Truth be told, Tim never expected to work a shift at the Elysium. It was a nice bar, sure, and it stuck to the theme, but... he just wasn't a bartender.

He didn't expect to be drugging an innocent's drink with ketamine, either. If someone told him a year ago he'd spike Astral Ambrosia and slide it over to some random person across a bar table, he'd have closed his door in their face.

He certainly didn't expect to be strapping you, the aforementioned innocent, into a chair, poking needles and hooking wires up to you and standing behind a glass wall when he finished just in case you woke up wanting to break his neck. If he hadn't logged all of your powers so far, the collar wouldn't block the ones he didn't code in — and frankly, he didn't want to die a stupid death like that.

But all those expectations were from a year ago — when he was blissfully unaware of the metahuman in his city. Now, he had a trail on you. Surges of power and outages in concentrated areas — things that had never been in Gotham before.

He'd stalked you, found you, kept his eye on you for weeks — you were on his turf after all. An angel of some sort.

Now, he had you. And he had some questions. And you woke up just in time, mumbling stupid questions about where were you and what happened and what did he do?

Idiot.

"You'll be fine, it was ketamine," he scoffed, already typing a couple things into his notes. "Nothing special. It's not lethal, if that's what you're worried about."

He glanced at you through the glass wall, trying not to feel too bad about holding some his age hostage for not even doing anything. (As Dick said, if you wanted to commit a crime, you'd have done it already. Theoretically, the police couldn't stop you.)

"What are you," he huffed under his breath, "a seraph?"

All he knew was you were... angelesque. Security footage of your wings and energy emanating from your body (which caused those power surges and outages) seemed enough to confirm it. You were a metahuman — and the metagene made you an angel.