Chapter Text
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
it’s no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners
– Animals
i. it's as easy as one, two, three–
Which came first: the chicken or the egg?
This is a common causality dilemma originating from an ancient folk paradox and that stems from the observation that all chickens hatch from eggs and all chicken eggs are laid by chickens. ‘Chicken-and-egg’ is a metaphoric adjective that describes situations where it’s unclear which of the two events should be considered the ‘cause’ and which two should be considered the ‘effect’ to express a scenario of infinite regress. Alternatively, it’s used to express the difficulty of sequencing actions where each seems to depend on the others happening first. Plutarch, a Greek and Roman Middle Platonist philosopher, posed this very question as a philosophical matter that related to a “great and weighty problem.”
Now for a more modern-day causality dilemma. Which happened first: Tim getting kidnapped because he was distracted by Jason being shot, or Jason being shot because he was distracted by Tim being kidnapped?
Tim ponders the concept of infinite regress, which is used to describe a series of entities. Each entity in the series depends on its predecessor, which follows a recursive principle. For example, the epistemic regress is a series of beliefs in which the justification of each belief (Tim believing that Jason needed help or Jason believing that Tim needed help) depends on the justification of the belief that comes before it (Jason is gunned down in front of Tim or Tim is kidnapped right before Jason).
Additionally, an infinite regress argument is an argument against a theory based on the fact that this theory leads to an infinite regress. In order for such an argument to be successful, it is required to demonstrate that, not only is the theory in question an infinite regress, but also that this regress is vicious. One form of viciousness occurs when the theory in question is implausible or for its failure to solve the problem it was formulated to solve. For example, Jason trying to help Tim who is trying to help Jason who is trying to help Tim who is trying to–
Here’s what Tim knows: Jason is gunned down right in front of him. He takes three to the chest in rapid fire succession. He is not the infamous Red Hood, and is simply Jason Todd. He goes down instantly.
Vicious.
It doesn’t happen in some barely-lit back alleyway or under the cover of night. It happens one very innocuous spring day in the late afternoon. It’s that perfect time of day when the sun is barely peeking over the skyline on its descent into twilight. It’s the kind of spring day where the temperature is perfect, balancing on the tight rope of seasonal change in-between chilly and warm. Jason is only wearing an everyday shirt and a brown leather jacket because he’s the kind of guy that checks the daily forecast, and they don’t warn you about bullets on an hourly basis.
Tim has never seen so much blood. No, he’s seen more blood. Has he? Tim doesn’t have panic attacks. He’s Robin, he’s Red Robin, and he’s trained for this. He knows that after a bullet tears through flesh, mere seconds become the currency between life and death. It’s simple science, but not really that simple at all. Tim knows the human body is surprisingly resilient, yet devastatingly fragile when met with ballistic trauma. He thinks. One, two, three bullets. Blood vessels shred, tissues rupture, and vital organs falter. One, two, three.
He rubs a shaky palm against his brow and breathes–in, out, in, out, in, out. One, two, three. Tim closes his eyes and opens them, trying to search for any signs of exit wounds. There are different types of gunshot wounds. He thinks people are screaming, but it’s hard to tell. His ears are ringing because the shooter had fired the gun right beside his head. Jason had been moving closer to him. His previously white shirt is bleeding red. Tim is getting off track. Was it penetrating wounds or perforating wounds that he needs to take into consideration here?
If the bullets entered but did not exit, they’re likely lodged inside. He knows this is not good because they can cause damage to tissues, organs, and blood vessels. The bullet fragments inside the body also increase the risk of infection or internal bleeding. If the bullets entered and exited the body, they left both entry and exit wounds. He knows that such wounds can be more severe than penetrating wounds because they often result in significant tissue damage and blood loss.
Tim looks at the body–at Jason–and then at the man behind him holding his arm limply and yelling. There is blood trailing down his arm, though it looks to simply be a graze. He’s lucky. The window near the door has shattered, raining glass down on the patrons inside and the passersby outside. The shooter only fired three times, and all of them hit the unmoving body on the ground, so Tim quickly deduces that there’s at least one perforating wound.
One, two, three. Jason is standing beside him, hands shoved into his pockets and, discussing classic American diner dishes. Pauli’s serves breakfast all day, and really, Tim, there are merits to breakfast for dinner if you think about it. Jason is opening the door for him, but Tim is distracted by someone he thinks may be Ives, so he falls behind. There is a screeching of tires and a loud bang, and someone is grabbing his arm, but the gun is going off at the same time. Jason is yelling for Tim, but then very suddenly, there’s a body on the ground, and it cannot be Jason. It has to be a body, somebody else, because it cannot be Jason.
Tim needs to secure the scene. He thinks about the tenets of first responder safety. Do not rush to help the victim if there is still danger, such as an active shooter nearby. If possible, move the victim to a safe place before providing first aid. If it is not safe to move them, take cover and call for help.
The active shooter is trying to drag Tim away. He pulls his phone out to call Bruce, to call for help, to call somebody. Emergency medical services need to be contacted immediately. Tim needs to be able to provide clear information to the operator, including their location, the number of victims, and the type of injury. They’re on Miagani Island on Grand Avenue, right in front of Pauli’s Diner. There are at least two victims with gunshot wounds, and one of them is dying. Tim needs to put pressure on the wounds, and he needs to stay on the line and follow any instructions given by the dispatcher.
My brother, he might say into the receiver end of his cell, my brother has been shot.
Tim stares at the body on the ground and tries to gauge if his chest is moving. He can’t tell. It all hinges on the rise and fall of a chest, and Tim cannot tell. He needs to check for a pulse, and if he doesn’t find one, he needs to start compressions immediately. Tim needs to expose the wound, to check if it’s turned into a sucking chest wound, to see if he needs to seal it to keep air from getting inside the chest cavity. He needs to control the bleeding, to keep the body warm, to prevent shock.
Tim needs–
Tim needs Jason to explain himself.
“Breakfast for dinner,” Jason explains as if it’s common sense. “C’mon, Tim. Did all those tuna sandwiches that Bruce used to feed you turn your brain to methylmercury?"
Tim sends him a scathing side eye as they walk down the street. His gaze passes over the titles showing at the Klyce Theater, absentmindedly wondering if there’s anything good out to go see. “It’s okay to eat tuna in moderation,” he tuts, turning up his nose. “The FDA says that the average adult can safely eat about six to nine ounces of tuna per week, which is about one to two cans.”
“You’re two cans,” Jason replies. He wrinkles his nose in disgust and shoves his hands in his pockets. “See, it’s the mere fact that you know that offhand to defend yourself.”
Tim shouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t fall for the bait that Jason is so good at placing out on a silver platter each and every time, just ripe for the picking. He does anyway. “Don’t you watch those health segments on the news? They talk about that kind of stuff on there.”
“I do, actually.” Jason lightly shoves him with his elbow, causing Tim to falter in his steps. He shoots Jason a dirty look for it. “Which is why I know that common tinned tuna fish brands contain 20 micrograms of mercury in a five-ounce can, but those cans Alfred buys can have up to as many as 283 micrograms per five ounces.”
Snorting, Tim shakes his head as they come to a halt behind a crowd waiting to cross the street. “Who calls it tuna fish? Are you an eighty-five-year-old woman named Gertrude? Or are you just a total dweeb? I’m not eating like five cans of tuna a day, Jason. Be serious.”
“I’m just saying, I can see it now. ‘Today’s headline–Timothy Drake Hospitalized Due to Mercury Poisoning from Tinned Tuna Fish.’ That’s very embarrassing for you, Timmy. Much less appetizing than that time you were almost assassinated. I have that article clipped and put up on my wall. I’ll frame the tuna headline. That’s legendary, dweeb.”
Tim shuffles forward as the walk light flickers on, and the mass of Gothamites begins to mobilize toward the crossing. He looks ahead at the red neon lights of Pauli’s and watches the capital E in ‘DINER’ flicker on and off, as the bulbs are about to go out. At least, they will one of these days. He sighs, long-suffering. “I think you’re severely overestimating how much tuna I consume on a weekly basis.”
“No,” Jason denies, side-stepping a man wearing a cardboard sign declaring ‘THE END IS HERE’ with bold, blocky letters in Sharpie. “We need to retroactively undo all the mercury poisoning Bruce did to you. The solution is breakfast for dinner. It evens out.”
“How,” Tim deadpans.
Jason considers this. “For one thing, I can tell you that hash browns and eggs don’t have mercury in them. Or a stack of pancakes, for that matter. Are you one of those guys that deliberates between wanting something savory and wanting something sweet every time you go out for breakfast? You know, like Dick.”
“It’s 6 PM.” Tim answers as the man with the cardboard sign begins to loudly pontificate about the end of the world to passersby. He yells to be heard over the ensuing clamorous honking of annoyed drivers. “THERE’S REALLY A SIMPLE SOLUTION TO DICK’S PROBLEM.”
The woman walking in front of him turns to give him a dirty look before sauntering on. Tim shrinks a bit under her pursed red lips and haughty, irritated eyes while Jason snickers next to him. He prompts his brother to continue by trying to kick his knee out from the back. There’s no real heat in the action, but it irritates Tim all the same.
“Bruce gave me mercury poisoning with his pathetic cooking skills, and now you’re trying to reverse-kneecap me. At least Damian was very straightforward when he tried to kill me that one time. No underhanded tactics,” he scoffs.
Jason scratches at the light stubble growing along his jaw and hums in contemplation. “He’s been getting into magic lately so you might want to watch your back. Can’t really get much more underhanded than that, except for maybe hiring an assassin. Truthfully, though, he’s come a long way. We should all be so proud. Although…he did fake me out that other time by hugging then tasing me. So really, who knows?”
They both know that there’s no threat and that Damian will arrive with Dick and Bruce any minute now. They had only parted ways a short while before, after a riveting school production of Around the World in 80 Days with Damian starring as the one and only Phileas Fogg. None of them truly knew what had inspired Damian to even try out for the part, though he’s been good at imitating voices from the very moment he met them all. Perhaps it had been Alfred’s love of the theater, or maybe Dick’s legacy of being Romeo in his own middle school play. Regardless of his motivation, he’d apparently been so good that he’d landed the main role.
Tim thinks back to the description of Fogg and the way Damian had portrayed him. Admittedly, it had been pretty funny to see their younger brother acting as a forty-year-old man (this was not new, and a younger demographic than he used to come across as daily) in a handlebar mustache. He’d been the epitome of the British stiff upper lip–stoic, reserved, upright, and gentlemanly. Damian had portrayed Fogg as politeness embodied. He’d been rational, calm, and generous, and presented himself with complete self-control. He’d been unfazed by anything and had been completely centered on proving the world could be traversed in eighty days.
They’d all agreed to meet at Pauli’s for dinner following the performance.
“It’s hard to be afraid of him after seeing him in that tophat and fake mustache," Tim comments. “I mean, with the cravat, too. Did you get any good pictures? I think that needs to go on some kind of Christmas card.”
Jason huffs a laugh. “‘I have taken into account every such eventuality,’” he quotes in his best imitation of Damian playing the role of Phileas Fogg. He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Whew. The singing part got me. I wasn’t expecting it to be a musical. Don’t worry, Timmy. I got it all on video.”
Tim hums in confirmation. “As I was saying, if Dick would just order a savory main dish and then something sweet on the side, or a sweet dish with something savory like a side of hash browns, he’d be fine. It checks all his boxes.”
Jason claps him firmly on the shoulder. “I always knew you were a good man with a smart head on your shoulders. You’ve cracked the code. Hash browns, eggs, bacon, toast…whatever. But instead, he just sits there with his menu in hand all indecisive, and then orders something like French toast and then complains when I get a skillet or something.”
“I feel like the corned beef hash is a good choice,” Tim mutters.
Jason nods in agreement. “Yeah, yeah. Corned beef hash.”
“Are you going to let him steal part of your plate when he asks?”
“Hell no,” Jason denies, even though they both know he’ll let Dick take half of whatever in his alleged ‘trade’ of sharing half his dish with Jason. “He might ask Damian. He never says no to Dick.”
Tim catches sight of a familiar sweater as he steps up on the curb and out of the street. He pauses and attempts to recall where he’s seen it before. It takes him a few seconds to come up with an answer. It looks like something he’s seen Ives wear before. He squints, trying to make out if it’s really Ives or just someone who looks like Ives.
In the few seconds he’s stopped and let his mind wander, Jason has made it to the entrance of Pauli’s. He’s holding the door and asking Tim how he’ll respond if Dick asks him to share his choice of breakfast for dinner when there is the screeching of tires against the pavement behind him. Tim barely has time to react before there is a loud bang, and someone is grabbing his arm from behind and yanking him back.
“Tim! TIM!”
Jason has let go of the door and is moving towards him, but it happens all at once, simultaneously. Someone has Tim by the arm and is dragging him backwards, and Jason is being shot right in front of him all at once. Tim is close enough, so close but not close enough at the same time, to see the first bullet tear through Jason’s chest. But Jason is tough, so he keeps going. He keeps reaching for Tim, who is reaching for Jason, and then there’s a second bullet, and a third.
One, two, three.
Tim watches something very frightening pass over Jason’s face before he drops to the ground. And suddenly there’s a body on the ground right in front of him, not close enough, and it’s not somebody else. It’s Jason.
Everything feels like it happens very slowly, as if all time around them has stopped. Tim feels a bit surreal and disconnected from reality, as if he’s watching the world from inside an isolated snowglobe. People around him are screaming, and there’s a ringing in his ears, and Jason is not moving.
But Tim is moving. He is very forcibly pulled backwards, and he attempts to pull away from whoever has him in a painful death-grip. His nose is burning with the scent of acrid sulfur, steam, and saltpeter all the way into his sinus cavity. Everything is syrupy slow, and his limbs feel like lead. From his peripheral vision, he sees a masked figure darting forward to grab the unmoving body of his older brother, bleeding out on the cracked concrete.
Everything feels like it happens very slowly, but time has not stopped at all. In fact, everything happens in only a matter of seconds.
Tim manages to finally yank his arm away and gets both feet on the curb once more. He is diving for Jason before there’s a sharp and crushing blow to the back of his head, and that’s all he knows.