybe a letter grade if he’s feeling frisky. Because it’s easy. It’s so easy to meet his hit with a block and his slash with a sweep that nearly sends him off the rooftop.
It never occurs to him that his confidence could be a weakness. Not until he’s past the point of no return.
Because it’s the confidence that has him distracted. He lets his mind wander to trivial matters such as why Ra’s hasn’t gotten bored yet of sending whelps like this tool after Tim, or why this fight is actually super inconvenient because can’t this guy see he has better things to do right now? It’s inconsiderate is what it is.
Tim’s so in his own head that he doesn’t see the attack coming until the sword hilt thunks him in the head, and he stumbles. Stupid, he tells himself as he staggers back, trying to regain his balance.
There’s no time to counter-strike.
There’s no time to think.
Because as soon as Tim looks back at the assassin, the sword is already in motion.
And with one heavy swing, the blade slashes straight through Tim’s throat.
There’s no pain at first—just pressure and the sickening squelch of steel slicing through flesh. Tim stumbles backward in shock, hand flying up to his neck. Already blood gushes and seeps into his glove as it dribbles down his chest.
Tim’s eyes are blown wide as he looks back up at the assassin, ice rushing through his veins. How? he wants to ask. Why? This isn’t— I can’t— I don’t— His lips move, but no sound comes out as his throat burbles and each breath scrapes up his windpipe.
The assassin—so proud of himself—smiles cruelly and watches Tim fall to the ground when his quivering legs can no longer hold him. He flicks the blood—Tim’s blood—off his sword. “I would love to continue this riveting visit of ours,” he says in a thick accent, “but it seems like my mission is complete. Have a pleasant night, Mr. Drake.”
And then he just...leaves. Like watching Tim die isn’t even worthy of his time.
Tim is left alone on the roof, flat on his back while the night sky spins and twists above him. He coughs, blood burbling from the gash in his neck, and it burns. The pain has set in, and now Tim knows how Jericho felt.
He presses his hand to his neck, trying to keep the blood inside, hold himself together, but it won’t be enough. How long before the blood loss and lack of oxygen take their toll? He’s already lost too much blood. The clock is ticking.
Will it take a minute? Two? How much longer until he loses consciousness and dies, snuffed out as silent as a flame?
Tim gasps, sucks in a quick breath, but it’s like breathing through a straw. With every pulse of his heart, blood spurts from the wound. Did the sword hit an artery? That would give him even less time.
The real kicker is the fact that Tim’s in Italy right now. Gotham is hundreds of miles away, which makes his options limited. And even if his family were close enough to save him, Tim already cut himself off months ago when he left to search for Bruce. He’s not on their comm link anymore, and he doesn’t have the three minutes it would take to hack into it.
Which means that’s it. He’s going to die here, on this rooftop, without so much as a sound.
The breeze ruffles Tim’s hair, and he shudders. His throat bobs, jerks, tries to muster a full breath because he’s terrified to admit that he’s scared. He’s so, so scared—and not even for himself. Tim made peace with the reality of dying the second he first donned the yellow cape.
He’s scared for Bruce. Bruce, who is out there somewhere, lost but so easily forgotten. No one but Tim believes he’s alive. When Tim dies, Bruce’s last chance at rescue will die with him.
I tried, Bruce. I tried to bring you back. I tried to make you proud.
It’s fitting that he’s alone now. Tim always knew it would happen this way.
He only wishes he could tell the others. Tell Dick that he was a good brother and that Tim forgives him for giving Robin to Damian. He’ll always forgive him.
He wishes he could tell Stephanie that he’s sorry. Tell her he misses her so much it hurts, and if only they could have had more time.
Tell Damian that he’ll make a better Robin than Tim ever was.
Tell Conner—
Tim’s eyes fly open and he gasps, but it turns into a wet choking noise.
Conner.
Years ago, Conner told Tim that he’s always listening in; that keeping track of Tim from across the country is as easy as tuning a staticky television. That he could easily pick out Tim’s heartbeat out of a million. That he knows it like he knows his own name.
So if you’re ever in trouble and need a super-friend to bail you out, just call. I’ll hear you.
Tim swallows back the blood pooling in his throat. It tastes like rust on his lips, but he pushes through the panic. He opens his mouth and tries to call—tries to make a sound—but all that comes out is a wet gurgle.
His body shudders as more blood rushes out of the wound, but he swallows and tries again. He chokes on the blood and the fact that he has no air and tries, tries to make a sound. A whisper. A whimper. Anything.
“C...C…” he chokes out, but his vocal cords won’t work. Has his larynx been severed? Is he going to be mute for the rest of his life?
Then good old logic reminds him that he’s dying. Who cares if he’s mute? He’s dead.
Please, Conner. Save me. Hear me. I don’t want to die yet.
A tear slides down to Tim’s ear as the misery washes over him. He can’t speak. He can barely breathe as it is, and Conner isn’t coming to bail him out this time. A soundless sob cracks inside Tim’s chest.
The edges of his vision turn black and misty, and he knows that’s a bad sign. His head swims as his wheezing breaths come in slower and slower. Blood has thoroughly soaked the back of his neck and shoulders to the point where he’s surprised he hasn’t run out of the stuff by now.
He’s running out of time. So, while the haze presses in and his consciousness dwindles with every second, Tim does the only other thing he can think of.
Slowly, he lifts his numb fingers. They’re wet and sticky, but he pushes the thought from his mind; ignores the tremors running up and down his arm. He summons all of the strength he has left and taps his fingers on the hard concrete, struggling to remember the code with his cottony brain.
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
The blackness moves in. It’s encroaching on the stars above, swallowing them whole. Tim doesn’t stop tapping, even when his fingers start to drag and stutter, sliding over the slick gravel.
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
He wants Bruce. He wants…
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
Tim’s next wheeze stops halfway in his throat, cutting off with a gurgle. He chokes, tries to pull in the air, but it’s just out of reach.
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
This is it.
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
Tim closes his eyes.
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
Dash-dot-dash. Dash-dash-dash. Dash-dot.
Dash...dot...dash…
Kon.
...
...
...
"Tim?"