Tim Drake oneshots

Cult of the Saint

Title: The Cult of the Saint

---

Whispers of the "Saint" had spread through the criminal underworld for years. The assassins of the cult moved like shadows, unseen and unheard, leaving behind their signature mark-a red feather-at every scene. What began as a small group of fervent followers grew into a sprawling network of fanatics. And at the heart of their belief was a figure they had deified: Red Robin, known to them as their divine savior.

Tim Drake had no idea how it all began. It seemed absurd, a cult worshipping him of all people. He had been aware of strange encounters over the past year-assassins who would spare him mid-battle, others who would leave him cryptic messages about his "holy light" or "divine mission." He had written it off as the ramblings of a few unhinged mercenaries until the night he was surrounded by over fifty assassins, all kneeling before him.

Their leader, a masked woman known only as Sister Blood, approached Tim with reverence, bowing deeply before she spoke. "Oh, Blessed Saint, guide us. We follow your path of salvation and blood. Lead us to cleanse the wicked."

Tim's heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the gathering of killers, all bearing the mark of the cult-a red feather inked on their wrists. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. "I'm not your saint. I'm not here to lead you."

Sister Blood tilted her head, as though trying to comprehend his words. "We have seen your acts of mercy, your battles against corruption. The Brotherhood believes that only through following your divine will can we be saved." Her voice took on a fervor, her gaze unwavering. "You are the Lightbringer, the Saint who will deliver us."

Tim took a step back, his mind racing. This wasn't just some harmless admiration; it was a full-blown cult with him as its figurehead. "I don't want your worship. I don't need followers, and I'm not your god."

Sister Blood bowed again, as if his refusal only solidified her beliefs. "As you wish, Blessed One. Your humility only proves your worth. We will continue to carry out your will, even if you do not acknowledge it."

He couldn't reason with them; they were too far gone. He fled the scene, disappearing into the night, but the unsettling feeling of being watched followed him for weeks afterward. They were everywhere-hiding in the shadows, watching him with fervent eyes. It became clear that he couldn't just ignore the cult. He had to dismantle it.

---

Tim began to gather information, tracking down the cult's high-ranking members. Each encounter only deepened his unease. The cult wasn't just a group of fanatical assassins; it was an organized network with roots in nearly every major criminal syndicate across the globe. Their influence extended further than he had imagined, and they continued to spread the doctrine of the "Saint" to new recruits.

His investigation took him to an abandoned cathedral in Eastern Europe, rumored to be one of the cult's main hideouts. As he crept inside, he found the pews filled with assassins, all kneeling in silent prayer beneath a massive stained-glass window depicting a red-winged figure that looked disturbingly like himself.

"Tim Drake," a voice echoed from the altar. Tim's eyes snapped to the figure standing at the front-Azruelle. Tim's breath caught in his throat. "You?" Tim asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Azruelle's smile was bitter. "Surprised, Saint?" His voice carried a hint of mockery. "I tried to stop them at first, you know. But then I realized... if they're so determined to worship you, then maybe they could serve a greater purpose."

Tim's shock turned to anger. "So, you let this insanity continue? You've let people kill in my name?"

Azruelle's expression softened, and he stepped down from the altar, approaching Tim slowly. "It's not like that," he said quietly. "I never asked for them to worship you. But when I couldn't change their minds, I thought... I could at least steer them away from senseless violence. Their devotion is absolute. If anyone could lead them toward something better, it's you."

The logic twisted in Tim's mind. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. "I'm not a savior, Azruelle. I don't want this."

"You think I don't know that?" Azruelle's tone turned sharp. "I've told them over and over that you're just a man. But to them, you're the only light they've ever known. You gave them hope in the darkness. I couldn't take that away." He reached out and gently placed a hand on Tim's shoulder. "You've always been a saint to me. They just see what I've always seen."

Tim's resolve weakened at the sincerity in Azruelle's eyes. There was a time, years ago, when Tim had given Azruelle hope too. He had seen the boy struggling in the streets and had done what he could to help. To Azruelle, those small acts of kindness had meant the world. It wasn't hard to imagine how others, desperate for purpose, might cling to that same light.

But that didn't mean it was right.

"I can't be what they think I am," Tim said quietly, his voice strained. "I'm not a god. I'm just... trying to do the right thing."

Azruelle's gaze softened, and he took a step closer, his voice a low murmur. "That's exactly why they follow you." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, weathered book, placing it in Tim's hand. "If you don't want to be their god, then show them a different way. Teach them what you really stand for."

Tim looked down at the book-a manifesto of sorts, written by the cult members, filled with teachings and philosophies derived from his battles and his acts of mercy. It wasn't just about worship; it was about changing the world through his example. It was a twisted, distorted interpretation of everything he had fought for, but there was still a chance to reshape it.

"Fine," Tim said, his voice steadying. "But if I do this, it's on my terms. No more killing. No more bloodshed in my name. If they truly believe in me, they'll follow that."

Azruelle's smile returned, warm and genuine. "As you command, my Saint."

---

In the months that followed, the cult began to change under Tim's influence. The red feathers were no longer left at crime scenes as marks of death but as symbols of protection for the helpless. The assassins, once mere killers, became guardians who intervened to prevent violence, striking only in defense.

Tim never fully embraced the title they had given him, but he accepted that if they were going to worship him, he would use that influence for good. He remained wary, always questioning the dangerous line between reverence and fanaticism, but for the first time, the cult's misguided devotion had a purpose that aligned with his own ideals.

And as long as Azruelle was by his side, whispering reassurances in his ear, Tim couldn't deny that maybe, just maybe, he could be the light they believed in.