Looking in the mirror, Warren traced the shape of his nose with two fingers. The day before it had been perfect and straight, and had been just the right size for his face; no one had ever noticed it – ever - which was impressive, and the best thing for a nose to be was nondescript. That way there was nothing to distract beautiful women and possible rivals from his piercing blue eyes. But now his nose was swollen and off-centre, and a purple bruise was beginning to well up from inside. Broken in a fight, Hank had iced it, but that only made it worse. Warren felt revolted by his own reflection. The crooked nose marred his face, stole his perfection away. And Warren needed to be beautiful.
He was not particularly smart, and his powers were not exactly, well, powerful. His relationships, though frequent and shared by a host of dazzlingly gorgeous women who made for fabulous sex, were never successful. All he had was his body. He defined himself by his appearance; it was what set him apart from the common denominator. And now it was broken. He felt like smashing the mirror to hide the hideous monster before his eyes.
They had all assured him it was fine; Rogue had even called it "sexy". But Warren did not feel sexy. He felt like a disgusting failure. He could not stand the sight of his own image.
He swung on a jacket and walked to his car, gravel and autumn leaves crunching under his shoes. He could have flown down the stairs, but looking like this made him feel heavy. He did not resemble an angel anymore; he should not fly like one until he did.
"Warren!" Jean ran up behind him. "Where are you going? I thought you were scared to go out like that," she said, a relaxed laugh in her voice. He was not amused.
"I'm going out. Run some errands..." he mumbled, hunching his shoulders and exploring the pockets of his expensive fall coat. The wind pushed a strand of hair across Jean's face as she wrinkled her nose (which was as nice as ever). "You okay, Warren? You sound... upset, or something."
He turned away and yanked open his car door. "It's nothing. I'm just tired."
"Well, okay," she replied, unconvinced. "Just remember to buy bread and milk, if it's not too much trouble."
"Yeah, whatever." Warren slammed the door and pulled out of the red-and-gold-tree-lined driveway at high speed. He was not even much of a driver, he reflected, as he ran a red light because he had been staring in repulsion at his face in the rearview mirror. He was not much good at anything except being beautiful.
Checking the list he had made earlier, Warren pulled into a driveway. He walked quickly into the building, terrified that someone would see and recognize him. At the front desk he cleared his throat.
"I'd like to make an appointment for this, please," he said, gesturing with a carefully careless grimace at his broken nose. The desk clerk raised an eyebrow. Her nose was very dainty.
"How long until it's healed?"
Warren frowned, trying to remember what Hank had said. "It should be better in two weeks, but it'll never go back to normal- that's why I'm here, obviously."
"So, two weeks from now?"
"No, I need it done sooner. Way sooner. I'd like to jump the waiting list and get it done tomorrow, if possible," he explained.
The clerk rolled her eyes and sighed, "We can't perform cosmetic surgery on a such a bad broken nose. It's regulation."
Warren reached into his pocket to present a roll of bills and flashed her his most charming, most suggestive smile. "I promise I'll make it worth your while to forget about those regulations this once."
The clerk gave him a deadpan stare, and refused to do anything but repeat over and over again: "We can't perform cosmetic surgery on a broken nose." As she was deaf to his coaxing, bribery, and threats, he left, frustrated and let down.
The next plastic surgeon on the list turned him down, and the next. The secretary at the fourth almost recognized him, and he had had to run out in a hurry. It seemed that nowhere would help him until he was healed.
Warren swore under his breath. No one else could understand why it meant so much to him, but his face was all he was. If he could not fix his nose, he was not sure he wanted to live. He could not stand being ugly... His mind flashed to the moment he had first seen himself after the change; blue skin grated on his eyes. He had screamed until his throat was raw. He remembered the time Bobby had had to stop him from carving off his own skin with a kitchen knife in a fit of desperate rage. Warren even had started; the skin on his forearm had never been the same after growing back, even after he had reverted to his original skin colour.
He drummed his hands anxiously on the parked car's steering wheel and thought. He could go under the radar to get the surgery done, but all of the illegal places had dubious health records and worse credentials. Warren was sure they would do it for the price he was offering, but there was no way to be certain they could do what they said they were capable of. They could botch the surgery royally, and then what would he look like? An image of Michael Jackson floated to the top of his head and he shuddered. The nose was terrible, but in tandem with the pale white skin... Warren had always been fair, but Jackson... Now, that was white.
Bleached white skin; another face came to mind. Black goatee, bloody red eyes and a diamond on his brow to match. Warren realized this thought was crazy, but he couldn't help entertaining the notion. He really felt like a monster with his nose like this; he could never survive two more weeks, and although Sinister would most likely scoff at the idea of performing cosmetic surgery, he would do a great job if offered the right incentive. Fingering the money in his pocket, Warren knew the geneticist would never agree to help him for any monetary sum, but he might leap at the chance to acquire genetic material containing both the Apocalypse strand and a slight healing factor. Looking towards the sky, Warren's eyes swept over his reflection in the rearview and he almost snarled in shock at the repulsiveness of his own image. Forcing himself to stare, to absorb the entirety of his face and decide if he truly needed surgery, he came to a decision.
Warren Worthington had to be beautiful, because there was nothing else he could be. And so he pulled out his phone.
It was a strangely simple task to locate Sinister's lab. Warren had called a couple of increasingly less official colleagues and acquaintances, and the address was his within an hour. Warren made a mental note to inform the other X-Men how easy it was to locate villains in this way.
The place looked normal enough; a relatively run-down practicing physician's office on a row of unsuccessful, if legitimate, businesses flanked by old golden-leaved oak trees. The shabby office's receptionist greeted him with a nod and waited expectantly.
Warren cleared his throat and quickly spoke the phrase he had been directed to say by a contact: "I'm here for doctor Essex; the test results came in negative."
"For a soul?"
Warren swallowed dryly. The code was eerily prophetic. "Clearly. I'm here, aren't I?" He held his breath. If the information was faulty...
The receptionist stood and opened a door behind the desk. "Right this way, Mr. Worthington. Doctor Essex will be with you momentarily."
She took his coat (he hurriedly removed the wallet from a pocket) and passed him a glass of red wine - which had appeared out of nowhere - as he walked through the door and down into the earth.
The room at the end of the long flight of stairs was enormous, and so dimly lit that Warren could not tell how immense it really was. Various machines and tanks of slow-bubbling fluid emitted glows of feeble blue light. Odd sounds floated on the dank, antiseptic atmosphere; whirrs and clicks and an almost imperceptible moan of pain carried lightly on the stagnant breeze. Intimidated and starting to have serious doubts as to the prudence of his decision, Warren gulped his wine and sat down on the one article of furniture, an antique Victorian-style couch completely at odds with the surrounding utilitarian decor. He refilled his glass from a bottle standing on a bare operating table to one side, and settled down nervously to wait.
A smooth voice, low and rumbling and totally unreadable, came from around the corner. Jumping up, Warren saw red eyes appear before the rest of the man, a bloody glow rending the soft, ominous light of the laboratory.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Worthington. And to what do I owe this most unexpected pleasure?" Sinister stepped into the light, eight feet tall and radiating authority. Swallowing the last of his wine to steady his nerves and keep from dashing from the dim sanctum in terror, Warren responded tersely, as politely as he was able.
"Doctor Essex."
He offered his hand, but thought better of it and fixed his hair to conceal the abandoned gesture. After an awkward pause, Warren continued, as Sinister was clearly waiting for an explanation despite his etiquette.
"I need... I need you to fix this." Seeing the geneticist's eyes widen in derision, Warren rushed onwards, clarifying, "I know you don't usually do this kind of thing, and I usually wouldn't have come, but it's really important and no one else would do it."
He took a deep breath and reminded himself not to sound desperate; Sinister was less likely to help him if he acted pathetic. "I just... I just need to be beautiful. It's all I have." A split second passed as Sinister stood frozen, and Warren gulped inwardly - maybe that had not been the best example of a lack of desperation.
Sinister's face twisted in anger. "Get. Out," he snarled. "I am a geneticist, not some tawdry plastic surgeon! If you come here again, I will personally transfer your consciousness into the most hideous form I can locate and condemn you to live for all eternity!" He grabbed Warren's arm and threw him into the wall, eyes glowing furiously.
"Wait!" Warren cried hysterically, steadying himself on the wall. "If you fix my face, I'll let you do anything you want to me!"
Sinister stiffened. The atmosphere thickened and closed in on Warren as the very air seemed to stick in his lungs. A whimper drifted on the weak breeze. Sinister's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head.
"Anything I want?"
"Anything," Warren replied desperately, but quickly added, "But, you have to let me go, and you can't interfere with my mind or my appearance. But other than that..."
After pondering a moment, Sinister's mouth spread in a wide white smile. "Indeed, I believe this accord is agreeable, Mr. Worthington. Shall we commence immediately?"
Trying to reply, Warren found his head was throbbing slightly and his mouth was not working as his brain directed. He wet his lips.
"Please lie here quickly, Mr. Worthington. The sedatives will start working soon," Sinister called from around a corner.
"What sedatives?" Warren managed to mumble thickly. Then the world started spinning and his knees buckled. He tasted the metallic tang of the floor before Sinister strode over and lifted him onto a cold operating table, removing his shirt and coat and attaching him securely with metal clamps.
"The wine, Mr. Worthington. I wasn't certain if I was about to have an entire squadron of X-Men in my Laboratory, so I drugged you just in case. One less meddler to worry about..."
His voice faded, and as he pushed a syringe into Warren's wrist, the world went black.
Elizabeth stood over him, deep violet eyes locked onto his, and she upended a bucket of icy water on him. Spluttering, he looked down to see he was clad in his Archangel costume, but his skin was still normal. He pointed this out joyously to Betsy and she smiled demurely, grabbing his neck and pulling him into a kiss. Their lips touched, and change spread over his figure until his sudden nakedness was entirely blue.
The scene changed; he was speeding in his convertible down an empty highway, an elated Bobby in the passenger seat. Going faster and faster, Warren tasted freedom and yelled in exhilaration, the wind slapping his face and blowing his hair straight back. He turned his head; Bobby was screaming something. Warren turned back to the front just in time to see a brick wall meet the front of the car in a rending, screeching explosion of metal and stone. The world dissolved in a wave of excruciating pain.
"I'm very disappointed, Warren," his father said, sipping a drink. The office was as lavish as ever. The air smelled of leather and dust.
"She is hardly our calibre; us aristocracy have to stick together, you know, and she simply doesn't belong. I expected better of you." His father sighed deeply and swilled his drink thoughtfully. "Here, son, take a look. This is what our type are like." He pulled a photograph out of his wallet and passed it to Warren.
He and Candy had been posing for a photo shoot; People magazine, he thought. They were sitting on a "park bench" (it was really inside a studio); Candy was smiling in that good-girl sexy way of hers, and Warren was gazing into the distance. It had been a long day, and he was tired and bored; for quite some time he had been admiring one of the technicians. He had wondered what it would be like to be with her; he liked the intelligent look of her and the way her small round breasts moved under her tight shirt, and her long red hair. He had considered asking her out to coffee, but had decided against it. Candy was woefully suspicious.
His father's office melted away into an open sky. He was flying. He was free. The air opened to admit him and he reveled in it. The sky belonged to him and he was of it. He was happy.
But his wings clenched, and refused to flap. He fell, wind pushing to hold him up and hurting his joints. The air slashed at his eyes and the world burned. The clouds turned liquid and the sky spun around him. His wings refused to obey his commands.
The ground rose to meet him sickeningly fast, his body slamming into it in a spray of gore and an immaculate show of deadly immovable force. He felt his bones shatter and his flesh rend, and saw his broken body on the ground from above; his face, a punched-in mass of blood and matted blond hair and splintered bone.
But through the haze of agonizing dyingness a voice offered salvation in grinding steel and granite: "My Archangel... My Death... What would you give to be fixed?"
And Warren, dying and broken, crawled on his knees to his Master and swore through bloody lips to serve him faithfully forever if only he would make him beautiful.
The sky was dark and void of stars, lit only by a pale blue glow. The edges of his vision liquid and his mind still dulled, Warren let his thoughts drift. Where was he, anyway? He remembered the mission... a punch that threw a spray of stars behind his eyes... blood pouring down his face... his nose! Awareness returned to him with violent abandon and Warren sat up abruptly, recalling everything that had happened, including his deal with Sinister.
The world spun and darkened and he sank back down onto the operating table with a moan of pain, one hand pressed to his forehead.
The first thing Warren noticed of his predicament was the heat. His physiology was designed to keep his body at a constantly comfortable temperature (an adaption essential to flying at high altitudes), and his wings always flared and adjusted to release excess heat or maintain warmth. But now Warren was drenched in sweat and he truly felt hot, like he had not since the manifestation of his mutant abilities. And his muscles were on fire, especially in his back and wings. Looking down at his arms, he noticed the puncture marks at his wrist and inner elbow; holes much too large to be made by conventional medical needles.
His head swam, pounding with a migraine that made him want to go back to his sedated dreamland. His limbs felt painfully heavy and his throat was raw and tasted bloody. He had never felt so damn tired in his life.
"Awake at last, Mr. Worthington? I was beginning to think you were never going to join us in the world of the living. Tea?"
Sinister proffered a delicate china cup questioningly, as if they were old friends getting together for a social call. Warren tried to ask for a mirror, but all that came from his mouth was a weak rasp that felt like it was shredding the flesh from his throat. He gulped painfully and managed to nod stiffly, though his neck muscles protested vehemently, to the offer of tea.
Essex poured a cup and passed it, holding his own china with a strangely effeminate grip. He sipped his drink slowly, regarding Warren hungrily out of the corner of his eye. Warren gingerly tasted the hot tea and drank quickly upon finding it soothed his bloodied throat.
Sinister drawled loosely, "The tea contains a powerful analgesic, which should ease any discomfort you might experience."
Choking and spluttering to spit out the tea, Warren scowled. "Would it kill you to tell me what drugs you're pumping me full of?"
The geneticist just smiled and stirred his cup demurely. "If you would like relief from the discomfort I am sure you are experiencing, you will drink the tea."
Warren drank the tea and ended up feeling mostly numb. But at least he was not aching all over.
"Um... May I ask, what did you do to me?" Warren asked tentatively, examining the holes in his wrists, surrounded by bruising, and the swollen veins of his forearms. "Is... Is this dangerous?"
Sinister just smiled, unreadable as ever.
"Pardon me, Essex? Could... could I please see a mirror? I'd like to check what I... how the surgery turned out." Warren explored his nose with his fingers; it felt fixed.
A mirror rose in front of him on a mechanical arm; his nose was perfect! Even the bruising was gone. Warren almost cried in relief at seeing the renewed perfection of his beautiful image and began tripping over his words in his ecstasy. "God, thank you, Essex! I couldn't live like that... oh God, I'm fixed, I'm beautiful. Thank you, thank you -"
"-You can thank me by getting out of my laboratory," Sinister interrupted suavely, leaning back carelessly in his chair with his eyes half-closed like a cat's. "I'm waiting."
The wrist and ankle restraints removed, Warren was able to swing his legs over the edge of the table with minor difficulty. He stood unsteadily, and a rush of nausea washed over him and he retched, falling to his knees and grabbing his stomach, one arm barely supporting the remainder of his weight. Acidic bile, mixed with a hint of blood, spattered the metal floor. Sinister tutted.
"Really. Some people have absolutely no manners... could you please excuse yourself from my laboratory, Mr. Worthington? My work with you is done."
Warren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; the bile burned his throat and he swallowed a cry of pain. He pulled himself back up to a standing position with the aid of the operating table, letting out a string of profanity at the excruciating exertion it took. Seeing his shirt and coat on a table, he quickly put them on and stuffed his tie in his pants pocket.
He strode across the room and up the stairs, eager to be rid of the dim sterile sanctum and its mysterious occupants. Ignoring the glass of wine offered by the pretty receptionist, Warren grabbed his coat and burst into the intense fall sunlight, reveling in its glorious warmth on his perfect face. He spread his wings wide, enjoying the crisp autumn breeze ruffling his feathers; the shabby row of offices currently had no customers to gape at him. Warm, relaxed laughter bubbled from his throat as he soaked in the situation; the weather was beautiful, and so was he!
Warren felt like flying but his wings were still aching and he was starting to feel nauseous again. He got into his car and drove back to the mansion, stopping on the way to purchase bread and milk at a convenience store, where the checkout girl flirted with him outrageously.
"I got your groceries, Jean," Warren called into the entrance hall, tucking the checkout girl's number into his pocket. "Come and get 'em." No reply. He dropped them off in the kitchen and proceeded to his room.
The full length mirror reflected him back in all his glory. Warren was not a narcissist, but he really thought he would go for himself if he were a girl; not that he was egotistical or anything. He was just being honest. There was nothing wrong with being spectacularly attractive.
Bobby poked his head in the door. "Warren? Hey, guys, Angel's back!" he yelled over his shoulder. Jean ran over, scolding, "Warren, oh my God, where were you? You have to tell us when you decide to leave for three days! We were worried sick."
"Well, maybe you were," Bobby snickered. "I knew the whole time ol' flyboy was just scoring with a hot girl. Weren't you, Warry?"
Warren scowled. "…Actually, I was... uh... getting..."
Jean's eyes widened in understanding and she pursed her lips. "You didn't. Warren, you moron! There was nothing wrong with your nose. Nothing!"
"Well, that's nice of you to say, Jeannie, but yeah, there was," Warren snapped. "I looked like a goddamn monster."
Still uncomprehending, Bobby looked from one to the other in quick succession. "Huh? I don't get it..."
"Warren got plastic surgery," Jean accused, casting him a disgusted look, "For his nose."
Bobby's wide eyes reeked of suppressed laughter. "Plastic surgery? That's priceless! I thought only girls did that," he snickered.
"Up yours," Warren retorted through clenched teeth, glowering at Bobby from behind his hair. "I can do what I want."
Bobby tried to stifle his laughter. Jean did not stop scowling.
And when Henry found out later, he was not pleased either. His yellow eyes peered at Warren in concern. "Warren, how did you even get this done? No reputable clinic would have operated on such a badly wounded nose so soon after the injury."
Warren just grunted moodily. He had expected them to be happy for him.
"You didn't go to an illegal place, did you?" Hank asked urgently, the thought just occurring to him. "It could be dangerous. Have you been experiencing any... odd symptoms?"
Warren's wings and back were still excruciatingly sore, and he had trouble holding food down. He had frequent headaches and earsplitting migraines, and he felt weak all the time. The holes where Sinister had inserted his gargantuan needles still had not scabbed and frequently bled on his clothes.
"No. No, I've been... fine."
"Well, I'd like to run a few tests just in case. Considering you won't tell me where you got the surgery done," Henry frowned.
Warren hesitated; he did not want anyone knowing how low he had sunk to fix his face, but he was also still unsure what Essex had done to him. He nodded.
"I'll just do a general sweep for anything odd; no extra poking around," Hank promised, clapping a reassuring hand on Warren's shoulder.
He winced in pain.
The bird's feathers were ruffled up to protect it from the chill wind, but its increased volume could not conceal its obvious decrepitude; its beady black eyes were glazed and fevered, and one wing was spread out haphazardly, bent in the wrong direction. Every few seconds it let out a heart-rending chirp which grew more and more feeble as evening fell and the air grew more chill.
Warren had been walking in the woods behind the mansion for more than an hour, coat collar turned up to deflect the autumn air, but it was almost sunset when he came across the wounded starling, and the grey sky was just beginning to yield pale snowflakes.
He stopped over the little bundle of feathers with his hands in the pockets of his expensive coat, smiling slightly at the thought of Betsy. She had always had a soft spot for injured animals; he was certain she would have brought it to the mansion and nursed it back to health.
He understood her desire to help... at least, he thought so. But then, why did the sight of this little bird fill him with... disgust?
The starling's piteous cheeps made his blood boil. A wave of heat swept over him at the sight of the broken wing, the glazed eyes that gazed at him in sickening desperation. The blatant display of weakness made Warren ill; he felt loathing for the animal like fire in his veins.
His heart pounded in his ears, anger rising in a crescendo.
Slay the weak.
With a snarl, one fluid movement changed him, threw his expensive coat to the ground in shreds, and ended the bird's pathetic life in a spurt of scarlet fury.
Breathing hard, Warren fought for control. What had he just done? The bird had done nothing to him, why had he hurt it? He clenched his fists, and with a burst of concentration returned to his usual form. His jacket was ruined; it lay on the ground in tatters, spattered with a fine mist of blood.
Warren pushed one hand back from his forehead, tousling his blond hair. He hissed gently through his teeth, letting the rage-driven adrenalin leave his system as he contemplated the carnage he had wrought on the innocent creature. He sat down on the frozen ground, hard.
The grey evening light illuminated the snowflakes that landed on his suit. It was cold, but Warren ignored them. Leaning against the tree trunk, he squeezed his eyes shut tight and massaged his temples. What the hell had happened to him? It never been so hard to revert back to his ordinary form, and the compulsion to destroy the tiny bird had been... strong. Way too strong.
But, technically, he had done the starling a favor. It was in pain; he had alleviated its suffering.
...Yes, what he had done was merciful. There was nothing wrong with killing a weak animal. It would have died anyways. He had simply expedited the process and minimized its agony. He had done good.
What he had done was good.
Warren nodded to himself and stood up, brushing dirt and a few snowflakes off himself. He started to stride away, back towards the mansion, but paused. Taking a half-step back, he raised his shoe over the carcass of the starling, heel still planted firmly in the dirt.
The he snapped his foot down and twisted, grinding it into the frozen ground. He felt delicate bones crunch and a spurt of crimson splattered out from under his shoe.
And then he walked away without looking back.
The warm mansion was a welcome change from the freezing evening; Warren couldn't stop a grin from spreading over his perfect features.
"You're looking cheerful, Warren," Jean scowled, bent over the sink washing dishes. "Still pleased with yourself for messing with your face?"
Betsy just looked at him disapprovingly from her perch on the kitchen counter, leaning against the window to the darkening sky. He hadn't known she had arrived.
"Ladies, ladies, let's not quibble." Warren flipped his perfect blond hair and flashed his white teeth. "You know as well as I do that you're glad beyond belief my perfection has been restored."
"He's even modest," Jean muttered under her breath. Betsy smirked.
"That's right, actually," Warren said. "As well as being spectacularly sexy, I also happen to be the very paragon of virtue. I'm selfless; you saw yourself how I sacrificed my own time and money to ensure that you ladies have me the way I'm supposed to be." He grinned at their disbelieving looks of distaste and tossed his hair out of his face.
Jean raised her eyebrows. "If you're such a gentleman, why aren't you helping me with these dishes? Here, take this."
Warren quickly backtracked. "Uh, no. Actually, I have to go... help someone with... with something."
"Have fun at your charity ball, Mr. Selfless," Jean called sarcastically as Warren backed out of the kitchen. He could hear the two women laughing as he walked down the hall, but he'd acquired a feeling of genuine happiness that nothing could dispel. Their joking insults couldn't hurt him now; he felt good, for the first time in awhile. He felt alive. He felt electric.
He felt strong.
Blankets wrapped tightly around him to keep out the chill wind that drifted through the open window, Warren readied himself for sleep. All in all, the day had been good. He was beautiful again, Betsy was back, Bobby had even refrained from complaining about the cold air drifting under the wall (he had only mumbled something like, "If I wanted Antarctica in here, I'd have made it myself.")
Drowsiness overtook his mind and he let his thoughts wander. Betsy was back... Maybe they... Maybe...
Sleep came stealthily, melding into the dim light of his bedroom and mixing with reality. Soon, the dream began.
Warren got up and walked across the room to the window, letting the freezing wind blow snowflakes into his hair. He focused, just for a moment, and Archangel came readily to the surface.
Warren adored the moment of transformation into Archangel; it felt intimate, toxically satisfying. And his blue-skinned form was ecstasy to reside in –the sensation of controlled violence ready to burst forth, the tightness of a coiled spring, the power and the glory.
He stretched his wings out to their full extent so that their tips brushed the walls on either side, enjoying the harsh metallic clatter they made when he moved them. He stood like that for a moment, and then he turned abruptly and walked out of the room and into the hall. Then he went into Betsy's room.
Serve your master.
She was asleep. He strode over the floor to her still form, watching her for a moment before bending down, turning her face towards him and waking her with a kiss.
"Oh, Warren," she murmured sleepily, pushing him away. "What are you doing- hey, why are you Archangel?" she asked in alarm, wakefulness coming with the startling revelation. As soon as her voice rose, Warren slapped her across the face.
His hands were gauntleted in metal. The vicious slap ripped the skin off her face.
Her scream was cut off as he kneed her in the stomach, easily, because she had raised her hands to cover her pulverized face. When she doubled over, he brought both fists down on the back of her neck and she collapsed, bleeding, on the floor and did not move. Warren regarded the woman lying in the pool of blood for another minute, then he lifted her and brought her to the west corridor. He tied her up against the wall, her feet an inch above the floor. Still unconscious, she sagged like a rag doll.
The rest of the X-Men were disposed of with similar ease, and he tied them up all down both sides of the corridor with their heads all at the same level; Piotr's knees were bent, and Logan was suspended a foot above the floor. Kitty was already dead, killed in her sleep with one fatal slice of Warren's metal wing because she could escape the bonds too easily. And he had been bored.
Warren sat down to wait.
After ten minutes, they began to awaken, stirring fitfully from their blank slumber. Logan recovered first, of course, awakening with grunts and curses at his predicament.
"Look, bub, I don't know what you think you're doin', but the X-Men are gonna stop you, easy. I suggest you untie us now, Tweety," he growled.
Warren ignored him.
"Warren, what's going on?" Scott asked with a groan. "Hey, untie us, quickly!"
"Guess you missed the memo, Slim, but flyboy here is the one who's holding us," Logan snarled.
"Warren, is this true?" Scott asked angrily. "What do you think you're doing? …Look, if you're upset about something just untie me and we can talk about it," he added soothingly.
Scott Summers, ever the diplomat.
Warren's blood began to boil with the now familiar righteous anger and he stood up. Ignoring the protests of the mostly-awake X-Men, he spread his wings out so that the metal tips dug into the wall on either side, at neck level.
Cull the unworthy.
And he began to walk slowly forwards.
"Oh my god, Warren, what are you-!" Scott's voice was cut off abruptly as his head was severed from his shoulders. The others' voices rose hysterically; screaming, yelling, begging, but Archangel did not stop the slow forward march until he reached the end of the hall and the X-Men were dead. Turning to survey his work, Warren saw that the bodies were still tied up securely, just as they had been a minute ago. But his friends' heads lay on the ground, floating in a sea of red. A smile plastered his perfect features as he stretched lazily. His master would be proud.
Warren awoke with a shock. He'd had a dream, something wonderfully traumatic... He couldn't remember what had happened in it, but it left him with a feeling of... Satisfaction. He walked down to the breakfast hall with a lingering good mood.
"Morning, Warren," Jean said brightly. "You seem in a good mood lately. Is it just your nose surgery?" she teased.
Slay the weak.
Laughing easily, he shook his head. "Nah. I mean, not looking like a dead body helps, but... I don't know, I've just been feeling optimistic ever since." He pulled out the chair beside her and lowered himself in, simultaneously grabbing a plate and reaching across the table to pile some eggs on. "God, I'm starving. Do we have any waffles?"
"Hey, Scott," Jean waved and yanked back the chair on the other side of her so he could sit there. "I see you've finally come down."
Serve your master.
Frowning, Scott sat stiffly. "I've been awake since five this morning going on a run and revising the training schedule. I doubt you've been that productive."
Cull the unworthy.
Jean rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Scott. Anyway, Narcissus over here gets a little nose job, and suddenly everything is fantastic," she explained sarcastically. Scott's frown deepened.
Slay the weak.
"Brown sugar for your oatmeal?" she offered.
Serve your master.
"I don't put anything on my oatmeal except fruit and protein powder. Brown sugar is very unhealthy."
Cull the unworthy.
Jean shook her head incredulously, exchanging a glance with Bobby.
Slay the weak. Serve your master.
"Jeez, Scott, live a bit!" Bobby coaxed. "A little brown sugar never hurt anybody, and the professor's oatmeal is reclusive without it."
Cull the unworthy. Slay the weak, serve your master -
Scott raised an eyebrow. "Instead of trying to abolish my health, how about you grab a dictionary and go look up 'reclusive'. I don't think that's what you meant."
Cull the unworthy -
"He probably meant 'repulsive'," Warren mumbled through his eggs.
Slay the weak serve your master cull the unworthy -
"Uh, yeah," Bobby lied. "That's it."
Slaytheweakserveyourmasterculltheunworthy slaytheweak -
"You must be quite hungry, Warren," Jean commented with a raised eyebrow.
SLAYTHEWEAKSERVEYOURMASTERCULLTHEUNWORTHY -
Warren smiled widely.
"Starving," he agreed.