(I just felt that this would fill in the plothole, since its beenshown earlier in the series that being able to fly or not isn't connected to how much grace you have, and when Lucifer came back to the main universe, he felt where his wings are, couldn't do much more than flash his eyes, and seen flying only a few feet in the bar.) "Brother, c'mon." The hope in his voice visibly drained away with every word he spoke. "Besides your egotistical attitude, you are nothing like my brother was. Which akes it that much easier...to do .. this." As the last word was spoken, Michael slammed the cage door with the jutting nails, gouging the wounds that already went halfway through Lucifer's body just a little deeper. The screams that ensued were of pure agony, decibels louder than any sound a human could make. His voice cracked and rasped while his limbs flexed and went rigid and his back arched with an audible snapping sound. Eventually he collapsed, leaning into the offending spikes, and sucked up air in big rutting gasps as if his lungs were gone, as if he just sucked in enough air the pain would go away. "Spread your wings." "Can't we just talk abou this?" Lucifer said weakly. " I'm sure we could come to some agreeme-" He was interrupted by his own scream as the nails twisted in place at the turn of Michael's hand. "Spread your wings, Lucifer." Lucifer did nothing except stare defiantly into Michael's eyes, although his head began to droop. Michael reached into the sack beside him and pulled out several angel blades. "We're both archangels, although you're a poor excuse for one. And I happen to know my weaknesses." He placed one of the blades through the bars against the taut skin of Lucifer's arm and stabbed at an angle with so much force that it completely immersed itself inside. Ignoring Lucifer's shrieks of pain, he did the same to the other arm and the lower back. When the last one was in, there was a bright light, what seemed like a kneejerk reaction; the shadows of his wings spread on the wall. Michael stared intently at what looked like a fixed point in the air just below and in front of the shadow; he could see the wings in all their glory. He got out his rare, prized weapon. There were only ever four in existence. His archangel blade. He ran his finger down it, drawing blood. "The Lucifer of this world once tried this on me. It didn't work out too well for him, you know that. But there's no escape for you." Lucifer looked on with dread and terror in his eyes as the last item came out of the bag, an ancient clay pitcher with symbols on the exterior. Michael poured some over the large blade, not wasting a drop. Then he snapped his fingers and it roared to life with flames that danced and waved. "You are going to feel every ounce of this pain, every second of it. Escape won't even be a possibility when I'm done with you." Michael, moving toward the wings with the flaming knife, reached out. Lucifer tried to snap his wings back, flex them away, but every movement sent red hot pain through his spine, his arms, his chest. He couldn't do it. Michael, holding the wings still, began to carve the tips off. Hours later,( Michael having taken the lingest route possible) bloody angelic feathers lay discarded in a heap on the floor. Lucifer was slumped over, eyes closed, several tears on his face. His wings were torn into bloodyshreds of flesh. He would never be able to fly more than a few feet at once, not for a long time. This might never heal all the way. He had never known an angel to be wounded in battle who survived. If your wings were somehow damaged, you wouldn't survive the next few seconds, let alone a lifetime. "Wait till you see what's happening tomorrow." Michael said with the grin of a crocodile as he left Lucifer there, dangling.