Tim is in rough shape. The only reason that he’s on his feet is because he’s hugging his staff like a drunk hugs a lamppost. He’s been able to make some attempts to evacuate himself out of the faire, although the staggered stops and starts go only vaguely in the right direction, give or take 90 degrees.
He’s having trouble seeing reality through the memories, and even when he can the perspective feels off. He can be looking down at his dad’s body, a boomerang impaled in his chest, and between a row of market stalls simultaneously. Over his shoulder at the Nightrenders- or is it the same man, one of a pair of rotting zombies dressed in black and black light? No, up at Bane throwing Batman off a building while his eyes are straight ahead. At own his unsteady feet on the ground but he’s kneeling at the body of his best friend. While he knows that what he’s seeing isn’t real - it’s some sort of fear toxin or hallucinogen - that doesn’t dampen the effect of being caught halfway between a blind panic and crippling despair.
And the shifting visions don’t lessen the anguish that washes over him. Every time is the first time; even though Tim knows more than months or years have passed. It’s a fresh horror each time, every time.
He still tries to head north through the stalls, but he’s walking like forward is interchangeable with every direction on the x-, y-, and z-planes. The nightrenders will catch up with him soon, even at their slow, janky pace. He probably won’t even react.
[ Your choice of what vision or visions to pick up. If you’re canon familiar and would prefer something other than the options given, just let me know. ]
B/Cish.
There are times where Tim is able to put enough distance between himself and the nightrenders to get some sort of clarity, but it’s never enough. It’s only enough for decisions like to protect someone who’s fallen behind in the race to flee the faire - higher levels of executive function that might discern that he is not consistently in good shape to do so? That escapes him. Those things are going to kill people if no one does anything.
And now, they’ve drawn the twins attention of the twins, who are floating steadily towards Tim. Tim produces a bo out of seemingly nowhere in response to the weapons that they’re carrying.
“You need to get out of here,” he says, as if he doesn’t need to do likewise. “I don’t know who they are, but nothing that floats and talks in unison is good.”
Tim Drake
A/D Combo.
Tim is in rough shape. The only reason that he’s on his feet is because he’s hugging his staff like a drunk hugs a lamppost. He’s been able to make some attempts to evacuate himself out of the faire, although the staggered stops and starts go only vaguely in the right direction, give or take 90 degrees.
He’s having trouble seeing reality through the memories, and even when he can the perspective feels off. He can be looking down at his dad’s body, a boomerang impaled in his chest, and between a row of market stalls simultaneously. Over his shoulder at the Nightrenders- or is it the same man, one of a pair of rotting zombies dressed in black and black light? No, up at Bane throwing Batman off a building while his eyes are straight ahead. At own his unsteady feet on the ground but he’s kneeling at the body of his best friend. While he knows that what he’s seeing isn’t real - it’s some sort of fear toxin or hallucinogen - that doesn’t dampen the effect of being caught halfway between a blind panic and crippling despair.
And the shifting visions don’t lessen the anguish that washes over him. Every time is the first time; even though Tim knows more than months or years have passed. It’s a fresh horror each time, every time.
He still tries to head north through the stalls, but he’s walking like forward is interchangeable with every direction on the x-, y-, and z-planes. The nightrenders will catch up with him soon, even at their slow, janky pace. He probably won’t even react.
[ Your choice of what vision or visions to pick up. If you’re canon familiar and would prefer something other than the options given, just let me know. ]
B/Cish.
There are times where Tim is able to put enough distance between himself and the nightrenders to get some sort of clarity, but it’s never enough. It’s only enough for decisions like to protect someone who’s fallen behind in the race to flee the faire - higher levels of executive function that might discern that he is not consistently in good shape to do so? That escapes him. Those things are going to kill people if no one does anything.
And now, they’ve drawn the twins attention of the twins, who are floating steadily towards Tim. Tim produces a bo out of seemingly nowhere in response to the weapons that they’re carrying.
“You need to get out of here,” he says, as if he doesn’t need to do likewise. “I don’t know who they are, but nothing that floats and talks in unison is good.”
[ Actionspam is also welcome. ]