Tim is impressed by Damian's survival. It's not that he expected Damian to go down easily, but he's seen enough videos to know that getting away from Cornucopias alive can often depend on reaching it first and luck (a certain willingness to kill helps - although Tim's not sure if killing would be something even Damian could do so immediately upon entrance, with a field dominated by teenagers and children. Maybe an adult, he thinks, but the idea dismays him). He doesn't think that Damian would have been able to resist the lure of weaponry. The kid is fast enough to have gotten in and gotten out.

Damian's alive. Tim doesn't care how much they don't get along; suddenly, he wants on the other side of these bars more than he's ever wanted anything, because getting driven crazy by the most petulant Robin is preferable to being slowly driven insane by heat and one's own bloody memories and thoughts. Insults and arguments are still talking, and Tim hasn't had much of that in recent days.

"Good." Tim didn't know what he'd do if Damian were locked in there. Probably spend the rest of the arena scratching away at the bars with the scythe until one broke off, and he could pull and twist Damian through the bars. He picks up the bladed weapon again and looks at it carefully, then runs a hand along the rock wall. "How soft do you think the stone here is? If it flakes like flint or shale, maybe I can gouge it enough to free the moorings. We've got time."

His next words are icy. Tim is trying not to think about them, really. "You can still hear the sandworms outside. I'm not heading back out there."