Yay…I actually got reviews! "Ask and you shall receive"…I guess the guy was right. Lol. So, here is the next chapter…we're getting near the end (take that as you will). Thanks to everyone who reviewed…I probably would have put the next couple of chapters up regardless, but it's always good to hear that people are reading and enjoying.

I own nothing but the plot. Characters (except the evil guys, who are mine) belong to Stan Lee, and any mentions of the movies go to Brian Singer and Brett Rasner.

Warren was unconscious the entire ride to the mansion. It was no wonder; he had lost a lot of blood when his wings were removed, and no effort had been made to replace it. No one even had the common courtesy to clean him up afterwards, which thoroughly disgusted Kitty, who was currently sitting in the back of the X-jet with him, trying to assess the damage. She had never been fond of blood, and the fact that Warren was covered in it wasn't making her like it any more.

Not only was there a river of dried blood from his shoulder blades to his waist, his hands were bloodstained, as if he had been trying to stop the flow on his own, and his blond hair had been tinted pink, probably from his habit of running his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated or nervous. The gashes that ran the length of his back were clean cuts; the people who had done this had surgical tools, and kept them in tiptop condition. They were still ugly cuts, oozing pus and partially clotted blood. So they had good tools, but had completely disregarded anything in the way of keeping things sterile.

Who would do this? Granted, there was a huge faction of people who openly hated and feared mutants, but Kitty still was having trouble grasping how people could turn on each other like this.

Warren stirred, moaning. "Shhh…you're okay," Kitty whispered, trying to calm him down before he inflicted any more damage on himself. They had wrapped him in a blanket before they brought him on the jet, in hopes that it might prevent him from going into shock, and it had helped, but he still had a high fever from his infected cuts, and was now trying to get out from under the blanket. "No, I'm sorry, I can't let you do that," Kitty said, entirely aware that in all likelihood Warren couldn't hear her. She tucked the blanket back underneath him, trying not to let it rub against the gashes on his back. Warren flinched when, despite Kitty's efforts, the fibers of the blanket got caught in the clotted blood, but when she finished and nothing else got caught, his breathing eased, and he stopped struggling. Kitty sighed in relief, and the rest of the flight passed uneventfully.

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They landed at the mansion, and Logan helped Kitty carry Warren down to the med bay. He would have done it himself, but Storm insisted that carrying an injured man like he was a sack of potatoes would not help the situation, and despite Logan's grumbling she got her way.

Warren was placed on one of the beds, and after he had been cleaned up Storm began a blood transfusion. Warren flinched slightly when she put the needle in, but except for that he was disconcertingly still. She disinfected the gashes and sutured them closed, figuring they would need some help. She then bandaged them up, covered Warren with a blanket, and left the room.

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That night, Logan was woken up by a sharp intake of breath. Storm had insisted that there be shifts, in case Warren woke up, and Logan had gotten stuck with the night shift. Not that much was happening; the kid had been unconscious for hours, so Logan had fallen asleep, figuring that if anything changed he would wake up.

He looked at the kid, who was now sitting up, looking around intently. He looked like he would fall over at any minute, but he had the same look in his eyes that Logan had seen in his own many times; the feral look, the one that would allow him to function on autopilot until his brain worked through what had happened. Warren's eyes roamed around the room, until he spotted Logan looking at him. He blinked a few times, sorting out who this person was and whether or not he was a threat, and, having determined that the Canadian was not, he continued in his examination of the room. Finding nothing else that posed a threat, he relaxed, the exhaustion he felt finally showing itself. He lay back down and was unconscious again in moments.