Summary: Warren has finally accepted the fact that he is a mutant. When an anti-mutant group kidnaps him, he is forced to face the consequences of that acceptance.

Again, I don't own any of the X-Men, even though Ashley took it upon herself to chain most of them up in her conveniently air-conditioned basement for "studying". Anyway, don't sue me. I'm not kidding. This means you.

I am painfully aware that the events in the following story never happened in the comic book. That is why this is a movie fic; I can make up whatever I want, so there. XP

On Broken Wings

The young man woke up in a cell, with the worst headache he had ever felt. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was exactly. It was dark, and there was a lone window high up on the wall in front of him. Unfortunately, it looked too small for him to crawl through. He tried to stand up, but the chains attaching his wrists to the wall, coupled with the intense dizziness and general nausea he felt upon making the attempt prevented him from doing so. He slid down the wall to the ground, frustrated.

He tried to think back to the events that had led him to this situation, but it was fuzzy. He remembered leaving the school to go for a walk, but it had still been daylight. There were people…protesters? And a scuffle, but then it went dark and he couldn't remember anything else. So where the hell was he? And who had put him here, and why? All were good questions, but his headache prevented him from thinking too much; it hurt too much to think.

He tried to stretch out his wings, since they were getting cramped from being in the same position for what must have been hours. However, they seemed to be strapped to his back. Again. He sighed. Was there ever going to be a point in his life where they wouldn't have to be? He had been beginning to think so, but given his current situation, he had been mistaken.

Just as he found a comfortable position to sit in, the door to the room opened, and two big men walked in. They each looked like your typical goons; 6 feet tall, heavily muscled throwbacks to Neanderthals. They glared at him in concert, which would have made him laugh if the situation weren't so grave. Behind them was a thin man in a white lab coat who seemed to be the quintessential evil mastermind, complete with black goatee. He walked forward, stopping right in front of Warren and giving him a disgusted look. "So this is the newest 'X-Man?' Pathetic." Warren looked at the man in confusion. The man, who seemed pleased at Warren's response, continued. "I am Dr. Zarkov. And this," he gestured to the room behind him, "is the holding cell for the Laboratory for Mutant Research and Treatment. Our goal is much like that of Worthington Industries." He stopped, relishing the wince Warren made at hearing the name of his father's company. "Only here, our budget is not quite as substantial, and therefore our procedures are less…shall we say, advanced." Warren shuddered. He could only imagine what that meant.

"So, what do you want with me?" He asked, even though he really didn't want to know.

"What do you think we want with you? To treat you, of course. To help you."

Warren shook his head. He didn't want to be "treated." Maybe a few months ago he would have said differently, but he had come to terms with himself, and didn't want to change. Especially not if it involved any of this guy's treatments; he was getting the sneaking suspicion that they were not especially pleasant. "I don't want to be treated, and I don't need to be 'helped.' I'm fine. Now, can I go?" He knew it was useless; Zarkov obviously was going to do whatever he wanted, regardless of whether Warren wanted the "treatment" or not. But he vowed to protest every step of the way.

"No, you most certainly cannot go." Zarkov was beginning to get irritated. "I know those infantile X-Men have brainwashed you into thinking that being a mutant is okay. But it is a disease, and like any disease, it requires treatment. We are going to start treatment in a few minutes, with or without your consent, so you had better get used to it. I just assumed it would be considerate to inform you ahead of time. Apparently I was mistaken, if you are going to be rude." With that, he motioned the two goons to take positions to either of Warren's sides. They stood at attention, awaiting further orders.

Zarkov removed a knife from a medical table and approached Warren. "Now, are you going to behave, or am I going to have to make my friends subdue you?"

Warren glared at him, which only made Zarkov laugh. "What do you want me to do?" He asked, looking uncertainly at the knife in Zarkov's hand.

"Just lie on your stomach. I need to remove those…things of yours before we can continue." Warren looked at him in shock. His wings? No, not with that scalpel, no way; he wouldn't allow it. But Zarkov was motioning for him to do it, and the goons looked at him threateningly. He began to turn around, lowering himself to the floor. This couldn't be happening; it was a dream, it had to be. He would wake up to find himself in his bed at the school, and would be laughing about it with Bobby and Peter before he knew it.

But Zarkov came closer, and brought the knife down to his left side, as if he really was going to start. And the goons came closer, ready to grab him if he started to struggle. And struggle he did, as Zarkov began to cut into the muscle connecting the wing to his shoulder blade. He yelled, and thrashed, and cried, trying to escape the man with the knife and the pain he was inflicting. The blood ran down his back and sides, collecting in puddles on the floor, reminding him of a time ten years ago when he had attempted this himself. But this time the person doing it knew exactly what he was doing, making precise cuts, removing his wings way more efficiently than he had.

The goons held him to the floor despite his attempts to get away; they were way stronger than he had anticipated. And after the first fifteen minutes, Warren had expended all his energy, and was exhausted, doing little more than laying there and trying to block out the pain. The goons still held him to the ground, although even they had to know there was no longer a need to. Warren's eyes were mere slits, and he was barely conscious from a combination of blood loss and a surplus of pain. He had managed to scream himself hoarse, and was beyond logical thought. He was breathing shallowly, and occasionally his eyes fluttered open, as if for some reason he was trying to remain conscious. Finally he gave up, and gave in to the black.