It was only his third time, and he was still trying to get his name out there.
On his first night, he'd saved a window-washer, catching him after he fell off of his platform. He'd told the man his name-his codename, anyway-but nothing about the incident made the papers. Maybe he hadn't told the authorities, or maybe they hadn't believed him. On his second night, he'd broken up a mugging, but the victim ran away. He'd traded blows with the mugger, and it was the first real fight he'd ever been in. It hadn't gone well. The mugger had hit him a few times, but he'd eventually lashed out with one of his wings, knocking the man flat on his back. He'd told the mugger who he was, and then gassed him and left him for the police. Again, nothing about it made the papers, and he wasn't sure if the mugger had kept silent, or if the gas had made him forget. He later realized that he shouldn't have just left him there. For all the police knew, the mugger was just a random guy who'd fallen asleep on the street.
His presence was a little noticeable, so there'd been some reports of a winged man flying over the city, but there was nothing about him being a superhero. It was driving him crazy. The Avenging Angel was guarding Manhattan, and no one even knew it.
Warren Worthington III watched the sun rise. He was flying between skyscrapers, diving and banking. Warren should have been freezing-it had to be in the low thirties, and it was really windy, up there-but he wasn't cold at all. He chalked it up as another weird side-effect. His vision had become impossibly good, he could breathe just fine in thin air, and the act of flying seemed to work his entire body, making him stronger every day.
He flew a few laps around the Daily Bugle building, and then he practiced making some loops. Vertigo seemed to be a thing of the past. When it was this early in the morning, New York was uncharacteristically quiet, and the city seemed almost serene. Warren could see the daylight oozing across Manhattan. He climbed higher in the air, testing himself, and then he veered toward a residential neighborhood. Warren felt like making someone's breakfast a little more interesting. He raced past a towering apartment building, and while most of the windows were covered, a gorgeous brunette had her drapes open. She was just getting out of the shower, and she nearly dropped her towel when she saw him zip by. His vision was out of this world...he could literally see her pores.
The flying made it all worth it. In the past year, Warren (no, Angel, he needed to get used to thinking of himself that way) had dealt with a ton of confusion, fear, and physical pain. But if this was the end-result, he could live with it.
Angel perched atop a skyscraper that was just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building. Both the sun and the moon were in the sky, and that had always felt a little surreal, to him. He touched his hips, making sure that he hadn't lost his weapons while he was goofing around. They were still there. His suit and gear...yeah, it was piecemeal. He'd stolen his suit from a costume shop (he'd left a fifty on the counter, which was far more than it was worth). It was red and black, and, for some reason, it had these ridiculous yellow briefs. He'd thought about trying to tear them off, but he was afraid he'd ruin the suit. It didn't have much of a mask, either-the thing didn't even cover his hair. He'd have to be on the lookout for a better mask. Angel had glued a yellow halo decal onto the suit, and he was always afraid that the stupid thing would fall off.
His guns were also stolen, but he'd eventually be inheriting the family company, so he figured that it was okay. With all of the social unrest that was out there, the government had asked Worthington Industries to design some anti-riot weapons. His father had initially balked-they were a respectable, altruistic old-money family, not new-money profiteers like that Stark upstart. But Worthington Industries had other government contracts, as well, and there were hints that they'd lose them if they didn't go along. His father had ordered his scientists to create non-lethal weapons only. They'd designed ammo that was the size and shape of ping-pong balls, and the weapons that fired them vaguely resembled flare guns. One type of ammo was heavy, dense rubber, which would knock down just about anyone. They left serious bruises. The other type was hollow and fragile, and each ball was filled with knockout gas.
Two dozen police departments across the country were trying out these new weapons. So, if a certain New York superhero also had them, people would probably assume that the police had misplaced a pair. Warren had had a summer job at his family's company, and he might have made a few minor changes to some paperwork. He'd taken four guns, but he only carried two at a time, one for each type of ammo. And he had a lot of ammo hidden away. The guns were compact, so they were easy to carry, but the downside was that they only held five shots each, including the one in the chamber. Still, between the two of them, that was ten shots. With the guns and his wings, he felt reasonably confident.
Angel had told himself to be ready for anything. Gangs, bank robberies, mobsters. Instead, he found himself dealing with a much more embarrassing problem: he was struggling to find any crime.
His vision was great, and he could cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time, but he didn't actually know anything about criminals. He'd never studied criminology, and his upbringing had been extremely sheltered. So, for the most part, he just flew around and looked for anything that seemed suspicious. In his first three nights, he'd stopped exactly one crime. Was most of the crime happening indoors? Also, was that question as stupid as it sounded in his head?
The good news was that he was starting to figure out city's nighttime routines. The bars and clubs closed at certain times, so he'd watch from a rooftop, making sure that nothing happened to the people coming out of them. Angel learned when armored cars picked up deposits. He figured that women were at more risk than men, so he made sure to keep an eye on women's college dorms, women-only apartment buildings, and hospital-adjacent places where nurses lived. Angel saw a lot of men sneaking in, but it was always with women's help.
Some superhero. You're spying on people's private lives, practicing your flying, and not doing much else.
The sunrise was incredible, but it also made him a little nervous. He was tempted to call it a night. Angel had only gone out at night, so far...he wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of being out in the daylight. He decided to make one more pass over Manhattan.
Angel leapt off of the rooftop-which still made his heart jump-and flew above the city's skyline, gliding slowly. He studied the streets below him. Bakeries and grocery stores were opening, early-shift people were going to work, and bundles of newspapers were being dropped off. He felt like a kid playing dress-up. The city had superheroes that were far more powerful than him, it didn't need some guy with wings and nothing el-
-a blonde women was leaving an office super-late, locking up and walking away, and three men were watching her.
She looked like the extremely-capable assistants they had at Worthington Industries. Glasses, a little frazzled, a little frumpy. She was clutching one of those accordion-style file things. She looked around, presumably wanting to hail a cab. And then she saw the trio of men. They were wearing coveralls and caps, watching her from a distance. Angel saw her face shift from confusion to fear, and she stumbled into a run, with the men suddenly chasing her.
He let himself freefall, dive-bombing toward the woman. She was the priority. Angel had read about this kind of stuff in the paper, and he knew how the heroes-how the other heroes-operated. Iron Man or Spider-Man would grab the bystanders, get them to safety, and then go after the bad guys. But the three men had gotten within ten feet of her. He'd planned on waiting to attack them, but they were so close...he needed to do something. Angel drew his gas-bomb gun, firing one shot at the three men. His target-practice hadn't entirely paid off. He ended up shooting right in front of them, and only one of them ran into the green cloud, while the other two stopped short. Still, it had kept them away from her.
He slowed down as he approached her, so he wouldn't hit her at full-speed, and then he literally swept her off of her feet. He grabbed her around the waist, but her body was stiff and awkwardly-angled. She screamed and kicked and (accidentally?) elbowed him in the face. The extra weight didn't really bother him; his wings were powerful, and his own body was preternaturally light.
Angel was having trouble holding her, so he put her down about a block away, around the corner. He tried to think of something hero-y to say. "Uh, it's okay, miss. You're safe now."
She shouted at him to get away...and then her eyes goggled when she saw his wings.
Tell her who you are, genius. "Spread the word: New York has a new hero! I'm the Avenging Angel, and I'm here to h-"
She fainted dead away.
His arms were too slow to catch her, but one of his wings snagged her before she went down. "Holy!"
Angel lowered her onto the sidewalk, trying to figure out what to do. He didn't have any medical training. Then, some newspaper vendor came running over, waving his arms. "Hey! Hey, you! Get away from her!"
"No, I was-I just saved her, I swear."
The man was surprisingly fearless. When he got close, he grabbed one of Angel's wings, only for it to twitch and jerk away. Angel heard something snap. The man yanked his hand back, clutching it and screaming. "You broke it! You broke it, you sick freak!"
He must have gotten his hand caught between my wings' bones. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Okay, um, I have to go."
Angel took off, his face as red as his suit. In moments, he'd backtracked, and he saw the three men trying to get into their car (an old Plymouth). The one that had run into the gas cloud was practically being dragged by the other two. It looked like he was barely conscious, because his partners were holding him up. The man must have had the keys: they were patting him down, cursing, and frantically pulling on the driver-side door.
Dumb luck-for me, anyway.
Holding both guns, Angel hovered (well, flapped) above them. "Don't move!"
One of the ambulatory men ran off, and the other one pulled a gun of his own.
Angel had never had any sort of weapon pointed at him. He suddenly realized what a big target his wings made him, and froze up.
The man fired. Before that, though, Angel darted to the side, so the shot missed. Angel fired, hitting the man right in the chest. But it was the wrong gun. Instead of gassing him, he hit him with the dense projectile. It knocked the man against the car, and he shouted in pain and dropped his gun, but he didn't go down.
Angel holstered his guns and landed, trying to grab him. The man clipped him with a punch. Angel staggered back, but he'd learned from his last attempt at this; he wing-swatted the guy into the nearest streetlight pole. The man's lower back hit it dead-on. He fell to the sidewalk, groaning.
That...went a little better. Sort of.
The third man was gone, unfortunately. But he'd captured the first two and saved the girl. Sure, she'd fainted, but it still counted. Angel knelt down, picking up the rubber ammo he'd shot. He thought about sticking around and explaining everything to the police. But that sort of made him nervous, to be honest, and she could tell them about the men that had chased her. The only other person around was the newsstand guy, who would probably tell the cops about the "freak" that had "attacked" him.
He should have waited and told someone. But he had giant wings, he was wearing a red and black suit, and he was standing around in broad daylight, all of which made him feel extremely exposed. Plus, he was only sixteen, so it didn't take much for him to get insecure and fearful. Angel flew off.
By the time that he made it to his favorite hiding place-a hospital rooftop that was covered with angel statues-he was hyperventilating. Angel crouched down and put his head between his knees. He'd thought that he was ready for this, but, having someone point a gun at him? Nearly getting shot and killed? He might've had wings, but he was still the same person, and he needed time to get used to this. Angel was a Worthington, so he knew that he could do it. And he wanted to. Being useful was a new experience, for him, and he couldn't get enough of it. From the first time he'd used his powers to help someone (the fire at his previous school), he knew that this was what he wanted to do. It was just a matter of figuring it out.
Angel's breathing slowed, and he straightened back up. He'd done enough for one night. (The sun was getting higher, so it wasn't actually "night," anymore.) Time to go back to your dorm room. You can sleep for a few hours, and then get to class.
He started to leave, but a voice called out to him, and he nearly jumped out of his superhero suit. Angel drew his (gas) gun and aimed it in the direction that the voice had come from.
A man in silver and black clothing was standing on the edge of the roof, looking at him. He wore a silver helmet with a thin black visor. "The darkness is coming for you, Angel. I've seen it. But I'm here, and I can help you."
"...um?"
"I'll help you kill your greatest enemy," he said. "And, if we're lucky, we'll end this god-awful world."
Angel paused, started to say something, and then decided to just shoot him, instead. The gas-grenade exploded right at the man's feet.
He expected the man to charge through the cloud and attack, but it didn't happen. Angel drew his other gun, took to the air, and braced himself. But nothing happened. When the cloud dissipated, the silver-and-black man wasn't there, anymore.
Oh my god, did he fall off of the rooftop? Did I kill him?
Angel glided to the edge of the roof, looked down...and saw nothing. The guy's body hadn't hit the ground. Part of him was relieved, and part of him was creeped out. Where had he gone?
He kept waiting for the man to attack, or at least to reappear, but he never did. Angel flew off, wary. He didn't know who this man was, but that was sort of fitting, given his own situation. Angel didn't know what he was. He had suspicions about how he'd gotten his wings, but it wasn't like he could talk to anyone about it.
Well, great: somebody finally knows about the Avenging Angel. He's crazy, of course, but at least he knows.