Writer: Rowland Wells

Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters. 

Alternate

X-Men

#10

"my heart reached out"

The flight overseas had been a long one, taking almost six hours in total.  He had been travelling alone in first class, mainly because he had the money to do so, but because it gave him more leg room aboard the airplane than in the other seats.  Warren was visiting the Docklands in London where previously, mutant terrorist action had sent up a whirlwind of paranoia and anger among the city.  The situation occurred at the height of Magneto's play for power among the United States, but repercussions had throbbed over the ocean and hit in the centre of one of the biggest cities in the world.  Canary Wharf, one of several iconic structures within the city had had its top half taken off with several well placed explosive devices, and the wreckage had taken a week or so to fully dispose of.  Now it was due to be rebuilt, and Warren's very existence on the scene, even only for a photograph or two, would ensure the mutant community was not seen so clearly to be a threat to the nation's well-being. 

The other reason Warren had been sent to deal with the mop-up operation was because of his public relations value.  Not only did his charming charisma continually shine through amongst crowds of people, but his position as heir to Worthington Enterprises Inc. enabled a significant aura of respect to be cast over him.  Warren Worthington III was going to inherit his father's gigantic business and all the subsidiaries owned under the same name once the old leader let go of the reins.  Of course, having a son involved in potentially life-threatening situations every day was not the wish of his father, but Warren was to consistently disobey him in that respect.  The old man had never been so foolish as to pull the inheritance away, for family blood ties were always stronger than trust or friendship, but his anger at Warren's delusion kept them both at bay.  It was a true rarity to see the two in public together, and even then a smile on a face was usually masking the true judgment underneath.  In his heart Warren believed in fighting the good fight, but the father was to view it otherwise.

Xavier had high opinions of one of his first pupils, especially because of the renowned background and the unique nature of his mutation.  Warren had been in boarding school at the time when a fire had broken out in the dormitories.  The emerging feathers on his winged appendages had started to develop, and he believed that he could save the students caught in the blaze by donning a white bed sheet and pillowcase, pretending to act as an angel – truly earning him the name among his friends at Xavier's.  The action had saved several lives, but it had doused upon him a rather small hero complex which fully engaged once Charles had paid him a visit.  His vocation into that world was not due for several more years as Xavier was still building up the resources for the institution's construction but once completed, Warren had come flying in; glad to escape the near future of his father's corporate shadow.  After the accident at the Whitehouse, less than a full week ago, the student had come away with his left wing damaged, and now only a rest from active interaction would suffice.  Charles was the first to insist he take the time off to mould the situation in London, and so Warren was placed on the first plane out of America.  He appreciated the break.

Being part of Xavier's elite institution was a whole different world compared to that of corporate management.  Warren had his own compartments and divisions of Worthington Enterprises Inc., and the task to oversee all of those was a world unto itself; but when put in context with the training, the discipline and the general atmosphere of the School, Warren felt a lot less inhibited.  To him the difference was clear – as long as he pulled his weight and kept in line with the day to day activities managing the Mansion, he was free to stay and be looked after.  It appeared much less demanding on an everyday basis compared to the mental discipline required when administering the management techniques at the company.  This way, the only strain on his mind was in the heat of a rare physical challenge, whether it be a skirmish on the street, or an all-out war in another country.  The X-Men had encountered serious danger of late, but Warren hoped their time for being heroes had come to and end when he arrived back in less than a week.  It was beautiful to be under the spotlight and camera lens for saving the world, but calling attention to themselves was never the true aspiration of the Institute.  Charles was quite content to let the surrounding neighbours in Salem Center to believe he was running a commune for Jehovah's Witnesses. 

The taxi back to the hotel took a while, but Warren had other things on his mind besides the outrageous fare he was due to pay.  It buffeted past every other vehicle on the motorway, finally slowing as it entered the grand city under the cover of night.  Travelling late always had a toll on his experienced self, so by now he was feeling quite lethargic.  His eyelids fluttered open every so often, the iridescence of glowing streetlamps awakening him.  They glided across the window as the taxi shot by, and Warren briefly noted the tall city buildings approaching in the distance; signs of the high class density populating the luxurious space in the City of London.  When it finally came to rest among the grand hotels, the taxi door opened and a tired young man stepped out.  The driver handed him the luggage, accepted the colossal cab fare and went on his way.  Another person popped out of the open hotel doors, grabbed his suitcase and walked into the red-carpeted lobby.

'Good evening sir – have you got reservations tonight?'  The English man at the counter asked, flattening out the creases in his fine grey suit. 

'Yes, under Worthington.  Warren Worthington.'  He replied, massaging his temples exhaustedly. 

'Absolutely, we have the record right here.  You've got the regular room with a view of the city out front – is that to your liking sir?'

'Great.'  Warren said.

'Room 208, take the elevator if you wish sir and the boy will bring your luggage with you.  If you need anything at all – including room service, just dial 789 on the telephone supplied and reception can direct you anywhere at all.'

The man proceeded to shower Warren with pleasantries, but he ignored them tiredly and stumbled into the elevator.  By the time he reached the bed and fell in it, the clock read past twelve. 

                                                *        *        *

A stirring dream woke him with a start in the morning.  He glanced to the digital readout in red on the clock display, and muttered angrily to himself for not setting an alarm call.  The sheets were lying in a puddle on the carpet, evidence of a rather active and disturbing dream.  He leaned over the side, suddenly aware of the ache centring round his shoulder blades.  The two large feathered wings on his back flexed involuntarily, spanning a great length in between the room's walls.  He winced, but plucked the light material off the floor and shook it in the air.  Climbing out, Warren spread the sheet carefully on the bed, and flung open his curtains.  Musty yellow light shone through, drawing a glowing line over the floor with his winged shadow in the middle.  The balcony doors slid open in a rusty grating noise, and he stepped into the morning.  In sight of the row of balconies, a small parking lot was half-filled, with many cars making their egression to a stuffy work day.  The Thames River that flowed through the middle of London reflected light gently off its murky brown surface and swayed as jolly white luxury cruisers ploughed across its waters.  Warren's keen senses picked up on the number of engines coughing into the air as they drove off to work.  Soon he would be in one of those cars, destined to show his youthful face at the reconstruction site.  That was still an hour or two away, of course, and he must make time for breakfast and a fresh suit before anything else.  He scratched at the fine sheen of stubble decorating his jaw and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Brighton Jeremiah, the highly regarded senior assistant to Mr Worthington II stepped into the red-carpeted lobby of the hotel and walked up to the English man behind the counter.  'It's nine o'clock.'  He said curtly, as if the lobby man was some sort of nuisance.  'You have a Warren Worthington III staying here – has he signed out yet?'

The man peered at him as if staring over a pair of imaginary spectacles.  In his own restrained high class London voice he replied: 'Would you be a friend or relative?'

Brighton Jeremiah turned back to the man, as if he had just insulted him.  The uptown Las Vegas slight was quite clear in his accent.  'Listen, suit – just tell me if he's still in.  This is the right hotel yes?  I'm his daddy's chief gofer.'

The man clicked his eyes to the right indicating the bar and dining room.  'For hotel patrons only, you understand.'

Brighton Jeremiah nodded, and knocked his expensive watch-clad fist on the marble counter.

Warren mulled over his cup of black coffee and thought about the traces of his dream last night.  A peculiar one by even his standards: he saw people from the school back home, friends, locked inside transparent balls.  They were tiny, almost as big as the toys Hamsters and Mice are put in to run along the floor free from danger; only the friends inside these toys seemed to want to undo the cage, and be released.  They were suffocating and fainting from lack of freedom and life – Jean, Scott, Hank and Tessa, and the balls only shrunk smaller.  He was perched on the corner of a table, not unlike the one in the centre of the Mansion's kitchen.  He surveyed their panicking bodies as they scattered across the floor in these miniature circular cages.  He had felt a great distress, almost to the point of crying for them.  Nothing could be more horrible than the confinement of a free spirit; and Warren took another sip from his cooling coffee, remembering other aspects of the surreal dream.  A Sentinel had appeared out of nowhere – almost as large as he was – only it was unrestricted whereas he could not leave his perch.  The balls had suddenly come together with the people inside; weaving a timeless dance as they finally succumbed to death.  Warren remembered flapping insistently, screeching at the Sentinel as it turned its back on his pervading eyes.  He had seen what looked like its leg rising over the transparent balls, and then it had swept down like a piston in an engine, crushing the people under its gigantic foot.  When it retracted, Warren came to on the bed, thrashing in a terror.

His coffee was warm enough to drink now, so he downed it swiftly, and reflected on the meaning.  His wings, which he hid so perfectly among the people in the room with him, they were a burden, and allowed no real freedom from the world around him.  His subconscious was showing him that no matter how hard he soared, coming back down to earth was always at the inevitable end.  All that he'd seen and done with friends at the Mansion simply strengthened his bond with a world that was in more immediate danger than his, because the people in it could not fly away like he could.  The reality was that Warren was allowed no more freedom from prosecution that those whom he sought to protect.  His friends in the dream were only the interpretation of the people whom he was to hold away from the flame; but truthfully, they were just as likely to burn in it as he was.  A great love existed between him and the people at the School, including the founder himself.  Vulnerability was the issue, and not even his wings could fly him far enough from that. 

'Penny for your thoughts?'  Brighton Jeremiah announced, creeping up behind him.

Warren half-turned and placed his cup back down on the table.  He chuckled and shook his head painfully.  'What're you here for?  Did my Father not think I could handle a couple of angry Britons?' 

'Oh, you know Daddy, Warren – he's just anxious you make the right impression on some susceptible people overseas.  Besides, he doesn't want you getting wrathful at any judgmental builders; what with your unique perspective and all.'  The assistant seated himself opposite the outside view, and called over a drink.  As he accepted a swig from the glass and sent the bar waiter on his way, Warren shook his head again.  'It's only nine thirty in the morning…'

'Yeah, but I haven't slept in days.'  He grimaced pleasantly as the alcohol hit the spot inside, and then looked to Warren.  'So when will you be ready to set off?'

'Give me time to call the driver, and then we'll get there a little later than expected – make them wait.'

'Trying to piss people off there son?  Might be a bad move.'  Brighton Jeremiah responded.

'I'm the representative here.'  Warren stated angrily.  'I'd like to make myself seem more important than I actually am.'  He shoved the coffee cup across the table and it clattered noisily.  'I have this thing completely under my control, so if you or my Dad want to call me on anything, then do it through a damn telephone on the other side of the world – where_you_belong.'

Warren stood up, pulled on his suit jacket quickly and strode out into the parking lot, depositing his key at the front desk. 

                                                *        *        *

Having a big name in business was not always what it was cracked up to be, Warren thought annoyingly as he sat on the back seat of the spacious limousine.  Arriving at ten o'clock in the morning outside Canary Wharf, he was greeted with a phalanx of blue suited policemen who ferried him behind their ranks.  A much larger crowd of people gathered outside the building site than he had anticipated, waiting impatiently for the site manager to address them.  Many people were watching the meeting, all there to have their fears lifted from the remains of an incredibly influential building in the centre of London.  When Pietro had set off the explosives on the top four floors, he had ensured that the least amount of people were up there.  That same morning a discussion on Mutant Activism was being prepared, so Magneto's plan as he had seen it had been to destroy their chances of oppressing the registered mutant populous in the city even more.  Clearly his foresight had become clouded somewhat, but the principal lingered.  Canary Wharf was not only an iconic landmark on the Thames River, but also a site for the Stock Exchange, London finances and great morning coffee.  Taking the top floors of an uptown London high-rise was not a way to free the mutant population in the same city, especially when the media knew it was killing in the name of the protagonists.  Worthington Enterprises Inc., like many other corporations had an investment in the skyscraper, so Warren met up with many more business representatives at the site.  He detested every minute of it.  Brighton Jeremiah, who was sitting opposite him in the back of the limo, had been staring over his shoulder the entire time, and Warren was quite sick of it.  He was starting to wish he had never come.

'Your speech was really something.  Had you been preparing it long?'  The assistant asked, rooting through the small drinks cabinet.  The minute lights illuminating the inside of the vehicle couldn't provide enough of an atmosphere for Warren, so he rolled down a window letting air breeze through.  'I thought about what I could say to the people who lost someone in the blast… then I realised that none of them would be there – just mutant haters and landmark supporters asking for an estimate.  I made sure to praise the company too, if you're wondering.'

'I was there, I heard.  How do you find it in your soul to talk to these people?  Don't you see that you repulse them?'  Brighton Jeremiah reminded him obnoxiously.  The man cracked the seal from a can of expensive cider and downed its contents.

'It's not easy, but I do my best.'  Warren replied mechanically.  He stared at the object across from him – a stocky middle-aged Las Vegas gaming commissioner turned senior company assistant.  He was nothing more than his father's personal lap-dog, fit only to do odd jobs for a man that had way too much on his schedule.  The receding hairline and bald patch surrounded by a mess of greasy black hair made him appear even seedier than Warren thought possible.  The nice suit and expensive watch simply added to this façade.  He leered crudely at the student, sucking at the can in his fat hand. 

'God; when did you become such a loser?'  Warren asked, shaking his head.

Brighton Jeremiah laughed heartily, as if such a comment was a regular occurrence.  'Don't be so stuck up.  I try and get by, but it ain't easy!  I take a lot of crap from your old man, but sometimes you just have to say: I got to make time for the track; and if that means foregoing the odd beer or five beforehand, then I'll just got a bottle of Vodka from the off-licence on the way.'

Warren stared out the window as the limo drove past other various hotels and buildings.  The wind whipped against his extremely short fair hair, and he started thinking how a man like Brighton Jeremiah would ever work for his father – a man of quality and respect. 

'Chill out Warren, don't get so stressed' he chuckled 'perhaps you should get a massage.  Oh, hang on, maybe you shouldn't.'

Warren stared at him with unbelievable contempt, and silently thanked the driver as the limo pulled up outside the hotel's parking lot.

                                                *        *        *

He had arrived in the middle of summer in London.  Hot, stuffy, boiling London, with its fuming chimneys stacks and exhausts billowing into the atmosphere.  It magnified the heat of the sun, bouncing around the ultra-violet rays inside enormous dust clouds that lingered above the city.  The oppressive warmth was overpowering at the height of the day, so people tended to stay off the streets if a work break was organised.  The once pleasant smell of morning coffee began to turn stale and overcooked during the midday sun.  It permeated the area, mixing with more exhaust and noxious chemicals.  Even in his hotel room many floors above street level, Warren could feel the pain of the light on anyone below.  He lay on the muggy white bed sheets gazing up at the ceiling fan whir in an endless circle.  It swished cooler air onto his face, the small layer of sweat hardly reacting to it.  He kept watching it rotate, believing it could do so until the end of time.  Warren could almost see the imperceptible current of cool air pulsing down from the quick blades; it came in waves, brushing against his steaming bare skin.  His wings stretched out, lying over the expanse of the mattress and off each end; they swayed of their own accord, trying to fan him.  Noticing the quick attempt of re-growth for his feathers, Warren found himself surprised – he hadn't banked on the chance that they could appear on his left wing so soon after the accident.  Great, he thought gladly, that's only got good connotations.  However hard he trained and sought full health at the school, if his wings were still out of commission, he couldn't be called upon to join the team.  Warren owed it all to his strong metabolism and this way, Tessa would be able to give him a clean bill of health once he got back.

Unfortunately, the comfort in his strengthening wings did nothing for the incredible heat breaking his concentration on the fan above.  His body was sweating profusely, and Warren wished that he'd booked a room with proper air conditioning.  Sweating was something that Warren was not used to, even in the tensest of situations.  His body's veins, arteries and other blood vessels were much thinner than those of a normal person, mainly to cope with the high altitudes he could reach with the two powerful wings on his back.  His bones were hollow also, allowing for less bodily mass to cope with in flight.  At his peak performance, Warren could reach truly inhuman heights when flying.  Because of his particular biology then, he was not used to sweating, but the heat was knocking his system off.  He stirred, and rolled onto his front to get some sleep.  Freeing the mind by closing the eyes was a lot better than being hypnotised by the ceiling fan. 

He awoke several hours later and realised the heat had finally sunk below the horizon.  Rubbing the sleep from his tired eyes, he put on a shirt and long coat, and then made his way out of the hotel.

                                                *        *        *

He had wondered far from the hotel, coming over a bridge to the other side of the city.  The area seemed much less cosy now, quite desolate and rundown in comparison.  Streets were filled with seedy and dirty buildings of varying sizes, and the pavements had become littered and grey with fumes and dropped chewing gum.  Phone booths looked battered and overcome, the receivers dropping from every holder, and housing estates looked menacing as the backdrop for his vision of London at night.  Taxis and night buses passed him in the darkness, shooting their headlight beams over the parked cars and black-bagged dustbins.  He stared ahead of him, wandering idly down the long stretch of road.  Footsteps ushered from behind, and a young man walked by, allowing Warren to settle his paranoia.  Although his trance state of idle wandering led him deeper into unknown territory, Warren was still peripherally aware of everything else about him.  The heat had come down a lot by now, and the further he walked, the cooler it became, until a simple breeze caressed his dry brow.  Then Warren realised that his delve into the other half of London had drawn him away.  'Where the hell am I?'  He muttered, staring around for a sign to the bridge, or at least the nearest tube station.  He may not have been a regular resident in London, but the transport could not be a problem.  More footsteps sounded in the distance, but he didn't really notice. 

He took to the direction in which he had come, but Warren clearly wasn't sure of whether it was the original path or not.  He came to a line of garages, each with every door sealed shut from prying eyes.  Their metallic surface reflected the pathetic street lamp light badly, but also the lights and sounds of a small pub off in the distance.  Of course, he thought, I'll be able to find my way when I ask in there.  The echoing chants and cheers reverberated down the street, and the talked-over sound of music playing assured him that he was free from danger among this wilderness.  As he made it up to a jog, a chance notion flashed into his head, and he slowed, turning the though over once more as it had arrived.  Warren was quite sure he heard something whilst passing that last alleyway.  It separated two sizeable garages, and the sound was almost like a moan, a call for help.  The young man stepped closer, just outside the entrance and peered inside, but the thought itself seemed to be fading – consumed by his own suspicious doubt.  He began to wonder whether he'd heard anything at all when the noise repeated itself.  'Someone…?'  It moaned quietly.  There was a shifting sound of bags and dustbins, and the voice encouraged him deeper into the ominous alley.

'Hey.'  It said; it was a smooth, flowing sound that caressed his sensitive ears.  In the half-light of the broken streetlamps, Warren's eyes searched for the form, trying to pinpoint its origin.  Of course, he knew better than to follow a stranger down a dark passage at night, but the enticing, sultry purr of the words seized his sensibilities.  It was as if he was being drawn in.

'Help me, man – I'm hurt…'  The soft female voice clawed at his emotions.  A surreal pang of compassion flooded into his mind, floating above any other ideas or worries.  Warren took several steps further into the darkness, his neck tingling gently from fear of the unknown.  His ability to speak somehow deserted him, and adrenaline replaced it.  The familiar buzz of tension and anxiety was present too, but less so. 

'Hey now, I'm over here…'  It was almost as if he was being drawn in; drawn in as bait.

As a taxi skidded by on the road, its headlights cutting into the black shadows, Warren was struck by just how gullible he had been.  What a fool I am, he though as the recognition hit him.  The voice had not come from within the alley, it was the alley – it was everywhere, and all around him, radiating through his vulnerable mind like a stuck splinter.  The presence of danger had utterly vanished while he stopped, and he wondered why as another familiar sensation invaded his body.  It was the feeling of a new mind touching his – the senses enlivening as they went into overload.  The lusty voice luring him in with its beautiful mantra was nothing more than a telepath, attempting to violate his thoughts and bend them to her will.  Even with his back turned on the attacker, Warren was sufficiently endowed mentally to study this vicious intrusion and its creator before she severed the neuron control in his head. 

The assault lasted all of five seconds, but to Warren it felt like several hours of excruciating pain while he endeavoured to scrutinise her features, analyse the most recent memories lying on the surface and the method she was using to bring him down.  With a relief that seemed like every muscle in his body was simultaneously tensing to breaking point and then relaxing blissfully, Warren crumpled to the ground and splashed into a dirty puddle.  Goddamn it, he thought before slipping into unconsciousness.

                                                *        *        *

He kept imagining a large cat was nudging his dead body as he lay in a grave.  A surreal fantasy, he considered, when his eyes finally opened and a drunken man breathed alcohol into his face from mere inches away.  Warren waved his head painfully, and motioned him away as he tried to get up.  'You look like one dirty son-of-a-bitch.'  He said, swallowing a belch.  The student checked himself, and wiped away the muddy water decorating his expensive trousers.  They were soaked, and he would probably have to get some new ones.  He started to wonder how long he'd been asleep for, and assumed that it couldn't have been more than an hour or so.  The drunk prodded him with an outstretched finger, but giggled manically and then ran off. 

Warren watched him go, and placed a hand in every pocket on his person.  A black leather wallet, his beautiful silver watch and a pair of glasses were all missing.  Why the hell would anyone want to steal my glasses, he asked himself, thinking that the world was sometimes just too harsh.  The streetlamps still flickered incessantly, but Warren knew they would be of no use to him getting back to the hotel.  Angrily, he tore off his stained shirt, placed his long jacket in hand, and proceeded to let his white wings free from their confines.  They flapped mightily, and Warren propelled himself into the air. 

His way back to hotel was much simpler this way than going on foot, so he stayed in the air until the balcony for his room came into view.  The outside doors were locked, but he wrapped the jacket around his fist and punched through the glass.  Opening the door, he discarded the jacket on the bed, and went into the bathroom. 

                                                *        *        *       

The ability to detect and decipher elements of a psychic assault was one of the key training points that the students underwent regularly at the Mansion.  Charles was very insistent that they should be prepared for such an attack, for he knew the power that opponents possessed and wielded during a fight.  Maintaining control of one's own brainpower during a psychic assault was more important than attempting to physically fight off the attack because the mind was always the key to unlocking secrets and information.  If you were to concentrate on how the attack was being made or how to stop it, then the mind became vulnerable.  The minute Warren realised he was under the woman's control, whoever she was, he had focussed on shutting down his own thoughts and tailing the pattern she was weaving within his mind.  Those last few precious seconds had allowed him to poach what little information he could from her open mind.  If Warren had struggled physically with the woman, he could have brought about detrimental damage to himself.  Instead, he succumbed to the dangerous will, and accepted that she was overpowering him.  Before passing out, Warren had discovered a rather precise residual self-image of his attacker, which was actually the way in which she saw herself.  The accuracy with which she did so allowed the image to become even clearer in his own mind, so Warren found himself looking at her even though she was behind him.  Thankfully the picture had stayed with him, and so Warren went back to the same spot the next morning, only in a lot less expensive clothes.  His hunt might have seemed completely futile if not for the image of her in memory, but Warren was determined to retrieve his belongings.  If it had to be through stealth or storm to do so, he was ready.

                                                *        *        *

Irrationality was not part of Warren's emotional lexicon, but when he saw the woman once more, holding up an older man and his wife in a similar looking alley the next night, he clutched at a knife concealed in his deep jacket pockets. 

The weapon had come from the hotel kitchens that morning, and Warren had surprised the people behind the lobby counter by coming down the stairs and collecting his room key.  After breakfasting, then calling Brighton Jeremiah to cancel his lunch with him, Warren made his way across the bridge once more to the same area.  The pub was closed in the early hours but as lunch time came around, his exhausted search stopped for a bite to eat.  After managing to stay on his feet a little longer, Warren slowly stalked the entire area, remembering from the attacker's most recent memories that she was put up in place resembling the buildings surrounding him.  His wait had been long and patient, and he was beginning to give up hope until the streets became quite quiet as evening fell.  Again, the only noises he could hear in the same chain of deserted streets was the sound issuing from the pub nearly a whole block away.  Warren hid surreptitiously in the shadows, nudging dustbins and bin bags out of the way while he waited. 

He didn't really recognise what had taken him over until the awareness of his situation dawned on him.  He was being purely ridiculous; acting like a Private Detective in some nineteen forties black and white film noir.  Shadows swayed in the moonlit breeze, illuminating the trees and buildings towering overhead.  Warren could feel the air brush against his cheek as his eyes followed the couple down the street; a middle-aged lean man with his wife in arms.  They chatted quietly among the run down buildings, walking by every dark alley as if it didn't exist.  Warren remained unmoving through watching all of this, instead keeping his back against the doorway of a closed shop across from the two.  His hands fell into the pockets of his long jacket as he sensed the attacker's presence coming close.  She crept out of the shadows, with two thin fingers held to her temple and the other hand out to command the couples' thoughts.  She was a young woman, Warren suspected, maybe not even out of her teenage years.  She had long dark hair bound in a ponytail, with a tinge of purple added to it, and she wore a shorter, camouflage green jacket and some torn blue jeans as well.  Her movement seemed to betray her elegance at the process, but Warren knew she was in more trouble than it seemed.  Although only one teenage girl, the way in which she had robbed him had suggested more experience than her years dictated.  The police are probably on the lookout for this girl, he thought. 

The couple inched into the alley, oblivious of their immediate danger.  The conversation died as the man parted the bins and bags to find what he thought was a woman in distress.  The girl stepped quietly behind the two of them, and then clutched at her head with both hands.  Warren watched, mesmerised by the display before him.  His hand felt for the blade in his pocket, and fingertips ran slowly over the edge.  Suddenly, the girl jerked backwards as the woman toppled over and the man slumped against the dustbins.  A loud clatter sounded in the alleyway, and Warren decided to make his move. 

The girl swivelled round to catch sight of a silhouette, illuminated by the lights of a passing taxi.  Her brown eyes flew open as she realised she'd been compromised.  Hands snaked out of the couples pockets and receded as the girl stood up.  She thought for a second, and then raised her hand to her temple once more.  Warren acted quickly and swatted her arm away.  She made for the small gap to his right, and Warren swung his weight in that direction.  This girl was quick though, and she performed a bizarre double take, dashing through the gap to his left.  Warren spun around and reached out; he caught her wrist in one hand, but she raised her leg and kicked it violently out of the way.  With the suddenness of her actions and the unexpected pain, Warren lost his footing and fell backwards.  The girl screamed to attract any nearby attention and then ran off down the street.  Her pace was quite incredible, but Warren assumed she had to be that fast if anything ever went wrong.  He flipped onto his feet once again and gave chase.

Tree branches and random leaves whipped up off the floor in the girl's wake, slapping against the side of his face while he struggled to keep up with her.  More than once she darted across the abandoned road in the clear moonlight, trying to lose or at least tire him out.  The brightness of the moon in the sky made sure his path was clear, reflecting off windshields and silvery garage doors.  His feet snapped against the concrete repeatedly, echoing down the widening road as she threw herself over parked cars in an effort to outrun him.  Her jacket billowed in the wind, and she had to twist violently several times to avoid colliding with post boxes and parked vehicles.  They stormed past another couple who watched as their disappearing forms headed toward the new bridge. 

Warren was definitely starting to feel the incredible pace while they ran endlessly.  In the back of his one-track mind, a thought did occur to him as to why he was chasing the girl so fervently.  It seemed that a simple call to the police could get his glasses back, but something else was blocking that thought from fully entering his head.  Maybe it was because she was young, or maybe it was because he was attracted to her; he didn't know yet.  She was going by another large sign, but didn't seem swayed by its information.  Warren caught sight as it came into view, and knew she planned to cross the bridge.  His blue eyes engaged hers as she looked back, and her face was expressionless until her body crashed into an oblivious woman.  The girl tumbled over the astonished woman, but climbed straight onto her feet again, risking another glance behind her shoulder.  Warren had gained at least five or six strides in the process and was quickly coming within reaching distance of her arm.  He lurched out and grabbed for it, but a new burst of speed blossomed in the girl's body, and she cried out her brave effort.  The cold steel alloy of the bridge resonated as their fast landing footfalls smashed along the walkway in a frenetic chase.  The girl swivelled and toppled left to right dodging the lines of people crossing the beautiful new construction.  It faced both sides of the Thames River, every building and boat in the view glowing with a string of angel blue lights.  Warren might have regarded on the epic scene if he hadn't been busy throwing himself between the panicked people on the bridge.  A growing burn boiled in the pits of his lungs, threatening to consume his entire upper body if he ran any further.  He was used to running, but this girl seemed to be making the entire journey in a mad sprint to outdo his stamina.  Her constitution was truly amazing, but as she slowed, the strain began to show.  Her panting was quite clear in the crisp night air.

Since their start, Warren assumed she was running to simply escape his menace, but what he didn't know was that she was making for the nightclub open just beyond the length of the bridge.  Coming to the end, the girl rounded the steps and bounded shakily to the concrete road below.  Warren tracked in close proximity, hounding her like a terrier.  The girl spun into the line of clubbers standing to get into the building, and there was an outcry as she shot into the entrance ahead of them.  Warren managed to follow through the open gap, but did not bank on the bouncers inside.  They turned in anger and pursued her retreating form, so Warren was able slip by with relative ease.  Sounds of underground London blasted into his head as the volume in the nightclub peaked at ear-bleeding levels.  Darkness enveloped him, and the scent of a million jumping clubbers permeated his senses.  Everywhere around him people were bucking and swaying to the crushing thump of bass, and smoke from a machine was flung over their heads, further ruining his chances of catching her.  Instead of seeking out her particular face and clothes, he started looking for a more random sequence of actions than the repetitive rhythm with which people danced to in this atmosphere.  After several seconds amid the bumping mass of sweating bodies, Warren saw the large bouncers forcing their way through the crowd.  The girl snaked into his view, but blocking his path to her was an overcrowded sofa filled with bottles and drunk dancers.  She darted even closer, so he tried to grab for her, but the strobe lights activated and the rapid stop-start noise threw his senses off balance.  The lights became even faster among the clubbers, and as scenes of the hall lit up and went black he started to feel like he was taking part in a slideshow. 

The girl threaded her way in and out, paying close attention to the activity straight ahead.  Warren stood back for a moment and watched as the bouncers made their way for her in what looked like some surreal epileptic fit.  The strobe lights buzzed on and off, and as the lead bouncer was just about to grab hold of her, Warren leaped out of the darkness and ram against him.  The bouncer collided with the jumping people, and a quarter of the room proceeded to topple onto their backs.  The girl stared at him questioningly for just a second, but in a swift flash of the strobe lights, she dashed through two large fire exit doors and out of his sight.

Fairly astounded at his own behaviour, the student crept out after her.  He managed to dodge the large number of bouncers all looking for him, while the music continued.  He came out of the back alley, and into the better lit area beyond the nightclub.  Stepping just into the streetlamp light once more, the girl lunged for Warren, breathless from the pursuit.  Her hand snaked around his neck and she tugged backwards, pulling him to the ground.  Having been caught off guard again by this girl, he decided to play rough with her, and make sure he was in control of the situation.  He grasped the arm around his collar, and ripped it forward whilst bending over on one knee.  She tumbled over his back and onto her bottom.  Warren raised himself and heard her give an audible 'Ouch!'  Getting up to combat him, the girl was thrust against the far alley wall, and smacked into it with Warren's weight behind the push.  'Christ, you're crushing me!'  She yelled painfully.  By this time her hair was free of the ponytail, and it hung in a mess as she struggled lamely with him.  'Give me back the stuff you stole from me!'  Warren exclaimed, breathing deep to fight off the exhaustion.  She wiggled again, and attempted to throw him off.  Her lips drew back, bearing white teeth viciously.  'Get the hell off me, you stupid yank – we'll both get caught by my friends, and then you'll be in some serious crap!'

Warren studied her chiselled face closely, wondering whether she was telling the truth or not.  'You mean it?'  He asked, forcing himself against her once more.  He held her arm by her back, threatening to crack it painfully if she moved any more.  'Ow!  Yes – I'm supposed to meet with these two guys in the nightclub – ow!  God; they saw me in there, and if I don't report back they'll beat me up, and you too.'

He let off her arm slightly.  'Why don't you just use your telepathy on them, then?  I know you're a mutant.'

'I'm a tool of theirs… they say they can hunt me down at any time.  I've seen a gun on one of them once.'  She said, her voice lowering for a sad explanation. 

'Make me believe you, girl.' 

'Just let me go, and I swear I'll give you your stuff back, I don't want to get caught with nothing on me, otherwise that's grounds for a hit.'  She said the last part with a large aspect of sarcasm.  'I can only see them if I've got a stash, and if I give you your stuff back, then I have nothing.'

'You could have seen them last night…'  Warren said suspiciously.  He was anxious to get them both out of the alleyway, but he had to be sure she was truthful.

'Get on with it!'  She yelled, shoving herself against him.

He let her go, and she grabbed his arm to make for the main street.  Her personality was starting to shine through, and Warren was thankful at least for her honesty and willingness.  She placed a strand of dark purple hair behind her ear, and gave him an ambivalent small smile. 

'Hey,' the bald black man called, stepping through the fire exit doors 'you going somewhere, love?'

The girl turned around, and clasped Warren's arm, stepping behind him.  'I told you not to wait, now he's gonna go ballistic.'  She whispered.  Warren held his ground, and neither took one step forward nor one step back.

'Who's that?'  The new man asked, pointing crudely to the mutant.

'I haven't got anything for you tonight, I'm sorry.'  The girl clarified.  'I tried, but a car ran me off, and I didn't want to make myself known – I'm really sorry.'

'You don't have to be sorry…'  Warren said quietly, looking down on her.

'We tell you to get a load nearly every night – what did you think you were doing last night?  Where's the stuff from then?'

'She doesn't have anything to give you, friend.'  Warren stated indignantly.

'Who're you?  I'm not your bloody friend, ya goddamn yank – get lost before I lose my temper with our girl here.'  The bald black man shouted.

'I already said –' the girl started, but was cut off when the man's right fist aimed at her cheek.  She instinctively flinched, and her body moved into Warren's.  The student whipped out a hand to defend her, brushing the incoming fist away, and then launching a blow of his own.  It knocked alongside the man's mouth, sending him away for a moment.  Warren collected himself, and threw another punch into the man's left temple.  He staggered, and then collapsed into a plastic wheelie bin.  The girl took his bleeding hand and tugged them both into the main street. 

                                                *        *        *

He took her to a small open coffee house just south of the hotel in the off chance that she might talk to him about her actions.  Having run from the insensible thief at the nightclub, she was quite desperate not to be alone that night, and allowed him to make headway with her – if only for a while.  They sat in the corner of the dimly lit shop, away from the few other people deciding to top up their caffeine levels at this ungodly hour.  Only drunk college students and first date couples packed the few tables just at the entrance while the girl chose the most concealed table at the back. 

Warren placed the cup of decaf back on the small table, watching the girl opposite him circle the rim of her cup lazily with a delicate finger.  He savoured his taste of the hot beverage, and licked both lips subtly.  Her eyes passed over his momentarily, and she looked at his clothes, studying him study her.  'You going to tell me your name, danger-man, or do I have to guess?'  She asked, placing some humour into the question.

'Warren.'  He replied.

'Warren, eh?'  She said, rolling the word around her tongue.  'My name's Elisabeth, but people call me Betsy.'  She sipped the coffee and glanced out of the window nonchalantly.  'Surname's Braddock in case you were wondering.'

He had heard of that last name before; it seemed relevant to his business mind for some reason.  A spark triggered his memory, and he said: 'Are you part of the Braddock Private Foundation, or does that mean nothing to you?'

She brightened falsely as if hearing her pet dog sit up and bark.  'So you know about the BPF then?  Wonderful!  Yeah, I'm part of it – well, I used to be.'

'That's a respectable English business – my father's company, Worthington Enterprises, knows about it.'  He replied, the business brain coming in to play with the conversation.

'Good for you, mate, but don't mind me if I switch off now.'

'We don't have to talk about our families if you don't want to, I didn't want to pry.'  He looked at her, noticing the slumped shoulders and disengaged expression.  'Want more coffee.'

'No.'  Betsy replied dejectedly.  She studied him again after a few seconds, realising she had offended him.  'I'm sorry, but look – I had an argument one day with Daddy, and just left home.  Ever since then, more and more crap has piled itself on top of me – those blokes who get me to steal, for instance – I just get downhearted whenever I hear about the old family.'

'Why don't you just go back?'  Warren asked tentatively.

'I couldn't: the way I left things, my father would prefer to set me up away from the house and never speak to me again; then, what's the use in having a place when you don't even talk to anyone in the family?  I decided to run, and from then on I kept running from place to place.'

'Don't you ever get tired of it?  Never knowing what the future holds can be pretty risky when you base your life on it.'  He said, reflecting on his own existence with the X-Men.

'After my mutation kicked in, I thought I could do on my own… it gave me the kind of life philosophy that a drifter depends on.'  Betsy responded.

'Maybe you should take care of yourself better – you're a beautiful girl, and you must have missed several years of your life already.'

'I may have been living for a while on the streets, Warren,' Betsy said, smiling slyly at him 'but I still know when someone's coming onto me… so trust me, I know how to take care of myself.'  She stated confidently.

'Yeah, I must have chased you for eight or nine blocks – sprinting all the way.  I'm fit – really – but that was just weird.'  He laughed, unsure of her reaction.

'Well, as I said…'  Her smile was becoming more apparent throughout the course of the conversation, and Warren was getting more comfortable signals from her, even if she didn't consciously know it.

There was a pause between them, and both went back to the drinks in hand.  He noticed her becoming more receptive, and because Warren felt he was a good judge of character, he presented her with a fairly delicate question.  'Can I have my stuff back, Betsy – I need those glasses to read.'

She stared at him, and then shook her head in agreement with herself.  'Course; of course you can – sorry… I'm so sorry Warren – did I hurt you?  I didn't mean to, I swear.'

'You didn't hurt me; I just… need the glasses.'

She fidgeted, and started to move.  'I have to get back to… wherever, but thanks for the coffee, man.'

'What?'  He asked.

'You're a really nice guy, Warren and I'm sorry I took your things – I needed the money for cigarettes and other stuff… really.'  She turned to exit, and then with her head bowed low, said: 'I appreciate the coffee.'

Still seated, he watched her leave and then stared into her empty cup.  Did I scare her away, or is she afraid of herself?  He wondered, finishing his own drink.  Betsy walked past the coffee house window, and gave him a quick look before crossing the street.  'Wait a damn minute.'  He said to no-one in particular.  Jogging out after her, he crossed the street and came up behind her young form.  'Is that what I get for rescuing you?  A handshake and a cup of coffee, then: "goodbye"?'

She was taken aback, and stopped under the light of a solitary street lamp.  'What else do you want?  I'm not a bloody hooker, you know.'

'Jesus, I didn't say you were – maybe I need someone to talk to – you look like crap, and I bet you could probably use a good chat as well, am I right?'  He insisted, taking her by the shoulders.

Betsy brushed him off, and made to pass by.  'Don't be so dramatic – I'm perfectly fine, and what's more is that I don't need your pandering companionship.'

'You live on the streets, so don't tell me you're above me!'  He shouted, walking after her.  She gave him a disparaging look, telling him to back down, but Warren wasn't going to comply with that.  'What do you need then, Elisabeth?'

'I don't need you!'  She shouted, walking across the road once more.  She was about to wander into the darkness of night, but Warren kept his eyes on her for a few more seconds, considering what to do.  He took several purposeful strides over into her path, wrapped his fingers around her chin, and kissed her harshly.  She nearly retracted from the embrace, but left herself vulnerable to him a little while longer.  'Did you need that instead?'

He felt her panting lips breathe softly against his mouth, accepting his intimacy.  Her eyes fell onto his, and she parted her mouth slowly.  'My name is Betsy.'  She said quietly.

A car horn beeped loudly in front of them, and both were pulled from their closeness.  Warren led her out of the road.  'Do you want to come back to my room?'  He asked, more confident of her answer this time.

                                                *        *        *

Warren's tension from the recent events had at last been dissipated, leaving a sea of calmness that washed over his relaxed mind that morning.  His muscles didn't seem burdened with responsibility or an aching blend of aches and pains anymore.  All the anxiety and worries had pooled from his weary, hero performing body, and what remained was an appreciation for the vacation and his unique lifestyle.  Of course, he couldn't owe it all to Betsy's disposed manner and her acceptance of him in the end, but their actions only a few hours ago had lifted a large weight off of him.  The tearing pain in his left wing had freed itself overnight as well, which he was grateful for.  He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but her connection with him seemed a little more profound than just skin deep.  Maybe her telepathy has something to do with it, he mused, lying half asleep on the damp bed sheets.  Everything about last night clicked for him: they had come back to his room and talked for a while, mostly about their individual lives and circumstances; and after a while the rapport developed, and she had made the second move.  She was truly beautiful; the flowing dark hair and flawless skin with just the slightest hint of Asian complexion made her a true vision in his eyes.  Betsy had been quiet, but Warren could feel her expression through everything she did.

Underneath the hardened exterior, the girl was still a real person in a bad place.  Although he had never hit the streets like her, Warren knew the idiosyncratic oppression that came from a rich and detached family life.  He had decided to become an arm of his family whole, and his judgement of her did not waver upon the realisation that she chose to abandon her responsibility.  If once he had gained her foresight, Warren knew his choice would have been different.  The only dissimilarity in solution was that he had now become the limb of a better and more diverse whole – one in which he enjoyed playing his part.

Nudging his peaceful body out of such reverence, Warren rolled onto his side, expecting to find her lying beside him.  An empty space greeted his gaze, filled with tangled sheets.  He whipped out of bed, and adjusted his clothes, picking the appropriate ones from his lived-out-of suitcase.  A quick drink and splash of water on his face brought the sleep out of him and Warren walked hurriedly from the room.  He dashed out into the red-carpeted lobby and gave a look to the same man behind the counter as the night before.  The old English man raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, and then nodded to the entrance.  As Warren stepped out into the glowing morning sunlight, there was a great booming noise overhead.  He dismissed it as a low-flying 747, and then saw Betsy's disappearing form just ahead of the parking lot. 

She was striding quite quickly before his footsteps alerted her.  She turned, the breeze curling her free hair around her neck.  'I thought you could use the sleep – you seemed wound up.' 

'Wound up?  Yeah, I am because you're leaving.  What did you think we were doing last night?'  He asked, concerned.

'It was just a one night stand.'  Betsy replied, not quite believing the conviction in her voice. 

'Was it?' 

'Wasn't it?'  She asked.

'It's clichéd I know, but I felt something between us – didn't you?  I don't want you to leave because of anything else other than our feelings.'  Warren put down.

'How do you feel then?  I wasn't sure that you wanted to see me again.'  She said hesitantly.  'I have heard that kind of thing before.'

'I do want to get together again – I'm not interested in our ages, cultures or our damn nationalities, none of those things matter to me anymore.  I'm a real person, and so are you.'

'I live on the streets, Warren!'  She laughed uneasily.  'How do you expect anything to work?  You don't even live in the same country – I always said you were too dramatic.'

A thought struck him.  'Come with me!'  He shouted excitedly.  'Come back to the States with me – you're a mutant, so you can join the School like the rest of us.'  Betsy gave him a rather irresolute look, but the longing pang in her heart told her to go with him.  'Charles can give you a room, a place to stay and food to eat, everything.'  He continued.

'How do I know, Warren – you might be married or in a relationship back home, plus my family here.'  She was thinking of catches in the prospect, but secretly it appeared extremely attractive.

'I'm not in a relationship or married, and you said yourself that you never want to see your family again!' 

'My guise as a small-time girl thief will go out the window, though…'  She said to him grinning.  'You think I would fit in?'

'You'll see, Betsy, that there're a lot of people like me and you signed up.  We'll be individuals among a collective.'

She started another question for him to assure her of, but her speech and even the ambient noise around the two was drowned out as the loud grumbling boom of the Blackbird sounded overhead.  It startled both of them, to see this giant black eagle soar above, and then land with considerable ease in the hotel's parking lot.  People in the surrounding area stopped their early morning ablutions to witness the smooth movement of the elegant jet, wondering how and why it had appeared.  Dust blew up from the blackened tarmac, issuing forth into the atmosphere, and the wake from the large engines created quite a gust for the two young mutants standing below.  Warren placed his hand protectively on her back, and stood proudly as she observed this majestic example of his life.  She began to protest, but he silenced her with a wide grin.  'My friends.'  He explained simply.