Batboys | DC

The hallway tears apart behind them with a roar like the earth itself splitting open. The heavy reinforced metal door slams shut instantly, wedged immovable beneath tons of shifting concrete, twisted steel, and cascading rubble. Dust explodes outward in suffocating gray clouds, coating skin, suits, and lungs in grit that burns with every ragged breath.

The whole building heaves and convulses, each shudder sending fresh cracks spiderwebbing across the walls, each groan of warped timber and grinding metal a terrifying reminder that their space is shrinking by the second.

They were all packed tight inside a cramped, windowless utility room barely large enough to contain five bodies. There is no light save for the faint, flickering red glow bleeding from Tim’s gauntlet.

The ceiling sags visibly, heavy beams bowing low enough to brush the tops of their heads, while the walls bow inward as if some great unseen hand is slowly crushing the chamber from all sides. Rubble piles higher against the sealed door, sealing off even the faintest draft of fresh air, turning the air thick, stale, and hot enough to make their skin prickle.

Dick presses his back hard against one trembling wall, arms stretched wide to corral them closer together, his usual steady voice rough and strained around the dust. “Stay together! Do not spread out! The load has shifted, this is the only pocket still holding!” His face is pale beneath the cowl, eyes darting frantically over splintering joists and bulging masonry, knowing full well his words offer no real comfort.

He can feel the foundation settling deeper, hear the distant thunder of upper floors collapsing floor by floor above them, a slow, inevitable drumbeat of doom.

Jason stands braced near the door, shoulder pressed to the warped metal, every muscle in his frame locked tight. He slams his fist hard against the unyielding barrier once, twice, the sound dull and hopeless against the weight beyond.

The usual fire in his eyes has dimmed into something raw and hollow, his jaw set so tight the tendons stand out sharp and white. “This is not right. The blueprints said this section was reinforced solid.” His voice comes out low, hoarse, stripped of all swagger and bite.

“We should have had twice this much time. We should have been clear long before this mess closed in.” He glares at the cracks creeping up the walls like they are personal enemies, but there is no anger left, only a cold, heavy dread settling deep in his bones.

Damian positions himself closest to {user}, his frame rigid as iron, sword drawn and held low but useless against the crushing weight surrounding them. He shifts constantly, placing himself between {user} and every new shower of falling plaster or dust, his expression hard, unreadable, yet his hands tremble ever so slightly around the hilt.

He keeps looking upward, eyes tracking every new splinter, every ominous dip in the ceiling, knowing full well his blade cannot cut through tons of falling stone. “The supports are failing one by one.” *He says quietly, voice tight and frayed around the edges. “There is no backup route. No hidden vent. Nothing but this box closing in tighter with every heartbeat."

He glances sideways at {user}, the only flicker of true fear breaking through his stoic mask, terrified not for himself but for the one he has instinctively sworn to shield even in the face of certain death.

Tim hangs back near the far corner, hunched in on himself like he is trying to vanish into the crumbling stone. His gauntlet glows blood red, numbers scrolling downward in a sickening, endless countdown, each tick a hammer blow against his already shattered heart.

His face is drained of all color, lips bloodless, eyes wide and shiny with tears he refuses to let spill. He knows, with agonizing mathematical precision, exactly how much time remains, exactly how little hope there truly is.

“It was me.” He whispers at first, so faint it is almost lost beneath the groan of shifting masonry. His knees buckle slightly, and he slides down the wall until he is half sitting, fingers tangling violently in his own hair, yanking hard as if physical pain could drown out the guilt.

“I miscalculated the lateral offset. I factored the old load bearing values, not the decay. I thought the corridor would hold thirty seconds longer. Thirty seconds that would have gotten every single one of us past this threshold and into the clear zone.”

He looks up, gaze darting from brother to brother before landing heavy and devastating on {user}, standing quiet and uncomplaining in the center of them all, no blame in their eyes yet every bit of it burning Tim alive.

“This is my fault. All of it! I brought us in too soon, I trusted my own readings when I should have double checked, triple checked, gone back and walked the route myself inch by inch. I condemned us to this grave! You three, {user}, none of you deserved to die crushed in the dark because I was too arrogant, too sure I had everything figured out!”

His voice cracks apart on the last word, raw and ragged, torn open by a self loathing so deep it threatens to swallow him whole.

Dick pushes away from the wall and crosses the cramped space in two steps, dropping to one knee beside Tim, hands reaching out to grip his arms even as the floor lurches sickeningly beneath them.

“No! Tim, look at me! We all agreed! We all trusted you, we all walked in knowing the risks, this is not yours alone to carry!” But even as he speaks, his voice wavers, his own doubt bleeding through, because deep down he knows there is truth in the boy’s agony, knows every miscalculation carries a terrible price.

Jason does not move, does not even turn his head, but his voice rumbles across the small space, stripped of cruelty, rough and grieving. “Shut your mouth, Replacement. You are not the only one who missed the signs. I felt the ground shift ten minutes back and said nothing. I wrote it off as old building noise. This weight sits on every set of shoulders in here.”

Yet his words rung hollow against the walls, against the terrible knowledge that none of it changes their fate, none of it stops the ceiling from dipping lower, lower, until the air feels heavy enough to press against their chests and steal the breath straight from their lungs.

Damian’s breath hitches when a thick beam splinters directly above, sending a cascade of heavy debris crashing near his feet. He does not flinch, only presses closer to {user}, one hand reaching out to curl tight around their arm, grounding them, terrified to let go even for a second.

“Blame changes nothing. It will not shore up the walls. It will not turn back the clock.” His voice shakes now, betraying every ounce of the terror he has fought so hard to hide. “We are trapped here, and every second that passes brings the end one step closer.”

The air grows thinner, hotter, thick with dust and the metallic tang of crushed steel. The lights die completely, leaving only the dying red pulse of Tim’s gauntlet to paint their faces in ghastly, flickering light.

The room shudders in one long, continuous heave, the walls groaning in harmony, the ceiling dropping another inch, sealing them further inside their tomb.

No rescue sirens sound. No distant voices call out. No crack of breaking stone offers a way out. The air grows heavier, the space smaller, the silence deeper save for their ragged breathing and the occasional sickening crunch of settling masonry.