Disclaimer: You know…if I owned it, chances are that Tim Drake probably wouldn't be as sane as he is in the comics. And he'd probably be the star of many a strange story, as you all can testify to. But, sadly, I don't own any of this except the stuff that is blatantly the product of my own imagination. So, mainstream Tim is safe...for now.

Where am I…?

I don't know anymore.

I exist in a strange state nowadays, always seemingly half-awake, half-aware, never really seeing anything that I look at or hearing what's said to me. And it's like floating outside your own body, the way I feel right now. I know I'm doing things, awful things, but I can't tell that I am. It hurts, but I don't notice, and I don't know why I do what I do except that the pain goes away if I do.

I can't say how much of it they've already given me, the drug that forces me to do these things without caring, but it must be a lot, because my veins still burn with it and my skin reeks of it. Blood and sweat mingle on my face, and it tastes like it. Its fire blazes within me, searing every inch of my body and overloading my senses with pain so terrible that I dull my mind to escape it, and then they strike, telling me things that I would never believe, words I know have no meaning, things that I would never do, wrong things, but I listen to them anyway. I listen, and I obey, because I no longer have the ability to resist, since it gave out long ago. I just want the pain to stop, and they say it'll stop if I do what I'm told. So I do what they tell me to, because they'll take it away if I do.

I can gather that I'm lying on my side on something hard and cold, the floor of some building. Thinking this, I realize that I'm becoming more lucid, which means they'll drug me again here shortly.

I want to get up and move, make it possible to get away and get help, but my limbs are so heavy that it feels like I'll never lift them again because they're too much weight for me to deal with. There's a blessed numbness about me that feels so great because it's an absence of the hurt that's enveloped me from the beginning. I wonder how I got into this situation, and I'm stunned to remember that I don't remember. I just know that they give me the medicine, and it makes me feel much less in control of myself, of my actions. I don't like it, the helplessness that surrounds me here on this floor. I don't want to feel like I'm at their mercy, like I'm their puppet that they can do as they please with. I want to show them that I can be just as dangerous to them as I am to the people they send me after.

But I don't feel like it right now. I get tired so easily these days, and I just want to sleep right now. Some part of me says that I have to get up and fight back, but another part of me says that it's hopeless even if I could. There's too much of the drug coursing through my system, inhibiting my control, my ability to do what I used to do, to do the right thing for once instead of screwing it up like I already have.

My eyes drift closed, and immediately, I see images of the needles stabbing into my skin, the green fluid pumping into me, and feel the burn all over again. Then I see other things, too, blood splatters and terrified faces and bodies slumped in corners, but I don't really care because I have no idea what it means anymore. All that registers is the pain, the endless pain that takes me and sweeps me up into its folds and makes me do all these horrible things. I jerk awake from the dream, but the pain lingers there, unyielding, unwilling to let me go even after all I've done. And suddenly, I don't know how I can live with myself because of what I've done.

Thinking back on it all, I can remember the people I killed. Bruce and Dick and Damian and Stephanie got away since they're fast and strong. But Helena, Dinah, Barbara…I honestly don't know what happened to them. I have no idea how I took down Huntress and Black Canary, I…I can't think if I killed them or not. The Birds of Prey blur in my memory, and then everything else turns fuzzy with them. I think I might've gotten to the Sirens; I'm not sure. Batwoman is gone; I remember that much. I can't quite place what happened to Azrael or Lynx or Moneyspider. I think a few of the rogues got it, too. All I know is, whoever I killed, it's their blood on my face and hands, staining my sweatshirt and the soles of my shoes. Whatever I did to them, it's over now, and even though I know, I won't remember that I know. I…I don't know what to do anymore…I don't know what I'm supposed to do…if somebody could help me…

But nobody knows where I am, just like I don't know where I am. And through the knowledge is the pain, a different pain now, the kind that comes from being left behind to fend for myself when I know that I can't handle it all alone. I'm friendless, without a family to support me, and I'm slowly picking off whoever's left—if anyone's left—because I can't help it. I have to do it. I no longer have any choice in the matter. It feels like it's been years since I could make my own decisions, and it probably has been. My mind supplies an image for me, an image of Dick's face the last time I saw him without the cowl on, before I attacked him. The once-flawless skin was furrowed with worry lines and battle scars, the slicked-back black hair now graced with gray. How much older has he gotten, I wonder? I still look—still am—eighteen.

Time is slipping by me slowly. I spend it all lying here in this place, wherever this place is, alone and as yet untouched. I start to get hopeful now, as my mind begins to clear for the first time in so long. Maybe they're done with me. Maybe they won't come tonight.

Then, a man kneels down in front of me, turning my head gently so I can see his face. A strong jaw, a straight nose, bright blue eyes and pale skin, hair like devil's horns…I shudder when he touches me, when I recognize him. He smirks down at me triumphantly, holding up a silvery injector full of the drug. "I have another assignment for you, Timothy," Ra's al Ghul states cryptically before jamming the injector's needle down into a vein on my neck.

The fluid races through my body, bringing the pain back fresh and anew. I writhe on the floor, screaming and clawing at anything within reach. My vision blurs, but I can make out that Ra's has stepped back and is watching me have a fit with a smile on his face. I wonder how much of this stuff he thinks he can give me before I die. But I'm sure he doesn't care. After all, he's already killed me once, right? What's the harm of doing it about three more times for good measure?

At some point, it comes to my attention that I've stopped struggling to fight the drug. I'm lying stilly on the floor, letting it burn my veins up and consume my mind. Then comes a strange feeling of exhilaration spreading through me, and I realize, somewhat horrified, that I like it. I like the rush of power, the onslaught of sensations this drug has imbued on me. And then I see that the Tim-Drake-That-Was is fading too rapidly to be saved now. All that's left at this point is whatever Ra's al Ghul has made me into.

I'm on my feet, somehow, standing straight without swaying, which is miraculous. Ra's circles me, as if appraising real estate, and then he nods to himself in satisfaction. "Now," he announces, "you are ready—Angel."

He hands me a score of weapons that I strap onto myself with ease, so I know that I've been here for years if he's gotten me this used to handling swords, knives, shuriken, guns, and grenades. Then he turns to me and commands, "Do not return until you've killed all that remain." As I turn to go, he stops me by calling out, "But… Bring Bruce and Damian Wayne to me alive. I have unfinished business with them as yet."

I nod, and then I'm in the air, still somehow keeping aloft despite the weight on me. I swing through the streets of Gotham just as I used to, but I can feel how different it all is now. The city's changed. The people have changed. Even the family's changed. And, of course, so have I, but it wasn't like I chose that. No, whatever's happened to me, it's not my fault, but that doesn't make me feel any better about what I have to do.

And so, Tim Drake flies off into the night one last time out of many one last times to kill everybody he has left to hold onto.

No. I'm not Tim Drake anymore.

I'm Angel.

~ The End? ~