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Ten on one isn't really fair odds. Dick tried to tell the bank robbers that, but they charged him anyway. There were bigger things to worry about tonight. Joker and Scarecrow seemed to be working together again and that always meant smaller gangs would take advantage of the chaos to cause a bit of their own.
Still, it was kinda unfair to them that they only had ten in their group. Dick almost felt bad, but then again, no he didn't. The rest of the Bats were out fighting tooth and nail and here he was dealing with bank robbers of all people.
"Gentlemen," He gave a nod and started for the door when something exploded.
The roof came down hard and Dick was plunged into darkness, stuck on his stomach as who knows how many pounds of building pressed down on him.
Okay, not the worst situation I've been in, he thought to himself. All he had to do was grab one of his escrima and use it to brace a piece of rubble long enough to slide out and make sure the robbers hadn't died in the collapse. Gotham Mercy would need to prepare extra beds if so, this wasn't exactly an injury-free type of blast.
His right arm was pinned under his chest, so no way that one was helping him get out of here. He tried to move his left to grant he escrima from his belt, but it didn't budge. What felt like a sharp point—which might have been another slab of the ceiling or even rebar—pressed hard against his wrist.
And it felt like his wrist might be load-bearing.
Damn it. He'd muted his comm when he went into the bank. Jason and Tim were having some sort of arbitrary argument—something about hotdog toppings—and Dick knew he was going to get involved if he heard another word. A really rookie mistake, but it'd been giving him a headache if he heard 'mayo is the ideal sauce to be drizzled over a hotdog' one more time—
Yeah the robbers would have had a fun story to tell if he hadn't muted up.
He pushed as hard as he could with his right forearm, stone crumbling around him. Maybe half a centimeter of space was enough for him to work with. Carefully. he slid his arm to the side, and once it was clear of his chest, he dropped, the building kicking extra hard into his entire body.
He moved slowly, pressed the button on the comm in his ear.
"—but consider relish—"
"You fucking heathen!"
"How am I a heathen for liking a topping that is specifically, famously known for going on hotdogs? Name a single other dish that uses relish I fucking dare you—"
"You two are still talking about that?" Dick couldn't help a small laugh.
"Hey 'wing!" Tim replied. "Can you please tell Jason that mayo—"
"Don't you dare say it Red—"
"I'm kinda in a pinch, if you guys aren't busy."
"What kind of pinch?" Jason asked. "Bigger than the fact that Pengiun and Riddler are arguing with Scarecrow over who shot who first?"
"Or the fact that Joker double-crossed Scarecrow and is trying to throw cannisters of gas at the three arguing?"
"Where the hell is B?"
"Gassed," they replied in unison.
Dick sighed. "No, focus on that stuff. I can get out of this."
"Sure you don't want us to get O on the line?" Tim asked. He knew something was up, but keeping casualties to a minimum tonight was necessary.
"I'm sure she's got enough on her hands with your mayo and relish argument."
"Please," Jason scoffed. "She'd be glad to be free of this. 'cause obviously I'm right here—"
"Your opinions on mayonnaise are unorthodox Jason—"
"Names," Dick chided. "I'll be fine. Good luck."
He shut off his comm before he could hear another word about hotdogs. All he needed to do was focus, and as much as he liked his family, they would prevent that. He's not even sure who has the awful mayo opinion at this point, and he's too busy to ask.
His right arm still has some wiggle room, so he grabs his escrima from the right loop on his belt and carefully slides it forward.
"Here we go," He sighed and braced the escrima under the slab of concrete holding him down. It lifts about an inch above his head, but it's progress.
But as luck would have it, something else exploded in the distance. Not in the building itself from the sound, but close enough that it shook the debris and knocked his escrima loose. The concrete slab on top of his snapped in two somewhere, one half landing hard against his back, the other striking his head.
When he opens his eyes, he can't move at all. Both arms are pinned, so there's no way to call for help. He'll have to wait until the rogues have been dealt with and hope someone notices his absence. They will, of course, but the clock's ticking on how much oxygen is in here. It'll be okay if he controls his breathing, he can hold it for a while, but he'd rather not sit around for that long.
Something beside him shifts. A shadow. Someone else is down here, stuck. He'll have to use a bit of oxygen to tell them not to move, not to speak, just to wait until Batman finds them.
Batman's been gassed with Joker Toxin, but any of the family will do.
"Hey," he starts, but looking back at him is a face, bloodied and broken. Blood's pooling under the skin, faze frozen in fear.
It's his mother. He tries to pull away, but he still can't move, so he closes his eyes. It's a bit of relief from the hallucinations that are probably only going to get worse now. He'd rather have the memory of screams and watching his parents fall repeat in his mind than stare into his mind's attempt at his mother's face beside him.
Passing out isn't his best option, but it's not his worst either. Being unconscious, he won't have to deal with hallucinations, just nightmares. He can handle nightmares. His breathing will also be automatic, so oxygen consumption will be slower. He'll last longer.
"Good thinking," he thinks he hears a voice. He knows it's not real. He's heard him enough times. "Can't really pass out on command though, can you?"
He can't bite back with a reply. It'll just make it stronger.
"Ignoring me? Not surprised. You still do that today. I mean, turning off the comms over a bullshit argument about hotdogs? Where'd it get you?"
Stuck, he thinks.
"Exactly."
He rests his forehead on the tile beneath him and shuts his eyes. He'll pass out eventually. His head is killing him and his eyes are heavy.
"I wonder if you're bleeding."
He ignores it.
"If it was an ordinary concussion, sure, pass out! But if you're bleeding, then it's bad. And you're already talking to me so really, it's not a normal concussion."
I'm not talking to you, he snaps back in his head.
"You are!"
He squeezes his eyes tighter. He's not even going to think about Jason's voice. He'll focus on the one he heard earlier. Gruff, deeper. Present, not past. Alive.
A warmth settles at his left side, pressed against his ribs.
"I'm probably the one with the shitty mayo opinion, right? That's what you're thinking?"
Maybe he can still find a way out. He pushes carefully, debris falling around him. The idea of something wraps tight around his chest and he freezes.
Jason's not hugging him. Jason's not here.
"Don't leave me here, Dick."
It's not Jason's voice that speaks.
"Yeah, don't leave Tim in this rubble. If anyone should stay behind, it's me."
"Jason, we all need to leave!"
"That's dumb. I'm already dead. And I'm not even here! Neither are you!"
"We're here until Dick passes out!"
"Or until he dies."
"We'll get him out."
"We're too busy arguing about mayonnaise and relish."
"Then Cass will!"
"Think of the protocols, Tim. In total tonight we've got Bruce, Dick, the two of us, Steph, and Cass. Damian's ankle is still broken from last week, Duke's arm is in a splint for two more days, and—"
"Okay I get it!"
"And Bruce has been gassed which means someone is out there right now helping him with the antidote and recovery. It's obviously not either of us."
Tim sighed. "If it's Steph, then Cass can get us out. If it's Cass, then Steph is gonna have to get us for help."
Both of you shut up, Dick thinks. They're just voicing his own thoughts. He needs to focus on the tangible silence around him. Nothing is real except for the cold ground and the crushing weight.
His eyes are already closed, but he makes them relax a bit and he slows his breathing. He needs to pass out. It's the best way to wait out his rescue.
"What do you mean his tracker hasn't updated in the past hour?" Tim asked.
"Either it fell off or he's stuck somewhere," Babs replied. "I should have noticed sooner—"
"Hey, it's a stressful night for all of us. How are his vitals?"
"Steady. He must be unconscious. He was stopping a bank robbery last I checked in."
"No way a handful of robbers took him down," Jason scoffed.
Babs hesitated but took an audible deep breath. "There were reports of explosions in the area. I can't get footage from any cameras."
Tim wished his motorcycle could go faster. "Where's the location?"
He and Jason reached the ruins of a bank on a street plunged into darkness. Multiple blasts had gone off based on the debris. The first had come from inside the third floor of the bank, and another was in an apartment building across the street—empty and foreclosed, thankfully.
"Look at the rubble," Jason said, approaching the bank. "We're gonna be here a while."
"So we work fast." Tim grabbed the first piece he found and tossed it aside.
By the time they'd usually wrap up patrol for the night, Tim's sure there's blisters under his gloves that have popped. It's not going to stop him from digging. Jason's gotten a bit faster with every passing minute, breaths loud enough that Tim doesn't need the comm to hear them.
And then Jason takes a deep breath, shaky. Tim looked over to see him elbows deep in a pile of broken cement. He's trying to pull something out.
"You see him?"
Jason shakes his head and pulls hard, one of Dick's escrima in his hand, bent in half.
Tim started digging faster.
They finally found him pinned under too much rubble to dig through. They'd need to brace it with a car jack or something of the like. Must be what Dick was trying to do with the escrima.
"Grab under his shoulders," Jason said, shifting into the small space beside Dick and placing his arms under the slab pinning his back. Tim did so and pulled as Jason lifted the concrete. Once Dick's body was clear of the debris, Jason dropped it hard.
"Is he conscious?" Jason asked.
"He's breathing."
"And bleeding. Bad. Cave or Leslie?"
Tim shifted Dick so that one arm was over his shoulders and started climbing out of the bank. "Leslie. She's closer and he's not in good shape."
"Put him on my bike," Jason said. "I'm taller, I can see over his shoulders."
"Right." Tim eased Dick onto the motorcycle seat with Jason's help. "I'll meet you there after I check for other people."
Jason held his fist out, and it was shaking just a bit. Tim's hands were too, and he returned the fist-bump, watching Jason for only a second as he hurried down the ruined street.