He could try, yes, but there's the blade to consider. Dulling it to end up wherever Robin (and the others? Oh please, let the others be there too. There's so many he hasn't seen here or in the sky) is a trade he'd make in a heartbeat. Ruining the blade in a fruitless endeavor that only leaves him weary and sweating out more water that he doesn't have to spare? He can't risk it. Tim shakes his head. "I'm not going to try. I don't think there's a chance of it."

They wouldn't have supplied him the means to get around their bars. They've gone through so much trouble to separate the Tributes. The Gamemakers obviously have a plan here, and they would safeguard it well. Tim slams the butt end of the blade against the bars, or he tries to. His eyes widen in surprise when it slips between them, momentum carrying it down to ring against a crossbar.

Tim is still staring at the weapon nestled between the rods when he answers Damian's question numbly. "A sandworm took out the other Tim Drake. It swallowed him whole."

His eyes flicker over at the boy, trying to see what he's carrying, what might be tucked away under that ridiculous uniform. Did he have weapons? Food? Tim can't spare any water for him, and the nights are so cold that he's loathe to offer up the sleeping bag, not when it doubles as a means of carrying his water containers. Damian has lasted this long. He's doing something right. Tim wants to up his odds. "Did you go for the Cornucopia?"