Author's Note/Disclaimer: Obviously, the original comic that this is based on ("Fallen Angel"; Prof. X & X-Men no.6) belongs to Stan Lee and the rest of the Marvel team responsible; I do not claim any credit for the work whatsoever, only what is contained within this possibly half-decent (review it and inform me otherwise if you want), partly shameless parody. Hell, this is my first "X-Fic" – not that I have published a great number of them regardless of genre – therefore I do not expect it to be very good really. Anyway, enough of my ramblings (well it's pretty much my first A/N I think…). As I've already mentioned in this paragraph, I would appreciate reviews; I don't mind constructive criticism. Or flattery, of course. But I can accept compromises. Just don't start a flame war with me, muahahaha… Okay this is already far too long now, and stupid. I shall get on with it!
Just before I do that, let me apologise for things that may annoy you. Including what I've done to Warren, largely due to my lack of knowledge of "X-Comics" as of yet, my strange sense of humour, and urge to make stuff up…
Right, enough said, jeez!
"Halo?"
As a student of Professor Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Warren Worthington III has been training to hone his mutant abilities for several months now.
But nothing could have prepared him for the excruciating torture he has been forced to endure for the last few hours.
Accompanied by a bizarre kaleidoscope of strobe lights, the onslaught of intense sound waves strikes with a brutal force -- practically overwhelming his senses.
"Have to stay focused… Like the professor has been teaching us…" Angel thinks to himself in his pounding head, that he is clutching with his right arm, whilst he endures a mind-splitting ordeal worse than any migraine he has ever experienced. The contortion of his facial expression provides a small glimpse of the terrible agony he is fighting to withstand. "No matter what's done to me, I can't betray the others!" he yells inwardly, as he pounds his free arm on the floor with substantial effort.
"Not even if I pay for my silence with my life!"
It may have been the realisation of how melodramatic and over-exaggerated his last outcry was that awakened Warren. However, it was probably the continuous oscillating drone of the alarm clock at nine o'clock in the morning. For a while he was subject to momentary blindness, and his eyes were locked with a powdery green organic substance, known by those who are not like Forge as "sleep dust". After several minutes of groaning, our graceful hero attempted to clamber out of his bed. Only to discover that he was, in fact, lying on the floor. Rather surprised, he urged to stand up and assess his surroundings further.
"Nuuuurgghhh… Big mistake…" he otherwise incoherently mumbled, as his knees buckled and he barely even managed to squat. He was back on the carpet again. Not willing to give up, he then tried a simple limb movement exercise, desperate to restore some of the sensation back to his left leg, which was now rendered unbearable due to "pins and needles". Again, a futile effort, which he realised once his foot wouldn't move more then a few centimetres in either direction. Then a half-empty bottle of whisky "clunked" as it came into contact with the floor, and spilled over the carpet, as well as the exhausted figure upon it nearby.
"What the…?" he mumbled with increasing volume, wondering where the hell he was and what the hell he was doing. "Where the hell am I and what the hell happened???" he croaked, now past the "mumbling" stage and onto the dreaded "mouth-after-chewing-sawdust-with-hints-of-acid" stage.
"Bugger, that shouldn't have happened," said the editor, chewing his pen and staring at the computer monitor. "Then again, neither should this have… Hmm… It never did happen then…"
"Huh?" Warren was sure that he heard an unfamiliar voice for a moment. At that very time, though, he was more concerned about the pain now emanating from his back. "Owww!" he yelped, suddenly realising that his wings were crumpled from having been laid on. "My poor beautiful, delicate angel-wings…" he coughed, as he then didn't hesitate to outstretch them to their full span. Without thinking of the many surrounding liquor bottles… As if he was in any state to take heed of the brief forewarning. "Oh sh—oot!" he gasped under dry breath, as he witnessed about half a dozen glass bottles fall to the floor. He closed his eyes again and drifted off, knowing all too well of the unlikelihood that it was all a dream, yet still hoping for the cliché to apply.
Thirty-four and a half minutes later, the "mutant" suddenly remembered something. About thirty seconds afterwards, he had managed to open his eyes almost fully, and the terrifying extent of such recollection sunk in. "I'm late! Ohhh, this is a really bad time for the Greys to pop up for a visit…"